The Predator

by Christopher Golden

  “McKenna?” she said, after a small burst of static. “I’ve found something.”

  * * *

  The implications of Casey’s discovery echoing in his head, McKenna burst through the front door of the house that hadn’t felt like home for a long time. Heart thundering, he scanned the entryway and the short hall before he even let himself acknowledge Emily’s presence. She’d frozen when he whipped the door open and now she glared at him, her expression worthy of Medusa.

  “Hi, honey, you’re home,” she said.

  A beat went by, a breath, and then she glanced pointedly at the shotgun in his hand. McKenna had barely remembered that he carried the weapon and he didn’t have time to explain or apologize for it now.

  “Where’s Rory?”

  “Oh, I get it,” Emily said, falling into the old rhythm of their relationship, the familiar tone. “You think you can just waltz in here and—”

  “I asked you a question.”

  She leaned toward the stairwell, put her hand on the banister. “Agent Traeger, he’s in here!”

  McKenna narrowed his eyes. “Nice try.” He tapped his earbud. “I was listening. Oh, and, ‘He’s done something crazy?’ Thanks for that.”

  “What was I supposed to say?”

  “How about, ‘Is my ex-husband all right?’ Normal families ask that.”

  “There’s your answer.”

  “Emily, now’s not the time,” McKenna said, thinking, as if the shotgun shouldn’t have told you all you needed to know. “Where’s Rory?”

  Her mask slipped, and she revealed how worried Traeger’s visit had made her. She had loved him once, McKenna knew that, and maybe she still cared about him, but nothing mattered to her—to either of them—more than Rory. That maternal terror filled her eyes now and she turned to look back toward the kitchen.

  “He’s not in his room. He was in the basement earlier,” she said. “I bought him two different Halloween costumes, but he went out without either of them. I think he’s trick-or-treating, but I have no idea what he’s wearing. Maybe last year’s outfit.”

  McKenna moved past her, headed for the kitchen. “He’s spending a lot of time in the basement lately?”

  “He always does,” Emily said, following him.

  “I mean the last couple of days. More than usual?”

  “I guess. Maybe.”

  The basement door stood open. McKenna double-timed it down the steps and scanned the room, Rory’s worktable, his posters, the computer screens still open, ready for him to re-engage with the video games he’d been playing. Then he spotted a parcel on the floor next to the table and he rushed over to it. He could almost smell the dust from the tiny Mexican village on the box, and when he picked it up, the return label confirmed its origin.

  He shook the box, but the weight alone told him it was empty.

  “Shit!” he said as he tossed it aside.

  Emily had paused on the steps. Now she descended two more stairs. “What? So he ordered some video games.”

  “No, no, no, no,” McKenna said as he rifled through Rory’s things, checking under discarded sweatshirts and behind a stack of books and inside a chest that had once held toys. When he spoke again, it was a low rasp, mostly to himself. “The whole fucking reason I sent it to a PO box was so I wouldn’t put you in danger! Goddamnit!”

  He spun around and stared at Emily. “We need to find him. Now!”

  McKenna bolted, passing her on the stairs.

  Emily pressed herself against the railing, staring at him as he rushed upward. “Quinn, you’re scaring me.”

  He strode across the kitchen, almost dragging Emily in his wake. “You let him order any video games he wants?” he tossed over his shoulder.

  Despite the situation—or perhaps because of it—she bristled. “Excuse me?”

  “I specifically said no first-person shooters. No combat games.”

  He heard her swear under her breath.

  “Did you ever think maybe he plays them to connect with his father?” she retorted, almost hissing the words through her teeth. Then Emily seemed to catch herself, realizing how often they’d been in this argument before. “Oh my God. We’re doing this.”

