PREDATOR IF IT BLEEDS

by Bryan Thomas Schmidt

  The Yautja held the smaller warrior in its arms and began to walk away.

  “Lieutenant Pope, what are you doing?”

  “Letting them take their wounded.”

  “What? I’ve never heard of such a thing. Belay that order and fire at will.”

  “Do not fire!” Pope shouted.

  The men looked nervously from Sunderson to Pope, but listened to the white officer who’d been with them the longest.

  “I’ve had about enough of this,” Sunderson said in exasperation. He drew his pistol and fired it into the back of the retreating Yautja.

  The giant warrior halted. He turned his head slightly and a piece of metal the size of a small plate flew from him to embed in Sunderson’s chest.

  Sunderson gasped and let his pistol fall from his hand. He dropped clumsily to his knees and coughed blood.

  Pope ran to him.

  A metal disc was sticking half out of Sunderson’s chest.

  Pope touched it and could feel it vibrate beneath his fingers. He watched in awe as the disc worked its way backwards, then flew back to the Yautja, who somehow caught it and then disappeared with the wounded warrior as if they’d never been there at all.

  Buffalo Soldiers all around began to whisper and curse. Several got down on their knees to pray. Still more stood, unable to move, staring at the spot where the Yautja had just been.

  Sunderson drew one last ragged breath and then collapsed, dead.

  The rest of the night found Pope directing his men in parties of five to collect the dead and clear the battlefield. A triage area had been set aside to help the wounded. They set new sentries, this time doubling them. Pope believed they’d do well against the Comanches, but probably wouldn’t have a chance with the Yautja, especially the big one with the spear. It wasn’t until shortly before dawn that he had enough time to sit down and think. Private Pile brought him some much-needed coffee. He mentioned that Private Steve hadn’t made it, but then Pope already knew that. Too many good soldiers had died that day. He’d reviewed their losses on the tally sheet Husker John had provided. Of the hundred men who’d entered the valley, sixty-five remained alive and of that number, thirty-nine were unscathed. Pope surmised that half of their number of dead had been killed by the Yautja.

  Husker John sat heavily beside him. “We going back now, suh?”

  Pope nodded. “That’s the plan. Enough of us died last night.”

  “What was it for? Who was they?”

  “Yautja is what it called itself. I don’t know what they are.”

  “The men are calling it a demon. Do you think it could be a demon, suh?”

  Pope sipped his coffee, which was the only thing keeping him awake. Exhaustion made him feel weighted down. “I don’t know what a demon is, Husker John. Is it a demon? It could be, but I’m not so sure. It had a way about it.”

  “It bled green, suh,” Husker John said in a hushed tone.

  “The important thing was that it bled,” Pope said, and then exhaustion clamped down on everything and sent him into darkness.

  When next he woke, Corporal Motes was shaking him awake.

  Pope blinked at the brightness of the day. The sun was high enough in the sky for it to be late morning. He’d dreamed of a girl he’d once courted from a wealthy Hudson Valley family. She had luxurious blonde hair and left the smell of lilacs and orange in her wake. Then he sat up straight and looked around, shedding the last vestiges of his walk with a pretty girl.

  “Suh, Sergeant Major wanted me to wake you.”

  Pope wiped his face as if he could wipe away the tiredness and got to his feet. He tucked in his shirt that had come loose and adjusted his pants.

  Corporal Motes had been with the unit for ten years and was a seasoned soldier. A ragged scar cut his left cheek, puckering his high yellow skin. Because of the scar, it always looked like Motes was smiling, but Pope knew otherwise. Motes’ entire family had been killed by the Klan back in Kentucky and he’d come out west to forge a new life. Husker John had told Pope that not a night went by where Motes wasn’t staring into the sky, what he was thinking about no mystery to any man that knew him.

  “What’s going on?” Pope asked. He leaned down and picked up his tin cup. Cold stale coffee stirred in the bottom. He considered it, then brought it to his lips and drank it. Cold as it was, it was still something that could speed him to wake.

