Pappy Elliott walked slowly, moving with surprising stealth for a man who swore to everyone that his joints were as creaky as an old ship on a stormy sea. He hadn’t had a drink. God, he’d wanted to, but no. Not for this.
With his hazmat suit in place, he walked over to peer down at his enemy, his prize, his redemption, and he felt a deep loathing move slowly through him.
The mottled tone of the skin, the heavy brow, the frighteningly powerful body, all of it triggered him. Triggered—that was a word he understood better than most. For more than half of his life he’d been “triggered” by the notion of ever encountering a thing like this again, and here he stood.
His breath tried to fog the mask of his suit, but the cold air cycling from the oxygen tank compensated almost instantly. The view of his personal hell was not obscured.
He couldn’t help it. He looked carefully at the slumbering demon’s restraints and made absolutely certain that they were secured. They were.
The body wasn’t completely bared, but it was close. The webbing that had covered the torso and legs was gone, very likely cut away, as the simple loincloth it wore was still in place. Simple? No, not really—it was made of hide of some kind, but it also had a belt, three pockets and a codpiece, for chrissake.
On a whim he checked the pockets and found nothing of interest but space lint. The guys who’d secured the thing to the table had long since taken care of whatever the thing kept there. Just as well.
He stared long and hard at that face. It wasn’t the creature he’d fought so many years ago—of course not. It was possible that the aliens had a way of regenerating an eye, but he hoped not. Besides, with the damage done by the mines back in the day, he still fostered a small hope that the creature died before it ever reached home. There hadn’t been too many pieces left, when it was all said and done.
How far had this thing traveled? How long had it taken to move from another planet to this one? The garments it wore were distinctly primitive, but the technology it sported was a different story entirely.
Where did it come from? Did the species have an advanced society? There were no answers, of course. That was one of the reasons they’d wanted to capture it. But Elliott had other things he needed to know.
Why did they hunt? Was it for sport? Was it for prestige? Was there another reason they hadn’t even begun to suspect? He had no way of knowing, but he wanted to know. It was a compulsion. It was more.
“Why do you do it? Hmm?” He spoke softly. “Why do you hunt people?” He didn’t expect an answer, and wasn’t even sure if he wanted to know if the thing could speak English. Elliott glanced at the closest table where, just under a layer of cloth, a large assortment of medical tools was kept. Vivisection. It isn’t just a job, it’s an adventure. Part of him wanted to grab one of the scalpels and start cutting. He resisted the urge, but it wasn’t easy.
“What are you?” he asked, the words mumbled more than spoken. He moved slowly, carefully, studying the creature from every possible angle and avoiding the temptation to touch. Running his hands over the body, feeling the thing’s heartbeat, would have made it too real. Hearing the heart monitor was bad enough. And if it was real, he might be tempted to destroy it.
Certainly it deserved to be destroyed. This creature and creatures just like it had killed an unknown number of humans—including four of his boys. Some of the reports they had, legends and lore as opposed to actual facts, mind you, came from a long ways back. Centuries.
“How long have you been coming to the planet? How long have your kind been hunting people?” It was impossible to know, yet what he did know—what he was certain of—was that they brought death wherever they went.
Elliott leaned in as close as he dared and stared long and hard. It wasn’t a pretty face, not a handsome or noble face. It was the stuff of nightmares. He knew that for a fact. He had seen that face countless times over the years, when he tried to sleep.
The anger came back again and Elliott backed away. This would end, but it wouldn’t end well, not if he stayed where he was.
The vast chest of the thing expanded in a deep breath and then exhaled in a long, slow sigh. The eyes fluttered behind closed lids.
Enough.
Elliott stepped further back and shook his head. Staying was only tempting fate, and he couldn’t do that. Everything that the Company had worked for, everything that the general had worked for, everything that could potentially be learned by studying the monster in front of him, would go down the drain if he lost control of himself. No, personal satisfaction wasn’t going to be the reason for his failure. He would have satisfaction in time. He had seen the creature brought down, and ultimately it would be killed. But first, they would learn all the secrets it had to offer.
He glanced again at the table full of medical instruments. There were any number of devices with which he could cause torture. But not today. Not now.
Turning, he walked slowly away from his target. Another time. Not today. Not with so much at stake.
A simple access code and the door opened. Another and it closed. In seconds a sliding wall of galvanized steel locked away the nightmares made flesh. Elliott nodded to himself and considered whether or not he could sleep. Maybe. Just perhaps.
He didn’t look back.
* * *
The gray hair left, and the portal shut with a click.
Without opening its eyes or showing any perceivable motion, the hunter used its thick claws against the animal-hide restraints. He knew he was observed and could not do anything that might raise an alarm.
18
Tomlin sat up on his medical cot and sighed, though it came out as more of a groan. Not ten feet away from him, Hill lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The man’s face was set like stone and Tomlin left him in peace.
