“BUG EYED MONSTERS! THEY WANT OUR WOMEN!”
By Dave Turner.
A Sequel to ‘The Landings at Valle del Sol’.
Disclaimer: The character of Charity O'Donoghue is based on Joss Whedon’s ‘Faith’ from BtVS and A:TS. ‘Bug Eyed Monsters’ was designed by Greg Costikyan and published by West End Games. ‘Aliens’ was directed by James Cameron and written by Dan O'Bannon and Ronald Shusett. I write these stories for fun not profit.
Crossover: The story is based on the game ‘Bug Eyed Monsters’ and the film ‘Alien’.
Spelling, Grammar and Punctuation; Written in glorious English-English. Both English and American idioms are used throughout this fic.
Timeline: Set several weeks after the events depicted in ‘The Landings at Valle del Sol’.
Words: Six chapters of 3000+ words.
Warnings: Strong language, violence against aliens, mild sex.
Summary: Charity O'Donoghue (Nightwatch agent and scourge of the forces of darkness) is on her way to spend Xmas with an old friend until she breaks down near the little village of ‘Freedom’.
The Corsican Tyrant, Napoleon, was killed in Russian in December 1812 bringing the Napoleonic Wars to an early end. With no Napoleon to fight Britain is able to deploy her Peninsular Army (under Wellington) and her Navy against the United States in the War of 1812; the result is a forgone conclusion.
The Americas in 1950; The United States is a country that stretches from North Carolina/Kentucky to the Gulf of Mexico, and from the Atlantic to the Mississippi. The Empire of Mexico is a rich and powerful state that stretches from Panama in the south and includes Texas and California. In the north there is the Dominion of Canada, The Commonwealth of New England and the Dominion of British Columbia. The Mississippi basin is occupied by large numbers of Native American tribal states, the Soviet Union still holds Alaska.
New Hampshire, Tuesday 20th December, 1949.
The wind howled like a damned soul as Charity O'Donoghue (Nightwatch agent and scourge of the forces of darkness) fought to control her jeep; it slid inexorable towards the edge of the snow and ice covered road. The little field car bumped to a halt as it hit the verge and one of its front wheels buried itself in the snow of the road side ditch; the engine died.
“Fuck!” Charity hit the steering wheel with the palm of her hand bending it out of shape a little.
For a moment she just sat and watched the snow flakes obliterate themselves against the glass of the windscreen. The wind battered the jeep making the canvas tilt boom and thunder like a maniac jazz drummer beating on his skins. Reaching around the steering wheel Charity turned the ignition switch, the engine coughed and spluttered for a moment before it died with a finality that even Charity knew couldn’t be repaired short of a mechanics ministrations.
“Fuck, fuck and fuck!” Charity hit the steering wheel again bending it a little more out of shape, “Useless piece of Mexican junk!”
The Mexicans had built thousands of the tough little field cars towards the end of the German War and sold them to anyone who could afford the few Pounds they cost. Charity’s jeep was a New England army surplus vehicle; it had proved to be almost indestructible for the last two years. However, a New Hampshire snow storm had finally proved too much for the battered little vehicle and it had now stranded her miles from anywhere.
Resting her hands on the bent and battered steering wheel Charity watched the snowflakes streak past the windscreen. She sighed, it was becoming obvious that she couldn’t stay here, with the engine out of commission the heater wouldn’t work and the wind, blowing through the canvas of the jeep’s body work, was already starting to leech any residual heat from the vehicle.
Shivering a little Charity reached over the back of the driver’s seat and grabbed for her Canadian air force parka, she struggled into the coat and felt much warmer. Searching through the litter scattered across the passenger’s seat she found her Ordinance Survey map for the area. Opening it out on her lap she traced the road she’d been following with her finger; and found she was still a good ten miles short of her target.
Charity was supposed to be spending Christmas with an old friend who lived in a little village in the far north of New Hampshire up near the Canadian border. Tracy Fuller had been Charity’s best friend all through training at the Nightwatch Academy. Tracy had befriended the foul-mouthed girl from Boston when all the stuck-up English girls would have nothing to do with her.
After they’d graduated Charity had been sent back to Boston and Tracy to New York, the two friends had kept in touch and it was Charity who had hunted down the haemovore who had crippled her friend and confined her to life in a wheelchair. Now Tracy lived up here in the woods painting and sculpting while running a little craft shop that catered to the summer holiday makers who journeyed up state from the more populous coastal areas.
