Predator

by Paul Monette

  “I . . . don’t know . . . what it was,” she started, then balked as a rush of tears filled her eyes. She had a terrible longing to confess to the old drunken priest at the convent school.

  “Go on,” Schaefer persisted, more gently now.

  “It changes color,” she continued haltingly. “Just like the chameleon. It uses the jungle and hides . . .”

  Dillon cut her off, his ear for the truth limited to what he could see, feel, and measure. “Shit, lady, you tryin’ to tell me those guys were killed by a fuckin’ lizard? Don’t listen to her, man,” he raged at Schaefer. “It’s just a guerrilla con job—a sure as shit con job! She’s tryin’ to get our defenses down!”

  Schaefer ignored the black man’s ranting and cut the hard-line approach to the frightened girl. He reached out and took her hands and looked directly at her starshot eyes.

  “What’s your name?” he asked quietly.

  She gazed back into his own calm unblinking eyes, momentarily cautious as to this sudden new tactic. She hesitated a second, then gave in, so needful was she for a little tenderness. “Anna,” she whispered. “Anna Gonsalves.” She sounded as modest as if she were talking to the mother superior.

  “Listen to me, Anna Gonsalves,” Schaefer replied in a parental tone, stern but reassuring. “You know we have the same enemy now, don’t you?”

  She nodded in grave agreement.

  Still looking her squarely in the eyes the major drew out his commando knife and carefully sliced through her rope bonds with a single sweep of the blade.

  Dillon was stunned. “Fuck. Dutch, what the hell you think you’re doin’?” he bawled, eyes wide with outrage.

  Not taking his eyes off the dark-haired girl, the major acknowledged Dillon wearily, with no small hint of condescension. “No more prisoners, Dillon, We need everybody now.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “We’re not goin’ anywhere, Dillon,” Schaefer said briskly, his tone more along the lines of an order than a suggestion.

  “You outa your mind?” The black leader slapped at an elephant leaf in frustration, He could see that Schaefer was serious but had no idea what the strategy was. “We’re only two, maybe three miles from the border, tops,” he went on helplessly. “We’re almost home, Dutch. That chopper’s not gonna wait. We gotta go!”

  Schaefer turned away from Anna and faced the black man head on. He spoke with brute authority. “Face it, Dillon. You know as well as I do we’re just part of somebody’s game. And he don’t give a fuck who we are or who she is. This has nothin’ to do with your shit-ass little war game. You want another stripe on that pretty starched uniform, hotshot? Well, we don’t take a stand now you’re not even goin’ to make it over the next anthill alive. You can forget Langley and all your ass-kissin’ cousins, pardner. None of it’s gonna do you a shitload of good lyin’ here with your guts carved out!”

  Dillon blinked back, knowing full well that Schaefer was on-target. He didn’t want to hear what he already knew to be true, but he couldn’t hide from it anymore, either. Not all the statistics and paperwork in the world could mask the horror that hovered palpably all around them now.

  Anna, sensing a lull in the heated exchange between the two soldiers, reached out and touched Schaefer’s arm. Somehow she understood he was to be trusted now, and she was determined to help all the way. She was drawn to Schaefer’s strength, startled at the magnitude of his physical power. None of her comrades exuded this kind of command. “There’s something else,” she said urgently. “When the big man was killed, one of you must have wounded the thing. Its blood rubbed off on the leaves.” And she reached down and pointed to the fading amber stain on her pants leg.

  Schaefer turned to Dillon with a tight grin. “If it bleeds we can kill it,” he announced matter-of-factly. “All we need’s a shot at it. So let’s get loaded up, huh? I want to nail me a Martian.”

  F O U R T E E N

  Now that Anna had become an unofficial team member, her role changed radically. She sat crouched at the base of the rocks just beyond the encampment, scanning the tree line with binoculars. Mac maneuvered by her, uncoiling a new trip wire linking four claymore mines camouflaged by leaves and branches at strategic points around the camp. In a tree at the edge of the clearing Billy tossed a roll of wire to Ramirez, who wound it around a grenade wedged in the crotch of a cottonwood’s branches. When they’d finished, every inch of ground surrounding the camp to a radius of thirty meters was booby-trapped, all except for a single narrow corridor for getting out and down the canyon trail.

