Almost didn’t count. The thing stepped back, staggered as the bullet hit the metal shoulder mount on its left side. The head snapped around quickly to look at Orologas and before he could pump a second round into the Ithaca’s chamber, the alien threw something at him.
They’d been pressed hard to train and keep training, until physical responses were motor memory and bordered on instinct. Orologas backed up and blocked with his shotgun, which was the only thing that saved his life. The rounded disc cut through the air and then through the stock of the Ithaca, slowed just enough by the impact that Orologas managed to drop backward before it could carve its way through him.
The man looked at the halves of his shotgun and immediately threw them down. The non-lethal approach hadn’t even come close. He needed a different weapon.
While he scrambled for one the rest of the Reapers went into action. King also tried the non-lethal approach, and fired the twin needles of his Taser into the creature’s heavily muscled torso. The voltage in a Taser was designed to overwhelm brain activity, immediately incapacitating the target for as long as the current continued to move through the cables. It hurt like hell too.
A clicking sound indicated the Taser at work. The alien let loose a warbling scream and stood perfectly still.
King’s lips pulled up in a tight grin.
While the creature was frozen in agony, Hill fired. They wanted the thing alive, so the shot was meant to be non-lethal. Killing was an option, though. The bullet caught the alien in the chest, but only did minor damage. The creature’s metal armor was placed strategically and saved it from a more severe injury. The hole that was pounded into the thing’s torso was small at the entry point, and likely at the exit too.
As the rest of the team moved in, the disc that had taken out Orologas’s shotgun came back around in a wide arc, and whether it was controlled by the alien or the aim was simple luck, the edge on the whirring disc sliced through his left arm and part of his chest. Orologas never made a sound as he fell to his knees and then flat on his face.
Strand called out the man’s name and moved three paces toward his fellow soldier before he turned and, cursing loudly, aimed at the alien. His shot was spot on. The bullet struck the metal faceplate and left a deep trench in the area just above the eyes, knocking the creature backward with the force of the blow.
The flying disc turned. Crawling to his hands and knees, Tomlin saw it. The damned thing shifted in mid-flight and cut through the Taser’s cables. The creature tore the barbs from its chest and immediately aimed the shoulder-mounted cannon at King.
King bolted, running hard and fast to avoid being an easy target.
The alien shot anyway, and did a fine job of guessing where its target would be. The shot caught the man in the chest and tore him apart before he could clear ten paces.
Still on his knees, Tomlin rose, moving fast from there. He sighted and fired, aiming for the alien’s chest. His shot punched through the surface but didn’t go very far. The bone density of the thing must have been epic, because the bullet was stopped without exiting.
That didn’t make the creature any happier.
* * *
They came out from behind the structures and swarmed like vermin. He saw them and knew they were different. The group he had nearly finished was trained, and bore weapons, but lacked cohesion. The fact that they were not expecting him was relatively insignificant.
When he’d happened across the gathering forces, he initially meant to merely observe the two rival warring factions, but instead had chosen to add chaos to the mix— the better to hunt the strongest of the warriors among the species. There were some in his clan who would have accused him of provoking a response from both groups. He wouldn’t have disagreed, but found their reactions to the unexpected attacks exhilarating. They were the most dangerous when cornered.
Yet they offered less challenge than he’d hoped.
Nevertheless, the species here was good sport. They weren’t quick to surrender, and they were capable of causing substantial damage given the proper motivation. When the melee finally started and he began killing his prey, he let himself get sloppy. He forgot to check his periphery as carefully as he should have.
That was when the new faction joined the hunt. The team gathering between the domiciles was more cohesive, well-armed, and not as likely to flee. Better prey than the ones he had fought, they came out shooting. The difference was apparent. They weren’t trying to kill others of their own species.
They were hunting for him.
His pulse slammed into a higher rate and he immediately forgot the lesser hunters he had been killing. They were, as a whole, damaged or dying. The prey remaining inside their domiciles were not a threat. He could see that in most cases they had already prepared to flee, and some had already fled the area, retreating rather than engaging in conflict. Cowards.
These new participants, however, were a different sort. They worked together as a unit, or rather they tried. His first assault must have incapacitated a leader of the group because the rest immediately moved to protect their downed compatriot while simultaneously they sought to attack him.
Weapons were fired as he cloaked himself, moving closer. One of the prey managed to hit his gauntlet, and though no substantial damage seemed to occur, his cloak was shut off an instant later.
There were eight of them. He needed to move quickly if he was going to stop them.
While the first was still recovering, several more came for him, firing their weapons with varying levels of success. It took him only a moment to understand that they were either very bad at aiming, or they were attempting to subdue rather than kill him. That was a mistake. As his chieftain had said many times when the hunts began, “Hunting is a serious task and cannot be done without proper dedication to the slaying of targets.”
They wanted to play at hunting. He sought to hunt and collect his trophies.
The first shot that struck him was painful, but left no mark. He threw his disc and cut down one of the would-be hunters. Another of them incapacitated him with a high-voltage charge, then was killed by a blast of plasma. The remote control for the disc was located in his well-insulated face plate, and worked well enough that he could cut the cables holding him.
