Predator

by James A. Moore

  They had been moving through the jungle for about twenty minutes when he stopped and held up a hand. “Here,” he said.

  They were in a natural clearing, but one that was on several levels, the open area in the center containing cover in the form of rocks and hollows, and the edges crowded with a dense mass of foliage. Dutch had not known this clearing existed before they happened upon it. He had simply been looking for a suitable space to make their stand.

  His mind now worked quickly, assessing the space, deciding how best to make use of the layout. He tried to view the terrain through their enemy’s eyes, tried to work out the optimum position from which the Hunter might launch its attack.

  Peering into the canopy overhead, he tried to discern, through the darkness and the constantly falling rain, its most likely route through the trees. He moved to a thick, crooked, multi-limbed tree on the outskirts of the clearing, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and began to scale it.

  The trunk was moss-covered and slippery, but Dutch was strong and agile and dug his fingers and the toes of his boots into the moisture-sodden bark as he hauled himself upward. Once he had reached what he felt was the best tactical position, he settled himself into the crook of two thick branches and waited.

  Like the rest of his men, Dutch wore reflective makeup on every exposed part of his skin. Not only was it camouflage paint, but like the specially designed body armor they also wore, it was effective in stifling the red flag of their heat signatures. Of course, it wasn’t one hundred percent effective – if they couldn’t jettison their body heat at all they would cook inside their uniforms – but it stopped them glowing like walking hot water boilers under the merciless eye of the Hunter’s thermal imaging technology.

  Sitting motionless, Dutch couldn’t decide whether the rain was a blessing or a curse. It certainly cooled him down, but at the same time it was responsible for making the jungle twitch and jerk and slither around him, a thousand infinitesimal movements, any one of which might have been made by the being they were hunting.

  On the ground below, Dutch could see Angus, all lean muscle and hard edges despite the fact he was closing in fast on his fiftieth birthday, making a slow, careful sweep of the area, leaving as little as possible to chance. Dutch’s view of his second-in-command was distorted by the rain trickling constantly across the lenses of his ultraviolet goggles, but he sat motionless, resisting the urge to raise his arm and wipe them. As far as Dutch was concerned, he was now one with the tree, he was part of the tree, and he would remain so until circumstances dictated otherwise.

  Just as the rain was both a boon and a handicap, so too were the goggles they all wore. Dutch and his men used them because the cloaking devices the Hunters employed often left a slight distortion, and with the goggles they were sometimes able to detect that odd bend of the light that would otherwise have eluded their normal vision. It was only a slight advantage, but in a field where the slimmest of margins could make a huge difference, Dutch would take whatever he could get.

  Down below Angus was still moving around, still checking out the area. For the moment he was still making it look as though he was simply being both cautious and thorough, but Dutch knew that if their enemy was watching, it would only be a matter of time before he began to get suspicious. Because what Angus was really doing was offering himself up as bait. He was the sacrificial goat tied to the stake, waiting for the hungry god to arrive. There was no one Dutch trusted more than Angus, and his second-in-command played the role well, but it was also a risky strategy.

  Above Dutch a branch creaked slightly, and for a split-second the steady fall of rain directly in front of him doubled in intensity, hitting the fleshy leaves with a sound like hail on a tin roof. If he hadn’t been where he was, perched ten meters above the ground, he wouldn’t have noticed it, no matter how highly attuned his senses were. But here it was an obvious sign that something was up there, and Dutch was willing to bet it was something far more dangerous than a curious howler monkey.

  Angus was now making his way across the clearing, moving slowly, but not so slowly that it looked suspicious. He moved in a crouch, keeping to the shadows, as though trying to avoid detection, not attract it. Hyper-aware that their enemy was close, Dutch knew the natural instinct for even the most experienced of combat-trained soldiers would have been to try to warn their colleague of the danger in some way. But he sat tight, his muscles rigid but relaxed, his heartbeat nice and steady and his chest barely rising and falling as he breathed. Angus knew the score. He would assume their enemy was there somewhere, watching him. As languidly as he moved, and as oblivious to danger as he seemed, Dutch knew that in truth Angus would be ready for anything, and that his reflexes were second to none.