  Motes pointed toward the east end of camp. “We have a visitor, suh.”

  “Who is it, Corporal?”

  “An old muleskinner sent by the Comanches. Says he has something to tell you, but he’ll only tell you.”

  “Sentries still out?”

  “All out and watching. Was the motorcycle what saw the muleskinner and brought him.”

  Pope smiled. The Comanches probably knew the motorcycle routes and told the muleskinner where to go.

  “Thank you, Corporal.” He turned to go, then turned back. “You and the men eat yet?”

  “We had us some tack and water, suh.”

  “Think you could scrounge me up some?” Pope asked. The last thing he wanted to eat was hardtack. The small square crackers tasted like dust. But an army on the move didn’t always have the luxury of real rations, so he’d eat it, and pretend half-heartedly that it was something better. Maybe a cookie made by that girl he’d met at West Point. Damned if he could remember her name, just her smell and the feel of her hair in his fingers. He knew he should know, she’d been special to him, but when he’d come out fighting, he’d shoved all the memories of everything good into a deep dark hole to protect them. Why this one was surfacing now, he didn’t know.

  “Oh, yes, suh,” Corporal Motes said, nodding. Then he took off jogging.

  Lieutenant Pope made his way to where Sergeant Major Husker John was detaining the muleskinner, who was on his knees. The man was a half-breed and going on sixty. His gray hair was bundled up behind him Indian style, but a few wisps blew free in the breeze. His face was pocked from disease. His eyes had a reedy film over them.

  “What’s this?” Pope asked.

  Husker John shifted his considerable weight to his right foot and shoved the muleskinner with his left foot, knocking him onto his back. “Man says he has a message for you, suh.”

  “Did he do anything to offend you, Sergeant Major?” Pope asked.

  “Yes, suh. He’s half Indian, suh,” Husker John said in his baritone.

  “That’s as good a reason to hate a man as any, I suppose. Especially in these parts. Out with it then. What message do you have for me?”

  The muleskinner glanced fearfully at Husker John, then said, “Comanches sent me. Said they have a thing they want you to know… sumthin’ you have to do.”

  “Out with it then,” Pope urged, wondering where Motes had got to.

  “The nanisuwukaitu… they demand you fight. They say your fight with them is undone.”

  “And who are these nani whako?”

  “They call them Ya-OOT-ja but they are spirits. None can stand before them and they can walk the spirit plane. It’s where they go when they disappear.”

  Pope raised an eyebrow. “Is that so. What do they want with us?”

  “They say that four of them will fight four of your best warriors.”

  “Then what?”

  “All of your men can go free.”

  “But they’re free now.”

  “No,” the muleskinner said, glancing around, fear owning the features of his face. “You’re not. The nanisuwukaitu are all around us. They’re just in spirit form.”

  The idea that they were surrounded by an invisible army of Yautja left Pope cold. He turned slowly, examining the shadows. Three times a Yautja made itself briefly appear then disappear, like it was making itself known. Each time it happened, a bolt of fear shot through Pope’s gut.

  “My men go free if we win or lose?” Pope asked.

  The muleskinner glanced wildly behind him. “That’s what they said.”

  “A
nd how do I know they’ll keep their word?”

  “They have a strange honor, sir. That’s how they came to us. They fought our best. We lost, but that didn’t stop them from joining us… helping us. They’ve been with us almost six months now.”

  “So four of my people fight four of their… Ya-OOT-ja.”

  “That’s right. The nanisuwukaitu love to fight. They don’t drink. They don’t play games. They fight.”

  Pope turned to his sergeant major. “What do you think?”

  “I think we should skin this muleskinner and send him back to his mother, suh.” He took off his slouch hat and rubbed his hand through his wiry hair, then put the hat back on, making sure the bill was centered. “But if we have a way of saving the men, then we needs to be doing that.”

  “There is that.” Pope shook his head. He didn’t like the idea of it, but he feared he had no other choice. “Go and tell them we’ll oblige. Where and when?”

  “You can tell them yourself.” The muleskinner pointed further east. “They’s waiting for you in the next valley. Just send four and they will, too.”