  At the end of the path where the rock outcropping merged with the jungle Schaefer hauled down a heavy vine about four inches in diameter, straining with every ounce of strength, biceps bulging and glistening with sweat. On the other side of the path Dillon took up the slack of the vine around the base of a rubber tree. Like a fisherman at his nets the major took the free end of the vine and attached it to a forty-foot sapling, arcing the sapling closer to the ground with every pull, till it formed a gigantic bow creaking and groaning with tension. With a final mighty heave the major drew the sapling enough within reach to grip the top branches, then gestured to Dillon to tie it off.

  Dillon assisted with some reluctance. He knew if he didn’t cooperate he’d be about as welcome here as at a KKK meeting. But the part of him that needed to be in charge couldn’t refrain from ragging Schaefer, whom he saw as usurping his authority steadily, inch by inch. Effectively this was so, but Schaefer didn’t see it that way. He was just trying to get a job done, and though the job required a commando’s skills, it had nothing to do with soldiering anymore and so was beyond the need of a chain of command. In some way now it was every man for himself.

  “I’m tellin’ you, we’re wasting what little time we got left.” Dillon argued truculently. “This snare shit isn’t gonna stop guerrillas. All we’re doing is letting the rest of ’em catch up with us.”

  Schaefer had long ago learned when to turn off his attention and thus ignored Dillon entirely. The major continued to secure the vine, then dragged a net into position, crudely woven of rubber branches, leaves still attached. Methodically he began to cover the net with more leaves and debris. Just maybe they could catch a monster in the same ancient way the Mayans caught their sacred jaguars.

  Dutch moved swiftly, picking up a framework of whittled sticks he had tied together as a crude spring trigger. He held up the makeshift contraption, hurriedly examining his work for flaws before fixing it in place at the edge of the net.

  “He’ll be looking for trip wires. If we’re lucky he won’t see this,” he explained absently to Dillon.

  “What’s this ‘he’ shit?” countered the black man. “You sound like we’re waitin’ for one guy. There’s an army out there, Major!”

  “Can it, Dillon! The bastard who’s after us now’s no pinko contra. It ain’t that simple anymore. Look, I’m heading back to the others. You coming, or you wanna stay here like a sitting duck?”

  Dillon followed sullenly as the major walked away. But he couldn’t bear not to get in a last dig. “Now what, Dutch? You gonna send your mystery guest an invitation?”

  Schaefer stopped and swiveled around, staring at the black man. “Now you’re catchin’ on, smartass. Maybe we’re gonna save your little dick after all.” Schaefer laughed gruffly and turned away again, completely discarding any further notion of rank and protocol. To him Dillon was just another pain in the butt now.

  The sticky morning passed excruciatingly slow, and a humid tropical fog loomed as heavy as the tedious minutes. By noon the sun had crept through, white and exhausted, and the visibility gradually returned. A half hour later the pulsing rays glistened on the beads of sweat that coated every leaf, every mossy surface. The jungle danced as usual—swarms of bees in the orchids, swoops of hungry birds, hyenas lurking patiently in the shadows waiting for a gorged jaguar to leave a tapir lunch behind.

  The commandos sat stoically silent, heavily c
amouflaged with leaves twisted about their caps, huddled in the twisted brambles of their camp. They waited motionless as statues, fixated on the twisted vegetation growing rampant on the canyon rim around them. They’d done all they could to prepare for the alien’s next attack, using every glimmer of initiative they could think of for defense, turning to the jungle itself for help—as with the vine snare braced to snap if an intruder so much as breathed on its trigger. But so far the only sounds were the normal lulling hum and buzz of the jungle, seemingly unchanged for a thousand years.

  Then all at once, between one minute and the next, a veil of silence descended over the jagged highlands of the interior. The major couldn’t tolerate the waiting any longer, and he stirred like a cougar cornered in its lair. He nodded to Ramirez, indicating that he was moving out to check the trap. Slowly he stood, his senses burning, the silence growing louder in his head like an inner scream. He walked carefully along the narrow leaf-shrouded corridor while the others sighted down their hidden gun barrels, covering Schaefer from three angles, all the while scanning the canyon for the slightest hint of sound or movement.