  He knew too that the other six members of the team would not only be watching Angus and their surroundings closely, but would be covering their superior officer from every angle. There was a possibility that one or more of them had seen the branch move above Dutch’s head and were training their weapons on the Hunter’s location right now, but Dutch knew that would be more of an unlikely hope than a genuine one.

  As Angus slipped out of sight behind a rock, Dutch readied himself. Aside from the ever-present fusillade of raindrops, nothing stirred. Dutch felt like a sprinter on his blocks waiting for the starter’s signal. He was utterly relaxed, and at the same time ready to erupt into immediate and violent action.

  Five seconds later a branch above him creaked heavily, and more water pattered down from the rain-laden leaves, saturating his camos. He had guessed correctly, then – unless, of course, he’d been spotted, though if he had he didn’t think the Hunter would have been so careless as to announce its presence.

  Keeping his breathing steady, Dutch moved for the first time in minutes, though only to tighten his fingers slowly around the handle of the sawtooth Bowie hunting knife, which he kept in a holster strapped to his thigh, and which his right hand had been resting upon. The branch, which he estimated was probably about five meters above him, creaked again, more slowly but more insistently this time, as if the Hunter was edging out along it to get a better look at the ground below, and another rapid patter of raindrops fell.

  Then there was another creak, a different kind of creak; the branch slowly lifting back up, Dutch guessed. Which meant what? There had been no whiplash sound, no sudden flurry of droplets, which meant the alien had not leaped from this tree to another. So either it was being ultra-cautious and retreating, perhaps sensing a trap, or it was coming down the tree toward him.

  Dutch felt the kick of adrenaline inside him, though apart from causing sweat to gush ever more copiously from his skin, and pour down his back, chest and stomach like armies of ants marching across his body, he did not respond to it. He sat as motionless as ever, his back pressed hard against the tree branch behind him, his eyes peering intently through his rain-spattered goggles, the muscles in his limbs thrumming with readiness. He listened hard, his ears attuned to the slightest slither of clawed hands and feet on the mossy bark above his head. If he’d guessed right, the creature should pass right by him during its descent, with no particular reason to glance his way.

  If he’d guessed right.

  A second passed. Another. And then… there it was.

  Moving past him, but slowly this time, creeping cautiously. No need, in its own mind, to worry at this stage about being seen.

  Dutch couldn’t see it in detail, but he could see the space it occupied within its cloaking device, a suggestion of its shape picked out by raindrops. It was indeed lithe and long-limbed, as he’d thought. And it was moving down the tree headfirst, its poise and strength like that of a circus acrobat. As it slid by him, a drop of rain hit the field around the creature and danced with electrical discharge, showing flesh where none had been a moment before. Flesh that was sleek and dark; more like shark skin than the rough, scaly hide he was used to seeing on these creatures.

  Dutch waited for the optimal moment to make his move,
and then in one swift motion he lunged up and forward, and drove the blade of his knife into the Hunter’s back, directly under what he estimated to be its shoulder blade.

  The creature screamed, a warbling, furious noise, more high-pitched than he was used to, and whipped round toward him, its cloaking device shimmering and sparking. If Dutch had any doubts that this creature was of a different species to the Hunters he’d previously encountered, then the bright green blood that spilled from the wound he’d made and bounced off leaves to spatter on the ground below laid them to rest. Even as the Hunter thrashed beneath the press of his weight, Dutch rammed his knife in further and dragged it down, ripping the wound open as much as he could.