Looking out once more at the snow covered trees Charity realised she’d never make it to her friend’s home; they’d find her dead frozen body sometime around spring. Looking again at the map she saw that there was another even smaller village about a mile along the road, she should be able to reach that easily enough she reasoned.
Whatever she decided to do she’d better do it quickly, glancing out of the windscreen again she noticed that the light was starting to fail and the temperature inside the jeep had fallen to somewhere below freezing. Deciding to walk to the nearest village Charity collected her few belongings. Luckily she’d worn her warm battledress trousers, big woolly socks and her Arctic hiking boots. An army shirt and pullover kept her top half reasonable warm and her parka would protect her from the icy blasts once she was out on the road. She had a Alpine rucksack which held her more fashionable clothing, her make-up and washing things. As she rested the pack on her lap her hand felt the comforting bulk of her trusty Webley revolver.
For a moment she was in two minds whether to keep the weapon handy or leave it in her pack; she looked out at the snow covered world again. Didn’t they have bears out here, she wondered, or wolves? She took the revolver from her pack, checked that it was loaded and put it in the pocket of her parka. Giving the interior of her jeep one last look, there was nothing she’d miss and after all she didn’t think there’d be any thieves coming by until spring. Climbing out into the freezing white wilderness Charity zipped up her parka and slung her pack on her back.
Raising her hood against the bitter wind and pulling on her woollen mittens she patted the comforting bulk of her pistol and, head down, she started to march down the road towards the little village of Freedom. She should get there in about an hour. The wind was keeping the road surface fairly clear so she didn’t have to wade through deep snow which would sap her energy. With thoughts of warm beds and hot food foremost in her mind Charity strode along the road secure in the knowledge that she could handle any eventuality that might present itself, after all she was a ‘Hunter’; a Special Operative of the Commonwealth Nightwatch, she feared nothing.
The woods near Freedom, New Hampshire.
Freedom was a small village hidden deep within the northern New Hampshire forests; it had a couple of dozen houses, a church, schoolhouse and general store. Because it acted as an administrative centre for a number of even smaller villages and isolated farms it housed the Fire Station, meeting hall and small town hall. It was also where Constable Norman Watson and his wife Mavis lived.
At this very moment Constable Watson was fighting his way through the trees near the Old Smith Place just west of the village. Luckily the snow wasn’t too bad under the trees, and the wind had died down over the last half hour to almost nothing but the light was failing and it would soon be dark. He halted for a moment to catch his breath; there was a gentle but long slope under the trees this side of the village and at forty-three he was beginning to feel his age.
Earlier that day old man Higgins had stumbled into Watson’s office spouting some wild tale about lights in the woods and strange noises. Watson had smelt the old man’s breath and decided that any strange lights and weird noises were the product of ‘Moonshine’ induced hallucinations. However, the old man had seemed genuinely frightened so Watson had promised to check it out as soon as he could.
Owing to a townie’s car sliding into the village pond Watson hadn’t been able to follow up on Higgins’ report until late in the afternoon. Leaving his office he told Mavis that he was going up the road towards the Old Smith Place and he’d be home at about six o’clock. As he headed out the door Mavis told him that she’d have his tea on the table at ten past six and he should try to get home on time as she had something ‘special’ planed for the evening. Smiling to himself and waving over his shoulder Watson trudged out to his car and drove up the Thetford road towards the old farm.
Parking his car under the trees Watson stepped out into the freezing late afternoon air and walked into the woods. First he’d checked out the old ice house; it was long abandoned except for Higgins who hid an illegal still there thinking that Watson would never find it. Finding no sign of any ‘strange lights’ or odd noises Watson was about to head off home for his tea and whatever ‘surprise’ his wife had waiting for him when he hesitated.
The old guy had seemed pretty upset, and he was a veteran, so, maybe he had seen something that had percolated through the alcoholic haze that normally surrounded him. Watson stood a moment in thought; if Higgins had seen something and he’d not investigated properly he could drop himself in a lot of trouble. Nodding to himself he turned to walk towards the Smith Place and see if anyone there had seen or heard anything.
The Old Smith Place was actually owned by a family from Concord who had bought the old farm from Jeff Smith’s widow after the war. Watson recalled the family to his mind; the Cooper’s he remembered. James Cooper was a lawyer, a quite well-off one too, Nancy his wife, a plump pleasant middle-aged woman and three children, two teenage daughters and a younger boy. They came up to Freedom for the summer and sometimes (like this year) for Christmas.