  As the major reached the primitive trap, meticulously skirting the various triggers that could snap him off his feet in a flash, he stopped and waited, sweat pouring down his face and neck, drenching his already clinging shirt. A green snake slithered near his feet, and he flinched slightly but couldn’t afford to lose his focus on the vastness around him. Something was nearby, hiding and waiting. He could practically feel it breathe. His ringers tightened on the trigger of his M-202.

  Quickly he spun around to glance behind. Then he came around again full circle and waved his gun from left to right. Nothing. Not a hint, yet the continuing silence tipped him off that something dangerous was out there. Finally he turned back to the camp, his taut face registering a kind of disappointment that he hadn’t encountered the enemy. A face-to-face would surely be better than all this elusiveness.

  He marched briskly toward the others, feeling hollow and defeated. It was Billy he went to first, hoping now for even some sign from the magic world he so resisted. But as he approached, the Indian shook his head in grim bewilderment. Dillon rose and strode over to the two of them. He had an ‘I told you so’ smirk written across his face. “Satisfied?” he demanded sarcastically. “Now can we get the hell out of here?”

  Just then, from the end of the corridor by the snare, a loud swish followed by the snapping of branches broke the silence. An instant later the net exploded off the jungle floor in a hail of leaves and sticks, rocketing up into a stand of mahogany trees growing tightly together. Schaefer jerked his head around, and the whole team leaped to its feet as the trap went off. Even at this distance they could see that a huge struggling creature mauled the sides of the net, and a long unearthly high-pitched screech echoed through the canyon.

  Schaefer led the commandos down the short incline along the corridor toward the bobbing net. All their guns were cocked. Only Anna remained behind, crouching behind a rocky outcropping, terrified and praying.

  As they arrived under the net it was beginning to tear beneath the strain of its victim’s powerful thrusts. Then the whole network of branches exploded into smithereens of vine and leaves and dirt. A streak of pulsating crimson leaped for the trees, and a powerful three-fingered hand gripped at a limb. It was the alien, at the height of day, raging scarlet and mercurial beneath the brilliant sun without any camouflage at all.

  As the men watched, appalled and mesmerized, the creature shook off the last traces of vegetation. With its free arm it pulled its weapon out of nowhere, the sharp spearhead gleaming in the sunlight. Its mouth roared with fury, and with one sweep it slashed angrily at a limb eight inches thick, severing the heavy wood and sending it plummeting to the ground.

  Ramirez didn’t see the severed limb in time, and it struck him with a thudding blow to the shoulder, lifting him off his feet and hurling him backward into the underbrush. When he landed his shirt was torn from belly to shoulder, exposing a deep gouge in his chest that erupted with spurts of black-red blood.

  Then with an easy leap the alien dropped to a lower branch fifteen feet from the ground, just above the soldiers’ heads. They watched in frozen horror. Meanwhile, some kind of instinct took over Anna as soon as she saw Ramirez fall, and she ran down the hill to his aid. The alien’s physical presence had shocked her back to reality, and the reality she was struck by told her the commandos were her only hope. The more of the team that remained alive, the better all their odds would be.

  The stunned commandos gaped at the creature, momentarily paralyzed as they confronted it for the first time, naked and in its humanoid form, close enough to touch. Its lizard skin was pulsating deep vermilion now, in high contrast to the lush green of the surroundings. It clung to the side of the tree like a terrible hellish gargoyle, snarling and hissing like a siren, full of enormous hate.

  Dillon, more dumbfounded than the rest because he’d been so stubbornly resistant to the signs, was the first to speak. “What in God’s name . . .” he whispered.

  As the black man spoke, the alien let loose with a loud penetrating trill, its wide red mouth agape, revealing sawtooth fangs. A moment later its color modulated and swirled with blues and greens until the creature seemed to bleed into the leaves, invisible again. Mac opened fire on the disappearing form, shredding the limb and leaves it clutched. But it was already too late. The alien was gone. Fevered and wild, Mac raved madly into the jungle after it.