The second shot bored a hole in his chest that was small, and barely bled. The third bounced off his faceplate instead of penetrating, then another projectile hit his chest. It lodged in his rib and was painful.
Enough of the games.
He charged, moving for the one that had shot him last, even as the creature scrambled from its semi-prone position and prepared to defend itself.
They came for him as one, perfectly willing to engage in close-quarters combat. That was for the best, as he could do little to avoid their ranged weapons except move to where those devices could not be so easily aimed. Up close, he pushed the wrist blades from his gauntlet and drew the Combistick from his belt. The stick telescoped to its full length even as he used it to strike the one that had shot him in the ribs.
The human almost avoided the blow, and rolled to disperse the worst of the kinetic force. He was impressed. When struck, most of them simply fell down and bled out. This one had armor and skill to aid in surviving.
One of the darker-skinned members of the assault team came for him, a heavy blade in its hand. He blocked the blade with his gauntlet and pushed the fighter back with all of his weight. The man rolled away in an uncontrolled stagger and crashed into the closest structure hard enough to draw blood from the back of its head.
The rest tried to swarm him, moving as one, calling to each other in their odd gibberish language and trying to overwhelm him with sheer numbers. It was an excellent strategy but one that would not succeed.
The Combistick caught one of the fools in the abdomen and punched through the armor with ease. The thing thrashed and screeched, dropping the bludgeon it had planned to use on him. He swept his arm to the right and sent two more of the creatures s
tumbling back. The problem they faced was simple—they were worried about hurting one another, and he did not care if any of them were injured.
They were all going to die under any circumstances.
* * *
Tomlin wasn’t down, but it was close. Hill was staggered and dizzy and, despite the bashing he’d taken already, he decided it was time to take charge. There wasn’t a plan in it for advancement, just a need to see things done.
He pointed to Strand and told him to flank the damned thing. Strand didn’t hesitate. The cattle prod was fully charged and when he struck the alien the thing let out another warbling scream and turned its attention to its latest attacker.
Before it could respond, he gestured for Burke to hit the thing hard. Never even blinked. He just lifted his street sweeper and unloaded four of the rubber shells into the thing’s back and side, running in a half-circle as he fired. These were a larger shell. Each of the thunderous discharges hit the creature and sent it stumbling. It let out a roar as it dropped to its knees.
Any thought that it might be incapacitated disappeared when it caught Burke’s arm in a grip and pulled him closer. Burke was cocking the shotgun, but never had a chance to pull the trigger before the heavy metal blades on the creature’s left wrist severed his arm above and below the elbow.
Burke let out a scream and backed away, blood vomiting from the wound in his upper arm. He was dead. There was no chance in hell that anyone was going to be able to stop the blood flow, and Hill knew it. It’d be a miracle if the guy made it back to Stargazer.
Strand tried again with the cattle prod, but only managed to get it blocked and then knocked aside by the metal spear the thing was holding. Instead of retreating, Strand stepped forward and drove his elbow into the giant’s throat.
The creature gagged and coughed and grabbed Strand’s head in one massive hand before driving an armored knee into the poor bastard’s face. Strand hit the ground with all the grace of a sack of rocks, his features bloodied and misshapen.
Tomlin was back up and aiming at the creature again. Hill stepped in closer and threw a smoke grenade at the damned thing just to confuse it.
The creature ignored the smoke. Whatever that helmet did, it must have given it a clean view and enabled it to breathe. Various reports had stated that the alien hunters could see in the infrared spectrum, and maybe even in other spectrums as well. Even so, he’d hoped the smoke might distract it a bit.
Instead the thing rose to its full height and pointed the sharp end of its stick right at Hill’s face.
That was okay. When he was growing up, his old man always said, “The best way not to get hit is to not be where your enemy is swinging.” The first thrust found air. So did the second. When the third came his way Hill dodged to the side again and caught the other end of the damned stick across his shoulder. Big as the thing was, it was fast, too. It spun the staff around and nailed him before he could recover.
Pulver hit the thing in the side with a dart that was supposed to have enough juice in it to knock out a whale. The shot was true. The heavy gauge needle stuck out of the monster’s side and quivered.
It looked at the needle, and then over at Pulver. While it did, Jermaine Hyde did what he did best and came in for a sneak attack.
The man was as fast as anyone Hill had ever seen, and he was quiet besides. There were no slouches in the Reapers, but Hyde scared him just a little. He wrapped his arms around the creature’s thick neck, right at what had to be a vulnerable spot, between the mask and the thick collar the creature wore. In that narrow gap, Hyde wrapped a heavy cord between his hands and then dropped backward.
The thing shook, and reached, and tried to grab at Hyde, but the man avoided its attempts and dropped lower still.
The creature turned, trying to find easy access to its attacker, but instead of giving up his advantage, Hyde actually stepped up the monster’s leg and then wrapped himself around the thick, muscular waist, his legs scissoring together to get a firm grip and apply pressure to the vulnerable parts of the creature’s midsection. Caught around the waist and the neck, the alien hunter spun, trying to find its enemy and failing.