Unlike a lot of the ‘out-of-towners’ the Cooper’s were fairly well liked by the locals, Mrs Cooper was a member of the local Women’s Institute, James liked to hunt and fish and the kids had friends amongst the village children. They were all round nice people and Norman hoped that they’d come to live in Freedom permanently when they retired.
Coming out of the trees Watson looked up at the old farm house, Cooper had spent a lot of money doing it up over the years. He walked up to the back door and lifted his hand to knock. It was then he realised that something was wrong, for a moment he couldn’t think what it was…then it hit him. The afternoon was now drawing into evening and there were no lights on in the house. Watson turned and looked around the farm yard, there were a couple of sheds and an old barn that James Cooper was in two minds about having knocked down or rebuilt. At the moment he used the barn as a garage for the family car, and there, with the front of its bonnet sticking out into the yard was the Cooper’s car.
Rolling his shoulders Watson started to feel uneasy, the little six sense that all coppers had was telling him that something was wrong. His right hand fell automatically to the butt of his revolver as he turned back towards the door. Knocking loudly with his left hand he felt the door move under his hand. He pushed it gently and watched as it swung open.
“Jim!” he called, “Nancy…kids?” he listened but there was no answer.
Alright, thought Watson, no one locked their doors ‘round here much, but to leave the door actually open in this weather…no that was just odd. Pulling his revolver and holding it down by his leg Watson walked into the kitchen.
“Hello?” he called again, “Mr and Mrs Cooper it Constable Watson…is everything alright?” The house remained silent, “Damn!” Watson cursed under his breath as he moved quickly and quietly across the kitchen.
Leaning against the wall next to the door leading into the rest of the house Watson toyed with switching on the electric light. No, he shook his head, if there was someone in the house that shouldn’t be there then he didn’t want to give his position away. Watson laughed nervously to himself, of course if there was a burglar he’d have to be almost deaf not to have heard his earlier call!
Sliding through the door into the downstairs hall Watson shut the kitchen door behind him, his hand searched along the wall until it found the light switch. Turning it on the light flooded the hall, running his eyes quickly over the furniture he decided that nothing looked out of the ordinary apart from the front door which was swinging gently on its hinges. The wind had blow in a thin layer of snow that lay on the floor near the door. Watson walked down the hall and pushed the door shut.
Having been in the Cooper’s home several times over the past few years he knew the lay out quite well. To the right of the front door was the big family room. Watson pushed open the door and switched on the light. Again everything looked normal; he took a couple of paces into the room and noticed that the log fire in the grate had been allowed to die. Going back into the hall he tried the door that led to Jim’s den. The door was locked, that wasn’t unusual as Jim kept his hunting rifles in there safely out of the reach of any of his children.
“Right,” Watson said to himself as he looked up the stairs that led to the bedrooms, “I hope I bump into one of the Cooper’s real soon…then we can all laugh about this and I can get home to Mavis.”
Warily he started up the stairs; as soon as his eyes were level with the floor of the upstairs hall he knew he’d not be seeing Mavis until tomorrow. Mr Cooper lay in a untidy heap on the carpeted floor, Watson knew just by looking at him that the man was dead. Raising his pistol to cover the hall he bent over the body and checked the dead man’s pulse just to make sure; yes Cooper was dead, it looked like someone had broken his neck.
Back to the wall Watson made his way to the master bedroom, bursting through the door revolver held out in front of him he found himself in almost complete darkness. His hand fumbled shakily for the light switch while he held his gun unsteadily on the room. Once again the bright electric light flooded the room and Watson saw Mrs Cooper lying on the floor in a pool of dried blood.
“Oh shit!” breathed Watson as he stepped towards the body.
The woman’s night dress had been ripped from her body and it was obvious to Watson that the poor woman had been raped. Once more he knelt down and felt for a pulse, once more he searched in vain. The unfortunate woman was stiff and cold she’d been dead for hours, probably since last night. Pulling a blanket off the bed he covered Mrs Cooper’s body. She’d been a nice lady and he didn’t think it was right for people to see her like that.
With a sinking heart Watson went out into the hall again and made his way towards the children’s rooms. The girls shared a room next to the bathroom on the right, while the boy had a room next to his parents. Pushing the door open with his foot Watson switched on the light and stepped into the boy’s room. Model aircraft hung from the ceiling and pictures of football players smiled from the walls, the bed clothes had been pulled back but there was no sign of the boy.
His heart beating loudly Watson hurried across the corridor to the girl’s room, he kicked the door open and nearly tripped over the body of Tommy Cooper. The boy lay on the floor in a twisted heap a cricket bat near his outstretched hand. Of his sisters there was no sign. Looking around Watson took in the state of the room, it had been wrecked, smashed. Furniture had been overturned, posters and pictures of movie stars had been ripped from the walls and bed clothes scattered across the floor.
