Fic: Forty Miles of Bad Road
Title: Forty Miles of Bad Road
Fandom: Supernatural/Alien film series crossover
Pairing: Ellen Harvelle/Ellen Ripley
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2500
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit made. Characters, etc, do not belong to me.
Author’s Notes: Thanks go to nixwilliams for the speedy beta. This is for amy-wolf who quite simply rocks. I wanted to write some femmeslash (though bodice-ripping this is not!) and have long thought that Ellen Harvelle is neglected. Then Ellen Ripley walked into my brain, and the most arse-kicking, tough, no-nonsense femmeslash pairing was born. I hope you enjoy it, Wolfy! Comments/feedback, as always, greatly appreciated. Set around the end of Season 2 of Supernatural, and as for the Alien cannon, you can decide for youself.
Summary: Ellen is coming back from the bathroom when she catches sight of something through the window. The tail end of a falling light. Her mind flicks to demons, hellhounds, spirits. It’s automatic now. Once, perhaps, as a young girl, she might have been excited and thought of meteorites or spacejunk. But not for a long time.
Author’s Notes II: Some visual stimuli for you. Ellen Harvelle and Ellen Ripley:
Ellen Harvelle is used to dark nights, but this is something different. She’s on edge. Jo is gone. Ash is twitchy and The Roadhouse is full of eyes. Something’s coming, something big and bad, something that could be war. She doesn’t like it, but who likes war? She pours beers and keeps her mouth shut. Watching, waiting, a knot of tension in her stomach.
The last hunter leaves and she locks the door, wipes the bar down and turns off the lights. She can hear the TV on as she passes Ash’s room. The door is closed. In her own room, she stands at the window and looks out. The sky is black and she thinks she can smell sulphur, just a whiff. Her hand touches the gun on her bedside table. Bill’s old Redhawk, a cold familiar shape.
She’s coming back from the bathroom when she catches sight of something through the window. The tail end of a falling light. She watches as the burning streak comes to land somewhere, behind some trees, a couple of miles off. It’s silent, too far away to be heard. Her mind flicks to demons, hellhounds, spirits. It’s automatic now. Once, perhaps, as a young girl, she might have been excited and thought of meteorites or spacejunk. But not for a long time. She lays a thick belt of salt on the window ledge and at the door. She sleeps badly, her fingers on the revolver under her pillow. She doesn’t know it’s her last night at the Roadhouse.
She wakes at dawn. The light is thin. The scene outside the window is just the same. The back of The Roadhouse, her truck parked to one side, an empty washing line, a green lawn. She remembers the falling streak of light from the night before and searches for any sign of it on the landscape. She finds nothing. She dresses and walks to the kitchen. The sound of the TV is still coming from behind Ash’s closed door.
She’s about to pour her coffee when she hears a sound from outside. It’s far too early for most patrons or hunters, besides the sound is coming from out the back, not the front. She picks up her gun, but instead of carrying it, she leans it just inside the back door. She opens the door and steps onto the threshold, looking out.
There’s a woman in the yard, blinking in the light and looking up at The Roadhouse. She seems unsteady on her feet, though her eyes are sharp. Her clothes are ill-fitting, a pair of dark trousers and a man’s work-shirt, unbuttoned to show a grey, close-fitting singlet underneath.
“Can I help you?” calls Ellen.
The woman looks at her. “Huh,” she says, as though surprised by Ellen. She pulls the shirt closed around her body. “I hope so,” she says.
Ellen looks at her for a long moment. The woman runs a hand through her messy, short-cropped hair.
“Alright,” says Ellen, eventually. She flicks her head back towards the door and when she steps inside, she picks up the gun and lays it on the counter. She leans on the counter, one hand resting near the gun and watches as the woman cautiously follows her inside. Ellen sees her eyes catch on the gun and her face twitch into something that, for a second, Ellen can’t recognise.
“So,” says Ellen. “What’s your name?”
The women looks from the gun to Ellen’s face. “Ripley,” she says. “Yours?”
“Ellen,” replies Ellen. “Ellen Harvelle.”