  McKenna had the impression she was going to say something more, but then they marched into the living room and Emily froze. He couldn’t blame her, really, as in the moments they’d been downstairs, the house had quickly and silently filled with lunatics. They’d apparently left Dr. Brackett—Casey—in the RV, but the rest of them were there: Nebraska, Coyle, Lynch, Nettles, Baxley. Every one of the crazy fuckers who’d become his de facto new unit, at least until this horror came to an end. McKenna surveyed his team, saw Lynch shuffling his cards and Coyle rubbing the stubble atop his shaved head, eyes wide. Baxley and Nettles were rummaging around the living room, picking up framed photos to look at them and wiping a bit of dust off the fireplace mantel.

  The room was full of Emily’s paintings, the beautiful and heartbreaking works of her imagination, and the paintings were drawing the attention of the men too. Nebraska was leaning forward to peer at one with the intensity of an art critic assessing technique.

  “What are you doing? Give me those!” she snapped, striding forward and snatching a couple of her paintbrushes out of Nettles’ hand. She wheeled on McKenna. “Who are these people?”

  The corner of McKenna’s mouth lifted in the closest he could come to a smile. “They’re my unit. They’re soldiers.”

  She gaped at him, incredulous. “They look like ushers at a porno theatre.”

  Nebraska had now straightened from the painting he’d been examining and was looking at her. He raised an eyebrow.

  Aware she might have overstepped the mark, Emily said, “No offence.”

  Eyebrow still raised, Nebraska addressed McKenna. “The wife?”

  “For better or worse,” McKenna muttered, wondering if Emily might grab a kitchen knife and murder them all. Seeing them through her eyes made them seem that much crazier. He sighed and tiredly waved a hand around the room. “Emily? Loonies. Loonies? Emily.”

  As the Loonies murmured shy greetings, McKenna hurried around the room, snatching up pictures of Rory— school photos, holiday pictures—plucking them off the walls and side tables.

  “Wait, back up,” Emily said, shaking her head as it all sank in. “Your unit? What happened to Haines? Dupree?”

  McKenna took a deep breath. “They’re dead. And the thing that killed them is looking for Rory. So. You can think I’m crazy all you want…” He closed his eyes briefly. He wished to God he wasn’t here, wished he wasn’t having to say these words. “But now? Our son is in a kill box.”

  Emily looked shell-shocked. The color drained from her face. “Looking for Rory…” she repeated, her voice low and croaky. Then suddenly the volume ramped up, became abruptly shrill, panicked. “What thing?”

  “It’s…” McKenna saw the terror and accusation in his ex-wife’s eyes, and was suddenly at a loss for words. Turning desperately to the Loonies, he said, “Guys, what is it?”

  Coyle was the first to respond. Fumblingly he said, “Um… it’s not, like, a person. It’s… a creature.”

  Eager to help, Nebraska said, “You know Whoopi Goldberg?”

  Emily looked at him in bewilderment. “Yes.”

  “It’s like an alien Whoopi Goldberg,” he said helpfully.

  Emily just stared at him. And when she finally murmured, “Oh my God,” it was unclear whether she was horrified by the image Nebraska had conjured in her mind, or horrified simply by the fact that she was having to trust her son’s welfare to a bunch of crazy—and possibly dangerous—people.

  McKenna decided it was probably best not to muddy the waters still further by allowing time for the other Loonies to chip in. Instead, he started to hand out the pictures of Rory, his voice brisk, authoritative. “I want a grid search. Three teams…”

  His voice tailed off. In his peripheral vision, he saw that Emily was shrugging
into her coat, having snatched up, of all things, a fireplace poker. He marched across and grabbed it from her hand.

  Furious, she squared up to him. “Our son’s in danger!”

  “That’s right. And last time I looked?” He hefted his gun. “This is match grade.” Now he lifted the poker. “This? Not so much. But points for originality.”

  * * *

  Casey’s head jerked up as the door of the RV opened, her hand going instinctively for the handgun on the table beside her. But it was only McKenna and the Loonies. McKenna was all business.

  “Nebraska,” he was saying, “find some wheels. Nothing flashy.” Nodding across the room, he added, “Casey, you’re with me.”

  He paused for a beat, fixing each of the guys with a look of purpose and determination.

  Then he said, “Let’s find my son.”

