THE PREDATOR HUNTERS AND HUNTED

by James A. Moore

  Excellent.

  Unlike the creatures with their firearms and their vehicles, these primitive beasts seemed like a proper threat. He wasn’t foolish enough to doubt the dangerous nature of the dominants, however. He’d encountered them before, had hunted them, done battle with them and captured his prizes.

  These were hunters, though—true hunters, carnivores that sought food. The thought made his blood surge and his pupils dilate. He let out a shuddering breath and waited patiently for one of the massive beasts to get close enough to provide a serious challenge.

  He was not cloaked. This was a different sort of hunt. This was a personal battle against a target that was larger and physically superior to him. When one of them came for him, erupting from the waters in a sudden, violent charge, he reacted in kind.

  The massive jaws of the beast slammed shut in the spot where his leg had been. He dodged the bite by a narrow margin and jumped back, preparing himself for combat. The creature was not so easily deterred, and came for him again, pushing its bulk onto the shore with surprising speed.

  As he’d suspected, the tail of the reptile was a deadly weapon. The creature tried to strike using the heavy appendage, and he leaped over it, dropping down to the ground and then moving to the offensive before his opponent could reverse direction.

  His claws met hard, scaled flesh and dug in, but not as deeply as he’d expected. The wounds he drew across the broad back of the thing were negligible. Then the powerful body shifted and sent him sprawling. So much faster than he’d expected. His senses were alert, and nervous energy coursed through him. He hit the ground and rolled himself away from the creature as it lunged and snapped its jaws and came for him yet again. How hungry it must be to risk leaving the waters. He did not understand the full nature of the thing, but had no doubt it preferred to remain submerged and safely hidden away.

  It came again and for a moment panic caught inside of him. Truly the creature was massive. He’d chosen to fight it at close range, without any weapons, and watching as it lumbered his way he felt a flash of doubt. It was twice his length and it gave a booming hiss as it came for him.

  Fear. It made him feel alive!

  This was the joy of the hunt on its most primal level. His mouth opened and he bared teeth past quivering mandibles. Then his opponent’s massive maw spread wide, and he understood the creature’s weakness. It could see, but it could not see well when it was preparing to bite. He retreated again as the jaws slammed together a scant finger’s distance from where he’d been standing. Had he not retreated, the creature would be feasting on his arm.

  All the better!

  This time when he attacked, he planted his heavy foot on the closed mouth of the thing and stomped down hard enough to feel the bones of the reptile’s face break under his heel. Before it could respond he raked his claws across the thing’s left eye and punctured the organ.

  Half blinded and without a doubt in pain, the thing let out a deep, throaty roar and tried to retreat. As with many predators, if flight was an option the creature wanted to take it. But he did not intend to allow it.

  The hunter attacked again, this time bringing his clawed foot down on the creature’s back leg with enough force to bend the joint out of shape. Bone and cartilage shattered under the blow. Damaged and hindered in its attempt to escape, the reptile turned and charged in one ferocious motion. Teeth slammed down and raked across his leg. The pain was immediate and nearly incapacitating, but he had avoided the worst of the bite. The entire bulk of the thing came at him and rammed his body, staggering him.

  The hunter hopped back on one uninjured leg and cursed his arrogance in thinking he might have an easy fight, even without his weapons. Still, his blood roared and his heart hammered in his chest as the thrill grew stronger. This was a fight! This was a hunt!

  Another large hop backward and that mouth was opening again, the jaws parting to show teeth large enough to cut him as easily as his metal blades cut flesh. He lunged to its left side, where the creature was already blinded, and drove his claws into the scaled jaw, shredding flesh, carving through the muscles that controlled that deadly bite.

  The head slapped in that direction and connected with his torso hard enough to throw him through the air. Had he not just torn the muscles on that side, the thing would surely have maimed him with the attempted bite. By the time he rose back to his feet the monster had almost made it back to the waters.

  No. He would not lose his prize!

  He grabbed the thick tail of the creature, grunted loudly, and braced and threw his full weight into bringing the beast back to him. At first it seemed to be rooted to the ground, and then the body was lifting into the air, even as its tail flexed and curled and took him off balance. He threw the beast even as it threw him.

  The hunter landed in the muck at the edge of the water while his opponent rolled and slapped across the thick grass of the shoreline, shaking itself violently. For a moment the hunter’s vision doubled, but he stood just the same, crouching into a battle-ready stance as he shook away the second reptile that mirrored the first.

  He placed himself between the beast and its watery retreat. It came for him again, croaking out a deep roar and charging, heavy body low to the ground and tail slashing the foliage behind it as it rushed forward.

  The mouth could not open properly. It could not attack with a bite, and would likely never be able to eat again.

  He stepped to the left side, out of the path of his prey, and drove his foot into the muscles behind that heavy head, then cut a deep trench with his claws, dragging them forward across the same area and cutting deeper into the meat. When the reptile whipped its body around to attack, its movements were sluggish. It might be feigning a deeper injury, though he doubted the creature had the intelligence to manage that.

