“Ah, polícia!” Garber said, smiling broadly as he met her eyes. “This is the answer to all your problems, officers—the LI547-B1, the only assault rifle you’ll ever need once you own it.”
“It looks heavy, like a monstrosity,” her partner said, shaking his head. “You expect us to run with that?”
Garber grunted. “Why run when everyone else will? Once you whip out this baby, it’s over. You can stop them from sixty yards away. Pow!” He chuckled. “Problem entering a building? One blast from the grenade and you can blow your own entryway right through a wall. Blam!” As he described it, Garber demonstrated each move by aiming the weapon and pretending to shoot, shaking it for emphasis at each explosion.
Harrigan rolled his eyes, and the two detectives exchanged a look.
“If it’s even legal,” the female said.
“Oh trust me. Down here, it’s totally legal, or else I wouldn’t be here,” Garber said.
Her companion shook his head again. “It’s insane, amigo. The department would never approve that.”
“What if I told you they had?” Garber argued.
Just then the floor vibrated and Harrigan heard the distant thrum of a big explosion outside. As people around them muttered and exchanged looks, Harrigan and the two cops raced for the door simultaneously, the automatic glass doors opening wide in their path to emit distant screams and further explosions.
They stepped out onto the sidewalk and scanned the area surrounding the Convention Center, their eyes finding a nearby hillside slum where smoke drifted into the deep blue sky, a few buildings in flames as people yelled and scattered down the perilously narrow, steep sidewalks and passages between shacks, trying to get away.
Garber ran up to join them then. “What the hell was that?”
“It’s Cortado Centro,” the male detective said as he squinted toward the hillside. “A favela, slum.”
Another explosion rocked the hillside, debris, flames, and smoke flying outward to form a funnel.
“Merda! What is going on?” the female detective inquired.
“Holy shit!” Garber exclaimed, spotting something through his weapon’s scope.
“What?” Harrigan asked.
Garber looked at him, recognition dawning in his eyes. “Harrigan? LAPD?”
“Retired two years now,” Harrigan replied with a nod. “Garber?”
Garber grunted and handed him the weapon, pointing high on the hillside where a building burned.
Through the scope, Harrigan soon saw it too: a body hanging from a tree, human and bloody—it had been skinned head to toe. The sight was one that had haunted Harrigan’s nightmares for twenty-five years. Ever since the Predator. He couldn’t believe he was seeing it.
“It can’t be,” Harrigan muttered.
“You know it is,” Garber replied.
“What?” the female detective asked anxiously.
“They’re under attack,” Garber said, taking his gun back. “Time to arm up.” Garber turned back for the Convention Center. “Hang on! Let me get my stuff.” He ran back inside.
“Attack? By what? This kind of thing happens with drug dealers a lot,” the male detective said.
Harrigan shook his head. “Trust me. We’ve seen this before. We’ve gotta clear the area, lock it down!” Without further word, Harrigan was running off toward the burning slum and the two detectives followed.
“Lock it down from what?” the female detective called after him.
The three detectives stopped at a busy intersection, racing across as soon as there was an opening, the vehicles whizzing by with narrow misses just as they reached the other side. No one even seemed to have slowed at all.
“Jesus,” Harrigan muttered as he felt the vibration of a speeding box truck racing by, the smell of petrol and sweat mixing with chemicals, piss, and other unpleasantries common to Rio’s streets as he’d discovered.
“Who are you?” the female detective asked, looking at him as they ran.
“Mike Harrigan, former LAPD,” Harrigan replied.
“Ana Rios and Rodrigo Villaça,” the female said, motioning to her partner. “Metro Police, homicide.”
Harrigan nodded a greeting as they continued running. “Nice to meet you.”
“You wanna tell us what’s going on?” Villaça asked.
They rushed onward, reaching the base of the hill, where screaming men, women, and children were rushing out of the makeshift buildings and walkways.
“A hunter, hunting humans,” Harrigan said.
“What?” Rios replied. “A serial killer?”