  15

  Rory had been wandering the street without ringing any doorbells. He had no candy, which didn’t seem like the best possible result of trick-or-treating. Without his mother or father with him, it seemed unexpectedly frightening to just walk up to a person’s door, ring the bell, and ask for… well, anything. He still loved the anonymity, but somehow his earlier excitement had dissipated. His focus, instead, had been on the helmet and the cool thermal imaging he saw through the eyepieces. That alone had been enough to occupy him as he had walked around the neighborhood.

  Now, though, the absence of candy had begun to seem like something he would regret later, so he had begun to study the other kids who were going door-to-door, intending to replicate the process. It was so simple. He’d done it before, just never on his own.

  Go on, dummy, he thought.

  Rory took a deep breath, watched a Moana and a zombie accept candy from a smiling middle-aged woman in a witch’s hat, and took a step forward. It was time.

  * * *

  “Hey, Ass-burger!”

  Wincing, Rory glanced over to see E.J. from school. Even with the helmet covering Rory’s head, the prick had somehow recognized him. Maybe his clothes, or just his build. It was possible, given how much of E.J.’s focus had been on him over the past couple of years.

  Rory turned to head in the other direction and nearly ran into Derek, E.J.’s troll-like sidekick.

  “What’re you supposed to be?” Derek sneered.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Or what?” E.J. asked, boxing him in from behind. “You’ll wash your hands five hundred times?”

  He snickered at his own joke as Rory hurried away. The bullies fell in after him, dogging his heels. They weren’t going to let him off that easy—of course they weren’t—so Rory made a beeline for the nearest house. Only when he’d already committed to that direction did he notice that the porch light was off, which meant the owners were either not home or not participating in trick or treat. The house had a patchy lawn and needed a paint job, and one of the shutters hung askew. If someone had told Rory the place was haunted, he wouldn’t have been surprised—and he didn’t even believe in ghosts.

  Crap. He ought to veer off, find a different safe haven, one where people were home and kids and parents were gathered on the steps or the front walk. But when he glanced back, he saw E.J. and Derek standing on the sidewalk, smirking in pleasure at his terror. This house might not be the escape route he had hoped for, but he had no choice other than to try it.

  He went up the steps and rang the bell. A buzz echoed deep inside the house.

  “Trick or treat?” he called hopefully.

  To his surprise and consternation, a voice replied immediately, a slightly slurred voice, which came from right behind the door, as if its owner had been crouched or slumped against it. “Fuck off.”

  On the sidewalk, just close enough to hear the homeowner’s response, E.J. and Derek laughed, holding onto each other as they bent over with mirth.

  Rory turned stiffly away from the door, gaze shifting as he tried to figure out the best path of escape—searching to see if there was a path of escape. Behind him, the door creaked open. Before he could turn, he heard the raspy voice speak up again.

  “Here’s a treat, you little shit.”

  Then he felt the smack of something hard and wet against the back of his helmet. It rocked him forward slightly and, inside the helmet, Rory blinked in shock and frustration. He wiped the back of his helmet and looked at his hand, fearful that the guy in the house had thrown dog crap at him or something. Instead, his hand came away with a smear of what he thought must be rotten apple, and a glance at the ground proved the theory.

  E.J. and Derek were howling with laughter.

  Without warning the interior of the helmet lit up. Red lights flashed. Rory’s heart jumped in alarm and he panicked, twisting around for help, for some solution. Symbols scrolled across his internal viewscreen. Targeting information popped up and he stared at the guy on the front steps—the apple-throwing stoner who still stood there, sneering.

  “What?” the stoner asked, throwing out his hands in a challenge.

  A click came from the side of the helmet. Rory heard a whine. Then hellfire erupted from the helmet and disintegrated the stoner where he stood, blowing out the entire doorway of the house, leaving it a flaming, charred wreckage.

  * * *

  McKenna and Casey had taken Emily’s Subaru and started cruising up and down the streets, moving carefully. With all the kids in the street and on the sidewalks, all the parents holding hands, munchkins with their Jack-o’-lantern buckets, and swaggering teenagers prowling for candy with the laziest costumes imaginable—if any—looking for Rory was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

  “Busy night,” Casey said. “What a great place to trick or treat. Rory’s lucky to have grown up here.”

