“Let’s check it out.”
They moved forward cautiously, Scott trying to look every which way, wary of potential traps or the telltale shimmer of an alien cloaking device. The clearing was in the rough shape of a rectangle, edged thickly with trees on two sides and with a horseshoe-shaped rock formation, green with moss, enclosing its other two sides like a protective barrier. The tents were in two parallel lines, facing each other across an open area in the middle. Aside from those troops that were patrolling the perimeter, the men were spreading out around Scott and Marcus to check out the other tents.
The droning of insects became louder as they approached the last tent on the right. It was an ominous sound, and when Scott saw the pools of blood on the ground and the spatters of blood on the outside of the tent itself, all of which were black with insects, he pretty much knew what to expect.
“He must have skinned them here,” Marcus said, looking down at the ground, his features taut with distaste.
“No prizes for guessing where he put the bodies,” said Scott, nodding at the tent.
“Like a kid clearing away his toys after playing with them,” Marcus noted bitterly.
Scott sighed and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “No need for us both to confirm the inevitable. You wait here, buddy.”
Marcus looked grateful, but said, “You know being senior officer means you get to make other people do the shitty jobs?”
“It also means taking responsibility. Now stay right there, Sergeant. And that’s an order.”
Marcus smiled, though it was a grim sort of expression. “Yes, sir.”
Scott took a breath, then moved toward the front of the tent, placing his feet, as much as he was able, between the pools of blood rather than in them. In the central area (what Scott couldn’t help thinking of as the main skinning area), the pools had run together to form a mini lake, which it was impossible to avoid, and which was both boggy and glutinous underfoot. As soon as his boot came down in the “lake,” a cloud of black, engorged insects rose from the ground and swirled around him. Holding his breath, he plowed through them, and was grateful when they settled back down to resume their feast. By the time he reached the entrance to the tent he could smell not only the coppery tang of blood, but also the thick, pungent odor of raw meat.
Clenching his jaw, he reached for the tent flap, around which even more insects were swarming, and peeled it back. Immediately what seemed like a million insects erupted from the tent’s interior. Slapping the air in front of him, Scott peered into the tent, and saw a piled mound of gleaming red meat, given repulsive, jittering animation by the hundreds of insects crawling over it. Before his besieged senses could settle enough for him to pick out individual details, or even to work out whether the bodies had heads or not, a voice barked, “Put down your weapons and raise your hands!”
Instantly Scott did what any self-respecting soldier would do in the circumstances. Jerking back from the tent, he spun toward the voice, rifle raised and ready to fire. The order had come from the far end of the clearing to where his team had entered the camp, and when Scott saw who had given it his spirits sank.
Standing at the head of a group of men in full combat gear, their AK47s trained on Scott and his team, was Ellison.
Instead of his usual suit, Ellison was dressed in clothes more befitting the Amazonian rainforest – lightweight camouflage gear and a protective vest. For a moment the two groups stood motionless, guns trained on one another. Finally, Scott said, “I think this is what’s known as a Mexican stand-off, Mr. Ellison.”
The government man sneered at him. “Order your men to lay down their weapons, Captain. You know full well that we have jurisdiction here.”
Scott hesitated. Over a decade ago, in Scotland, he had bowed to the government agent’s greater authority. But not only had a lot of water flowed under the bridge since then, but that water had been diverted along all kinds of strange and unknown tributaries.
Choosing his words carefully, he said, “I’m sure you’ll understand, Mr. Ellison, if I tell you that’s not going to happen.”
With his usual arrogance, Ellison retorted, “I wasn’t making a suggestion, Captain, I was giving you an order!”
Scott raised a hand, a placatory gesture but also one a kindergarten teacher might give to a child having a temper tantrum. “That’s as maybe, but it’s clear to me that what we have here are obvious signs of a hostile alien incursion. That means this entire area may still be an active hunting ground. Given that possibility, I’m not prepared to put my men into a position of vulnerability by ordering them to relinquish their weapons. We have no objection to lowering our weapons as long as your men do the same. After all, we’re potentially facing a common enemy here, and as such should work together.”