“Yeah, kinda like that,” Harrigan said. “And we’d better hope to God there’s only one.”
* * *
“Rápido, rápido!” Fernando cried to his neighbor’s passel of kids, swatting their little behinds as they bolted away.
One of them breathlessly paused to glance up at Fernando, tears welling in his little seven-year-old eyes: “Obrigado, Fernando.”
Their mother, Solange, was away when an explosion rocked the favela, upturning the table where Fernando and his grandmother were having lunch and their usual argument about how he was wasting his life. It started, of course, with the flamboyant blouse.
His grandmother chastised him in Portuguese while pulling pão de queijo out of the pathetic makeshift wood-burning oven. “You think you are special, Fernando?” She gestured to the blouse, adorned in colorful palm fronds, tropical plants, with a giant tiger’s face smack dab at the center.
“I like it, it makes me feel fierce.” Then when her back was turned, Fernando gave an obstinate shimmy in her direction.
Her head swiveled around to give him the stink eye. Grannies saw everything.
“You’ll see, Avó,” Fernando said, confidently. “I’m not destined for life in the favela, I am going to be a star.” Licking the cherry gloss on his lips, he smiled. “I’ll soon be acting alongside Brad Pitt and Ryan Gosling in major motion pictures.”
She snorted derisively and settled her creaky bones into a rickety chair only to be catapulted out when the explosion hit.
Fernando blinked hard, finding himself splayed on the ground next to his grandmother, balls of pão de queijo bouncing and rolling around their heads.
Jumping to his feet, Fernando hauled his granny up and out of the shack. The streets were swarming with cariocas fleeing the favela. Smoke visibly rolled through the air.
It was too close.
Solange’s kids called out from next door. They were trapped inside.
Grabbing a fleeing man, Fernando firmly transferred his granny’s hand onto the man’s arm, instructing him to get her out safely. With a grave nod, the man took off, dragging protesting grandma behind him while Fernando hastened to help the neighbor’s kids.
Now that they were out, Fernando knew he needed to get his own fabulous unsinged butt out of there, too. That’s when he saw the trio fighting against the flow of cariocas. They stuck out like a bad perm in a sea of salon-styled hair.
Polícia. Two of them, along with an older black man, his face an arrangement of ferocious intensity. They were all armed and stalking further into the favela.
The woman polícia shouted over the crowd to the black man: “If you are retired, what are you doing here at an arms conference, Harrigan?”
Harrigan shot her a glance. “If Los Angeles has taught me anything, Rios, it’s that war can break out at anytime, anywhere, by anything. I’m all about being prepared.”
Los Angeles! Fernando’s heart thudded in a different fervor of excitement now. If he could just get to the City of Angels, he could be a star! Everyone who moved to Hollywood was instantly given opportunities and made into movie stars. Fernando looked closer but didn’t recognize this Harrigan person, but maybe Fernando just hadn’t seen his movies yet.
Harrigan stopped to squint up at the smoke plumes. “Are you sure we are going in the right direction? I feel like we are running in circles.”
Fernando stepp
ed directly in front of Harrigan, forcing him to stop, and grinned. “Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker!” He deepened his voice, despite his heavy accent: “He’s the disease and we’re the cure.” He still had some work to do on his Stallone impression.
“Get out of my way,” the cop growled. Pointing up at the smoke plumes, Fernando tried a new tactic. “You want to be there? You need my help. It’s a honey brush in here.”
The man called Harrigan gave Fernando a strange, uncomprehending look. The other two polícia slowed to a stop. “Honeycomb,” the other polícia man corrected him.
“Come on, Villaça,” the woman called Rios said to her partner. “We don’t have time for this.” They hurried past Fernando, but he refused to get out of Harrigan’s way.
Seeing as Harrigan was about to slam him to the side if need be, Fernando spoke quickly. “They won’t find it either. This place is a honeycomb.” He used the correct phrase this time. “I help you get there fast, you help me get to the City of Angels.”
Harrigan shook his head like he didn’t have time for this, until he saw his two polícia friends double back, having taken the wrong way the first time.
