Predator

by Paul Monette

  Lithe as a dancer it glided across the clearing to the trailhead, stooping to pick up the dead scorpion. It turned the insect over and over in its three-lingered, prehensile hand, the lifeless creature’s color fading to black as death cooled it. The alien seemed puzzled, as if it could not work out why this species man killed its own kind and other kinds. Then it cocked its hairless bullet head and began to make a low humming sound that gradually modulated into an uncanny and dead accurate imitation of a human voice. Mac’s voice.

  “Dillon, over here,” sounded the eerie, chilling mimicry as it replayed the scorpion incident.

  Then the alien discarded the insect like a useless broken toy and strode across to the base of the tree from which it had descended. There it picked up its weapon—a short spear that it gripped like a rifle, another kind of homage. The weapon instantly changed color and keyed to the alien’s skin, a merging of reptilian tones till the arm and the weapon were flesh of one flesh.

  Instantly the creature turned and made for the trail where the men had disappeared. In seconds, with perfect simian dexterity, it had sprung to the lower branches of a tree, grasping the rough bark with its clawed, hammerlock fingers, pulling itself up through the branches with astonishing speed and agility. Then it leapt free into the air again, swinging exultantly from the crown of one tree to the next.

  As it moved in the direction of the commando team it was actively stalking now; its passive observation was complete. In its wake the jungle froze in silence, as if every creature in the wild, weak or strong, suddenly considered itself fair game. What the moth knew, what the parrot knew, what the puma knew—at that moment the terror crossed all species, all except man. No wonder the temples were overgrown. No wonder the Mayan tribes had vanished without a trace. Man didn’t even have the wit to run for cover.

  E I G H T

  Just ahead of the alien, below in the darkening shade, the team trudged along the bank of the lazily wandering stream, its pearly current illuminated here and there by slices of brilliant sunlight filtering through the foliage. A cloud of mosquitoes the size of bees dive-bombed them as they pushed forward along the marshy verge. Frustrated and tired they slapped and cursed their way, sweating like overworked slaves in the oppressive heat.

  Around a bend where the water rippled over a rocky outcrop, a huge rotting tree lay across the group’s path. Nerves were raw and spent all the way down the line. Blain was barely able to scramble over the obstacle, even with Mac assisting with the cumbersome machine gun.

  “I’ve seen some badass bush before, but nothin’ like this, man,” Mac complained. Then, pulling a small silver flask from his shirt pocket, he offered Blain a slug of Tennessee mash.

  “Little taste o’ home, pardner?” he said with a wink.

  Blain paused as he brushed the slugs and wood grubs off his pants. He nodded with exhausted enthusiasm, took the flask from his buddy, and hefted a swig.

  “I hear you, bro’,” he said, wiping his mouth with a grimy hand. “This is some shitpile. Makes Cambodia look like Kansas. Lose your way in here, man, you be in some kinda bad hurt.” He returned the flask to Mac, who slipped it into his pocket. “You don’t got much of that snake oil left, pal. We better save it case someone gets bit.”

  “Fuck the snake, man. Let him cop his own whiskey.”

  Laughing coarsely they bulldozed ahead, not wanting to waste the anesthetizing glow of the liquor. They were so tired they were punchy, yet still they wouldn’t have minded a little action to get their blood moving. Few more dead guerrillas wouldn’t hurt anyone. Few less bullets to haul out of the stinking place.

  Dillon had fallen behind with Anna, who was stalling as much as she could. He watched ahead worriedly as the rest of the team outdistanced him. Then, adding to his problems, the rebel woman suddenly tripped on a root and stumbled to the ground, where she lay grunting, holding her knee.

  Dillon reached down and dragged her up. “Shit, lady, come on,” he demanded, his patience run dry.

  As he hauled her up she managed to grab a handful of dirt and like a striking cobra flung it in his face, momentarily blinding him. As he coughed and rubbed his eyes she made a snatch for his rifle. But even as she got a grip on the butt of it, the barrel of another gun was shoved in her face.