Ellison couldn’t look more astonished if a chimpanzee had suddenly opened its mouth and spoken to him. “We don’t need your help, Captain. We just need you to get the fuck out of here and leave us to do our jobs.”
“With respect, sir, it appears that several, if not all, members of one of my investigation and surveillance teams have lost their lives here, sometime within the last twenty-four hours. You can’t expect us to simply walk—”
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Captain,” Ellison interrupted loudly, rolling his eyes in a way that made it clear he wasn’t sorry at all, “but with respect there’s a much bigger picture here than the collateral damage suffered by your—”
Now it was Scott’s turn to raise his voice. “Collateral damage? This was a targeted attack, Mr. Ellison. As you well know.”
Once again Ellison rolled his eyes. Scott itched to put a bullet right between them. “Spare me the semantics, Captain. The point is, you know very well what kind of antagonist killed these men, and it weren’t no terrorist. That means this situation no longer falls within your purview. So if you value your future career prospects, I would suggest you withdraw gracefully.”
“And leave my men behind?” Scott said, indicating the blood-spattered tent. “No way.”
“Your men are dead, Captain. Nothing’s going to change that.”
“Dead or not, they deserve to be shown respect.”
“And they’ll get it. Once we’re done here, we’ll ship them back to you.”
Scott was beginning to wonder how this situation would resolve itself, with neither he nor Ellison prepared to give an inch, when his question was answered in the most spectacular and devastating fashion. All at once there was a massive explosion behind him, the blast from which hit him like a truck and sent him flying through the air.
For an instant he felt like Superman, swooping toward his enemy. He caught a glimpse of Ellison’s eyes and mouth stretched open, a mask of either rage or shock, and then Scott was engulfed in a cloud of smoke and hurtling shrapnel, which hit Ellison and his men full-on.
For Scott, the next couple of minutes were simply disorientation and confusion. He guessed he must have hit the ground, though afterwards, when he tried to recall the experience, he could liken it only to being inside a giant tumble dryer, his body rolling over and over helplessly whilst being buffeted from all sides. When he came to rest, his head was throbbing, his ears ringing, and he could see only blackness ahead of him. He tasted blood in his mouth, and thought he may have passed out for several seconds, or at least got close enough to passing out that he had lost a chunk of time.
Full consciousness returned slowly. At first he simply became aware he was on his hands and knees, trying to lever himself upright. Then he felt pain in his left arm, on the right side of his ribcage and in the center of his back. He blinked, and realized his eyes and mouth were full of grit. He spat and a thick clod of blood and dirt hit the ground. For an instant he wondered if he was blind, and then he realized the darkness in front of him was swirling, spinning, slowly thinning from black to gray. The first color he saw was red, and he knew instantly that what he was looking at was the shine of fresh blood. It acted like a warning flag in
his brain, imbued him with a sense of urgency, and suddenly he was staggering to his feet, wiping what felt like a week’s accumulation of sweat and dirt from his face.
He was no longer holding his gun. Where was it? He saw it, lying only a few feet to his right, and snatched it up. It looked okay, albeit covered in dirt. So what had happened? The only thought in his pounding head was that the Hunter must have buried a bomb or a landmine beneath the ground, and someone had stepped on it, setting it off.
He staggered toward the red shock of blood, and as he did so shapes began to resolve themselves, blurry chunks of darkness in the murk separating, acquiring texture. The smoke was still swirling but dissipating more quickly now, further colors punching through the gray. More red. Green. Paler colors.
The nearest splash of vivid red was soaking the left side of a soldier who was lying on his back. Something, a piece of shrapnel, had torn open not only his combat fatigues but the flesh and bone beneath. The entire left side of his body, from just beneath his breastbone to his groin, was now a massive open wound with red things spilling out of it. The soldier was still alive, his hands, also red, pressed to his side as he tried desperately to hold himself together. His teeth were clenched and his face was screwed up in pain.
