PREDATOR IF IT BLEEDS

by Bryan Thomas Schmidt

After a moment, when they realized they weren’t going to die, Mac laughed nervously.

  “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe any of that just happened.”

  Sloane looked at Mary, who smiled. Then he turned back to the deputy.

  “After a couple times, it gets easier to believe,” he said.

  MAY BLOOD PAVE MY WAY HOME

  BY WESTON OCHSE

  CENTRAL MEXICO. 1916.

  A gibbous moon lit the world with a specter of what it could have been. The light had been enough to push forward until their mounts were faltering. Dun-colored ground gave way to dark lumps, creosote and mesquite scrub indistinguishable from the men that slumbered. Lieutenant Providence Pope made his way through the field of sleeping soldiers, his bones aching from fourteen hours in the saddle. Everyone had slept where they’d fallen except him and Sunderson. They couldn’t bed down until they were sure their men were taken care of and guards were set. Then afterwards, Sunderson wanted to huddle up and spread out his maps. Those damn maps. As if a map could tell him everything.

  “Maps don’t say nuthin’ the land don’t want you to know,” Husker John was always fond of saying. The big sergeant spoke the truth.

  Pope had tried to convince Sunderson of this, but the man ignored him. They’d both learned the same curriculum, albeit four years apart, the lessons of the Civil War drilled into them in class after class at West Point. But this wasn’t two pitched armies fighting each other. This wasn’t Gettysburg nor was it the first or second Battle of Bull Run. Both Pope and Sunderson could quote line and verse the timelines of each of those battles, map them in a sandbox, then rattle off the mistakes each side had made. No, this was more like Indian fighting where one force chased the other until the other turned to fight, then turned once more and fled.

  Ever since Pope had been assigned B Troop in the famed Buffalo Soldiers, chasing Comanches and Apaches along the border, he’d known that they had to learn new tactics. He’d turned to Buffalo Soldiers like Sergeant Major Husker John who’d been fighting in the all-black cavalry for twenty years or the old man Fitz Lee, who’d won a medal for bravery during the Battle of San Juan Hill in the old Cuban campaign. They were more knowledgeable about the act of war than any of the retired colonels and majors teaching back at West Point. And now here they were, exhausted, bedded down in a valley with high ground on all sides, selected specifically by Sunderson because it appeared to be a place where they could “bed down unseen.” Damn Sunderson. The East Coaster was going to get them all killed.

  “Lieutenant Pope, sir,” came a rough voice off to his right. “You be wanting some coffee?”

  Two soldiers sat beside a smoldering pile of ashes, the outward glow hidden by dirt and rocks. Each wore the cavalry blue uniforms with yellow piping. Dark blue for the top with copper buttons the Indians were fond of taking and a lighter blue for the pants, each leg tucked into scuffed and worn cavalry boots. They wore utility belts that carried a canteen and ammo for their Model 1896 Krag-Jørgensen carbines, which lay beside each of them. They each wore slouch hats, which differed from the Stetsons worn by Pope and Sunderson.

  Pope strode over and squatted with them, holding out the dusty tin cup that usually hung at his waist for just such a moment. “Sure. Thanks.” He glanced at the two but didn’t recognize them.

  “I’m Private Pile and this here is Private Steve,” the one who’d offered coffee said.

  “Steve, is that your whole name?” Pope asked, eyeing the dark man.

  “Father’s name was Steve. My momma wanted him to be remembered so I’m Steve Steve.”

  “Where you from?” Pope asked.

  “Biloxi, suh.”

  “This your first mission, Private?”

  “Yessuh,” the man said, his head and eyes lowered.

  Pope had seen that sort of behavior plenty. Fifty years after the abolition of slavery and still black folk were afraid of the white man. He knew there were places where times hadn’t really changed, but he’d never been there. Born and raised in the Hudson Valley of New York, then an appointment to the U.S. Military Academy at West Point where he had black classmates, had given him a different view of the state of black and white in America. Being posted to an all-black military regiment whose honors and glory were world-renowned put an exclamation point on it.

  “Well, Private, you’re in a proud unit so hold your head high. No bowing and scraping here.”

