He locked eyes with the ex-cop. “Say hello to my little friend, eh?”
Harrigan’s brow creased and his eyes flickered with understanding.
“Rapido, Harrigan,” Fernando cried and took off running just as the building next to them shuddered violently. Laser bolts and gunshots flew overhead. Apparently, neither the monster nor the crazy guy below was dead, yet.
“Guns, yeah, yeah I’d like more guns,” Harrigan said, still distracted but following Fernando now.
Daintily stepping over a couple of bloody decapitated bodies and into a shack twice the size of any near it, Fernando raced around looking for weapons.
Harrigan watched, skeptically. “What makes you think there are guns in here?”
“Because,” Fernando said exasperated, still not having found them, “the drug lord always has guns. Lots of guns.” A flicker of an idea practically lit up over his head and Fernando ran to the small attached bathroom.
“Yoohoo,” he called to Harrigan, pleasure evident in his voice.
Harrigan barely fit into the bathroom alongside Fernando. The rusted-out bathtub overflowed with guns. Big damn guns. AK-47s, Heckler & Koch MR762 models of various types, shotguns, even a few Uzis and other machine guns. Boxes of ammo shoved in stacks wherever they fit around them.
Harrigan greedily gathered up several AK-47s, two H&Ks and an Uzi, but nearly dropped them. Fernando followed his fixation to where the bloodless face was now revealed in the center of the tub. Someone was dead and buried under the guns.
Picking up a handgun, with his forefinger and his thumb, Fernando said, “Yeah, don’t mind him. He was already here.” Then he gingerly placed the gun back on the pile. “I’m a lover not a fighter.”
Thoroughly strapped with semi-automatic weapons, pockets bursting with ammo, and a sawed-off shotgun slung over his shoulder, Harrigan started back for the warzone.
Fernando grabbed his arm to stop him, having second thoughts. “What if you die? How will I get to the City of Angels?”
“If either of us are going to get to the City of Angels,” Harrigan jerked his head to the outside, “we’ll have to go through hell first.”
Fernando clapped excitedly. “Oh, I think I have seen your film.”
Harrigan shook his head before running back, Fernando close on his heels. They found the big crazy one shooting a stream of fire out from a flamethrower. The Predator had thrown up some kind of invisible shielding but it weakened his own invisibility. Fernando gaped as large chunks of the alien flickered in and out of visibility.
The alien gave a high-pitched shriek of anger as it felt the heat of the firepower.
* * *
The top of the slum was exploding with gunfire, detonations, flying debris, and noise as Harrigan led Fernando back along a winding pathway, climbing, searching for a good location to get a bead on the deadly Predator. Men shouted, screamed, and bullets whizzed—filling the air.
“Come on, motherfucker! Is that the best you got?!” Garber shouted and sneered as he launched another grenade then sent a laser-guided stream of automatic fire in its wake straight toward where the alien had been crouching moments before. A wall exploded and fell, the roof caving in—no sign of the fast-moving foe. It was all too familiar, Harrigan’s memory flashing back to images of Los Angeles—gang wars, the streets, Leon Cantrell, Danny Archuletta, Jerry Lambert, even his old Captain Pilgrim. Archuletta and Lambert had been killed by a Predator in LA years ago during Harrigan’s last encounter with one. Now, countless others were adding to the Predator’s body count.
In front of him, a wall exploded, a thatched roof caving in, accompanied by the screams of a woman and children, an infant crying. Harrigan fought the urge to run in and rescue them. It wasn’t safe. He couldn’t do anyone good buried in wreckage.
Drug dealers with grizzled faces bearing various stages of facial hair screamed in Portuguese, firing their AK-47s, Uzis, and sawed-off shotguns at the fast-eluding alien, now cloaked again in the barely visible vibrating haze, but Harrigan knew what to look for. His trained eyes multitasked, searching the mountainside for both an ideal sniper position and the alien foe at the same time.