Sleep wasn’t coming for him. His mind was too locked into an endless replay of everything that had happened, and he couldn’t stop playing the “what if” game. What if he’d been faster? What if he’d made sure his people were better prepared? What if they’d followed the alien back to its ship, or nest, or whatever, and waited until the sun went down?
There was no good answer, of course.
“What if” was a game that could never be won. He could try until he was blue in the face, but he would never find a solution for what had already happened. Four of his people were dead. He’d been in charge when it happened. They caught the alien, but that meant nothing in comparison to the loss of life. Not to him, at least—not at that moment.
Burke died on the operating table. There was too much damage, too much blood loss, and not a damned thing they could do about it. Orologas, King, Strand… and now Burke.
Hill looked his way.
“It’s shit.”
Tomlin blinked. That Hill was even speaking was unexpected, but the words had no context.
“What?”
“You’re thinking you could have done better, and maybe you could, but whatever you’re putting yourself through? It’s shit.”
“What do you mean?”
Hill sat up, a stormy expression on his face. “Look, you know I’m watching your ass. I’m always watching your ass. You stand between me and what I want out of this gig, and I’d take you down so fast you’d scream if I thought there was a reason—but there ain’t. You didn’t do a damn thing wrong. So the games you’re playing in your head? They’re shit.”
Tomlin looked away. He had to, because Hill’s words struck closer to home than he cared to think about. He was torturing himself and he knew it, but Hill defending him was unexpected and enough to slip right past his resolve.
Hill remained silent behind him as he nodded rather than trying to speak.
“Thanks,” he said finally. “I appreciate that.”
“I was there, man. I saw the dead cops. I saw the dead everyone, and I saw that freaky bastard cutting down everything in sight. You did good—I couldn’t have done any better.”
They were sile
nt for a while.
“I want it dead for what it did,” Tomlin said. “Is that wrong?”
Hill snorted and shook his head. “No, man. I want it dead, too, but we had our orders and we followed them.” Hill sighed and lay back down. “Tell you what, if we’d been using regular force instead of going for a capture, I think that thing would have gone down a lot sooner.”
“I was thinking the same damn thing.”
“Woodhurst gets back, we’ll talk to him about that.”
Tomlin nodded and then flopped back on his cot. His head hurt enough to distract from the grief that was trying to crush him.
“Hell of a thing.” Hill leaned back on his forearms and once again stared at the ceiling. “That’s all I can say. It’s one hell of a thing.”
There was nothing to add that they hadn’t already said. They weren’t friends, they were allies. More importantly, they were grieving.
They were quarantined. There was nothing else to do.
* * *
He carefully looked around the sterile environment, making certain to keep as still as possible. There was not much to see. The creatures had turned down their artificial lighting, but his vision was more than adequate. Most of his equipment was missing. The Combistick was there, and two small cutting discs. His mask was gone, his armor was missing, both gauntlets were gone. The creatures had even taken his trophies to another room, likely for examination.
It would be a challenge breathing in the thin atmosphere for so long a time, but he would make do.
They had repaired him to the best of their limited abilities. His wounds had been cleaned and sewn. He could have cauterized them if he had retained his equipment. He understood now that the hunters that had taken him had been told to keep him alive. Otherwise he would be dead, a trophy for the victors.
The air was cold and artificially recycled. It had no scent. The silence in the room was nearly complete, so the only sound he could hear was the faint scraping of his claws working slowly and steadily on animal-hide restraints, and the sound of his own heartbeat made audible by the device attached to his chest.
He paused in his work when the automated door split open and once again a solitary figure entered. He did not know this one. The face was unfamiliar, locked as it was behind a glass visor and synthetic skin. It was not a warrior. Not a predator.
It moved closer, wheezing its synthesized air, and stood over him. It did not speak, but it looked at him carefully, examining his face, his head, his shoulders and torso, his arms. It did not touch, but instead it continued the slow and careful examination. Then unexpectedly, it spoke.
“I don’t know what you are,” it said. “I don’t care what you are. Mostly, you’re an opportunity. I think we need that. I know Traeger needs that.” The words had a meter, and must have possessed meaning, though it was lost to him. The eyes scanned lower, stopping at the wrist, and he looked into the face of the pale blonde creature and did not move. The bonds were almost severed, but underneath the surface, and he did not want to take any chances. He could break through now, he could kill the creature, but the doors would still be blocked.
Patience.
All hunters understood patience. All good hunters, at any rate. Satisfied with his wrists, the creature continued to examine him, studying his feet, looking at his legs and, once again, just as he thought he was safe, looking at his wrists. It said nothing but the expression on its face changed. The expression became sly. He understood in that moment that it knew. It understood what he was doing, and apparently it approved.
Unexpectedly the hand of the creature reached out and touched his with a familiar contempt. It was subtle, the sort of condescending notion a parent might offer a child who was not particularly bright.
He did not respond. Instead he simply stared. It spoke again.