  It was Ramirez, calmly holding his weapon against her ear, his expression indicating that he’d like nothing better than to blow her head off.

  “Don’t even try it, sweetheart,” he ordered her coldly.

  Foiled but still defiant, Anna turned and obliged by moving forward up the trail, her shoulders lifted haughtily. As Dillon began to see again, blinking the tears away, Ramirez stared him down with a sneer.

  “Maybe you should put her on a leash, man,” he suggested with a guttural laugh. “If you can’t handle her, just say the word.” Like the others he kept gnawing away at Dillon, who was infuriated at the implication that he couldn’t control a prisoner half his size. The black commander increased his pace to get away from the Chicano, catching up with Anna and turning her sharply by the elbow.

  “Hey, bitch, don’t try that again,” he barked.

  She looked back at him undaunted, staring at him mockingly with her head angled up, the proud rebel who would die for her cause without flinching. Perhaps she was as naive as she was tough, and perhaps she had no notion of how much she resembled her sister terrorists in Syria, in the Baader-Meinhof, wherever there was a righteous cause that demanded martyrs. No doubt she had clawed her way through the ranks of the rebel army by sheer courage and skill. In any case she was not to be underestimated. She broke away from Dillon’s grasp and moved on, strictly obeying the rules of capture but giving him back nothing.

  Not far above and just behind the last of the team, the alien had shifted to lower branches, silently swinging from tree to tree, keeping pace with the group and watching fascinated as they struggled up the primitive trail. It had also noted that the rebel prisoner was a different breed, though it couldn’t really distinguish the gender difference from the political one.

  To the alien the species appeared to break down into different subsets, like drones and workers. And the blond man with the massive shoulders was obviously the king, and the slighter figure with the deep black eyes was the tribe’s magician. The alien understood all the dynamics. After all, it had seen the whole thing before.

  For though no one among the commandos knew it yet, much rested with the Sioux warrior, and the thousand years of magic handed down through generations of his shaman forebears. Billy himself didn’t know it. What the team did know was that the Indian had the best tracking nose of any soldier they’d ever encountered. Thus none of them hesitated to give him the lead. Just now he picked his way along the riverbank, his concentration rapt and keen, and that was all they ever needed of him. His face was fixed trancelike as he led his rattled comrades, and nobody knew how far he could see because all they wanted was to get through the next ten miles.

  But the alien knew.

  Behind Billy, Blain cradled his mini-cannon, now and then swinging the weapon from left to right across the field of view to make sure he had a good kill range. As he paused to adjust the belted loop of cartridges trailing from his backpack magazine, a mosquito landed on his face, lodging in the thick grease around his lips. Without interrupting his concentration he extended his tongue and drew the hapless bug into his mouth, then casually spat it out dead. The theory of natural selection triumphed once again.

  Schaefer, next to Billy, was concentrating on the ground, kicking dried leaves aside and checking for hidden traps and natural obstacles. Every five minutes he double-checked the team’s position and progress with map and compass, though the map had pretty much petered out by this point. They could only hope the unmarked trail would bring them out over the border.

  Hawkins followed Blain, panting in the heavy humid air, the radio strapped across his back dragging him down like a load of bricks. Of course he could have abandoned the cumbersome equipm
ent. No rule of combat demanded that he carry so much weight on a forced march, and besides, they wouldn’t be needing it again anyway. They’d either make it to the LZ or they wouldn’t, and there they could use the portable shortwave to signal the rescue choppers. But Hawkins was very attached to his radio. He was as proprietary about it as he used to be about his ghetto blaster back in the streets of South Boston.

  The nerve-shot line of men began to ascend the east side of the riverbank, just before it narrowed into a vertical sheet of rock. As they climbed, Anna slipped in the muddy turf, falling again to her knees because she couldn’t balance herself with her bound hands. Dillon, just behind her, prodded her with his rifle, a bit more roughly this time, forcing her to her feet. Again they fell behind a few meters more.

