by Chris Hechtl
The instinct to run was powerful but he fought the urge. He was wary though as he saw the hunters arrive in the distance. Some split up to follow the stream, but others had dogs. They followed the chimp's scent and trail. One of the idiots had a bugle; he pulled it out and put it to his lips to make a hunting call.
Elliot heard the sounds of more approaching people. He turned and could just see through the trees to the clearing. Riders on robotic horses and real horses had arrived in the plain area. He hunched down, ready to wait them out, but some urge told him to move on. After a while he listened to it and crept stealthfully along the low ravine and deeper into the dank smelly jungle.
When he got near another clearing edge, he slowed warily. That was when the sounds of waves broke through to him. He went to the edge and saw a cliff. He looked left, and then right along the coastline. Both curved subtly back on itself.
“An island?” he murmured to himself. “Which means no place to go,” he murmured, surprising himself by talking out loud. From the signs and sounds of the wildlife he had seen, he was fairly certain he was still on Africa, or at least near it. An island off the coast perhaps? He wasn't certain. Then again they may have imported all the animals. He shook his head. For the moment his location didn't matter.
Or perhaps it did? He closed his eyes and pulled up a map of the African coast. He opened his eyes and did a rough approximation of where he was based on where the sun was and the sky. He couldn't see anything in the sky, so that meant he was out of sight of any major civilization. He fed that into his implants.
The tiny processors in his implants could narrow down the list of islands. Anything with a city on it he eliminated. On a hunch he pulled up the data Roman had dumped to him as well as the intel he'd gathered. He did a search for the word “island” and “real estate.” He got several hits. He put a few of them in a buffer, eliminated those off the coast of North America, and narrowed it to one.
A moderately sized, private island off the east coast of Africa. Perfect. He pulled up the map of the area he'd preloaded into his implants, and then zoomed into the area where the island was. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. There was a clearing at the center of the island and a landing strip. Some sort of mansion, most likely their hunting chalet, was in the center of the island. There were a couple of roads, most notably from the air strip to the main building, and then another going to the beach and a structure on the other side of the island. Most likely a dock, he thought, trying to squint at the virtual image. Interesting he thought.
The chalet at the center of the island was important he judged. He was out on the perimeter; keeping clear of it would be his smartest move. At least until he thought of something, anything he could do to even the odds. He judged he was outnumbered by a hundred or possibly two hundred to one. When he heard the soft thrum of rotors approaching up the beach, he melted into the shadows. The drone stopped opposite him, and then turned to face him. He backed away into the bush, and then ran once more.
Through luck more than skill, he managed to evade the questing hunters the first night. Exhaustion forced him to bed down in a very narrow cave though when it got near midnight. He could barely see his hand in front of his face. They had night vision, but he knew their GPS and other tech toys were having a hell of a hard time in the jungle. Trees and buildings were the bane of any radio device.
He tensed when he heard the genetically engineered dogs baying outside, about a hundred meters away. He heard the bugle sound a recall order and wondered about that. It was well after sundown, but did they really want to call it off?
He frowned thoughtfully. “Give him a sporting chance,” a hunter said crunching through the brush. “Damn it! I wanted to be in on the kill!”
“You could be,” another said. “They want to draw this out though, see if he can last to the highest levels of hunters.”
“I thought it was the rain?”
“It is getting nasty, isn't it? No, it's the rarity. Draw it out. Sporting and all. Are you sure you can't …?”
“No, I've got to go a meeting in Germany tomorrow.”
“Damn. That is shitty luck. You can't attend virtually?”
“No, it's a face to face,” the guy sighed.
“Well, there will always be another. You may be lucky next time. Until then you'll be stuck with us in the lower class.”
“True. At least until I get my first kill,” the male said, his voice drifting to Elliot like a ghostly whisper as they walked away. Elliot growled softly, ever so softly to himself as the hunters retreated.
He was exhausted, but he knew better than to just sleep. He needed something, food and water. Water came first when it started to rain. He used a frond to catch the water so he could drink it.
Fruit was the next thing, he'd grabbed a few pieces of fruit in his running but they'd been rotten. Now that he had the time, he wearily climbed a banana tree and yanked a bunch down. He watched it drop to crash into the ground below, then casually crushed a transmitter screwed into the side of the tree.
After he shimmied down, he ate a dinner of fruit and bugs.
He looked about him, fighting the urge to sleep. His body ached all over. He found a tiny camera mounted in a tree when it made a whirring noise and started to sweep the area. He immediately smashed it with a rock. He made a note to do the same when he found anything electronic later. It would leave a bread crumb trail, but it would give him some sort of edge. At least the bastards wouldn't know where he was in that blind area. If that was, he had gotten all the damned cameras.
He eventually curled up in a tree when he heard the soft sound of a cat growling. He pulled palm fronds over him and did his best to ignore the wet as he let sleep claim him.
The rank smell led him to the bodies of missing Neos the next morning. They had been deposited unceremoniously in a ravine. They were unburied, just lying there in a sick gory pile. Most had been skinned, their heads and hands and feet cut off as sick twisted trophies. His eyes narrowed as one hand brushed away the pests.