  Pope turned to Husker John. “Let the man go. We have to plan.”

  Pope knew that he couldn’t send any man to do what he wouldn’t do. That’s not what leadership was, so he was the first of the four. His mother had named him Providence so he’d have a lucky life. It had worked out so far and it might carry him through the day. Husker John also insisted on coming. Pope was relieved to hear it, because there was no other he thought could stand a chance. As fate would have it, Motes arrived as they were discussing who next to ask and he volunteered himself. Motes was a fine enough soldier and they were unlikely to get anyone better, so they accepted him to their doomed group.

  Pope left the pair to get ready and went to find Conroy, who was a classic Irishman who’d fight at the color of the sky being blue. He was one of the only other white men in the troop now that Sunderson was dead, assigned to them as part of the motorcycle unit. In the end he took very little convincing and Pope soon had his four dead men.

  Pope, Motes, and Husker John each carried a rifle and a pistol. They also each had a skinning knife and hatchet they’d plucked from the bodies of dead Apaches. Conroy carried a breech-loading sawed-off shotgun, a pistol, a spear, and a knife. He also brought his motorcycle and drove it along beside their horses, which had become accustomed to the rackety machines during the long expedition.

  “Let’s run down what we know about them,” Pope said as they walked. Then he laughed as he realized, “We don’t really know anything, do we?”

  “They come in different sizes, suh,” Motes said.

  “That they do. They also have different weapons. That may be based on size, but it could also be based on rank.”

  “So you think these Ya-OOT-jas have a rank system?” Conroy asked.

  “They’re warriors… maybe even soldiers. They have to have a ranking system. It’s why I let the big fella take the wounded Yautja. Never leave a man behind, right?”

  “Makes sense I suppose,” Conroy said. “So how’s the fight going down? Who do I get to hit first?”

  Pope raised an eyebrow. “I’m not exactly sure but I’ll tell you what, as soon as I know, you’ll know.”

  Conroy snorted. “Spoken like a privileged West Pointie.”

  Turned out that the next valley was five miles away. It also wasn’t much of a valley—a box canyon, really, ending in a cul-de-sac of rocks the size of rail cars. The flat space was probably sixty by sixty feet and covered in dirt and dry grass. He’d seen this on a map, but the map didn’t show the impressive sizes of the rocks, or how they rose like giant stacked blocks into a three-sided wall. They tied the horses to a scrap of mesquite where Pope thought they’d be well out of the way. Conroy parked the motorcycle beside the horses.

  Then all four moved to the center of the space and waited.

  …for exactly ten seconds and then four Yautja appeared twenty feet from them.

  More Yautja appeared on the rocks.

  Pope hoped that they were merely spectators and that they hadn’t walked into one immense trap.

  By appearances, the Yautja matched the Buffalo Soldiers in size. One large hulking warrior stood out among three warriors closer to human size. It was as if the Yautja selected the size specifically to match that of the humans. Interesting, thought Pope. If his observation was true, it spoke to a fairness of fight that left him hopeful that the Yautja would keep their bargain.

  A fifth Yautja appeared—this one he recognized as the giant warrior from the previous night’s combat. He stepped between both groups, then turned to the Buffalo Soldiers.

  “Four fight, then done,” it said, its accent and cadence still peculiar to Pope’s ears.

  “Weapons?” Pope asked.

  “Two only.”

  “They have armor, suh?” Husker John noted.

  “Good catch.” Then to the Yautja, Pope said, “If this is to be a fair fight, your warriors should remove their armor.”

  The Yautja cocked its head.

  The other four, who had been standing impressively, suddenly were looking at each other. Was it worry? Pope hoped so.

  “If no armor, then none of your loud weapons.”

  Pope thought for a moment, trying to parse what a loud weapon was. Then he got it. The pistols and rifles. Perhaps the Yautja armor provided a modicum of protection from their bullets; without it, they’d surely fall victim. It was a fair offer.