There he is! Over in that palm tree, moving to a new position. He was tempted to call out but knew his warnings would be too late every time, if anyone even heard them over all the noise. Instead, he ran faster, dodging, ducking, and diving for cover whenever the explosions or bullets came too close. As long as he and Fernando stayed hidden and in shadows, as long as other aggressors took the alien’s focus, they’d be safe. Predators targeted prey who fought back with only occasional innocents caught in the crossfire. They were about the sport of it, and killing unarmed innocents wasn’t sporting on their planet either.
Like his foes, the Predator kept firing off a steady stream of laser fire, his red triangular laser sights the only indication of his location along with hand-thrown bombs of some sort. Occasionally, Harrigan thought he could pick out a familiar chittering chirp, but each time he turned to look, the beast had moved on.
“Look out!” Fernando shouted fruitlessly from behind Harrigan as the corner where Garber had just fired from exploded into a cloud of dust, debris, and orange and yellow flashes.
“Fuck me!” Garber yelled, but somehow he was still standing, face blackened when the smoke cleared, even as he raced for a new position.
“Holy God,” Harrigan muttered as Fernando crossed himself.
“Up there,” Fernando pointed, and Harrigan turned. It was actually a perfect spot—a partially shielded small balcony above one of the few semi-solid buildings on the hill—some sort of residence just north and around the bend from them.
Harrigan nodded. “Good eye. Thanks.” And led the way.
As they rounded the bend, through a break between shanties and trees, Harrigan watched as the ground exploded at a drug dealer’s feet and the man fell, screaming, his body shaking as red holes appeared up his legs, his AK-47 letting off a continuous stream as he fell.
The acrid smoke combined with burning thatch and stucco in a cloud that made Harrigan’s eyes water as it passed over him. Behind him, Fernando squinted, and coughed. “I love the smell of gunfire in the morning,” he quipped, clearly evoking the famous Robert Duvall line from Apocalypse Now.
“Napalm,” Harrigan muttered as he climbed a stepped stone wall up toward the house with the balcony and headed for stairs leading up the side. “It was napalm.”
“Ah,” Fernando said. “Yes. I don’t know what is napalm.”
“Nasty shit,” Harrigan replied. “I hope you never will.”
The seven feet of steps led to a landing covered by thatched roofing and then another enclosed, winding staircase that led up to the short balcony. Harrigan examined his weapons and ammo as he climbed. He had to hit the Predator and hit it fast before the alien spotted his position. Surprise was key as much as focus and staying ahead of the alien.
As Harrigan set up his shot, three more drug dealers fell, chests and heads exploding from their deadly foe’s precision targeting. Only one had a mouth left to scream as he fell and the three companions left standing were panicked, eyes wide and darting about like raving animals now—their attempts at returning fire a mere waste of bullets.
Harrigan looked around: Fernando had disappeared. Where was he? He shook it off—no time to worry about him now.
The rooftop where the Predator stood erupted with fire from a screaming Garber then and splotches of green appeared as the alien was apparently hit. Harrigan heard an alien scream.
Garber cackled. “Take that, you alien fuck!” Seconds later, his face froze as an alien missile finally found its mark and blew his legs apart. What was left of him screamed as he fell, and a red laser lit up his head just before it exploded.
Harrigan had the alien in his scope when it uncloaked, clearly intent on gathering trophies. It hopped down from its perch to the plaza and headed for the nearest fallen prey, chittering.
Harrigan’s han
d moved toward the trigger when the alien whirled and their eyes met. He saw recognition there, the alien muttering a strange word, “Ooman… Cetanu.” Its shoulder cannon shifted, taking aim.
Harrigan jerked, his focus back to his scope, when he heard a strange yell—almost like a Southern Rebel yell but with faster syllables. Then below, someone began pelting the uncloaked alien with coconuts, pineapples, and… were those lemons or oranges? Shouting insults in Portuguese.
Then Fernando appeared, fruit strapped to bands on his body like ammo pouches, the Brazilian screaming as he ran. “Shoot him, maaaaaan!”
Harrigan couldn’t believe his eyes.
* * *
Fernando was performing the role of his life, and though the audience was limited, he was going to play it out like his life depended on it. Which it did.
While Harrigan raced to high ground, Fernando observed all the other players in the show getting their heads blown off, splat. It didn’t take long to do the math.