  “I told him, El Tee Pope, but he wouldn’t listen. I told him us Buffalo Soldiers was the most decorated cavalry in the entire West.”

  “Private Steve, let me say this. General Black Jack Pershing wants his soldiers to keep their heads up so that they can see the enemy. You can’t see them from staring at the ground, do you get me?”

  “Yes, suh,” said Private Steve staring at the ground. Then he caught himself. A shadow of a grin flitted across his face. Then he looked at Pope for the first time. “I mean, yes, suh.”

  Pope patted him on the back. “Good man.” Then he stood, pulled out his pocket watch and shook his head. “Gotta go see a man about some maps,” he grumbled. Pope threw back the rest of his coffee, clipped his cup to his belt, then headed to the command tent, formulating as he went the latest argument he was going to make to try and persuade Captain Sunderson to listen to him. Then he saw movement out the corner of his right eye. He thought it was a man, but when he turned, there was no one there. Still, he watched as a bush moved, then another, then a tripod of rifles fell. He didn’t see who it was, and there wasn’t even a whisper of a wind, but it looked like the passage of a man.

  He let out a cry, pulled his pistol from his belt, and ran to the fallen rifles.

  Men leaped from their positions, grabbing at their weapons, looking around. The whole camp awoke and they searched for an hour, until it was clear that no one was there. Still, he had the guard doubled, just in case.

  “You seeing ghosts, Pope?” sneered Captain Sunderson, when it was all said and done. He was commander of A Troop, the leader of their reconnaissance party, a prima donna and a horse’s ass.

  But Pope had seen what he’d seen. He just didn’t know what it was. “Better safe than sorry,” he mumbled, then squatted down to watch Sunderson play at his maps.

  They were ten days into what was left of the Punitive Expedition—where General Black Jack Pershing took nearly ten thousand men into Mexico to retaliate against Pancho Villa for his attacks on United States sovereign soil. Things hadn’t gone well from the start. Pancho Villa had turned out to be a virtual ghost. Then after the Battle of Carrizal, a messenger had arrived, informing the general that he and the army were being recalled. Not only was the Mexican government at odds with the idea that nearly ten thousand United States soldiers were five hundred miles deep in their country chasing after Pancho Villa and his army, but President Wilson wanted the 10th Cavalry Regiment heading east for a boat to send them to the war in Europe.

  Pope remembered the moment well. He’d been in the general’s tent and had felt the full-on power of an angry glower. Pope had done what Private Steve had done, his gaze seeking solace somewhere near the ground. The general’s words were directed at President Woodrow Wilson, and no one in the tent would ever dare relay them or even say them aloud for fear of being dispatched by a line of seven soldiers with rifles.

  “Scouts have Villa moving west,” Sunderson began, pointing at the map. “Make sense that they’re heading to Guanajuato,” pronouncing the J.

  Pope sighed. “There’s no evidence Villa’s anywhere near Guanajuato,” he said, pronouncing the word correctly, replacing the J-sound with an H-sound. “I know. I know. Your recon has it that we are, but they’re as… as…”

  “Go ahead and say what you mean, Lieutenant,” Sunderson said in his patronizing Virginia drawl. “We both know I haven’t seen combat until this expedition.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that, sir,” Pope said in frustration. “It’s just that I know what it’s like to chase Comanches. They
have a certain way of moving through a country. I can’t pinpoint exactly how I know, but by God, sir, we’re chasing Indians, not Villa.”

  “And the recon boys from the Motorcycle Squad, they don’t matter?”

  The Punitive Expedition had been the first time the U.S. military had used motorcycles in battle. They’d been mainly used for reconnaissance and message delivery. Pershing had given their hundred-man element two motorcycles.

  “I’m surprised they can see anything as loud as those machines can get. Comanches can hear them coming a mile away. And let’s face it, they have zero experience chasing Comanches.”

  “Just like me.”

  “You said it, sir.”

  “Fine, Pope. I’ve heard your arguments for the last ten days. Let me ask you this, what would you do if you were in command?”