  Speaking to the Yautja, Pope said, “That’s a deal. But one more thing.” He made a circle with his hands and then made to throw it. “No using that disc you shot into Sunderson.”

  The Yautja cocked its head once more, then made a series of clicking sounds from beneath the mask. “These Yautja do not use this weapon. They are not ready for it.”

  Pope nodded.

  “To the death then?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t.

  “To the death.”

  “Excellent,” Pope said, meaning anything but. He backed his men away and they began to remove their hats and shirts. They deposited their weapons in a pile.

  Corporal Motes was the first to notice the other Yautja, who were removing their weapons and their masks. When he saw their faces, his eyes shot wide and his mouth hung open. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What are they?”

  The Buffalo Soldiers turned and fell in a state of awe as they saw what lay beneath the masks. Pope identified the wondrous protrusions from the face as some sort of mandibles, like from a gigantic insect. Each one ended in a tooth or a claw or a talon. Whichever, they looked sharp and deadly.

  Suddenly all four Yautja began clicking their mandibles together. Their shoulders shook slightly. Then Pope realized, they were laughing at the Buffalo Soldiers’ reactions.

  Pope turned to his men. “So now we know they wear masks to hide their ugly mugs. Right now, they are laughing at your reactions… your fear. Each of you have faced down Comanches and Apaches. Each of you have been up close and personal with someone who wanted you dead. This is no different. The Yautja are just a different type of Indian to us. That’s all. Pure and simple. Most of all remember that they can bleed just like you or me. If they can bleed, they can die. Do you understand?”

  Both Conroy and Husker John nodded, but Motes looked doubtful.

  Pope grabbed him and shook him. “Motes. Did you hear me?”

  Motes nodded slowly, then his nodding picked up speed. “I hear you, suh.”

  Pope thought for a moment against saying what he was about to say, but then dove in. “Listen, you were never able to get back at the Klan for what they did to your family.”

  Motes turned to stare at him as hatred bled the fear away from his eyes.

  “Look at the Yautja.”

  Motes turned to stare at them.

  “These are the Klan. These would kill your family all over again. You couldn’t hurt the Klan, but you can hurt these warriors. Do you understand? Do you understand me, Corporal M
otes?”

  Motes shrugged off Pope’s hands and said, “Yes, I understand, suh,” his voice mean and ready.

  “Then let’s go.”

  Pope and his men turned and took a few steps forward.

  “We’re ready,” he said.

  The giant Yautja beckoned one of the human-sized warriors forward. This one’s skin was mottled with greens and browns. Its face was fierce in the way a demon’s would be. For the Buffalo Soldiers, these might as well be demons, but they still bled and they still could die, so they had a chance.

  Pope started forward to meet it, but Motes pushed him back and strode to the center.

  Like the rest of them, Motes wore his pants tucked into his boots, a white undershirt, and suspenders. He held a hatchet in his right hand and a skinning knife in his left. Pope couldn’t see his face, but the soldier’s head was held high.

  His opponent raised its shoulders and flared its mandibles. It wore twin metal claws on each hand.

  Pope waited for a signal to start, but there was none. The Yautja just charged. Motes stepped his left foot back and waited.

  His opponent swung both of its arms, but Motes dove under them, bringing his hatchet around and cutting a slice from the Yautja’s thigh.

  His opponent tumbled.

  Motes controlled his roll, then rose elegantly to his feet.

  Pope felt a surge of elation as his hope for their survival went from nothing to something.

  The Yautja got to its feet and spun. Instead of charging this time, it stalked Motes, but the Buffalo Soldier stood his ground. When the Yautja swung at him this time, he backed away, let his opponent miss, then lunged with his knife.

  The Yautja kicked out with one of its legs, knocking the knife away.

  Motes paused to stare at the weapon as it flew through the air and it was his downfall.

  The Yautja brought its other hand around and swiped away Motes’ windpipe. Blood spurted wildly as Motes fell to his knees. The warrior brought a metal-clawed hand down on top of the skull, embedding the claws in the bone. Then it raked its other hand once more against the neck, separating the head from the body.