A look passes over Ripley’s face. Ellen wonders if she’s about to laugh. Perhaps she’s an escapee from somewhere, a loony bin or a prison. It could explain the clothes. Ellen is sure she’s seen that same shirt on Dan O’Connell, who lives two properties over.
“Where am I, exactly?” Ripley says.
“Harvelle’s Roadhouse,” says Ellen. And when Ripley doesn’t reply, Ellen adds, “Nebraska.”
“Oh,” says Ripley. “Nebraska.” Her mouth forms the word like she’s never said it before. Then she mouths something to herself. Ellen is almost sure the word is Earth. Ripley looks quickly around the room, looking at everything but Ellen. When she speaks, her voice is tense.
“What-” she says, “What’s the date?”
When Ellen tells her, Ripley laughs, short and hard. “No shit,” she says. She looks around herself, amazed. Her hands are gripping the table. Ellen shakes her head.
“D’you want coffee, Ripley?” she asks.
“Sure,” says Ripley. “Yes. Thanks.”
“Milk?” says Ellen, as she tucks the gun into the back of her waistband. She divides the coffee between two cups. With her back to Ripley, she adds milk to both and holy water to one. Ripley sits at the table and Ellen watches as she drinks. Ripley takes a sip, then looks down into the cup, sniffing it and drinking again. Not exactly the response of a demon. She seems to be savouring the coffee.
“It’s been a while since I had the real thing,” says Ripley.
“Ha!” says Ash, suddenly in the doorway, half naked and rubbing his face with his hands. “You call that horse-piss the real thing?”
“Ash,” says Ellen. She sees Ripley’s head jerk around.
“Ash, this is Ripley,” says Ellen. “Ripley, this is Ash, resident aficionado of anything liquid, it would seem.”
Ash squints at her for a moment, flicking his long hair out of his eyes. Ripley meets his gaze with fixed dark eyes, her face carefully composed. Ash falls through the doorway and mooches to the coffee pot.
“You a hunter, are you?” he says, as he pours the dregs of the coffee into a cup.
“No,” replies Ripley. “I’m a - an astronautics engineer.”
“Yeah?” says Ash, sipping his coffee and grimacing. “So am I.”
Ripley and Ash look at each other for a moment, and Ellen wonders why, for such a smart guy, Ash can be such a dumb-ass. “Thank you, Ash,” she says firmly, but Ripley is laughing.
Ash looks from Ripley to Ellen. He snorts. “I like this one,” he says to Ellen.
When Ash has finally left, Ripley exhales, drains her coffee and places the cup carefully in front of her. She looks up at Ellen, her face serious.
“Actually,” she says in a low, level tone. “I am hunting something. That’s why I need your help. I need arms. And some food too. I can’t pay you.”
Ellen thinks about laughing, but she’s too familiar with desperation to mistake it for anything else.
“I might also need to borrow that truck out there,” adds Ripley.
Ellen looks at her, thinking for a moment before speaking. She puts down her coffee cup. “What are you hunting?” she asks.
Ellen is driving. Ripley’s sitting in the passenger seat, holding one of Ellen’s shotguns in her lap. She’s looking out the window, taking everything in.
“Ha!” she says, “Trees!”
Ellen shoots her a sideways glance. Perhaps Ripley has forgotten Ellen is even there.
“You’ll have to tell me where we’re meant to be going,” Ellen says.
Ripley looks at her, an expression of wonder on her face.
“I thought it would feel smaller, somehow,” Ripley says. She makes a gesture at the expanse out the truck window: the grey of the highway, the patches of forest, the green fields, and beyond that, a dark strip of mountains. Ellen glances at her again and catches such a look on Ripley’s face that she almost can’t look away. There is light in her expression, the angles of her cheeks softened with a smile, and her eyes shining bright and alive. The breath catches in Ellen’s throat. She focuses back on the road, blinking away the feeling of having just been dazzled in headlights.
Ripley cranes her neck, looking out over a stretch of trees. “I think I walked through there.” She points. Ellen nods. Ripley’s eyes catch on a photo taped to the dashboard by the steering wheel. She looks at it and Ellen sees her looking. “May I?” says Ripley. Ellen nods.