  “I’d split our forces into two. Your men know more about chasing Indians than fifty West Point grads. I learned that lesson the hard way when I arrived to take command.” He pointed to their place on the map. “Problem as I see it is that we’re currently huddled in this valley. If I was Comanche, I’d be holed up here and—”

  The tent flap opened, and Husker John shoved his head inside. His wiry hair was cut into a Mohawk. An ugly mass of scars twisted the right side of his head where he’d almost been scalped.

  Sunderson frowned. “What are you doing interrupting us, boy?”

  Husker John ignored the remark, his eyes on Pope. “We gotta problem, suh. Sentries to the west and south are gone.”

  “What do you mean gone?” Sunderson asked.

  “Just that, suh. Gone.”

  “Are the men prepared?” Pope asked.

  “Yes, suh. Word is spreading. They’ll be ready.”

  Sunderson grabbed Pope’s shoulder. “What are you talking about? I didn’t hear any alarm.”

  “This is Indian country, sir. We don’t sound alarms in cases like these. What I did earlier was different. I thought someone was in our camp. In fact, there might have been someone. Your men know what to do. The Comanches think they have us at a surprise, but we know better.” Pope made to stand, then paused. “You need to trust your men, sir.”

  Then he left, heading straight for the center of his troop. He kept his eyes down, but noted the many shadows that dotted the sides of the hills surrounding them. He kneeled by Husker John. “Have the men prepare to fire.”

  Husker John gave the low call of an owl. As it echoed across the valley, the Buffalo Soldiers of B and A troops slowly rolled onto their bellies and aimed into the darkness. They’d practiced this maneuver before and had used it effectively against a Comanche attack just south of Agua Prieta last year.

  “Fire,” Pope whispered.

  Husker John screeched like the owl of its name and a hundred rifles fired—grazing fire only a foot off the ground.

  Screams split the night as Comanche warriors who’d been crawling toward their location were suddenly struck by bullets fired along the ground.

  “Fire,” Pope shouted and pulled out his pistol. “Fire at will.”

  Those Comanches who’d stood to flee were shot down. The cacophony of firing was intense as rifles from both sides fired, filling the air with dark, blinding smoke, making it even harder to see in the wan moonlight.

  Then Pope saw movement toward B Troop’s flag. The strangest looking Comanche he’d ever seen seemed to pop into existence. The Comanche wore strange armor and had even stranger hair. As the Comanche began reaching for the flag, Pope leveled his pistol, took aim down the eight-inch barrel, and shot the warrior in the back.

  The warrior spun, his hair whipping around behind him. He held a strange pistol in his hand.

  Pope fired again, catching the warrior in the chest, knocking him back a step.

  The warrior fired, the bullet expanding improbably into a net.

  Pope dove to his right, the net brushing his shoulder but passing over him.

  It caught Private Steve on the head and Pope watched in horror as the net contracted, the mesh biting into skin until blood shot free. But he didn’t have time to watch it all. He turned and fired, unloading the last four bullets of his pistol into the strange warrior. At first, he didn’t think that his bullets had any effect, but then the warrior staggered, and as he did, he flashed in and out of existence.

  Pope surged to his feet, but before he could even take a step, Husker John plowed past him and tackled the strange warrior. Husker John grabbed a stone from the ground and with two hands, brought it down on the warrior’s head once, then twice.

  Pope turned to get his bearings. His men were kneeling and prone, firing at moving shadows. He saw several of his men go down and cursed every time. He loaded his pistol with steady hands, remembering fleetingly his first Indian fight and how terrified he’d been. The memory made him look toward A Troop where Sunderson’s men were gathered en masse around him, as if they were a Roman legion forming a cohort block. Their rate of fire was impressive, but they made even better targets. Then Pope understood. He’d had his men surround him as human shields. Fucking Sunderson.

  Three of Sunderson’s men went down. Then three more right after. Pope watched as one of the men seemed to be pulled into the air and thrown, the body crashing to the ground in an awkward twisting of limbs.

  One of the motorcycles exploded, lighting the night.

  Someone opened with their sole Model 1895 ten-barreled Gatling gun.

  Horses screamed.