  Schaefer bellowed. “Mac! Mac, come back! You don’t know where the hell it went!” The major snapped the empty clip from his rifle and inserted a new one while barking an order to Billy. “Get Ramirez and the girl, and get out of here! Now!”

  Then he started off through the trees after Mac. But immediately Dillon stepped in his path, a hand pushing against Schaefer’s chest. “No way, Dutch, I’m going. You take the rest and get the hell over the border.”

  “This is no time to play hero, Dillon,” Schaefer retorted, surprised at the black man’s toughness.

  “Guess I’ve picked up some bad habits from you. Dutch,” Dillon replied. “Now don’t argue with me. Not only am I your commanding officer, but you also know I’m right. Get to that chopper and hold it for us. I’ll find Mac and we’ll be right behind you.”

  “Dillon, you can’t win this one.” The major was almost touched by Dillon’s sincerity. There was a glimmer here of the man he would have laid down his life for once.

  The black soldier stared back defiantly. He was beginning to show the stripes he wore. “You know me, Dutch. I never did know when to quit. How’m I ever gonna be the first black president if I don’t learn how to walk through the fire?”

  For the first time on this mission Schaefer felt a rush of feeling for the old Dillon. The major backed down now with more than a touch of respect for the man. It was a strange experience for a loner like Schaefer to find himself proud to obey the man who was supposed to be in charge all along.

  As Dillon moved out Schaefer called after him. “Hey, buddy! Take this!” As the top man turned back, Schaefer tossed him a spare MP-5. Dillon snatched it out of the air with one hand. They shared an utterly naked look, a look that said their differences were settled. It was also a look of farewell—these were men who kept their bases covered. “I’ll see you at the chopper,” Schaefer said with a dreadful hollow certainty that he would never see the man alive again.

  “Right behind you,” Dillon called back. The black man had truly left his desk behind as he hefted both weapons at the hip and trotted off into the jungle after Mac. Schaefer watched him go for a moment, then turned back to Ramirez, who was now sitting up with Anna’s and Billy’s help. He was holding his ribs and gasping for breath.

  “He’s busted up pretty bad, Major,” Billy reported.

  “Fuck you, Tonto,” the wiry Chicano snarled while wheezing for air. “I can make it. Help me up.” And he held a hand out to his brother scout. Schaefer walked over and
gripped an arm around Ramirez for support. “Come on, Poncho,” he said, “we’re gettin’ outa here. Billy, take the radio and leave the rest of this stuff. Let’s move!”

  As the foursome limped along the canyon rim, looking for a downhill trail that would feed them out over the border. Mac was a quarter mile away, creeping low to the ground, his eyes searching the trees. “C’mon, you motherfucker,” he whispered urgently.

  About three hundred yards behind Mac, Dillon was tracking through the underbrush, straining to zero in on a faint rustling in the foliage up ahead. Was it Mac? At first the sound was too vague and sporadic to identify. The black man froze, listening harder, and began to make out a barely audible voice. “Dillon, over here.” the words came whispering through the trees.

  Cautiously the commander of the mission moved ever closer to the sound, parting the leaves like curtains, then heard the voice again. “Dillon . . . psst . . . over here.” And the black man ducked through a tangle of vines and entered a small dark clearing, almost claustrophobic with the density of the highland foliage on every side, gripping the jagged canyon stone. Dillon looked around a full 360 degrees but saw nothing except the endless wall of jungle.

  “Mac?” Dillon whispered in no particular direction. Just as he spoke, a hand darted out of the brush and covered the commander’s mouth. He choked with terror as Mac pulled him into his hiding place in a rift between chunks of canyon granite.

  “It’s out there,” Mac pointed breathlessly. “Behind that rock. Can you see it?”

  Dillon strained his eyes as if to will them to see clearer and deeper. After a long moment he thought he saw a slight movement where Mac had gestured.

  “I think I got a glimpse.” Dillon whispered back. “Let’s take him out, huh?” he added impatiently. Then he hastily outlined a simple attack plan to his fellow commando, who for the first time found himself in agreement with this slick-edged soldier he thought had gone soft. Dillon jabbed a finger toward a rock outcropping strangled by masses of creeper vines about a hundred feet away. “Take a cover position over there, I’ll work around toward you. When I flush him out you nail him.”