Ripley draws the photo off carefully. It is creased at the corners and beginning to fade. It shows Ellen and a younger woman, a blonde, who’s giving the camera a big white grin while Ellen’s face is caught at the beginning, or tail-end, of a close-lipped smile.
“My daughter,” says Ellen, unprompted. “Jo.”
“Ah,” says Ripley and nods. “She looks - like you.”
Ellen glances at the photo. “D’you think so?” she says.
“Yes,” says Ripley.
Ellen raises her eyebrows. “Do you have any kids?” she asks.
Ripley carefully replaces the photo before replying. “Not any more,” she says.
“Oh,” says Ellen. “I’m sorry. I-”
Ripley gives her head a little shake. She looks back out at the landscape. When Ellen looks at her, Ripley’s face is shut-down, closed, wearing a meticulously blank expression. They drive for a mile or so in silence.
“There,” says Ripley, pointing to a turn-off. “I think.”
Ellen turns the truck down the side road and follows as it becomes a dirt track.
“This is the way to O’Connell’s place,” Ellen says, more to herself than to Ripley.
“Wait,” says Ripley. Her hand shoots to Ellen’s arm, gripping it with cool, smooth fingers. “Stop,” she says.
Ellen stops the truck.
In the paddock to the side of the track there is a black scorched mess and in it, a twist of silver metal. A thin line of smoke rises slowly from the wreckage. The two women watch it for a long moment, their muscles tightening in apprehension. Ripley releases Ellen’s arm from her grip. Ellen feels the air cool on her suddenly bare skin, realising that Ripley had been holding onto her that whole time.
The creature has left a trail of corroded earth. Ellen is suddenly glad that Ripley insisted they bring the flame-thrower that Ash ‘just happened’ to find lying around in his room. Ripley is now holding the flame-thrower, looking purposeful and focussed. For a second, Ellen thinks she looks like a soldier. There’s a hardness in her as she prepares to fight. Ellen’s seen that look before in seasoned hunters. Ellen readies herself and takes the shotgun. She has to hurry to keep up with Ripley, feeling the urge to walk next to her rather than behind her.
Ripley is talking in a low, urgent voice. “We gotta kill it. No funny business. We gotta burn this thing out of existence. Do you want to see a real monster? Well, this is it.”
Ellen can’t tell if Ripley is talking to herself or not. She nods anyway, her eyes skirting over the landscape. The corroded trail in the ground unsettles her. She tries not to look at it, but when she does she catches herself thinking that it was made by something not of this world. Her breath comes in a silent laugh - she should be used to that kind of thing by now. Ripley shoots her a look.
They follow the trail towards what looks like an abandoned barn. They advance as slowly and as quietly as they can, communicating only with their eyes. At the doorway to the barn, Ripley takes a deep breath and holds the flame-thrower at the ready, pointed into the barn. She moves inside and Ellen follows her.
It takes a moment for their eyes to adjust, but every nerve of Ellen’s body is pulled tight. Then they see it, lurking in a corner, a folded metallic thing, all curves and thin improbable skeletal limbs, too many of them and all of them too long. It’s injured too, oozing a tinny green liquid that smokes as it hits the ground. The thing raises its long, curved head and looks at them, hissing through frighteningly sharp, silver teeth. And that’s all it takes for Ellen and Ripley to burst into life, both shooting it at the same time. The thing splatters green acid, and screams, engulfed in Ripley’s flame. The women jump back. Ripley aims another stream of fire towards where the creature had been. The barn is alight. The thing is no longer screaming; it’s no longer even there. It smells like nothing Ellen has ever smelt before.
They retreat. Ripley’s finger is still on the trigger, her focus still on spot where the creature had been, the corner of the burning barn. She shoots more flames and the wall catches fire, then the roof. They are both breathing heavily, breathing in smoke. Ellen grabs Ripley and drags her backwards. They stumble outside. The whole barn is alight.
“I think we got it,” says Ellen, breathless and elated.
“Ha!” replies Ripley, turning to look at Ellen as though for the first time, amazement on her face. “Ow,” she says and starts scrambling to pull off her shirt. “Ow, shit.” She drops the flame-thrower and hurriedly sheds her shirt. She runs her hands down her arms, examining them.