He was one of Ellison’s men, but what side he was on didn’t matter. As a fellow human being, Scott felt nothing but sympathy for him. He also felt the familiar hollowness he recognized from previous battle situations that came from knowing there was nothing he could do, that in minutes this man would be dead.
Ahead of him were more of Ellison’s men. Some lying still, some writhing and groaning, some starting to sit upright. But where was Ellison? And then Scott saw him, half-buried in dirt. He staggered forward, leaned over him, stared into his face. At first he couldn’t tell what he was looking at, and stretched out a hand, half-intending to brush away some of the debris.
Then things came into focus, and at once he realized what it was about Ellison’s face that he hadn’t been able to work out. The man’s features were gone. They had been crushed, obliterated, by a jagged chunk of rock that must have hit him with the speed of a cannonball, judging by the fact it was still embedded in his face. The agent was lying with his arms spread, hands wide open, as if to say, What the fuck is this? One second he had been full of life, not to mention bitterness and bile, and the next he was snuffed out, gone.
The throbbing in Scott’s head and the ringing in his ears were ebbing a little now. Enough for him to realize that someone behind him was shouting his name. Wincing at the several points of pain in his body, he turned slowly, only realizing, as he did so, that checking on his own men should have been his first priority.
Through the haze he saw a scene of chaos, bodies – and parts of bodies – lying everywhere, some of those that were still intact moving, some not. A few had already risen to their feet and were stumbling around the battlefield like zombies. In the midst of the human destruction was a black crater, spewing flames and smoke.
The man who had called his name was on his knees, the crater behind him. Scott lurched toward him and saw it was Marcus. He had lost his helmet and blood was running from a gash on his forehead. The right arm of his uniform hung in tatters and the skin from his elbow to his wrist looked red and blistered, as if someone had pressed a white-hot skillet against his flesh. His clothes and skin were covered in a thick layer of dirt and dust, and there was a look of confusion in his eyes.
“I’m here,” Scott said, reaching him and grabbing his shoulders. “Are you okay?”
“I think so.”
“Can you stand?”
“I think so.”
“Come on then. Lean on me.”
With Marcus clinging to his arms, Scott hauled his buddy to his feet. Once he was upright, Marcus seemed to recover quickly. He rubbed at his face and hair, then batted at his clothes, sending dirt flying around him in a cloud, as he peered about.
“What the fuck happened? A bomb?”
“Must have been,” said Scott.
A few more men were picking themselves up now. Scott counted eleven on their feet, thirteen including Marcus and himself. Eight were still lying on the ground, though four were moving. Without checking the chunks of flesh scattered around the crater, that left three unaccounted for.
With Marcus now able to support himself, Scott raised his hands, shouting across the battlefield. “Everyone! Stand still! Don’t move around! We don’t know what else might be buried under here!”
Ishfaq, though, twenty meters away on the other side of the crater, was shaking his head.
“Wasn’t a bomb!” he shouted. He turned and pointed toward the trees on the far side of the clearing. “We were attacked! I saw it! It came from over there! That thing’s still here!”
Scott looked across to where Ishfaq was pointing. The trees were swaying a little, vines swinging, but he couldn’t see anything in them.
Collins was sitting on the ground, right underneath where Ishfaq had said the attack had come from. He must have been patrolling there and had been knocked flat by the blast, which must have screamed across the clearing, right above his head. Now, looking dazed, he peered upwards into the trees.
“Collins, move away from there,” Scott called, aiming his rifle at every jerking, fluttering leaf. “The rest of you, take cover.”
As those men who were able-bodied enough began to move toward the rocks and trees at the periphery of the camp, Scott, assisted by Marcus, hurried forward to check on the guys who were still lying down. The closest to them was Barnes, who was shuddering in agony, fingers clawing at the ground. Only when they got close to him did Scott see why. Barnes’s right leg just below his shin had evidently been hit by something large, heavy and moving at speed. The object, most likely a piece of rock, had not only shattered and crushed the bone, but had twisted his foot almost all the way around.