  As it twisted its heavy body, he dropped onto the creature’s back and caught the mangled jaw with his hands. It reared up, and he wrapped his thick legs around its heavy belly, tightening his grip to prevent the wounded jaw from opening again.

  The fight was not yet done, however. The thing rolled its body, thrashing violently against the ground in an effort to dislodge him. His legs constricted around that middle and his arms held tightly to the wounded jaw, keeping it closed. The impact of the thing’s body slamming him into the ground was brutal, but not enough to shake him loose.

  His legs squeezed and he hooked his feet together to make sure his grip did not slip. His arms locked tighter still and he wrenched the head sideways with all the strength he could muster. Once, a second time, and then a third. On the fourth attempt he felt bones in the neck slide, and then separate.

  As the body thrashed with less and less force, he maintained his grip. His face was half submerged in a puddle when the beast finally breathed its last, shuddered, and died. He stayed that way for a long while, breathing carefully and savoring the feel of killing an enemy he had not been certain he could defeat.

  When he rose to his feet again he saw the damage to his thigh—the scrapes where he had come very close to losing several important muscles. The rain washed the bloody wound as he worked on gathering his trophies. The head of the beast, the spine of the beast, and the clawed forefeet as well. This was a prize he would long remember.

  The rains kept coming as he headed for his ship to properly clean and tend to his wounds and get a night’s rest. This encounter had inspired him, and he looked forward to the greater hunts that were still to come.

  He felt it with every fiber of his being.

  There would be a glorious hunt soon.

  10

  The clouds stayed where they were, but at least the rain calmed down. Traeger took a quick shower, pulled out a fresh suit and got himself to work. The next meeting of the subcommittee was only a day away and he had a lot to do between now and then. It could decide the fate of Project Stargazer.

  The good news? The Reapers were actively pursuing a target. From what he’d been told the night before, it was loo
king very promising.

  “So how do we spin this?” he asked his reflection as he lathered up his cheeks and chin for a close shave. “Say it’s happening now? Maybe a little lie?” he shrugged. “I mean, very little, because those boys are damned good.”

  Which was true. Every mission they’d taken only made him look better in the eyes of the Agency. That helped, but it wasn’t enough. If he wanted to make sure the project stayed alive, and that he gained certain benefits at the same time, he’d have to stretch the truth somewhat and hope it didn’t blow up in his face.

  That decided, he finished getting himself ready and left the quarters he’d been assigned.

  This likely was an easy task. All it required was that the right palms be greased, and he’d already made steps in that direction. He’d prepared the way for several players to help him gain the financial strength the project would need. Now the challenging part came—convincing those players to pull the trigger. He didn’t think he’d have too much trouble, though some of them were likely to play hard to get unless he damned near promised them the world.

  First on the list was Carl Whelan. The man owned a company that specialized in the sort of technology no one ever thought about—construction and mining and heavy equipment for changing the shape of the planet one step at a time. Since no one ever thought about that sort of thing, Whelan had nearly monopolized the market. He had the cash flow to help Traeger, and in return he would be promised a boost to his technologies that would give him an incontrovertible edge—provided, of course, that the technologies could be gleaned from whatever the Reapers could acquire.

  * * *

  They met for breakfast at a diner that offered the most amazing omelets he’d ever tasted, and charged dearly for the privilege of consuming them. Whelan ate his with hard little strokes of his fork, followed by vicious mastication once the food was in his mouth. Traeger could imagine the man crushing his enemies with the exact same sort of relish.

  Whelan listened intently while Traeger made his pitch, both of them using the appropriate level of caution to ensure that anyone close by and too curious would have no idea whatsoever what was being discussed.

  “You need funding. I need assurances.” Whelan spoke over a steaming cup of black coffee, then took a sip of it. It looked damned close to boiling temperature, but if he felt any discomfort, he hid it well.

  “Well, I can’t give you anything in writing,” Traeger said. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “Then what can you give me?”

  “What do you want?”

  “That’s a list that could go on for days.” The man’s smile was as predatory as a shark’s and his eyes were almost as cold.

  “Let’s try this a different way.” Traeger weighed the possibilities, and then leaned forward with a smile of his own. “What will it take for you to throw your cards in?”

  “Well, now…” Whelan almost purred. “You’re in the information business. Aside from the concessions you’ve already discussed, I’d like a little information.”

  That was exactly what Traeger had hoped the man would say.

  “Which of your competitors did you want to know about?”

  He slid the list across the table, and Traeger took it. The paper was folded and he left it that way. There would be time for considering the situation—and the request— after the meal. There was no need for a handshake. They finished the meal without any further talk, but it was companionable silence. When Traeger reached for the check, Whelan beat him to it and smiled.

  “A pleasure doing business with you, William.”

  “Likewise.” He smiled back.

  Victory tasted even better than the omelet.

  * * *

  Woodhurst sighed. The meetings were continuing, and they were going better than he’d hoped, but they still weren’t going as well as he needed them to go. Even the news that the team was on the hunt wasn’t enough to grease the wheels as much as he’d have liked.

