PREDATOR IF IT BLEEDS
Page 6
He was good enough in the woods that he should have been able to spot a casual stalker, and he couldn’t, but he knew they were there.
Bad. And he knew why.
They were back. The killer aliens who had stalked him and Mary back in Alaska. The ones whose mysterious presence had been hushed up by the government, even though they had killed more than a couple of people.
And if they were here? It was because they had come looking for him. Too much of a coincidence otherwise. He had killed some of them, and they had tracked him down, years later, to repay him for it. No discernible reason to believe it, but that’s what it was.
Every step he took, he expected one of those energy-bolts the predators used, waited for it to spike and burn a fist-sized hole through him. Be dead before he hit the ground.
He made the short loop and headed home. They didn’t shoot.
Why?
The hairs on the back of his neck settled as he left the woods and headed toward the house, the sense of being watched fading.
It was them, but they didn’t kill him.
Why not?
* * *
Mary was up, dressed in her old blue flannel nightgown, scrambling eggs in the black skillet. Still gorgeous at fifty-five, best thing that had ever happened to him, despite how they’d met. Her dead brother, the killed bears, the creatures…
He walked past the kitchen, straight to the junk room’s gun safe. He twirled the dial, opened the heavy door, and pulled out his MegaBeast, the short-barreled custom in .610 GNR, and loaded it. One round, falling-block, based on the Ruger #1.
Only one round, but a solid hit would stop a charging elephant dead in its tracks. Punch a hole through a brick wall.
From the kitchen, Mary said, “Babe? What is it?”
He pulled the BFR from the safe and loaded that, too: five rounds of .500 Max. He felt better. He could hit back now.
Mary came down the hall. “Sloane? What?”
“They’re back,” he said.
“Oh, shit!” she said.
No need for him to say who.
* * *
Nakande chirred absently to himself.
He nodded. Yes, yes. It was well known and often told, the story. A hunter of Hunters, the ooman. Fragments of recordings had been sent back to the ship when it happened, enough to tell the tale. But—look at him. He dodders. The victory would be hollow, the trophy meaningless. All the interstellar travel, for… this?
she said.
He looked at her.
He nodded again.
* * *
“What are we going to do? Call the law?”
Sloane shook his head. “And tell them what? More of the alien space critters who look like Wonder Wart-Hog and who killed a bunch of bears and people in Alaska nine years ago have come to call? They’d lock us up. If they could get here in time.”
“The feds know about them.”
“Yeah, but which feds? And how long would it take for them to put a black ops team on the ground here? I don’t think we can wait.”
She dressed, put on her jeans, laced her boots, shrugged into a flannel shirt.
“We run,” he said. “Pack the truck and go, far away and fast.”
“How did they find us?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. They have spaceships, they have superior technology—doesn’t matter, they tracked us down.”
“You think they came to kill us?”
“I do. I don’t know why they didn’t take me out in the forest.”
“You were unarmed. That wouldn’t be sporting, would it?”
He looked at her. Of course. The predators took on giant brown bears using only their blades. No real hunter would get any joy from shooting a sitting duck. They wanted prey who could fight back. He had demonstrated that well enough.
“Okay, here’s the deal. We grab the go-bags. When we get to Portland, I’ll drop you off, you get a room, and I will—”
“No,” she said. “You aren’t going to draw them away from me. We live together. If we die, then we die together.”
“Mary—”
“Not open for discussion, Sloane.”
He grinned. Well. Never any question she was as good as they came, far too good for him.
She said, “If it took them nine years to find us, maybe we can throw them off our trail longer, now that we know they are looking. New names, new place.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he said.
But when they went to open the pick-up, all four of the tires were flat, shredded, and that vehicle wasn’t going anywhere.
“Well, shit,” he said.
* * *
Harvey banged his shoulder on the frame of the fucking RV as he went out the door. Again.
“Fuck,” he said, without any particular anger. Happened all the time: narrow-ass door, and him being six-six and two seventy-five.
He scratched at his bare chest; the new “88” tat itched. Fucking tattoo artist musta had a dirty needle; thing was more’n two weeks old and it still itched. Ought to be worth a discount when he got the next one.
He walked to the big Douglas fir tree, unzipped his crusted jeans, and pissed on the bark. Damned toilet in the RV was stopped up again. Martin was supposed to have fixed it, but Martin liked his own product too much and was stoned most of the time.
From behind him: “I need a new valve. To fix the crapper.”
Speak of the devil.
“What, I’m your mother? Go and fucking get one,” Harvey said.
“Money, dude, I ain’t got no cash.”