  At such close quarters, the shoulder-mounted cannon the Hunter wore was useless, as were the other weapons the thing might have employed on him. All the creature could rely on right now was its speed and flexibility, and as such, as it thrashed and bucked beneath him, Dutch felt like a rodeo rider attempting desperately to cling to his mount. He felt his knife slipping first from the Hunter’s back, and then being knocked from his hand by a flailing claw to go tumbling through the leaves and branches to the ground below. Unarmed, he could now only wrestle with the creature as it squirmed in his grip, as tensile and aggressive as a barracuda, to face him.

  Small and lithe this particular Hunter might have been, but as Dutch discovered to his cost, it was still immensely strong. With incredible speed a clawed hand whipped out, grabbed for Dutch, and caught his chest, pulling the tough Kevlar of his body armor into a knot as it hauled him free of his perch on the tree. Dutch’s own fist shot out, aiming for the creature’s throat. His blow only half-connected and then he was flying, flipping end over end as the Hunter let him go and sent him plummeting to the ground.

  He curled himself into a ball as best he could and tried to roll with the impact, grateful that he hit mossy ground softened by rain, rather than one of the rocks that jutted from the spongy undergrowth. Even as Dutch was recovering his breath, rolling onto his back and reaching for his gun, Carter had emerged from cover behind a nearby tree and was firing his gun directly upwards, a hail of bullets cutting through the space occupied by Dutch’s falling body moments before.

  It was not a reckless tactic. In normal circumstances the Hunter would either have been killed or injured by Carter’s prompt response, or would now be beating a hasty retreat. But Carter had miscalculated quite how fast this new Predator could move. And as he stood in plain sight on the ground, legs wide apart, entire upper body shuddering as he fired his weapon up into the trees, he had unwittingly turned himself into easy prey.

  Dutch was still on his back, but even before he fully realized what he was doing, his survival instincts were kicking in and he was scooting backward, his body searching for cover even as his eyes were scanning the trees around the clearing. A branch creaked loudly somewhere above him to his right, and Dutch’s head whipped in that direction, straining to see through the rain falling directly onto his goggles. He saw a glimmer of distortion, and then, like a phantom made of negative space within a curtain of rain, the shape of the creature perched on a branch, leaning forward, peering down at Carter like a neighbor curious about the source of the noise below.

  Dutch and Angus both yelled a warning in unison, but already it was too late. Their voices were drowned out in a scream of energy as the cannon mounted on the alien’s shoulder cut loose with three fast lightning bolts, each and every one of them aimed at Carter.

  The man didn’t just die. He exploded. Holes blew through his armor with ease, slicing through his chest, whilst simultaneously blasting off his head and his left arm. He had been part of Dutch’s team for three years, and now, just like that, he was gone.

  There was no time to grieve, no time even to stand and watch what had happened with open-mouthed shock. Even as blood and fire and mangled body parts were still falling around the clearing like hellish rain, Angus had issued his response. Emerging from cover, and squinting through the smoke, he aimed his portable grenade launcher and fired a projectile at the alien, then slid back behind his tree even before the grenade found its target.

  When it did the light was dazzling, the noise an overwhelming thunder that seemed to send a shudder of impact down into the roots of every tree in the jungle. Using the blast as cover, Dutch scrambled upright, then sprinted for the nearest rock and threw himself behind it. He took a single whooping breath, inhaling air that stank of fireworks and burned meat and scorched wood, and then he peeked around the side of the rock. He was just in time to see the smoke clear, like a gauzy curtain being shredded by invisible claws, and the shimmering, flickering shape of the Predator – the mazy system of tree branches it used to travel through the jungle literally torn away from around it – tipping almost gracefully forward and plunging to the earth.

  It landed in a blackened, smoking, but – from what Dutch could tell – mostly intact heap. It hit heavily, the cloaking field around it flickering out of existence. Dutch wondered whether the creature was dead or concussed. If the latter, they needed to move in and finish it before it could fight back. At the same time, they had to be cautious. The body of the thing still bristled with weapons, and to go rushing forward en masse could get them all killed. It was up to Dutch to make the call, but even before the moment of decision could be reached, the Hunter had leaped to its feet and was moving again, its high chittering respiration audible through the faceplate that both offered protection and also allowed it to breathe more easily in Earth’s atmosphere.