“That’s right, you go right ahead. Soon as you do, we will be on you. We have most of what we need for the moment. The Reapers are out of the picture, quarantined. Even if they want to, they can’t get to you. You do what you have to. Either way, Traeger will approve.”
Without an additional word, the pale-faced thing turned and headed for the exit. There was a panel with twelve buttons to the right of the door. Slowly, carefully, the hand of the creature moved to the panel. He could see what it was doing. He understood what it was doing. It did not offer a formal invitation, it merely offered access, a way out.
The door opened. Once more the thing turned and faced him. The bared teeth offered a feral sense of approval, and then it was gone, and the door was closing.
Slowly, carefully, he ran long claws over the leather bonds restraining his wrists. The world was silent. Cameras were watching; he was observed and he understood that. He also wondered how well he was being watched. When the first restraint parted, freeing his wrist, he made no expression. Moments later the second gave way.
He sat up quickly. The restraints at his ankles were easy to release. The wires attached to his chest and to his head came off easily and the machine that measured his pulse let out a sudden erratic noise.
Freedom was easy. He grasped the Combistick and it was a familiar weight in his hand, so that he let out a slight, soft, rattling sigh. His other hand captured the edged discs and slipped them into the pocket of his garb. One more grab and his sandals were once again his. They easily slipped into place.
The keypad beckoned. He used the same pattern he had seen the pale-faced creature enter, and was rewarded as the door opened. As yet there was no uproar.
This room was different. He had watched others come through, had seen the scan of eyes and hands and knew that he could not pass. Not as easily. The door was thinner, however—not as strong as the door behind him. It would take effort before he could get through. Once he did, however, he suspected an alarm would sound.
How long before they responded? How long before they could hope to stop him? Did they still want him alive? Did they still need him breathing? They had examined him. They had taken many images and conducted tests.
Whatever they desired, he would have to move quickly once the door was open, and he would have to leave this place before anyone could stop him. This was a place of torture and pain. There were similar places on his own world and he had been to them on several occasions. His work required it. He would have treated anything new and unique in the very same way.
Had there been time, he would have looked for his weapons. He would have looked for his supplies. But there was no time.
As he had anticipated, the moment he forced the door open, changing the pressure in the room, the alarms started. He pushed past the opening and ran down the dimly lit hallway. He had been conscious when he was brought in and felt he could find his way.
Throughout the darkened corridors lights exploded into activity, changing night into day. Here and there additional lights flashed brightly. He ran as quickly as he dared, stalking through doors barely large enough to accommodate his height. A left, another left, a hard right, and there before him a rolling metal door. The very door they had brought him through in the beginning.
The klaxons were loud, disorienting, but not enough to slow his forward progression. His eyes did their best to adjust to the changes, but he had to admit he was limited without the special lenses contained in his mask.
He moved toward the door and was stopped by two of the native creatures coming from a nearby side door and drawing their weapons. The Combistick extended at the flick of his wrist and he drove the point through the head of his closest enemy.
The second of the creatures stopped and aimed, but hesitated when the blood of its companion spilled across its face. The Combistick was stuck in the skull of his enemy, so instead he lashed out with a foot and shattered the bones of the knee on the would-be assailant’s leg. It cried out and fell back, firing a projectile into the ceiling in the process.
Striking a second time with his foot, he crushed his assailant’s throat. There was no need for a third strike.
A projectile struck behind him, and he turned to see who needed killing next. He recognized the features. It was the gray hair from earlier, the one that had spoken in challenging tones.
“Stay where you are!” The words meant nothing, but he recalled a few phrases from the past.
“No.” The word felt strange in his throat.
Even as the gray hair took aim and let loose a shot, then another, the Combistick left his hand in a hard throw. The projectile hit his shoulder and carved a crease in his flesh, thankfully missing all bones and vitals. Nevertheless, it hurt.
The Combistick struck his enemy in the chest and sent it staggering back from the open doorway and into the flashing lights of the broad corridor.
He could not go back for the weapon. Still, no hunter was the weapons he used. The hunter was the sum of the skills and heart he employed in seeking the kill.
Decision made, he nodded. Lightning exploded across the skies, and the clouds wept their frustration as he turned and ran.
* * *
Pappy Elliott saw the open door, saw the dead guards, and moved as quickly as he could. The alien was out there in the rain, larger than life and carrying one of its weapons. Ten feet, then twenty, then forty feet away from the open door. It moved so damned quickly, another fact he had forgotten over the years.
He fired a shot that narrowly missed the damned thing’s head, and instead cut through the hide over its shoulder.
“Stay where you are!” he shouted.
It turned and looked in his direction, barked out something he couldn’t quite hear past the torrential downpour, and then hurled something at him.
Back in Vietnam it was possible that Pappy might have avoided the spear. He certainly would have tried. All he could do now was stare at the damned thing as it ripped across the distance between them, and think that he should be moving his ass if he wanted to live.
THE PREDATOR HUNTERS AND HUNTED Page 13