Hyde held on like a man fighting against a bucking bronco. He managed to keep his grip despite the odds.
Damn…
While Hyde fought to stay exactly where he was, and to cut off the blood flow to the behemoth’s brain, Pulver nailed it again and again with the darts from his tranquilizer gun. Tomlin stood next to Hill and kept his weapon aimed at the thing, but ultimately it didn’t matter. He never had to fire it.
The monster they’d hunted staggered, and then slowly fell backward, landing on Hyde as it crashed to the ground.
Tomlin looked to Hill.
“You’re bleeding.”
Hill nodded and felt the massive wet spot on the back of his head. “Yeah. Fucker hit me with a house.” He looked at Tomlin and saw several lacerations. “You ain’t looking whole yourself.”
“We have to get this done.” He looked at the creature. Even as they watched Hyde was working, moving out from under the heavy form and quickly applying inch-thick zip ties to the thing’s heavy wrists and ankles. Hill nodded and winced.
“Not gonna be long before someone comes around. I’ll go get the van.”
Tomlin shook his head. “No. That’s a nasty wound. You might have a concussion.” He pointed to Pulver. “The van, Kyle.”
Pulver nodded and Hill tossed him the keys. There was no more talk. They worked as quickly as they could to finish binding the oversized nightmare that had taken out four of the team with ease.
Tomlin addressed the fallen, going from member to member and quickly gathering their tags. Two dead, two badly wounded.
Hill and Hyde made sure the restraints were solid and then Hill did his best to disable whatever weapons he could find on the creature. Mostly that meant peeling parts off and setting them aside. Two gauntlets and the shoulder mount were stripped away before the van arrived. The mask could wait for later. For all they knew the fucker would suffocate in the atmosphere, and he wasn’t taking any chances. General Woodhurst wanted the thing alive. Pappy wanted the thing alive.
That was enough for him.
Tomlin looked around like he’d been punched in the head a few too many times and Hill understood.
They’d won. They’d captured an actual Off World Life Form.
All it had cost them was half the Reapers in exchange.
Some people were going to look at that as a victory.
Tomlin was not. He’d lost men under his command and that hurt. Hill knew, because even though the command wasn’t his, he felt the blow just as deeply.
13
“They’re coming home with a prize.”
Jerry Entwhistle’s message was short and crisp. That was all Pappy needed to hear. It was enough.
It was too much.
Elliott sat down on the corner of his desk and stared at his hands. They’d been younger hands once, and they’d been powerful. He could look at them now and see the scars from a dozen conflicts that had aged him long before time had gotten hold of him. The one scar that he always saw, no matter whether he wanted to see it or hide from it, was one of the smallest. A dimpled mass that ran through the web between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand. That was the spot where his flesh had been torn by the tusk-like mandible of a nightmare from another world. The fingers still moved just fine, but the wound ached whenever the weather changed. Scar tissue was like that.
At least the physical scar tissue. The emotional kind was much worse.
He thought about the thing he’d fought. By all rights he should have died that day, same as the men in his command, but that had been a long time ago and much more a case of blind luck than strategy.
* * *
Claymore mines didn’t care what they shredded, they just did their work. He’d seen the thing moving, charging for him, and had ducked just before the detonation.
Green fluore
scent blood had been everywhere, but he didn’t think he’d killed the bastard. He’d seen the way the leaves rustled as it ran away, and he’d followed the trail until it vanished in a small clearing.
Even if he’d been able to catch the thing, he wouldn’t have gotten away with any trophies. The situation was too hot to let him carry a heavy burden. The single piece he’d grabbed had been part of a telescoping spear that was made of a lightweight and incredibly tough metal.
He had hard evidence.
* * *
Hard evidence was coming his way again.
He was thrilled.
And he was terrified.
It was one thing to know that something existed, and another completely to confront the physical proof after years of self-doubt. The voices, the murmurs, the often bold looks of contempt had all taken a toll on him. It had been decades since he’d seen an alien, and he wondered how much his mind had edited what he’d seen back then. Had he imagined the size of the creature? Did he edit that size the way a fisherman changed the length of his biggest catch, or the one that got away?
Elliott could close his eyes and claim to still see the face of the nightmare, but what details did he remember clearly? The dreadlock-like appendages that fell from the head? Yes, he still remembered them. The eyes? Maybe. The mouth so like the mandibles of a spider? Or the fangs nearly hidden by those vile moving barbs?
He couldn’t say for certain. The only time he thought he knew with any true conviction was when he was asleep, and the fucking thing came after him again. Of course those particular dreams seldom ended the same way as reality.
He sat at his desk for a long while, resting his head in his hands and breathing, doing his best to focus on the work ahead. There would be cataloging of equipment, and there would be so many pictures to take, proof of the creature’s existence. And then if he had his way, there would be an autopsy or, better still, a vivisection. So much more could be learned from a living creature.
The Predator Page 9