“You alright?” asks Ellen.
“Yeah, I think,” Ripley kicks at the shirt on the ground. “Good shirt I stole!” She laughs. Vapour rises from the shirt. “Didn’t get through to me.”
Ellen makes her hold out her arms while she examines them. She doesn’t know quite what she’s looking for, but all she finds is some singed hair. She runs her hands over Ripley’s skin. She notices Ripley is watching her, but she doesn’t stop.
“Alright,” she says. “I think you’re good.”
They share a brief look, then stand back and watch as the barn burns.
They’re sitting in the truck, eating pretzels, when Ripley speaks suddenly.
“I’m Ellen too, you know,” she says. “My first name.”
Ellen looks at her. “Really?” she says.
“Yes,” says Ripley.
Ellen smiles. She thinks about saying something dumb like ‘I’m glad’ or ‘If I was going to share my name with anyone, I’d want it to be you’. Instead, she takes Ripley’s hand in her own and holds it. Their fingers interlace and Ellen finds it hard to look at Ripley’s face, so instead she stares at their hands. And then Ripley is kissing her. She tastes of salt and ash and a slight tang of acid, and there’s a grittiness on her lips against Ellen’s. And Ellen is kissing back; she surprises herself by kissing back. Her hands move to Ripley’s hair. Through half-closed eyes, Ellen catches sight of Ripley’s skin, pale and clear and perfect in the midday sun. Then she closes her eyes and presses herself into Ripley’s body, welcoming her embrace.
It’s just gone four when Ellen turns the truck down the slip-road towards the Roadhouse. She likes the way Ripley looks in her shirt, but she doesn’t let Ripley see her smile. The windows are open and Ripley’s hand is trailing out the window, palm outwards as though to grab the wind.
Ellen’s eyes flick back to the road. She finds herself suddenly confused and uncomprehending. There is a thick column of black smoke rising into the air. A wave of dry heat hits them. She struggles to find her sense of direction, thinking, for a second, that she is back looking at the burning barn instead of the Roadhouse. Beside her, she hears Ripley’s sharp intake of breath.
Fandom: Supernatural/Alien film series crossover
Pairing: Ellen Harvelle/Ellen Ripley
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2500
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit made. Characters, etc, do not belong to me.
Author’s Notes: Thanks go to nixwilliams for the speedy beta. This is for amy-wolf who quite simply rocks. I wanted to write some femmeslash (though bodice-ripping this is not!) and have long thought that Ellen Harvelle is neglected. Then Ellen Ripley walked into my brain, and the most arse-kicking, tough, no-nonsense femmeslash pairing was born. I hope you enjoy it, Wolfy! Comments/feedback, as always, greatly appreciated. Set around the end of Season 2 of Supernatural, and as for the Alien cannon, you can decide for youself.
Summary: Ellen is coming back from the bathroom when she catches sight of something through the window. The tail end of a falling light. Her mind flicks to demons, hellhounds, spirits. It’s automatic now. Once, perhaps, as a young girl, she might have been excited and thought of meteorites or spacejunk. But not for a long time.
Author’s Notes II: Some visual stimuli for you. Ellen Harvelle and Ellen Ripley:
Ellen Harvelle is used to dark nights, but this is something different. She’s on edge. Jo is gone. Ash is twitchy and The Roadhouse is full of eyes. Something’s coming, something big and bad, something that could be war. She doesn’t like it, but who likes war? She pours beers and keeps her mouth shut. Watching, waiting, a knot of tension in her stomach.
The last hunter leaves and she locks the door, wipes the bar down and turns off the lights. She can hear the TV on as she passes Ash’s room. The door is closed. In her own room, she stands at the window and looks out. The sky is black and she thinks she can smell sulphur, just a whiff. Her hand touches the gun on her bedside table. Bill’s old Redhawk, a cold familiar shape.