“Help me lift him,” Scott said, sliding his hands under Barnes’s body. Marcus scooted over to the other side of him and did the same. They were about to lift him in unison when a whooping scream came from the other side of the clearing. For a second, Scott thought the scream had somehow come from Barnes himself. Then out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed Collins shooting up into the air.
Collins was flailing as he rose, like an ungainly bird. Then he disappeared amongst the thick, dripping foliage and his scream cut off abruptly. Next moment something flew out of the trees and hit the ground with a thud. At first Scott thought it was some kind of projectile – a rock or another bomb. Then he realized the projectile had a face and hair.
Rage swept over him. Sliding his hands from under Barnes’s body, he leaped to his feet, aimed his rifle up into the trees, and opened fire. He knew there was a chance of hitting Collins’s headless body, but that hardly seemed important now. Collins himself wouldn’t have wanted them to hold back if there was a chance of killing the enemy.
Seconds later, Marcus too was firing into the trees, and then others joined in, bullets flying from all directions, cutting the foliage apart, reducing the leaves to a whirl of green confetti.
Something fell, crashing down through the branches. The Hunter? No, it was Collins’s bullet-riddled body, the feet of which had been lashed to a vine, which pulled it up short just a few meters from the ground. It hung there, arms above its head, blood pouring from its neck stump and dribbling from dozens of bullet wounds, as if their enemy was mocking them.
The men continued firing, spraying their bullets left and right. Eventually Scott stopped firing and held up a hand, the cacophony of bullets too loud for him to issue a shouted command. The sounds of gunfire petered out, leaving nothing but a high-pitched hissing in Scott’s ears.
“Where is that fucker?” Marcus muttered, his voice sounding flat through the hiss.
Scott’s own voice seemed to echo hollowly inside his skull. “He’s laughing at us. Let’s just concentrate on getting as many men to safety as we can.”
They lifted
Barnes, who was sobbing, though semiconscious, and hurried with him between a couple of the tents and across to the rocks that rose up behind them, where several of the men had taken refuge. The ground here was on a slight elevation, which gave the men the advantage of looking down on the clearing in the same way that seats near the back of an auditorium would look down on the stage below. As soon as Scott and Marcus laid Barnes down, a couple of the guys moved in to attend to his injuries, IFAKs at the ready.
The next few minutes were spent carrying injured men off the battlefield, Scott expecting an attack each time he ventured onto open ground. But the Hunter, wherever it was, was clearly biding its time, relishing the hunt. Of the twenty-four men who had started the mission, six were now dead. Three of them were in pieces; another two were lying out on the battlefield, having either been killed by the blast or succumbed to their injuries; and poor Collins, who had survived his previous encounter with a Hunter, and who, along with Ishfaq, had patched up Dorantes so effectively they had saved his life, was hanging headless from a tree, his body swaying slightly in the breeze.
There were, of course, also Ellison’s men, but from what Scott could tell, those that were still able had now clearly decided to cut their losses and made themselves scarce. From his vantage point he counted six corpses, including Ellison’s, lying on the ground just beyond the last of the tents, close to the area of jungle from which they had emerged. The tent which contained the mutilated bodies of Team Indigo had been flattened by flying debris, and was now nothing but a filthy, bloodstained square of canvas concealing a mound of what might have been earth if it wasn’t for the newly gathering swarms of insects buzzing around it.
Of his own now eighteen-strong team, twelve were able-bodied and six too injured to fight. As if reading his thoughts, Marcus said, “What’s our next move, sir?”
Scott thought about it. They could retreat – and probably should – but with only twelve fit men to carry six casualties that would leave them horribly vulnerable to attack. When he voiced his concerns, Marcus said, “And the enemy would attack. We know that. There’s no way that thing would just let us walk out of here.”
Predator Page 24
