PREDATOR
Vietnam – 1970
The moon was full that night, and it had been about 4 hours since a few Vietcong had been sent to inspect a supposed downed aircraft a mile east of the POW camp. The guard positioned outside of the camp held his weapon in his hand, trying not to fall asleep. The heat of the jungle was enough to keep him wake, though. Suddenly, leaves rustled above him. Looking up, a slight purring sound entered his ears. The light of the moon somewhat distorted in front of his eyes as two long, metallic blades came slashing down upon his head.
Jack Malone was in immense pain. It had been days since he had last eaten, and he did not foresee the guerilla outfit that took him prisoner would be feeding him anytime soon. He had been kept in a small 4 foot by 4 foot cage, regularly beaten and interrogated until he could no longer speak. He had lost a tremendous amount of weight since he was taken. He had heard American voices from his cell, but never saw any of them in person. Day after day, gun shots would ring out, and day after day the number of American voices dwindled. He did not know why he was being kept alive. He had a stronger will than most people, he supposed.
A week or two ago, he and his platoon were ambushed by guerilla forces a few miles outside of Han Oui. The platoon had not suspected Charlie to be in the area, because recognizance had failed to report their findings to the commanding officer. As a result, his friends, his brothers, were slaughtered or taken captive. Only he and a few other men survived the attack, only to be captured hours later. Jack had not seen his friends since they had been taken prisoner.
Tonight was his night to die. There was much commotion. He could hear the Vietcong as they squawked at one another. He could make out a few words, and from what he could translate, they were planning on relocating the camp to a safer location. Vietcong were being slaughtered outside of the camp, not far from the area by an unknown assailant. Stupid Charlie, he thought. Suddenly, the commotion drew to his location and the door to his cell was thrown open.
The guerilla troop screamed at him, and he slowly climbed out of the box, not wanting to because of the pain he was in. Death, he had already accepted. It must be better than living the life he was now. Surrounding him were four other Vietcong. He sat on his knees as they argued amongst each other. He seemed to be somewhere near the edge of camp, because the tree line was only yards from his location. The area was lit by large lanterns surrounding the perimeter of the POW camp. He was suddenly grabbed by one of them, and dragged away from his cell. A few yards later, he lay on his stomach, not wanting to move. One of the men to his right drew a pistol from their holster, cocked the chamber and lowered it toward his head. He closed his eyes, and whispered a silent prayer.
But to his left gun fire erupted, and the horrifying screams echoed from the area. Suddenly, four Vietcong came running around the corner of a building, in the direction of Jack. By this time, his murderers had focused their intention on their fellow Charlie and worried about their own fate as well. As the four came running, fueled by fear, one was hoisted into the air by an invisible force, with two large metallic blades protruding from his abdomen. One of the guerilla soldiers turned to open fire, only to be stuck with what appeared to be a 5 foot spear. The men around him had scattered, leaving him an open window. The invisible assailant continued to slice and dice the Charlie as they took turns attacking while Jack found himself running through the dense, humid jungle of Vietnam.
*****
Jack awoke in a hospital bed, not knowing where or how he had gotten there. He physically felt much stronger, but the pain still lingered. It was bright, and the sun beamed in through the windows behind him. After he gained his senses, he realized a tall, grey haired, rough looking man stood to his right. He paused for a moment and asked, "Who…What is going on?"
"Take it easy son, you have been through one hell of an experience," the man said, trying to calm Jack.
Jack then realized the man to his right was a decorated Colonel.
"Excuse me sir, for not addressing you properly," Jack said.
"No need to worry son, no need," he said. "My name is Colonel Withers, and I am here to ask you a few questions about your experiences with the Vietcong while you were in captivity. Are you willing to talk to me for a few minutes, son?"
After he paused for a moment, Jack said, "Yes sir, no problem sir."
"Good," Withers said as he pulled a seat closer to Jack and drew a pad of paper from underneath his arm. "Now, Pvt. Malone, start from the very beginning."
"It was October 5th, and our platoon was on our way back to regroup with another outfit along the bank of the Hin Pou River. We never made it…The Vietcong surrounded us, opened fire, began killing the men around me. It is a bit fuzzy sir," Jack said, struggling.
"It's alright Private. Take your time," Withers assured.
"Well, after the fire fight took place, me and Private Hillman and Private Wilcox took refuge in the jungle. Didn't last too long. They found us; drug us through the jungle till we reached a decent sized POW camp. We were placed in separate cells, and I never saw Hillman or Wilcox again. Periodically I would be taken to a different area of the camp and tortured, I never gave out any information sir," Jack explained.
"Very good, soldier," Withers said. "Now, tell me about your escape."
"It was late at night, the moon was high, so around about 12 midnight. They drug me outta my cell, and they were going to put one in my head, but something was attacking the camp," Jack said.
"What something?" Withers asked.