She’s coming back from the bathroom when she catches sight of something through the window. The tail end of a falling light. She watches as the burning streak comes to land somewhere, behind some trees, a couple of miles off. It’s silent, too far away to be heard. Her mind flicks to demons, hellhounds, spirits. It’s automatic now. Once, perhaps, as a young girl, she might have been excited and thought of meteorites or spacejunk. But not for a long time. She lays a thick belt of salt on the window ledge and at the door. She sleeps badly, her fingers on the revolver under her pillow. She doesn’t know it’s her last night at the Roadhouse.
She wakes at dawn. The light is thin. The scene outside the window is just the same. The back of The Roadhouse, her truck parked to one side, an empty washing line, a green lawn. She remembers the falling streak of light from the night before and searches for any sign of it on the landscape. She finds nothing. She dresses and walks to the kitchen. The sound of the TV is still coming from behind Ash’s closed door.
She’s about to pour her coffee when she hears a sound from outside. It’s far too early for most patrons or hunters, besides the sound is coming from out the back, not the front. She picks up her gun, but instead of carrying it, she leans it just inside the back door. She opens the door and steps onto the threshold, looking out.
There’s a woman in the yard, blinking in the light and looking up at The Roadhouse. She seems unsteady on her feet, though her eyes are sharp. Her clothes are ill-fitting, a pair of dark trousers and a man’s work-shirt, unbuttoned to show a grey, close-fitting singlet underneath.
“Can I help you?” calls Ellen.
The woman looks at her. “Huh,” she says, as though surprised by Ellen. She pulls the shirt closed around her body. “I hope so,” she says.
Ellen looks at her for a long moment. The woman runs a hand through her messy, short-cropped hair.
“Alright,” says Ellen, eventually. She flicks her head back towards the door and when she steps inside, she picks up the gun and lays it on the counter. She leans on the counter, one hand resting near the gun and watches as the woman cautiously follows her inside. Ellen sees her eyes catch on the gun and her face twitch into something that, for a second, Ellen can’t recognise.
“So,” says Ellen. “What’s your name?”
The women looks from the gun to Ellen’s face. “Ripley,” she says. “Yours?”
“Ellen,” replies Ellen. “Ellen Harvelle.”
A look passes over Ripley’s face. Ellen wonders if she’s about to laugh. Perhaps she’s an escapee from somewhere, a loony bin or a prison. It could explain the clothes. Ellen is sure she’s seen that same shirt on Dan O’Connell, who lives two properties over.
“Where am I, exactly?” Ripley says.
“Harvelle’s Roadhouse,” says Ellen. And when Ripley doesn’t reply, Ellen adds, “Nebraska.”
“Oh,” says Ripley. “Nebraska.” Her mouth forms the word like she’s never said it before. Then she mouths something to herself. Ellen is almost sure the word is Earth. Ripley looks quickly around the room, looking at everything but Ellen. When she speaks, her voice is tense.
“What-” she says, “What’s the date?”
When Ellen tells her, Ripley laughs, short and hard. “No shit,” she says. She looks around herself, amazed. Her hands are gripping the table. Ellen shakes her head.
“D’you want coffee, Ripley?” she asks.
“Sure,” says Ripley. “Yes. Thanks.”
“Milk?” says Ellen, as she tucks the gun into the back of her waistband. She divides the coffee between two cups. With her back to Ripley, she adds milk to both and holy water to one. Ripley sits at the table and Ellen watches as she drinks. Ripley takes a sip, then looks down into the cup, sniffing it and drinking again. Not exactly the response of a demon. She seems to be savouring the coffee.
“It’s been a while since I had the real thing,” says Ripley.
“Ha!” says Ash, suddenly in the doorway, half naked and rubbing his face with his hands. “You call that horse-piss the real thing?”
“Ash,” says Ellen. She sees Ripley’s head jerk around.
“Ash, this is Ripley,” says Ellen. “Ripley, this is Ash, resident aficionado of anything liquid, it would seem.”
Ash squints at her for a moment, flicking his long hair out of his eyes. Ripley meets his gaze with fixed dark eyes, her face carefully composed. Ash falls through the doorway and mooches to the coffee pot.
“You a hunter, are you?” he says, as he pours the dregs of the coffee into a cup.
“No,” replies Ripley. “I’m a - an astronautics engineer.”
“Yeah?” says Ash, sipping his coffee and grimacing. “So am I.”