“Look in the drawer next to the sink, right where it always is. Should be plenty.”
“Oh, yeah, right.”
Harvey shook his head, tucked his package away and zipped up, turned to look.
Martin was on the skinny side, all the crystal, but he was still buffed. Liked to hit the iron, habit he’d picked up in the joint, and he was passing strong, but getting mush-brained—
Chirrr.
“What was that? Sounds like a giant fucking squirrel.”
Harvey looked around. He pulled the cocked-and-locked .45 tucked into his back pocket, thumbed the safety off.
“Wadn’t no squirrel,” he said. “We got company.”
Martin reached inside the doorway and came out with the Savage 12-gauge pump. He said, “Hey, Beau! Wake up!”
From inside, Beau said, “What?”
“Visitors!”
Martin stepped down, shotgun pointed ahead of him. After a second, Beau emerged, buck naked, hairier than Bigfoot, carrying an Uzi. “What? Cops?”
“I don’t think so,” Harvey said. “They would have been all over us by now. Might be some competition lookin’ for free product.”
“I’ll give ’em some free buckshot,” Martin said. He laughed.
Harvey was looking right at Martin when there was a flash, a loud sizzle, and a hole just… appeared in the middle of Martin’s gut—!
“Motherfucker!” He pointed the .45 at the woods and cranked off rounds, as Beau started to hose the trees with his Uzi on full-auto—
Beau screamed, and Harvey looked over to see Beau’s arm get blown off—!
* * *
Sloane heard the gunfire, a distant echo. Pistol. Full-auto subgun. Two shooters.
“The bikers,” he said. “We need to get out of the house. We know the woods better than the aliens. We’ll use the ghillie suits.”
Mary nodded.
* * *
In his unit cruising, Mac got the call from Loretta. “Mac? We got a report of shots fired out toward Crown Pond.”
“C
opy that, dispatch. Bikers are probably target shooting again.”
“You want me to get Charlie and Arnie to meet you there?”
“Nah. The bikers know better than to screw with us. I’ll check it out. If I need help, I’ll call you.”
“Be careful, Mac. They are probably drugged-up. No telling what they might do.”
“I hear you.”
* * *
He didn’t believe it, though. Sad.
* * *
Been a long time since he’d worn a ghillie suit but it was like riding a bicycle. Still smelled like moldy canvas overlaid with cat pee.
He smiled at Mary as she zipped up her suit.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“A little bit, yeah. You’re cute. Well, you would be if I could see you.”
She grinned back at him.
“Which rifle you want?” He was taking the Beast and the BFR. Extra ammo. A big sheath knife. He wished he had some grenades. A rocket-launcher. A tactical nuke.
“The Winchester .308.”
“Sidearm?”
“No. Anything big enough to stop one of them would probably break my wrist.”
“Ah, you are tougher than you look.”
She glanced down at the suit. “Right now, I look silly.”
“Well, yeah. A little bit. Silly ghillie.”
* * *
Mac could smell the burned meat when he rolled up on the trailer, and he saw the bodies quick enough.
Jesus Christ!
“Loretta. Send Charlie and Arnie. Call Sheriff Perkins. Call the state police and tell them to get a SWAT team out here.”
“Mac?”
“I got three biker corpses, look like they were killed by death rays. We got big trouble here.”
* * *
Vagouti said,
Nakande nodded.
She stared at him.
He shook his head. She had a barbed tongue, his mate, and never did she let him forget it. Fortunately, she had other virtues. An excellent Hunter, she was.
she said.
he said.
He shrugged. Not worth the argument.
It wasn’t long before she returned.
* * *
“Sloane, do we have a plan?”
He nodded. “Yeah. We work our way through the forest, to the bikers’ RV. They have a truck, and motorcycles. We will borrow a ride.”
“You think they’re dead?”
“Bet on it.”
“After that?”
“One step at a time. If we hear pursuit, we’ll take cover and knock ’em over.”
“If we can see them.”
“There’s that. But, we did it before.”
“We barely survived.”
“Barely is better than not at all.”
* * *
Mac should have waited for backup, but the place was as still as a tomb, and whoever had slaughtered the three bikers had to be long gone.
He unracked the shotgun and chambered a round. Not that doing so made him feel a whole lot better—he saw a .45 pistol, an Uzi, and a 12-gauge pump next to the dead men, and enough expended brass to see they had gotten off more than a few rounds. Somebody had killed them anyway.
In the damp ground near the biggest one’s body, there was a footprint. It had a pebbled pattern to the sole, and when he put his boot next to it? Jesus, he wore a twelve, and that print was almost twice as long, and easily twice as wide.
