Predator

by Paul Monette

  As Schaefer squatted motionless and rigid he heard the low thump of the alien’s feet landing on a nearby table rock. Swift and silent the major turned and fired a poison arrow at the sound. It zipped through the darkness, and an instant later he heard the telling thud as the tip lodged in the trunk of a tree. “Shit!” muttered Dutch, berating himself for wasting a shot and for betraying his presence. The arrow had missed the alien’s bulbous head by inches.

  The predator was as quick to strike back. Its arm whipped so fast it was only a blur in the fire-shot night as it activated its weapon, the projectile streaking downward and exploding into a log so close to the major’s leg he could feel the wind. The impact sent up a shower of wood chips into the night.

  It was like a terminal game of chess now, and once again it was Schaefer’s move. He clutched his makeshift weapons, leaping from boulder to boulder as he fled the vulnerable spot. He jumped down into the clearing near the fire, landing hard, rolling out of the light and into the protective shadows of the rocks on the far side. Now the roaring bonfire lay between man and alien like a sacred zone of death and regeneration.

  Schaefer glanced around and saw that he was in a sort of natural amphitheater formed by the sheer walls of rock that shot up a hundred feet behind him into the black night sky. Shadows cast by the fire danced eerily across the rough stone, till Schaefer was almost certain he could see the outline of painted forms, and ancient glyphs incised into the stone.

  As the major positioned himself under the protective overhang of a jut of rock he found himself in a small space protected on three sides. He crouched with his bow and felt the pain scream across his shoulder. The wound was spilling blood freely again, and as he watched it drip on the stony ground he could see broken pieces of pottery and the carved head of a jaguar that looked like jade in the dancing firelight. But he didn’t have a minute to root around for treasure. For all he knew these fragments would mark his grave.

  Then, above on the rocky plateau, the silhouette of the alien appeared for a single moment. It looked victorious and huge against the sky, its form revealed in the play of the flames. It moved now down the rocky wall, gliding in and out of the darkness like a serpent as the rocks would now and then shelter it from the orange glow.

  As the creature crept slowly downward, nearer and nearer to the light, Schaefer distinguished a new sound over the crackle and sputter of the fire and the rushing river far below—a sound that brought fear and a savage determination to his heart. It was the rhythmic scraping of the alien’s hard, tusklike foot spurs, screeching like chalk on a blackboard. The major rose slowly to his feet, slung another arrow in his bowstring, and drew back on it as he moved out of his shelter and around a large boulder, heading toward the scraping sound.

  They were only feet from each other now. The creature paused erect in the strobing light, craning its head and slowly turning as it tried to orient itself to the diversity of sounds. The circular walls of the rocky amphitheater richocheted everything, throwing its delicate radar off. Fortunately for the major, the variable light rendered the alien’s optic nerve centers dull and dim as it moved among the inert forms of the rocks. It beheld a world of soft, ill-defined shapes in a pale magenta field of flickering heat.

  Schaefer crept forward, placing one foot in front of the other with all the stealth and skill of a Sioux scout. Suddenly he would stop and strain to listen, trying to place the direction of the frightening scrape of the alien’s spurs. The sound reverberated off the granite walls, so he couldn’t pin it down enough to fire at it. Nervously he looked around in a full circle, uncertain where to move next. Then, unbelievably, he heard the whisper of a human voice softly echoing among the rocks. It was Anna. “Look out . . . behind you,” came the warning, almost seductive in its intimacy.

  Schaefer spun about, his breath catching as the words drifted to him. Wide-eyed and straining every tendon and muscle he waited for the voice again but heard nothing—just the distant muted flow of the river and the hissing and popping of the dying fire above. As the flames dwindled, the shadows grew longer and darker with every minute.

  Then Anna’s voice again. “Look out, Major . . . behind you!”

  Schaefer swiveled in place. “Anna?” he whispered back. It was almost pathetic, the need he felt just then to make contact with somebody human. Trancelike, he moved toward the sound.

  In a shallow cave among the rocks, not more than twenty feet from Schaefer, the alien mimicked the girl again. “Over here. I know the way out!”