Fernando had survived many shootings and riots because when the screams started, civilians ran around in blind panic. Even at nine years of age, Fernando had recognized that those people made themselves targets, like a flock of birds prime for the shooting. While they flapped around, he would slip away unharmed amidst the raging melee.
His action hero was going to get blown up because there were no more birds left to distract the big bad. If Harrigan was blasted away, so would Fernando’s hopes of surviving as well as his dreams of moving to the City of Angels.
Ducking away, he found an abandoned fruit cart. Nimbly, he used the nets from the cart to arm himself with coconuts, oranges, and whatever else until he resembled a fruit-strapped Rambo, then he rushed back into the battle, positioning himself opposite Harrigan to divide the monster’s focus.
“Hey, you big ugly,” Fernando taunted in Portuguese, chucking another coconut. “You look ridiculous in that net body suit! Don’t you know that only looks good with boots and a miniskirt? Are you into bondage and domination or are you just not over the eighties?”
The monster cocked its head, and though its features were practically alien, its human eyes shone a disbelief that mirrored Harrigan’s stunned face from where he was perched. As its shoulder laser cannon pivoted to aim at Fernando, he ran and screamed, “Shoot him, maaaaaan!”
A shot echoed. Fernando winced, resisting the urge to cover his ears and hit the deck. He kept his eyes open long enough to watch green goop spurt from the monster’s left shoulder as Harrigan’s bullet hit its mark.
Without wasting a second, the monster dropped and rolled, disappearing from sight as it vanished once more.
Still chucking fruits in the direction where the monster had disappeared, Fernando suddenly felt very exposed in the open space.
“Move your ass, Fernando!” Harrigan cried, already on his feet to find new cover.
With a surprised eek, Fernando ducked down an alleyway coming face to face with Harrigan a minute later, who reared up with surprise at Fernando’s quick appearance.
“Honeycomb,” Fernando explained again, panting with fear.
Harrigan barely slowed down. “He’s bleeding which means he’s leaving a trail.”
Nodding, Fernando ignored his shaky knees and followed. Mustering all his confidence he added, “I wonder if the punk feels lucky?”
Harrigan threw him a strange glance as they raced towards the rooftop where they’d last spotted the creature.
“Like Clint Eastwood,” Fernando added, insistently. “That is us. We are the Clints.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Harrigan grumbled, not wanting to play along. “We need to get to those guns down there.” Harrigan pointed to where the crazy man had got himself blown to bloody bits.
“But,” Fernando protested in a whine, “I already got you guns. You have all the guns.”
“Not the right ones.” Harrigan shook his head. “I got lucky. Garber almost got the upper hand, and we need the same kind of firepower.”
With an exasperated sigh, Fernando grumbled as he turned around to backtrack down to where the firepower was. “I give you guns, but no, you want crazy man guns.”
As they wound their way down the favela, they had to take care not to trip over the bodies. Half of the bodies were scalped and two skinless bodies swayed sickeningly overhead. Fernando daintily touched his lips, fighting his gorge. He’d never seen such indescribable evil.
“He isn’t taking time to retrieve his trophies.” Harrigan grimaced. “We’ve got him on the run.”
Opting to stay back, Fernando pointed to the landing where Garber’s intestines and fleshy bits littered the surrounding area like gory confetti.
Harrigan rushed ahead, shedding the guns Fernando cleverly found him before, opting for two large firearms, soaked in dead man’s blood. From what Fernando could tell, it didn’t look like those things shot bullets.
Screams resounded in the distance.
“Come with me if you want to be living,” Fernando called to Harrigan, knowing exactly where the screams originated.
Harrigan shouted after Fernando, “If you want to live!”
Tossing a quick look back, Fernando said, “Of course I want to live! I want to go living in the City of Angels!”
Fernando didn’t understand Harrigan’s snort of anger, but whipped by shanties to the east side of the favela. Something wet dripped onto Fernando’s head. Slowing to wipe it off, his eyes widened as he saw it was the same florescent green gloop that had jettisoned out of the creature.
Harrigan came to a full stop and looked up. “He’s running the roofs.”