  Somewhere out there, Traeger was doing his best— allegedly—and the general hoped it was enough, though he hated the very concept. He still had a problem with Traeger. He just didn’t trust him. The man was as slick as a politician, and he was the kind of person who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. At least the politicians of the world—most of them, anyhow— were smart enough to worry about getting caught with their hands in the cookie jar on one side, and the mud on the other.

  Traeger seemed like the sort who would make sure that if he was caught doing anything wrong, no one would ever talk about it. They were both on the same side, and sometimes the man could accomplish miraculous things, but he seemed to enjoy the work more than Woodhurst thought he should.

  It was just a feeling. Still, he’d spent a lifetime of dealing with vipers clothed in human flesh.

  The phone buzzed. It was Elliott. Good. He was between meetings and wanted some sort of good news.

  “What’s new, Pappy?”

  The man knew better than to give a straight answer. No matter what anyone claimed about cell phone security, he was an agent of the CIA, and therefore came with a certain level of built-in paranoia.

  “Not too much to say yet, General,” Elliott replied. “Just that the news so far is good.”

  “No acquisitions yet? No contact?”

  “Not so far, but it looks as if we’re heading in the right direction. Every sign says so.”

  Woodhurst shook his head. He didn’t want an update unless it indicated progress. He wanted to hear that they’d had success, that there was concrete evidence to present to the people with whom he was meeting—the very people who would decide the fate of his project.

  But he didn’t want to rain on Elliott’s parade.

  “Keep me posted, Pappy,” he said. “Good luck to everyone.”

  He killed the call.

  Pappy Elliott was stressed—he could tell. The man wanted this done, too. He wanted the alien caught, and maybe even more than Woodhurst did. That said a great deal.

  The Reapers were likely even more desperate than their leaders. They’d been yanked, one and all, from assignments that promised advancement, and had been training for more than a year. Once rising stars, now they barely existed in the eyes of the military they’d enlisted to serve. Were they frustrated? Like a boy going solo to his prom.

  And they were likely just as desperate.

  The next meeting was still fifteen minutes out, but at a different location. Woodhurst stood up and headed for the door. The check had already been paid. He just needed to get to a bar two blocks away. If it took him more than ten minutes to walk a couple of blocks, he’d be retiring inside of a week.

  The sky was beginning to clear, and the temperature had dropped by several degrees, making it uncannily comfortable for the District of Columbia. If there had been an alien in DC, it likely would have headed for a different hunting ground.

  Woodhurst smiled to himself and shook his head. What a notion. As far as the general was concerned some of the deadliest creatures on the planet could be found at the local bars, and more of them were in the House of Representatives and on the senate floor.

  * * *

  The rains slowed down, but did not go away. Just the same, the Reapers left the hotel and stowed their equipment properly in the two vehicles they were driving—a van and an SUV. Both were nondescript, and well-secured. The average car thief trying to break in would be hard pressed to manage to pick the locks, and the windows were bulletproof.

  Better safe than sorry.

  No new details had come to light, but that fact didn’t stop the group from heading out. One and all, they weren’t comfortable waiting for something to happen— not when they could be out hunting, or at least getting the lay of the land.

  Anything they did had to be based on news reports and police broadcasts. To that end Orologas was the busiest of them. While most of the Reapers sat in their seats and looked out at the streets, he listened to the police scanner and checked f
or activity that might reflect more of the same sort of carnage.

  “They always make this look so easy in the movies.” Orologas was talking to himself, but Hill rolled his eyes.

  “No such thing as the easy way.” Hill looked out the windows at the trees on one side and the small houses on the other. There was a whole lot of nothing worth seeing, as far as he was concerned. He sighed and mentally agreed with the communications specialist.

  Then he was all attention.

  “Might have something.” Orologas spoke softly and held up a hand to show that he wasn’t ready with anything just yet. “Sounds like a raid on a crack house.” Orologas shrugged. “Might be worth checking out. There will be people with weapons and attitude problems.”

  “Sounds like wishful thinking to me.” Hill chuckled.

  “Agreed.” Tomlin nodded. “But let’s check it out anyway. Stay discreet, though.”

  11

  Hampstead Road ended in a cul-de-sac with six houses in a semicircle. Each of those houses was a single-story ranch style made of brick and looked enough like the one next to it that the only way to tell them apart came from the lawn decorations, or lack thereof. Those, and the color of the wood trim.

  They’d all been built in the nineteen sixties and were in decent repair, but they were nothing to write home about. The proper description was, frankly, “nondescript,” and that was exactly the idea.

  The rains had slowed but not gone away, and the lawns around the houses were marked with pockets of standing water, some several inches deep.

  The first squad car rolled down the street at just after ten in the morning, and Tuey—the kid they paid to be a lookout—did his job perfectly. He pushed two fingers into his mouth and blew out a loud, shrill whistle that would have shaved the life off anyone standing too close to him.