“Damn it!” Watson turned away from the scene.
Obviously someone had killed the kid’s parents, stopped to rape Mrs Cooper then moved on to the girl’s room. The boy must have heard something, he’d picked up his cricket bat and tried to defend his sisters and been killed for his pains. No, Watson shook his head, that couldn’t be right; one man couldn’t have done all that there’d have to be at least two of them. Whatever the truth he needed help, Watson headed for the stairs; there was a telephone in the hall downstairs. He had a triple murder and possible kidnapping on his hands; normally breaking up a fight in The Black Rose would be the highlight of his month. There’d not been a murder in Freedom since…he couldn’t remember when.
At the bottom of the stairs Watson picked up the phone and started to dial, he slammed the phone down making its bell ‘ding’ when he realised the line was dead. The snow must have brought the line down where it joined the junction box out on the Thetford road. Thinking quickly he tried to remember who had a phone out on this side of town. The Graham House, Watson reached for the door. The Graham place was only a hundred yards or so along the road he’d phone County from there.
Pulling open the front door Watson found himself facing a hideous creature that seemed to be all writhing tentacles standing in the doorway blocking his way to the road. Screaming with shock and horror Watson raised his revolver and fired. The creature staggered back as Watson’s bullets slammed into its chest. Out of the night came a blinding light like a lance of flame which hit Watson squarely in the chest burning a neat hole right through him.
Main Street, Freedom.
It was dark and her feet felt like two blocks of ice as Charity finally made it into Freedom. About twenty minutes after she’d abandoned her jeep the wind had died down allowing the snow to build up on the road and making it harder for her to walk. Instead of the hour the journey should have taken her she’d been on the road for a good hour and a half.
“You lost, little lady?”
Turning at the sound of the voice Charity saw a tall man bundled up in foul weather gear crunch across the snow towards her. As the guy was well over six feet tall she bit off the comment she was going to make about being called ‘little lady’; to this guy everyone would be little.
“Yeah,” Charity smiled up into the guy’s weathered face, “my jeep broke down on the road,” she pointed back the way she’d come, “is there a hotel in town?”
The tall man laughed good naturedly.
“No hotel honey, place is too dang small,” he pointed on down the road, “Ma’ Brown keeps a guest house down yonder. I’m sure she’ll be able to look after you.”
“Thanks,” Charity turned to trudge on down the street; at least here the snow wasn’t to deep.
“Think nothing of it, little lady,” called the tall man as he walked off into the night.
The woods near Freedom.
Drooling over the naked bodies of the two human females that lay sleeping in their transport pods, Zifphaplit was tempted to take one of them out of her pod and run his feelers over her smooth flawless skin. No, he told himself, there would be time enough for that once they got the humans back to their home world.
There were still another twenty pods to fill, this expedition had been extremely successful and they had caught more than seventy human females so far. The primitive humans had no way of tracking their craft once it came through a wormhole, and although the human’s slug throwers could injure and even kill their kind Zifphaplit and his siblings never gave the humans time to organise and fight back.
Tearing his eyes away from the forms that lay so still in the pods; they were so beautiful it almost hurt to look at them, Zifphaplit saw his clutch sibling Qiknigort rush into the cargo bay. Noticing how his sibling’s feelers rubbed against each other in agitation Zifphaplit looked up in concern.
“What’s wrong?” he asked his junior sibling.
“Its Rilipoorg…” gasped Qiknigort waving his feelers in front of his eyes in distress, “one of the human males killed him!”
“Gfdc,ug!” cursed Zifphaplit, “The body?”
“It’s alright,” reassured Qiknigort, “already in the compacter, but I had to leave the human where he fell.”
“Show me,” the two creatures walked swiftly over to a display screen that showed a plan of the human settlement.
Pointing out the location of the dwelling where Rilipoorg had been killed Qiknigort waited for his senior clutch sibling to come to a decision.
“Hmmm,” mused the senior alien rubbing a feeler across his chin, “with all the frozen water lying on the ground the humans will stay to their homes, just where we want them. I don’t think we need evacuate just now but we will bring the timing of the raid forward to later tonight.” Zifphaplit nodded in agreement with his own plan before turning his many faceted eyes on to his junior sibling, “Make it so!” he ordered.
“By your command, older sibling,” bowing slightly Qiknigort left the chamber to his superior.