“Do you know if this can wash?” Fernando asked, lip curling, dismayed to find the shoulder of his poor blouse had also been dripped on.
Harrigan didn’t answer, he was busy trying to heft himself up onto the roof by gripping the edge and pulling himself up. The idea was better than its execution.
Shaking his head, Fernando critiqued his performance. “You’re too old for that shit.”
Sweating and shaking with exertion, Harrigan’s head whipped around to shoot Fernando a nasty look. “Thanks,” Harrigan reluctantly groused.
With a sigh, Fernando dragged over a nearby table, climbed on it where it was a medium step from there onto the rusting metal roof. Reaching down he gave Harrigan a hand up.
“Look.” The cop pointed at the roof where the green blood visibly glowed and led towards the east end toward where Harrigan and the Rio detectives had entered the favela.
Running the roofs made for a fast trail though they had to take care where they stepped so not to fall through the rotting or rusted roofs.
“Deus me ajude!” Fernando muttered, praying as he ran.
They stopped abruptly when three roofs down, a ratty-looking carioca struggled in the creature’s grasp; the carioca’s handgun slid off the roof and away. The creature, no longer cloaked, cocked his arm back, jagged blades attached from his wrist jutting out past his hand, about to make the killing blow.
Fernando gasped, and the monster jerked around. Meeting eyes with pure evil itself, Fernando froze; even his heart seemed to stop. He barely registered the small cannon mounted on its shoulder redirecting aim at him.
“Fernando!” Harrigan yelled, prompting him to look down at his chest where three red laser dots were trained.
Harrigan pushed Fernando to the side with tremendous force at the same time a bright blue laser beam shot from the shoulder cannon. Fernando screamed as fire burned his left shoulder with such intensity he burst into tears, praying to God that he wasn’t ready to die.
Smacking hard onto his back, somehow managing not to slide down and off its edge, Fernando saw Harrigan had propelled himself in the opposite direction avoiding the creature’s shot.
Gasping, Fernando managed to get out, “Go ahead, make his day,” hoping his action hero could save them.
* * *
A stream of bullets exploded from below and Harrigan heard voices shouting or
ders, even before he saw the Brazilian detectives, Rios and Villaça, firing their rifles as they directed other police and armed civilians to where the alien stood atop the roof.
Harrigan scrambled to his feet, after verifying that Fernando was only shot in the shoulder—he’d live. At least, he had as good a shot as any of them did to get out alive.
The alien emitted a piercing growl as bullets struck its uninjured arm and shoulder, sending more glowing green blood trailing down its body. Sparks and electrical streaks ran across its armor, indicating something important had been damaged. It stabbed the captive carioca it still held firm in its grasp, even as it turned to run, hurling the corpse with its inhuman strength toward the firing humans to provide a distraction and block their aim. Bullets tore up the roof beneath its pounding feet as it ran.
Down below, a blonde, bulky tourist in a flowery shirt Harrigan recognized grabbed his short, round wife by the arm and yanked her away just as the carioca’s corpse landed right where she’d been standing.
“Son of a bitch almost hit my Pebbles!” the man screamed and opened fire with an LI547-B1, one of the crazy futuristic cannons Garber had been demonstrating. The rooftop where the alien had once stood exploded, shattering clay tiles, stucco, and wood into flying splinters.
“Calma, amigo! We need to find him again,” Rios called, shaking her head as her eyes and her partner’s searched for the alien.
Harrigan used the distraction to pull Fernando back to his feet. “Get behind me,” Harrigan instructed. “You want to go to the City of Angels right? Stay sharp.”
“What is a Pebbles?” Fernando mumbled, still trying to wrap his mind around the idea he might live.
Below, two SWAT-type vans pulled up, lights flashing, and armed men with body armor poured out, setting up a firing line behind the two detectives.
“Do you see him?” Villaça called, spotting Harrigan.
Harrigan shook his head and cupped his mouth: “He can cloak! Stay ready! And shoot for the head and upper body!” If they hit him enough times there, the beast would falter, maybe even die. All it took was one good shot, Harrigan remembered from decades before. Back then it had taken a lot more but now they had much better weapons with computer targeting.
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