  “Yeah,” McKenna agreed. He didn’t bother to make excuses for how much of Rory’s growing-up he had missed. He had a feeling Casey wouldn’t be surprised, but he didn’t know her well enough to share, even if he’d had the inclination.

  “You really think he’s wearing the Predator helmet?”

  McKenna turned up Sycamore Street. “Yeah. He found it, that’s for sure. That and the wrist gauntlet. Knowing my kid, and seeing that empty box, I figure there’s almost a hundred percent chance he’s got them both on.”

  “At least it’s Halloween,” she said. “So, he won’t stand out.”

  “From our point of view, that’s not a good thing.”

  McKenna’s gaze continued to shift, tracking each kid, mentally dismissing each costume as he searched for the Predator helmet, and the boy wearing it. He tapped the accelerator again, cruising slowly along Sycamore, watching the shadows and the front steps and the sidewalks.

  “I’ve seen every alien encounter movie,” Casey went on. “Sure, I hoped for gently inquisitive or frighteningly ambitious, but I was totally ready for hostile. I mean, let’s face it, if the nature of off-world races is anything like that of humans, they’re bound to be assholes, right? Farming our minerals or harvesting our people— something unpleasant…”

  She let the words trail off as she, too, searched the sea of trick-or-treaters.

  “Ignore the small groups with parents,” McKenna said. “He wouldn’t fall in with them. He might join a large group of kids, stick to the back where he might not be noticed, but chances are he’ll be on his own. Shouldn’t be hard to spot him.”

  “Sounds like a sad kid.”

  McKenna frowned. “You’d be surprised. There are things that bum him out or make him frustrated, but he’s got a much better attitude than you’d think, considering how much crap he has to deal with because he sees the world a little differently.”

  “You don’t talk much about him.”

  “I’ve been doing nothing but talk about him.”

  “About keeping him safe, yeah,” Casey said. “But not about what kind of kid he is.”

  McKenna went quiet as he braked to let a family cross the street, then turned left on Briarwood Road.

  “H
e’s a good kid, Casey. A really good kid.” McKenna hesitated a moment, then went on. “A hell of a lot better than his old man.”

  Whatever she might have said in reply was interrupted by an explosion on the next block. Over the roofs of houses, a pillar of flame flashed toward the night sky and then vanished, but the smoke rising from it remained visible.

  Casey and McKenna exchanged a stunned glance, and then he stomped on the gas pedal. He wasn’t a man who prayed—wasn’t a man who believed in things he couldn’t hold in his two hands—but McKenna now found himself praying with all his heart that Rory hadn’t been at the center of that explosion.

  * * *

  Rory froze, mouth gaping inside the helmet. He blinked, telling himself that couldn’t have just happened.

  A pile of ashes sat on the top step.

  The front lawn, on either side of the steps, was smoking from the heat.

  Oh shit. Oh God. Oh shit, Rory thought, even as the more analytical part of his mind examined the event and tried to make sense of what had happened. A weapon had whirred out from the side of the helmet. Its sensors had reacted to the attack, thinking the stoner was a threat because of the impact of the apple.

  Now he turned, in utter shock, and stared at E.J. and Derek, who seemed just as stunned. As soon as the bullies realized the mask was now pointing in their direction, however, they screamed and fled, moving faster than he had ever seen them move before.

  He raised the helmet and turned to glance again at the ruin of the front door and the ashes on the steps, too shaken to appreciate the terror of his tormentors. At some point, he had dropped his trick or treat bag. Now he lowered the helmet and bent to retrieve it, numbly picking up items of candy that had spilled from it as he attempted to restore a semblance of order to his mind.

  Once he had done, he looked again at the smoking ruin of the house, and suddenly the shell of shock that had formed around him cracked and fell away. Tearing off the Predator mask, he tossed it into the bushes surrounding the house.