  Pope scrambled over to Husker John and saw the Comanche for the first time up close.

  Husker John glanced up with big eyes. “What kind of Comanche is this, suh?”

  “None I’ve ever seen.”

  The Comanche wore armor of a sort. It felt like metal, but was softer. It also seemed to have a mask of some kind over its face. This was no Comanche. This was a completely different Indian all together.

  Pope snatched the warrior’s pistol from where it had fallen on the ground. He expected it to be heavy, but it was amazingly light.

  Suddenly a Comanche broke through the lines and ran toward them.

  Pope raised the pistol and fired. A net grew out of thin air and caught the Comanche on the head, knocking him back and slamming him to the ground.

  The strange warrior stirred.

  “M-di mar’ct,” it said, the alien words coming from beneath the mask. Then it repeated. “M-di mar’ct.”

  “Doesn’t sound Comanche,” Husker John said.

  “It’s because this isn’t a Comanche.” Pope stood, now a gun in each hand. “I don’t know what he is.”

  Another of the strange warriors blinked into existence. This one was taller and held a long spear with a wicked-looking end. The warrior moved incredibly fast, dodging bullets, slashing down the men of B Troop with the ease of a farmer slashing wheat. It became apparent to Pope that the warrior was heading his way. He felt a moment of fear take him as he watched the effortlessness with which the warrior was cutting down his men.

  Pope backed a few steps and knelt beside the downed warrior. He holstered his pistol, then pressed the side of the strange warrior’s gun to its head.

  “Husker John, get behind me,” Pope said. He watched as the new warrior cut down three more of his men then skidded to a stop, the long rectangular blade of the spear stopping inches from Pope’s face. “Drop your weapon or I’ll kill him.”

  Pope didn’t know if the other understood him. He just had to hope it did.

  “Drop your weapon or I’ll kill him,” the warrior said in return.

  Pope blinked in confusion as he heard his own words said back to him.

  “Who are you?” Pope asked.

  “Who are you?” the warrior asked back in his voice.

  The warrior was taller than the one they had on the ground. He wore the skeletal remains of what looked like a bear claw on a dark chain around his neck. His dark armor reminded Pope of pictures he’d seen of knights during the Crusades, but this one was articulated to allow for ea
sy movement. His head was covered by the same mask as the one Pope had at the end of the pistol.

  Pope noted that most of the firing had stopped.

  “Is it the devil, El Tee Pope?” Husker John whispered.

  Pope shook his head as he looked at his left hand that was holding the warrior in a sitting position. “The devil don’t bleed.” His hand was coated in a luminous green substance and he thought to himself, if the devil could bleed, wouldn’t it be green?

  “I’m not playing around,” he said to the standing warrior. “Who are you and why are you here?”

  The warrior’s head turned slightly as if he were regarding a new thing. Then he said in an accent Pope didn’t recognize, “We are Yautja,” pronouncing the word like Ya-OOT-ja. “We fight with Comanches.” The cadence of the words was unnatural.

  “Comanches are our enemy,” Pope said flatly. “Does that make you our enemy as well?”

  The Yautja turned its head again as if it were listening to something. “Ooman k’v var ooman,” it said. Then in English it translated, “Humans hunting humans.” Then came the sound of clicking from inside the mask.

  Pope considered the statement and said, “We hunt them because they hunt us. We hunt first so that they will not hunt last.”

  The Yautja lowered its spear, then spun it several times until the blade was pointed down.

  Shouts came from behind the Yautja.

  Pope lowered the pistol. Several of his men were gathering behind the Yautja, weapons raised. A crazy idea came to Pope, one that had to be acted on at once. He stood, pulling the wounded Yautja to its feet. “Here. Take him. I don’t know how to heal him.”

  The Yautja hesitated a moment, then stepped forward and took the weight of the smaller Yautja whose back glowed with smears of green luminescent blood. Now that Pope was standing he noted that the Yautja was head and shoulders again taller than he was.

  “Lieutenant Pope, what do you have there?” came Sunderson’s voice.

  “Go. Now,” Pope said, jerking his head to his left. Then loudly he said, “Do not harm these two. Let them go free on my command.”