  Numbly Schaefer followed the bait, closer and closer. But as he moved in a kind of dream state something made him pause at the sound of more familiar voices. “Dillon, over here,” came the voice of Mac, and Mac was dead.

  Bolting awake with horror Schaefer backed quickly into a narrow tuck between a boulder and the high sheer wall of the amphitheater. His feet moved lightly as he went into a bowman’s crouch, the shadow-light deepening with the dying fire above, till he almost seemed like something ancient painted on the rock. Bow drawn, trapped against the rock, he heard the scraping sound of the predator once again. The noise came from the right, then shifted back to the left, then right again. The major didn’t know where to shoot and began to sweat with panic.

  It was time for more desperate weapons. The major withdrew the flash-grenade from around his neck. Then, with a swift jerk of his hand, he struck and tossed it forward, and it exploded, briefly illuminating the whole area below the bonfire. During that instant Schaefer saw his enemy poised on a rock above him, its weapon raised and about to strike. But momentarily blinded by the flash the alien recoiled, ducking its head to the side.

  As the phosphorous shed by the grenade faded Schaefer seized the advantage. Before the golden eyes could activate again he hurled his bang-stick spear. It smashed into the boulder at the creature’s feet and detonated, exploding the face of the rock. The alien sprang back too late, and shrapnel tore into its body. With a terrifying scream of pain and fury the creature clutched frantically at its neck and chest. Then with a second bloodcurdling shriek of rage it jumped off its rocky platform and disappeared into the night.

  Cascades of water surged over an eight-foot drop in the river’s rocky bed as it coursed through the ravine, throwing up a perpetual mist. Schaefer, his bow still drawn, followed the weird trail of the alien’s luminous amber blood as it dripped from the fresh wounds. As the major ducked behind the falls, the mist sprayed him, washing off some of his clay camouflage. Fixated, he followed the trail like a starving panther on the scent of a plump boar. Schaefer’s own shoulder bled freely down his arm and side, and the crimson mixed with the gray streaks of clay still clinging to his torso. Oblivious now to the searing pain in his shoulder he took in huge hot gulps of air, his eyes wide and glowing with vengeance. He looked with relish at an amber glob of alien blood beaded like gum on a bamboo shoot.

  “Bleed, you bastard,” he hissed angrily.

  The major flexed his bow, testing its vital tension, then resumed his tracking. He followed the luminous blood trail across the ledge where a huge vertical boulder had shifted in an earthquake. There the trail ended abruptly. No more sign of the viscous amber ooze. Schaefer took another step forward across a darkened alcove and spun quickly as he felt the alien springing to action out of the shadows.

  The major faced his enemy hand-to-hand at last, savagely kicking out at the creature’s arm. The spear that had killed so many flew from its grip and clattered to the rocks below. Before it could quite recover, its golden eyes blinking bewilderedly, Schaefer followed with a karate kick to the chest, hurling the creature face forward onto the ground, its broad back exposed to the veteran commando. Instantly Schaefer was standing over the alien, his bow drawn and poised, the blood from his shoulder dripping onto the creature’s livid skin.

  Slowly the alien rolled onto its back, revealing its ghastly face. Its eyes were bleached nearly white with shock from the loss of blood. Its body rippled out of control as it tried desperatel
y to disappear into its dark surroundings—the old chameleon’s escape—but now in its weakened state it couldn’t bring off the transformation.

  The major’s curiosity exploded. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, glaring down, his own eyes blazing deep in their sockets. He was monstrous in his own way.

  Incomprehensible sounds choked and coughed from the alien’s gullet till at last it began to form words. At first they crackled as if they were coming through a weak radio signal. Then they got clearer and stronger with each syllable until the alien did a perfect imitation of Schaefer’s voice. “Who . . . the . . . hell . . . are . . . you?” it mimicked slowly, methodically, almost in singsong.