Good Lord! The big biker’s boot prints were all over, he had to be pushing three hundred pounds, and this print was way deeper. How big a man would that be? Seven feet? Four hundred pounds?
Bigfoot, armed with a weapon that punched a fist-sized hole through and through, same size front and back of the body?
“Loretta, where is that SWAT team?”
“On the way from statie base, forty-five minutes ETA. Charlie and Arnie should be there in ten.”
“Turn our guys around. I don’t want them showing up here and getting ambushed. The bikers got slaughtered by somebody with way more firepower than we have. I’m gonna move my unit and find a spot to lay low. Tell the staties to call me on tach-three when they get close.”
“Copy that, Mac. What is going on out there?”
“Wish to hell I knew. But it’s bad.”
* * *
“Hear that?”
He looked at Mary. “What?”
“Listen.”
He strained his ears. Yes. A faint noise, behind them, toward their house. Not really close, but not that far away.
“I should have gotten those hearing aids,” he said.
“Remember that you said that later.”
If there is a later.
“They are behind us. Or maybe it’s just one. We need to get off-trail and hunker down.”
“They have that stealth gear.”
“Yeah. But it’s not perfect. If you know what to look for, you can see it. My eyes haven’t fogged over that much. Come on.”
* * *
For once, Vagouti kept her silence, which was good, because he was not going to be warned off by his mate in this matter! Two old oomans, one step from the grave? Bah!
Again, she held her voice. Which was as it should be.
* * *
Sloane hadn’t fired a weapon outside the Tricounty Gun Club in years, and even then, not as often as he should. The Beast wasn’t a tack-driver at distance, but they were only fifty meters off the trail where it narrowed, and he could make that shot blindfolded.
He hoped.
He slowed his breathing, soft-focused his vision, taking in the trail. His weapon was ready. He was ready.
As soon as he fired, Mary would also shoot. All she had to do was line up on the twisted trunk of the little madrone tree and fire, because, if he saw the air blur, that’s where he was going to take the creature.
As soon as they fired, they would roll and scrabble, in case anybody managed to figure out where the shots came from.
There was no talking now, no distractions. Only waiting.
Time passed slowly, slowly…
“I see it,” he whispered. “In three… two… now—”
He squeezed the trigger, sights lined up on the rippling air in front of the madrone—
Mary’s Winchester roared.
“Go!”
They rolled, heard an unearthly scream, and a bolt of energy blasted the spot three meters behind them—
“Go, go, go!”
Either they missed, which Sloane didn’t think likely, or there was at least one other out there.
Damn!
* * *
Vagouti knelt by Nakande. He was still alive, but he wouldn’t be for long. He had been hit twice by projectile weapons, rifle pellets, one through the lungs, the other near the hip.
His voice was full of flu
id.
He coughed again and offered his death rattle, just like that.
Gone.
She grieved, but only for a moment. She deactivated his self-destruct. At this range, it would kill the oomans, but she wanted to live long enough to do that herself.
Yes, indeed.
* * *
Mac heard the shots, one much louder than the other. Big boom, high-caliber rifles. Who was shooting at whom?
There wasn’t anybody else out this way, middle of nowhere, except for the senior couple who’d bought the McGee place a few years back. The old boy had guns; Mac had seen him at the range a couple times. Retired forest ranger or something, white hair, skin like old rawhide.
He didn’t hold out much hope for them, they were shooting. Not if three heavily armed bikers couldn’t survive against them. Whoever they were.
Shit. He should wait for the SWAT team, but if somebody was in trouble out there? He had to check it out. That’s what they paid him to do.
Well, shit…
* * *
Sloane and Mary moved as quickly as they could through the forest. Their pursuer would be looking for another ambush now, and he’d have superior weapons to clear out any suspicious spots. Speed was what mattered. If they could make it to the bikers’ RV, get their truck or even a bike running, they could leave it behind. It probably had transportation somewhere, but an open road with the pedal to the metal was better than beating your way through the woods on foot.
“Sloane?”
“He’ll be moving slower now, he doesn’t know if we’ll take another shot. Be a mistake for him to risk it.”
“You hope.”
“What I would do, and he’s a hunter going after prey that just seriously wounded or killed his buddy. We should be able to stay ahead of him.”
* * *
Vagouti mourned Nakande even as she was angry with him. His dying breath he had admitted it. He’d dismissed the ooman as serious prey because he was old. Age took strength and speed, but it didn’t always take skill. Firing a weapon with which you had practiced ten thousand times? A squeeze of one digit, no strength or speed needed for that.