“Take me there,” Harrigan said through tightened teeth.
Hope blossomed in Fernando’s chest and he couldn’t help the smile spreading across his face. “And you’ll get me to City of Angels?”
“Can we discuss this later?” Harrigan said as an explosion rocked a nearby shack and sent debris raining down on them. Fernando whirled around and led him to where the smoke billowed up, darkening the sky.
Hurrying up and down the winding paths of the favela past rusting housing units, Fernando was about to tell him they were close when another explosion hurled them to the ground.
Sputtering out puffs of sandy dirt, Fernando lifted his head and turned to see if his new buddy was okay. White sand was caked to the side of Harrigan’s unhappy dark face.
Extending an arm, Fernando pointed just around the corner of the next building. “There.”
Harrigan tried to jump to his feet quickly, but the way he moved and the wince on his face told Fernando he had creaky bones like Grandmother. Getting up with more ease to follow, Fernando smacked into Harrigan when he abruptly stopped. Peeking around him, Fernando saw what made him stop.
All hell had broken loose.
* * *
The slanted wood and clay roof next to him exploded as Harrigan followed the Brazilian up the winding narrow walkways through the favela. Pieces of clay, wood, dried palm leaves, and dirt rained down on their heads as they both ducked instinctually even while they kept running.
“Merda!” the Brazilian man muttered.
Then they rounded a corner and entered a small square and the man stopped cold, staring, his jaw dropped open. “Mãe de Deus!” he whispered.
Harrigan saw it too. A decapitated corpse lying in a heap, the head beside it on the cement covering the square, just a few feet from where they’d left the walkway. Blood was still pouring from the body and head, forming crimson pools. To the left, another body lay, stabbed through the chest with a gaping wound—a kind Harrigan had seen before: the Predator’s spear. The decapitation had clearly happened from one of those computerized Frisbee-like discs they carried. Scorched marks smoked on the sides of buildings and a patch of cement between the two bodies—body laser. The stench of burnt concrete and blood now mixed with that of the urine, mud, sweat, and general uncleanliness of the favela.
A familiar clicking sound echoed from the distance. The creature. This shit was not happening again. Not while Harrigan could stop it. His memories of the last time had not faded one iota over the two decades since. If anything, they’d become more vivid. It was a situation he’d never thought he’d face again, and yet somehow he’d always known, always feared the aliens would be back. But this time he had an advantage: this time he knew what to do, and whatever it took, he’d do it.
Automatic weapons fire exploded above them—further up in the favela, tearing apart more roofs, trees, and more, followed by screams and yelling. These people are poor? Drug lords? He put a gentle hand on the Brazilian’s shoulder, as the man stood frozen, staring at the bodies. “Hey, buddy. What’s your name?”
No response.
Harrigan squeezed his shoulder. “Buddy!”
The Brazilian mumbled, “Fernando.”
“Okay, Fernando, who’s doing the shooting up there?”
“Milícia,” Fernando said, still staring.
“Militia?” Harrigan asked. Poor slums with their own militia? Jesus Christ, what was going on down here.
Fernando shook his head and met Harrigan’s eyes. “Drug lords, they run all the favelas.”
Harrigan nodded. “Okay, well, we have to get up to where the Predator is. Can you still take me?”
Fernando stared back at the bodies and nodded.
“There’s nothing we can do for them,” Harrigan said, stepping toward the entrance to the continuation of the climbing walkway across the square. “Come on!” He motioned to Fernando.
Fernando crossed himself, like the traditional Catholic he was, then forced his eyes to Harrigan and hurried to join him resuming the climb.
They ducked under laundry lines, filled with linens and clothes, dodging through more small squares, climbing even as it sounded like the world was exploding above them. Fernando said nothing, he just led the way and Harrigan followed, weapon at the ready.
A few scared women and children rushed past them, headed down. At times, the passage was so narrow, either the runners or Harrigan and Fernando would have to stop, press themselves against a wall and wait for the others to pass. No one said anything; it was all in the eyes. As soon as they were clear, each party continued on their mission, racing as fast as they could.