  Billy, fronting the team, came to a small clearing above the crumbling slope of the riverbank. It was bordered on one side by towering fir trees, with the high canyon wall beyond turning rose and beaten gold in the westering sun. The upper branches were covered with a flock of bright blue birds squawking wildly, chasing each other from branch to branch, feathers fanning in rainbow hues.

  Then, right in front of Billy, the birds’ noises and rustlings stopped for no apparent reason, as abruptly as if some magic force had flicked a switch. The birds all settled quietly along the branches, not even preening. Billy stared up into the trees curiously, and when Schaefer came over the bank into the clearing the Indian held up three fingers, indicating possible ambush. Schaefer waved a hand to the team as it reached the plateau, and they froze in position.

  Requiring no orders, they moved quietly and swiftly into cover of the underbrush. Dillon dragged Anna along with him, drawing his knife as they entered the bush. Grasping the woman by her shirt collar he pushed her to the ground, holding her face to the dirt and the blade to her throat. Then he signaled Ramirez to approach.

  “Take this and watch her,” he ordered, passing the hilt of the knife to the Chicano. Then Dillon disappeared deeper into the brush, determined to take command if there was danger.

  Ramirez held the blade tight to Anna’s jugular, but his attention was diverted as he nervously scanned the tall grass around him. Always on the alert for an opportunity, Anna used the momentary advantage to reach for a root-burl lying loose on the ground beside her face. She tucked it up next to her belly with her bound hands and hoped it would prove useful.

  While the others scouted around, Billy remained frozen in place, transfixed as he stared at the treeline. He was aware again of a strange density in the air around him, but couldn’t locate any solid evidence to confirm his suspicions—not a sound, not a shadow or even a rustle of leaves. The blue macaws sat row upon row in the fir trees, seeming to mock him. Yet he was certain something was out there, waiting, watching and burning with danger. On and on he stood motionless as a statue, till he seemed lost in a self-induced trance.

  Schaefer, aware that his Indian tracker was going mystical on him, sidled up to Mac as if for the reassurance of a blunt, uncomplicated military animal. Mac chewed a dead cigar butt and watched the Sioux in the clearing with curiosity.

  “What’s got him so spooked?”

  “Can’t say yet,” Schaefer replied without emotion. “But he’s on to something. I’ve seen him do it before and I know enough not to get in his way.”

  After another couple of minutes Schaefer walked up softly behind Billy and stood watching as the lean Indian became more and more absorbed in his ritual. He reached half-consciously to his throat, grasping a thin rawhide cord secured around his neck. He ran two fingers under the cord, almost as if he was trying to breathe easier. In his head he imagined there was a small leather pouch attached to the rawhide, and Billy was reaching in and pulling out a pinch of dark powder, a powerful mix of mushroom buttons and moldy herbs that would deepen the trance. The whole time his eyes were wide, riveted on the canopy of leaves above him, pupils dilated and unblinking as he stared among the branches.

  He was tapping another dimension now, the culmination of hundreds of years of inherited psychic sensitivity, Billy’s birthright as the last of the shamans of his tribe. He had never been taught any of it. As he opened his mind now to vibrations from the unknown and unseen around him, as he zeroed in on the presence and drank its thoughts he was fully magic for the first time. What Schaefer had seen in him before was only a shadow of his transformation here. Billy had always ducked it in the past, or he shook it off like a dog shook water. Now he could not turn from it. He’d been waiting all his life to see as deep as this.

  He was cast adrift in his tribe’s collective memory, suffused with legends and ancient battles. He began to sway as he murmured an old Sioux chant, and though he could never have told what the words meant he saw the image clearly. The legend described a Herculean adversary who had come from the meadow beyond the sky, a god-creature of wrath who had murdered half of Billy’s people. This was all a hundred generations ago. But the chant was very clear as it repeated over and over that the god-creature would return again. Billy quaked with fear as the chant locked in his throat. He could feel the breath of the ancient marauder, and the recognition sent shockwaves of horror through his soul.

  Billy’s eyes were wide and glassy now, as if he no longer needed them to see. Now he could focus directly on the alien’s mind. He gathered all his strength till his ears rang with the beating of his blood. Now his own soul broke open like an extradimensional searchlight, and he scanned the jungle sky and intercepted the alien’s thoughts, slicing into them like a laser.