  Then it collapsed for a moment as if it were totally spent of energy. But with a single concentrated thrust it lashed out an arm, activating the razor-sharp spurs at its wrists. An instant later it coiled a leg and kicked upward with renewed and brutal strength, its terrible heel spur ripping into Schaefer’s thigh, hurling him backward so that he crashed into a shallow ditch of water. Floundering desperately the major grabbed for his bow, which had bounced away in the fall. He found it just as the creature rose to its feet, inhaling deeply and hungrily, gaining strength again with every breath.

  Schaefer saw the alien retrieve and raise its weapon again. Then, with one instinctive movement, his shoulder throbbing with pain, he drew the arrow back to its tip and let it fly. With a deadly thud it penetrated deeply into the alien’s neck. Another bloodcurdling scream of rage echoed through the trees as the enemy clutched its throat, dropping its spear once more. A second later it bounded away down the rocks, hissing and rumbling with pain and loss and anger.

  Schaefer scrambled out of the water and pursued, following the bowl of the canyon above the river as he picked up a fresh trail of the faintly luminous amber.

  The major’s shoulder had stopped bleeding, leaving a caked clot of thickened blood along the gash. But his thigh was streaming blood profusely, and with every step a hot stab of pain shot through his leg. Yet he pushed onward, half hobbling, climbing the slope by swinging the weight to his good leg. The trail was clear to follow because the alien was too weak to sail through the treetops or clone itself into a creature of flight, bird or fly or wisp of air. It stumbled along through the tangled forest, leaving a swath of trampled grass, broken twigs and chunks of dirt thrown up by its dragging spurs.

  Spent and enraged, groaning with fury, the alien arrived at the edge of the clearing where its ship waited. It was bleeding severely now and had lost virtually all of its camouflage abilities. Its skin had turned a pale sickly green and slithered along its body like a snake struggling to shed itself. With trembling three-pronged hands it grasped the shaft of the arrow protruding from its neck and pulled it out with a roar of pain. A spurt of gray choke from deep in its guts erupted and spilled from its mouth and down its leathery-chin.

  Schaefer was relentless in pursuit, obsessed with ending the killer’s rampage. He was working his way through a narrow passageway in a grove of rubber trees when he almost walked into a vast spider web that measured four feet across, blocking the path. Instinctively he moved to sweep it aside with his machete when he noticed an odd quality about the way it caught the moon’s dim light. Examining more closely he saw that the network of membranes wasn’t the silken threads of an insect at all, but hair-fine wire—a trap.

  He jumped back at the realization, then picked up a hefty branch, hurled it into the center of the trap, and watched the mechanism spring into action. There was a metallic snap followed by a high-pitched whine as the wood impacted on metal. The branch, five inches around, was violently torn apart, and pieces of wood flew in opposite directions, whipping into the jungle.

  Schaefer wiped his brow with relief, then pushed ahead, stepping gingerly over the coils of wire lying inert on the ground. He didn’t even stop to wonder if this was part of the guerrillas’ or the alien’s arsenal. The death snares were so all-encompassing now that they seemed to be set by the violent earth itself.

  A few minutes later he arrived close enough to the alien ship to see the surreal blue glow filtering through the trees. Then, in the clearing ahead, he spied the alien itself, staggering toward the light. Schaefer was about to close the distance and have it out at last, when he was stopped in his tracks by a hideous sight that came crashing down on his senses, obliterating everything else.

  At one end of the clearing, translucent human skins had been stretched over wooden frames, the attached scalps rippling lightly in the breeze. Flayed bodies, some lying on the open ground, were scattered about the area, while others hung from the trees in much the way Davis and his men were found. There must have been at least thirty bodies, guerrillas as well as commandos.

  “Even the fuckin’ Nazis didn’t do this,” Schaefer muttered in outrage, sick at the pit of his stomach like one of the men who’d liberated Buchenwald.

  But he had no time to sink into the horror, so he forced his mind to be tempted only by the rage, and used that rage to drive him forward. He turned again to his target and saw that the alien was passing through the shimmering glow of the force field. Cautiously Schaefer walked closer and saw the egg-shaped outline of the ship. The creature was walking with great difficulty up the ramp toward the open door of the spacecraft. It still looked awesome as its silhouette was bathed in the pulsing blue glow of the ship, but to Schaefer in his fury the creature seemed more frightened than frightening.