And then, as they rounded a curve, plaster and wood exploded beside them as a stream of bullets struck a building then raked across the pathway. They halted, shrinking back against the wall and waiting, and Harrigan moved into the lead, motioning for Fernando to stay back as he moved cautiously, sliding along toward the corner to grab a peek.
There were four men armed with assault weapons—two AK-47s, and IMBEL IA2s, of local make—using what cover they could and yelling back and forth as they fired toward a rooftop a level or two higher.
Their bursts of automatic fire were met with streams from an invisible laser cannon exploding against buildings, cement, and other objects around them. The Predator was cloaked, but his red triangular targeting laser appeared and highlighted its targets, causing many to panic, confused. Who was the enemy assaulting them? They did their best to aim in the direction of the laser fire, but the Predator kept moving quickly, each burst coming from some new position, and the four men were hopelessly beaten, even if they couldn’t accept that.
Then, one by one, they were hit, their chests highlighted by a red dot before the laser tore holes through them. From behind his cloak, the Predator laughed or clicked, and Harrigan heard the familiar sound of hydraulics as its laser cannons honed in on one target at a time. Occasionally branches would bend as the creature leapt between them or dust flew from clattering tiles, marking its movements. Each time, the survivors’ fire became more and more desperate, as they sprayed the rooftops and surrounds, spinning, eyes desperately searching for the target. The first three screamed as they died, their chests smoking as they fell.
Their companion’s panic grew with each fallen comrade, and then he was alone, and a thump came from behind him. The man whirled, aiming his IMBEL but then the Predator was on him, a spear slamming through his chest as he gasped, its tip poking out the front as blood flood. The man tried to stay on his feet, stumbling, even as his weapon fell. Then his neck tore open as an invisible knife pulled across it and he collapsed.
“Meu Deus!” Fernando whispered from beside Harrigan, where he’d sneaked up to get a peek.
Then there was a shimmer and a buzz as the Predator uncloaked, his full ugly green spotted, dreadlocked
mass appearing before them. The Predator bent to retrieve its treasures, quickly scalping the latest victim, and grabbing his weapon, as Harrigan flashed back to memories of his previous confrontations.
Fernando gasped loudly. “A monster! Cristo Jesus!”
The Predator chittered and whirled, alert and staring right toward them, even as its laser cannon’s servos whirred and took aim.
“Get back!” Harrigan shouted, reaching back to pull Fernando behind the wall, even as he heard a whistle growing in volume, and the ground near the Predator’s feet exploded.
“Take that, you son of a bitch!” Garber shouted and moved into view along a rooftop to the east, aiming a grenade launcher with laser sights, the red dot lighting up the Predator’s chest.
And then the world exploded again as Garber and the Predator unleashed their hellfire on each other.
* * *
Harrigan grabbed Fernando and threw him to the ground as fire swallowed the air above them. Coughing from more concrete dust and thick smoke, Fernando mourned his blouse wasn’t likely to survive this insanity.
When he tried to get up, Harrigan smacked him back down again. Carefully, Harrigan rose to a crouch to get a better view of the fight without losing his head. He stunk of sweat and fear, a scent Fernando had become intimately familiar with in the favela.
Except Fernando’s fear dissipated as he stared up at the crouching retired polícia. His mouth dropped in a small ‘o’ as he took in the white dust smeared across Harrigan’s face; his forehead glistened with sweat and blood, and a gun was clutched firmly at his side. He looked like an action movie star.
And action movie stars needed bigger guns. Lots of big guns.
Scooching back on the ground before getting up, Fernando then whistled at Harrigan. “Hey, you want more guns like crazy down there?”
Harrigan’s head swiveled around to look at Fernando, but his gaze was unseeing, almost haunted. Fernando saw the monster too, but he could question reality and cry like a hysterical baby later. He sternly reminded himself the favela overflowed with hidden and not-so-hidden monsters. You learned quick not to stop and stare when you found one.
PREDATOR IF IT BLEEDS Page 29