  Although disappointed to see it still so mobile, Dutch was heartened to observe that the Hunter’s injuries had clearly slowed it down. Not only was it bleeding copiously from the back wound he had inflicted, and leaving a trail of luminous green blood that should make it easy to track even if it slipped into the darkness of the trees, it was also dragging its left leg slightly as it scampered across the clearing.

  Despite its injuries, the alien was still a thing of grace and beauty – not to mention incredibly dangerous. Angus stepped from cover and let loose another grenade, aiming lower this time, not at the Hunter itself but at the trees toward which it was heading, in the hope that the blast would knock it off its feet with enough force to properly concuss it. However, the thing had clearly anticipated the move, and even as Angus fired it abruptly changed direction, darting toward a stand of trees that would be out of range of the blast. As the grenade impacted, resulting in another crescendo of light, noise, fire and smoke, Dutch saw their prey slide behind a tree and melt into the foliage. He cursed, but at least they would have the thing’s blood trail to follow.

  Emerging from cover, he ran in a stoop across the clearing, indicating with a thrashing arm where the alien had gone. Pursuit was risky, but it was their only alternative, and with their enemy now injured and exposed the odds had tilted in their favor. As he plunged into the trees, following the Hunter’s blood trail but still aware that the creature was not beyond using its own blood to lure them into a trap, Dutch could peripherally see his men breaking cover and converging from all sides. Smoke billowed through the trees, though the fires ignited by the grenade were being doused by the ceaseless rain. As he ran, Dutch was oblivious to any injuries he might have sustained in his fall from the tree. If he got out of this alive, then no doubt his battle-hardened body would be a mass of bruises, swellings and abrasions tomorrow. But for now, the adrenaline surging through his system was keeping all of that at bay.

  They followed the blood trail for several minutes until they came to another clearing, bisected on the upper left side by a fast-flowing stream that had been swollen by the rain. Here, on the edge of the water, the trail petered out and Dutch looked left and right, trying to decide whether their prey would have followed the course of the stream downhill, or would have had the strength and time to fight its way uphill against the flow of the tide and take refuge in the rocky, mossy terrain he could see through the tangle of trees.

  Angus pointed across
the water. “There!” And immediately Dutch saw two telltale spots of green blood glowing on a rock on the far side of the stream. Swiftly, and with a sense of mounting dread, he scanned the area beyond, and saw another streak of alien blood on the trunk of a large tree with a spreading canopy of branches halfway up the slope that rose from the streambed.

  So their prey could still climb! Shit! And if it was up in that tree…

  “Take cover!” Dutch yelled.

  His men needed no further explanation. They scattered in all directions. Even as Dutch was running, whilst at the same time raising his gun to fire into the trees, he glimpsed something slicing down through the air, a flying disc that moved at an unholy speed. He threw himself to one side, his head whipping round to see Angus doing the same. The disc passed through the space where Angus had been standing a split-second earlier and sliced a chunk out of a tree trunk behind him as though it was made of putty.

  The disc had to be remote controlled, because after slicing effortlessly through the tree, Dutch saw it halt in midair, then abruptly change direction, spinning around the other side of the tree and swooping down on them like an eagle. As Dutch flung himself behind a rock close to the edge of the gushing stream, he saw another of his men, Rob Dunkirk, running toward a tree from the base of which several trunks sprouted like the fingers of a giant hand. With deadly purpose, the disc homed in on Dunkirk and sliced his left arm from his body. It did it so quickly and cleanly that Rob just kept on running, perhaps only realizing something was wrong when his gun, which he’d been holding with both hands, suddenly became unbalanced in his one-handed grip and sagged in front of him. Dutch saw him stumble as he half-tripped over the drooping gun barrel, but whether Rob did ever realize he had died with only one arm Dutch would never know, because a split-second later the disc swooped back around and cleaved straight through Dunkirk’s chest.