  Weakened though he was by his wounds and by exhaustion, Schaefer staggered forward and looked up in time to see the alien wave a hand across a light beam. The ship instantly responded with a turbine whine which built slowly and steadily in volume and pitch. The predator turned and gazed out over the thick jungle that still hid Schaefer, as if it sensed the commando’s presence in the shadows. Then it turned back and entered the force field. The door began to slowly close, as if it sensed its captain was about to enter and there was no time to spare.

  Schaefer felt a sudden throb of panic as he saw the enemy about to retreat to safety. He darted into the clearing and spotted the alien’s weapon at the foot of the ramp. The creature had either dropped it in the delirium of its wounds, or perhaps it felt no need for the power any more. It was on its way home now. There would be other weapons for other planets.

  Schaefer grabbed up the odd instrument, perplexed. How to operate it? Was it keyed to something in the creature itself so that only the alien could fire it? The major squeezed the handle and felt resistance. Again he tried with the last ounce of his strength and screamed a bellow of rage as he crushed down on the handle. Suddenly a blue-white light shot out at the end, and the spear was activated. Schaefer raised it, sensing its power and function by sheer feel, warrior to warrior. He leveled the thing at the disappearing back of the alien just as the door was closing behind it. Schaefer shouted triumphantly and hurled it.

  Flaring with deadly energy the weapon shot off like a meteor up the laser ramp, accelerating through the door and into the spacecraft. It lodged in the back of the creature’s neck, and in that instant the door froze half-open. The alien’s head exploded but slowly, in a kind of slow motion, almost as if the gravity within the craft was different from the earth’s. A geyser of amber-orange blood shot out, then pale green tissue as the brain burst. Then the spearhead continued out through the alien’s throat, burying itself in the side of the ship, sending bolts of plasma-energy arcing through the force field.

  Schaefer fell forward onto the ground, half in a swoon as he stared at the incredible sight. The whirring sound from the ship grew to a feverishly high ear-splitting pitch, and the whole craft began to tremble and quiver as if it too would explode. But by now Schaefer could no longer tell if he was conscious or unconscious. He wasn’t sure any more if he was still in one piece himself.

  Two attack helicopters’ blades slapped the thick jungle air as they powered their way through the canyon, racing along at treetop height. The first carried a VIP crew. Its leader, General Phill
ips, turned to his most important passenger, the rebel Anna Gonsalves.

  “Does this look familiar?” he demanded, pointing to the snaking river below.

  She peered down at the dimly lit tangle of jungle and rushing water and the bramble-covered ridge. Then she saw the huge mahogany log lying beached against the shore—the log on which she and Schaefer and Ramirez had crossed the churning rapids. “Yes . . . yes!” she said, nodding enthusiastically. “Right down there,” And she pointed to the rocky ridge, “That’s where I saw him last.”

  Phillips turned to the pilot. “Follow that ridge,” he ordered. As the pilot tried to oblige, maneuvering quickly in the canyon updrafts, his instrument panel went wild, the gauges spinning, digital readouts out of control. The pilot lurched forward over the steering lever, desperately fighting to regain their equilibrium.

  At the same moment the chopper went out of control, the alien’s ship had reached a loud deafening whine, and the ground in the clearing around it began to quake, Schaefer, realizing even in his half-stupor that the thing was going to explode, ignored his knifing pains and ran desperately for the jungle, seeking cover. He sprinted to the edge of the clearing and dived over the embankment just as a blinding purple flash blew the ship to pieces. Fragments of the rare interplanetary metals shot hundreds of feet into the sky. A half mile away the choppers were enveloped in the flash of intense light and momentarily helpless. The aftershock pulsed through the sky like a sonic boom, knocking the choppers haywire as they floundered two hundred feet in the air.

  Below, concentric waves of energy pulsed outward from the center of the blast as if a miniature star were being born.

  Then, just at the moment when they would have dropped like birds with broken wings to the trees below, the choppers’ mechanisms returned to normal function as the sonic wave subsided. The pilots were just able to pull up in time to prevent crashdown.