He remembered something about hunters back in the day. They used to turn the hands into ash trays or something. Monkey's paws gripping crap. The heads could be mounted on the wall in that damn chalet of theirs, he thought darkly.
He made himself study them, see not only what they had done, but what the enemy was truly capable of. To dehumanize them through reverse psychology. No doubt they thought by finding the bodies he would be horrified, revolted, and quivering in fear. Instead it enraged him. But that too was a trap, so he did his best to dampen that. Instead he picked at the bodies with a stick, using his implants to record them for the future … whatever that was.
The latest body was obviously a female Neochimp, most likely Angela judging from her hips and build. He waved the flies away, snorting at the smell and the disgusting pests. It pissed him off. The earlier carcasses could have been stripped by scavengers or chemicals, he wasn't sure. But the flies all over the latest carcass told him they didn't give a damn anymore; they didn't fear getting caught.
He scowled, doing a count. Something was off, and he finally twigged on it. There were too many bodies. Were some natural apes? He frowned thoughtfully and then shrugged. The people supplying the hunters could have tried natural chimps first, either getting them from a supplier or from the wild. Then when that got boring they elevated to … he shook his head angrily, batting the damn pests away.
It was in the nature of an intelligent predator, he thought remotely. Serial killers started with easy prey, built up their comfort, and then expanded their horizons. They kept expanding, riding the thrill until they got caught. But they also learned from each attack. Were these bastards like that? Did they learn? Or were they arrogant enough to have made a mistake? One he could exploit?
What did they do with the trophies they took? That was sloppy. He knew predators took trophies to remind them of their kills … did t
hey jack off to them? That picture made him snort in derision. Did it matter? A good forensic scientist could identify a Neo … were they that stupid and arrogant? He shook his head. Were they above the law? That thought had him scowling for some time as he returned to the bush. If he was going to survive he was going to need something more than fruit. He had to stop the shits; they were going to get him killed. He needed … he heard a sound in the canopy nearby and paused to look, hunching down. When he heard a soft cry, he looked up, this time with narrowed eyes. Protein. He'd need it to feel better, to be more active. Not so damned gassy.
Besides he thought as he moved out, hunting would put him in the right frame of mood for what was to come he thought darkly.
When he noticed some of the prey on the island, he did what came naturally. That was, screw up initially. Picking grubs and crap helped a bit, but they sucked. Nasty ass shit, the feeling of them going down his throat nearly made him choke. How his ancestors had put up with that crap … he shook his head. He heard pitter patter above and looked up. It was raining. Figures, he thought. He saw a couple air cars fly nearby and snorted. They were all on course for the chalet. Apparently the bastards were calling it a day. Good for them, he thought with a slight smile. He looked up as movement made its way through the trees. Something small and furry. Perfect.
He finally learned through trial and error to hunt with his improvised spear. Throwing it was a waste of time; he couldn't hit the broadside of a barn. But he eventually got a bush baby by chasing it into a tree and into its hidey hole. He peered into the hole and grimaced at the small frightened eyes looking back at him. “Sorry about this,” he said, gripping the spear and lining the point up on the hole.
“It's going to be you or me, and its damn well ain't gonna be me,” he grunted. A quick thrust of his spear impaled the little thing. He could feel it quivering, thrashing about on the end. He grunted and pushed in until the spear started to bend and the quivering stopped. He pulled it out, and there was a small body hanging from the end impaled. The body dripped blood. When he pulled it out he was hungry enough to eat it raw. “I'd rather have a steak, but fuck, this beats a banana. Go primal,” he murmured.
On the beach he took a bath. It wasn't just hygiene; he had to change his scent and check himself over. He didn't find any injection sites, no sign of anything embedded under his skin on his limbs or front. And he was glad he did check though, he thought; a few moments before he'd been about to give up, his questing fingers found a patch on his fur between his shoulders blades, right where a human wouldn't be able to get to. With his longer arms and fingers it was a stretch, but doable. With the knife … he grimaced. He used a rock knife to cut it and the skin under it off. It hurt like hell, but when he was done, he had a bloody piece of fur and something else in his hand.
“A tracking device,” the chimp said. He frowned, ready to toss it. He checked himself, and then looked. He decided that for the moment he would keep it on him. He wiggled his shoulders at the feeling of blood on his back. Hopefully, the wound would scab over soon.
“Just playing with me. Well, it's time they learned a new game. Time the hunters became the hunted,” Elliot whispered softly. His fist clenched around the tracker.
<0>~^~<0>
He was sore, tired, and very much in pain. The perfect mindset to turn the tables, he thought savagely. An animal was most dangerous when cornered. Well, he was stuck on an island being hunted; so, it was enough. Besides, he wanted to get some of his own back. If he only took a couple of the bastards out, it would be enough. Well not fully, he wanted them all, but it would serve to some degree.