Ripley and Ash look at each other for a moment, and Ellen wonders why, for such a smart guy, Ash can be such a dumb-ass. “Thank you, Ash,” she says firmly, but Ripley is laughing.
Ash looks from Ripley to Ellen. He snorts. “I like this one,” he says to Ellen.
When Ash has finally left, Ripley exhales, drains her coffee and places the cup carefully in front of her. She looks up at Ellen, her face serious.
“Actually,” she says in a low, level tone. “I am hunting something. That’s why I need your help. I need arms. And some food too. I can’t pay you.”
Ellen thinks about laughing, but she’s too familiar with desperation to mistake it for anything else.
“I might also need to borrow that truck out there,” adds Ripley.
Ellen looks at her, thinking for a moment before speaking. She puts down her coffee cup. “What are you hunting?” she asks.
Ellen is driving. Ripley’s sitting in the passenger seat, holding one of Ellen’s shotguns in her lap. She’s looking out the window, taking everything in.
“Ha!” she says, “Trees!”
Ellen shoots her a sideways glance. Perhaps Ripley has forgotten Ellen is even there.
“You’ll have to tell me where we’re meant to be going,” Ellen says.
Ripley looks at her, an expression of wonder on her face.
“I thought it would feel smaller, somehow,” Ripley says. She makes a gesture at the expanse out the truck window: the grey of the highway, the patches of forest, the green fields, and beyond that, a dark strip of mountains. Ellen glances at her again and catches such a look on Ripley’s face that she almost can’t look away. There is light in her expression, the angles of her cheeks softened with a smile, and her eyes shining bright and alive. The breath catches in Ellen’s throat. She focuses back on the road, blinking away the feeling of having just been dazzled in headlights.
Ripley cranes her neck, looking out over a stretch of trees. “I think I walked through there.” She points. Ellen nods. Ripley’s eyes catch on a photo taped to the dashboard by the steering wheel. She looks at it and Ellen sees her looking. “May I?” says Ripley. Ellen nods.
Ripley draws the photo off carefully. It is creased at the corners and beginning to fade. It shows Ellen and a younger woman, a blonde, who’s giving the camera a big white grin while Ellen’s face is caught at the beginning, or tail-end, of a close-lipped smile.
“My daughter,” says Ellen, unprompted. “Jo.”
“Ah,” says Ripley and nods. “She looks - like you.”
Ellen glances at the photo. “D’you think so?” she says.
“Yes,” says Ripley.
Ellen raises her eyebrows. “Do you have any kids?” she asks.
Ripley carefully replaces the photo before replying. “Not any more,” she says.
“Oh,” says Ellen. “I’m sorry. I-”
Ripley gives her head a little shake. She looks back out at the landscape. When Ellen looks at her, Ripley’s face is shut-down, closed, wearing a meticulously blank expression. They drive for a mile or so in silence.
“There,” says Ripley, pointing to a turn-off. “I think.”
Ellen turns the truck down the side road and follows as it becomes a dirt track.
“This is the way to O’Connell’s place,” Ellen says, more to herself than to Ripley.
“Wait,” says Ripley. Her hand shoots to Ellen’s arm, gripping it with cool, smooth fingers. “Stop,” she says.
Ellen stops the truck.
In the paddock to the side of the track there is a black scorched mess and in it, a twist of silver metal. A thin line of smoke rises slowly from the wreckage. The two women watch it for a long moment, their muscles tightening in apprehension. Ripley releases Ellen’s arm from her grip. Ellen feels the air cool on her suddenly bare skin, realising that Ripley had been holding onto her that whole time.
The creature has left a trail of corroded earth. Ellen is suddenly glad that Ripley insisted they bring the flame-thrower that Ash ‘just happened’ to find lying around in his room. Ripley is now holding the flame-thrower, looking purposeful and focussed. For a second, Ellen thinks she looks like a soldier. There’s a hardness in her as she prepares to fight. Ellen’s seen that look before in seasoned hunters. Ellen readies herself and takes the shotgun. She has to hurry to keep up with Ripley, feeling the urge to walk next to her rather than behind her.