  But the intensity was tortuous, and Billy wavered and tried to pull back, his mind screaming from the stress of the trance. The ringing in his head accelerated now to a louder pitch as he began to lose his grip on the alien. He knew he had encountered a force stronger than all the hundred generations. Then his soul faltered, and his eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed in Schaefer’s arms.

  The major crouched gently, lowering Billy to the ground, the Indian’s chest heaving as he gasped huge quantities of air. It was as if he hadn’t breathed at all in the last five minutes. The sweat soaked out of him. His pulse beat furiously, his face beet red, and his temperature hovered at a hundred and three. He was like an overworked engine with burned-out gears and pistons, and for a moment Schaefer wasn’t sure he could bring him back.

  The major pulled a canteen from his belt and gushed water into Billy’s mouth as if the choking would wake him up. Then he drenched a handkerchief and folded it over the Indian’s eyes. After a couple of interminable minutes Billy blinked and stared into Schaefer’s face. Still he seemed utterly dazed, as if some circuit in his brain had been snapped irrevocably.

  “You okay, Billy?” Schaefer asked tensely.

  For a moment, nothing. Then out of nowhere the macaws in the fir trees began to gabble and sing again. Schaefer looked up. Several were flying in whirling circles above the clearing, as if they were trying to charm Billy back.

  “Yeah . . . yes, sir,” Billy nodded feebly as he focused again on the real world. The color came up cooler in his face, and he struggled to sit. One hand gripped the major’s arm as if he needed an anchor to keep from falling backward again.

  “What the hell happened?” Schaefer asked in an awed whisper. “What did you see?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Billy replied in some bewilderment. “I had this dream. It was like a story somebody was trying to tell me. Only it was like I was supposed to know it already.” He shook his head in confusion.

  “What story?” demanded the major impatiently.

  “The story of this place,” said Billy with a strange smile. “The god-creature was here too.” And before Schaefer could speak again Billy had held out an arm and pointed to the ground. Schaefer looked down and for the first time saw the faint trace of a broken wall, just a few stones mortared together amid the surrounding rubble. The side of one stone was incised with glyphs. Billy waved his arm in a casual circle, and suddenly Schaefer understood they were standing
in the flattened ruin of a huge temple.

  “God?” said the major with a faint distaste. “Whose god?”

  “It’s just the same,” breathed Billy in a low voice, a look of astonishment in his eyes. “My people and these people—they both saw it. And they sing the same song too. That the god will return.” There was no fear in Billy’s voice just then. Perhaps that was the most fearful thing of all.

  “Okay, Tonto, that’s enough,” retorted the major gruffly. “We better get moving. We got us a plane to catch.”

  And he stalked away to call up his men, trying to tell himself that the coast was clear and that it was all downhill from here. They were only three or four miles from pickup, and Billy had detected no enemy movement, whatever else was riddling his brain. Schaefer was used to the bird-dog frequency Billy hooked into. He respected it for purely radar purposes. He had no use for the metaphysical side of it.

  As Schaefer left the clearing he looked back one last time and saw the Indian standing absolutely still. There was a blue macaw on Billy’s shoulder as he stared transfixed at the broken temple wall. The Sioux shook his head with a great sorrow.

  N I N E

  Beside the rock pool where Dillon had turned over his combat knife to Ramirez, with orders to guard his unpredictable prisoner, the wiry Chicano had decided to replace the knife with his rifle. Blades reminded him too much of the small-time world of the barrio; he found more comfort in a loaded gun. With the gloat of a high school braggart leaving parking lot rubber with his Harley, he slouched his right shoulder to let the sling of his M-202 slip down his tattooed arm. His curled fingers caught the gun at its hand grip. Smirking with self-satisfaction, completely at one with the rifle, he extended the end of the cylinder and caressed Anna’s tawny neck with a teasing threat. Then his attention went to his loaded belt to look for a loop in which to retire Dillon’s inadequate knife.