He decided viciously to set his own trap. He used the tracker as bait, sticking it inside a cave. Then he climbed a tree and waited inside the bowl where all the limbs came together. He wasn't certain if he would be invisible, most likely not to thermal, but he was tired of running.
When they came he grinned. He prepared himself, and when two were under the tree waiting for the dogs to flush him out, he dropped onto them from above. His long left arm wrapped around the guy on the left's neck. He snapped that guy's neck with a savage jerk of primate strength, practically ripping his head off. He then swung about to hit the other who was still gathering his wits.
This one he tripped up with a sweep to his feet as the first guy fell, then he yanked off the guy's knife and stabbed him in his throat. He drove the knife up under the chin into the head, wiggled it around then yanked it out. He grabbed what he could, breathing hard, aware he was on borrowed time. He questing fingers found an earwig, and he pulled it out of his victim's ear. He put it in his own and pursed his lips as he patted them down.
When they went down, an alarm sounded. The whoop whoop and scream of a klaxon echoed across the island, triggering others in a wave. Elliot looked up when the alarms went off. “Not much time,” he murmured, yanking gear out. He wanted the clothes but they were bloodied and soiled. Most likely they had medical and tracking gear in them too, so he abandoned that effort.
Voices came on hidden speakers and the radio network screaming for medical to get moving into the area. The other nearby hunters were so shocked by the violence to members of their own side that they fell back into an unorganized retreat. “This wasn't supposed to happen this way!”
“Tell him that! I'm getting the hell out of here!”
Elliot grinned savagely when he heard that. “It feels good to be appreciated,” he murmured. A dog lunged out of the bush snapping. He grabbed the lower jaw with his right hand, the upper with his left and yanked with all his might, ripping the dog's jaw off and snapping his neck. He tossed the carcass aside then whirled to ram the knife up into the chest of another attacking dog. He got bit on his right shoulder, but his long arms reached up to grab the thing's collar to twist and yank, snapping its neck.
Its jaws clung to him as he panted. Finally he reached up and yanked it off, and then headed deeper into the bush.
<0>~^~<0>
At the chalet pandemonium reigned. The hunt master and management were upset; the guests doubly so. There had been some close calls in their hunts, but it made for good stories. From time to time, they had dealt with injured guests but never dead ones. Oh sure, one or two heart attacks, but that could be explained. “What are we going to do about a cover story? My god, Charles was a US congressman!”
“I'm not sure about the cover story,” Miss Numa stated, clearly shaken. “Due to his presence, an aircraft crash could be possible. But they would find it and it …” she grimaced.
“Right. We'll have to rule that out,” a senator's aide said, shaking his head.
“Now what?” a staff member asked hesitantly.
“Find him. Kill him. Quickly.”
“No, I want it slow. Long and slow. I want to take my time,” the senator said from across the room. “Charles was a friend of mine.”
“Either way, make certain he's dead,” the woman said, brushing her skirt to get some invisible wrinkles out.
<0>~^~<0>
Instead of resting the weary chimp did something he was pretty sure they wouldn't expect. He tried to use the gear he'd stolen to infiltrate the chalet. But a survey from the tree line told him it was too well protected. So was the airstrip and hangar. Drones had been pulled in and were all over the place, dancing around the perimeter. No, he'd be screwed if he went in. It was time to take a different approach.
The weapons he had stolen were dead. The rifle and sidearm were most likely locked. The hunters probably had some sort of fingerprint or bioform recognition to keep them from being used by the wrong hands. That was fine; he took their ammo and a few bits like the straps and then smashed them.
Instead of going into the lion's den, he went back to the beach. When he got there, he took a nap until it was near dawn.
He woke and played with hunter one’s phone. The electronic device could be tracked, but he wasn't certain if they'd thought of that or not. He
pulled the battery and some wires and then tossed the phone away into the ocean waves. He moved down the beach, and then rigged the wires to his implant.
“I hope this works. And there had better not be any sharks, not in my mood,” the chimp growled as he waded out into the cold water. When he got about a hundred meters off the coast, he found he could get a weak signal with his implants. He used up most of his power to send out a distress signal. He let the current pull him out and along the shore for a while before he swam back into shore.
When he got back to shore, he pulled his dripping furry ass off the back and into the bush just in time. A drone passed overhead along the beach, clearly doing a perimeter search.
It turned on his heat signature though, and then tracked him out of range of its weapons until he entered the jungle. He stomped his feet in the mud and broke branches in a path, spooking the deer in the area into running away. He climbed a couple of trees, and then circled his entry point and waited.
This time they sent in droids as bush beaters. He chuffed in amusement as they went on a straight line from the tracks he'd deliberately laid. He listened as the droids cracked trees and branches trying to find him. When he was certain they were chasing the deer, he laid back and took a nap.
<0>~^~<0>
Elliot woke when he heard a roar of something approaching. It took a moment before he realized it was the sound of an engine in the air and the steady thump thump of rotors. He scowled, immediately going into a wary crouch and looking up through the canopy to the sky. If they used infrared, he was screwed he thought.
The sound grew closer, making him look up in time to hear and feel the chuffing of blades.