Ripley is talking in a low, urgent voice. “We gotta kill it. No funny business. We gotta burn this thing out of existence. Do you want to see a real monster? Well, this is it.”
Ellen can’t tell if Ripley is talking to herself or not. She nods anyway, her eyes skirting over the landscape. The corroded trail in the ground unsettles her. She tries not to look at it, but when she does she catches herself thinking that it was made by something not of this world. Her breath comes in a silent laugh - she should be used to that kind of thing by now. Ripley shoots her a look.
They follow the trail towards what looks like an abandoned barn. They advance as slowly and as quietly as they can, communicating only with their eyes. At the doorway to the barn, Ripley takes a deep breath and holds the flame-thrower at the ready, pointed into the barn. She moves inside and Ellen follows her.
It takes a moment for their eyes to adjust, but every nerve of Ellen’s body is pulled tight. Then they see it, lurking in a corner, a folded metallic thing, all curves and thin improbable skeletal limbs, too many of them and all of them too long. It’s injured too, oozing a tinny green liquid that smokes as it hits the ground. The thing raises its long, curved head and looks at them, hissing through frighteningly sharp, silver teeth. And that’s all it takes for Ellen and Ripley to burst into life, both shooting it at the same time. The thing splatters green acid, and screams, engulfed in Ripley’s flame. The women jump back. Ripley aims another stream of fire towards where the creature had been. The barn is alight. The thing is no longer screaming; it’s no longer even there. It smells like nothing Ellen has ever smelt before.
They retreat. Ripley’s finger is still on the trigger, her focus still on spot where the creature had been, the corner of the burning barn. She shoots more flames and the wall catches fire, then the roof. They are both breathing heavily, breathing in smoke. Ellen grabs Ripley and drags her backwards. They stumble outside. The whole barn is alight.
“I think we got it,” says Ellen, breathless and elated.
“Ha!” replies Ripley, turning to look at Ellen as though for the first time, amazement on her face. “Ow,” she says and starts scrambling to pull off her shirt. “Ow, shit.” She drops the flame-thrower and hurriedly sheds her shirt. She runs her hands down her arms, examining them.
“You alright?” asks Ellen.
“Yeah, I think,” Ripley kicks at the shirt on the ground. “Good shirt I stole!” She laughs. Vapour rises from the shirt. “Didn’t get through to me.”
Ellen makes her hold out her arms while she examines them. She doesn’t know quite what she’s looking for, but all she finds is some singed hair. She runs her hands over Ripley’s skin. She notices Ripley is watching her, but she doesn’t stop.
“Alright,” she says. “I think you’re good.”
They share a brief look, then stand back and watch as the barn burns.
They’re sitting in the truck, eating pretzels, when Ripley speaks suddenly.
“I’m Ellen too, you know,” she says. “My first name.”
Ellen looks at her. “Really?” she says.
“Yes,” says Ripley.
Ellen smiles. She thinks about saying something dumb like ‘I’m glad’ or ‘If I was going to share my name with anyone, I’d want it to be you’. Instead, she takes Ripley’s hand in her own and holds it. Their fingers interlace and Ellen finds it hard to look at Ripley’s face, so instead she stares at their hands. And then Ripley is kissing her. She tastes of salt and ash and a slight tang of acid, and there’s a grittiness on her lips against Ellen’s. And Ellen is kissing back; she surprises herself by kissing back. Her hands move to Ripley’s hair. Through half-closed eyes, Ellen catches sight of Ripley’s skin, pale and clear and perfect in the midday sun. Then she closes her eyes and presses herself into Ripley’s body, welcoming her embrace.
It’s just gone four when Ellen turns the truck down the slip-road towards the Roadhouse. She likes the way Ripley looks in her shirt, but she doesn’t let Ripley see her smile. The windows are open and Ripley’s hand is trailing out the window, palm outwards as though to grab the wind.
Ellen’s eyes flick back to the road. She finds herself suddenly confused and uncomprehending. There is a thick column of black smoke rising into the air. A wave of dry heat hits them. She struggles to find her sense of direction, thinking, for a second, that she is back looking at the burning barn instead of the Roadhouse. Beside her, she hears Ripley’s sharp intake of breath.