"Not sure sir. It was invisible…Began throwing Slopes around like rag dolls, cutting them to pieces. I never got a look at the thing, even though it was about 12 feet in front of me. Not sure who it was sir, but he had something against the Cong, that's for sure," Jack said.
"Thank you Private…I have a proposition for you," Withers said.
"And what's that Sir?" Jack asked, puzzled.
"Orders straight from the top are telling me to send a search party back into that shit to rescue any other American POWs. Now with the status that you're in, you will not be thrown into active duty just yet, but you will be shortly. I want you to lead a rescue group into the jungle and look for any of our lost boys out there. If you do this, I will personally push your papers through and you'll be going home. You're call, Private," Withers said, before standing and quickly leaving the room. "You'll be meeting with Captain Henry Larson and his men in a few days' time. Then, you will be flown to a small military outfit along the bank of the Song Oui River. From there, local fishermen will charter you five miles up the river to the drop zone, around the same area you were recovered from. It should go quick and painless. Most of the locals in the area know of this camp. It's well worth it Malone, damn worth it."
Colonel Withers slowly turned and shuffled out of the lonely hospital room. Jack laid his head back down on the comfortable pillow. He had a decision to make, and in his heart he knew what he had to do.
*****
It was hot, and the sun was high that day. Jack could felt specks of the river water hitting his face as it cruised down the river and a reasonable speed. The river water was dark brown, visibility was impossible. On the boat with him were the men Withers had promised. Captain Henry Larson, a tough, quiet man, sat toward the front of the boat and stared out to the distance in front of him. To his left was Staff Sergeant Stan Bolanowski, a middle-aged, well-educated man from Kingstown, New Jersey. Behind the two sat Private Mike Taggart, a young, well-disciplined sniper fresh out of the academy, and Private Collin Wilson, whom Jack was familiar with, since they both attended boot camp together. Behind those two sat Private Dave Ford, radio man, and Private Ron Lee, who carried a Remington 870 for cleaning out tunnels. Jack had not known these men well, but they were fresh; drafted from their normal life to fight a seemingly unnecessary war. He had also found out that Captain Larson had recently lost his original set of men during an ambush, which possibly explained his demeanor.
Suddenly, a conversation between Ford and one of the boat hands sparked Jack's attention. The two had been discussing a strange aircraft that came crashing to Earth not too long ago. The boat hand explained that the story came from further up the river, and did not know of its origins. Just then, Ford realized that Jack had been listening.
"Did the fuckin' zips talk about this while they had you hog-tied?" Ford asked.
Jack slowly shook his head no.
"I don't believe the fuckin' story anyways. Half the shit that goes up and down this river is horse shit. So, where are you from, man?" Ford asked.
"I'm from Nashville, Tennessee. How about yourself?" Jack returned.
"Hillsborough, Mississippi. It was jail or Vietnam for me, and look at the fuckin mistake I made," Ford said as he laughed a bit.
Jack nodded his head, smiling. Jack had been trapped in the jungle for some time now, and only dreamed of holding his wife in his arms once again, just once. A shout from the front of the boat caught his attention.
"We are coming up on the drop point. Radio communication will be touchy. We are deep in enemy territory, and remember this place may be hot with Charlie, so keep your god damn head on straight," Captain Larson said after standing up and facing the men. "Got that?"
The men all nodded in agreement.
The boat slowly drifted toward the bank of the river and cleanly rested on the tan clay. The men exited the boat one by one, quickly and quietly. Captain Larson led the team along the bank a few more yards before coming to a small, animal-made trail. After walking up the trail a few meters, the men huddled around one another and knelt.
"All right men," Larson said as he extracted a map from his uniform pocket. "This river runs north to south, and areal pictures suggest the camp is about 6 miles from here due west. We also have orders to inspect a downed aircraft 2 miles northwest of here. I say we cut through the fuckin' jungle and hit this plane before dusk. If we can hit the camp at nightfall, we might have some luck without much conflict. Now let's make this as quick and clean as possible. We have our orders men, let's get it done."
*****
The area was getting close, and the team had not been in contact with base for some time. They were on their own. The jungle was thick, and teemed with wild life. Danger lurked around every corner, with hidden booby traps such as open shafts with pongee sticks lining the bottom to poisonous snakes and spiders.
The unit stuck close, not letting one another get out of sight. Captain Larson still led the group, with Bolanowski soon behind him. Taggart was coming up from the rear, able to provide support from a distance when needed. The closer the team had closed in on the location, the quieter the jungle had gotten. Jack found this odd. In all of his time in the unforgiving jungle, not once had it been quiet. Just then, Captain Larson signaled the squad to halt. An open clearing could be seen just yards in front of Larson. The men had worry in their eyes. Most had not seen combat and only a few new exactly what to do when the shit hit the fan.
Larson slowly crept forward, and broke through the tree line. The men, puzzled as to what to do, followed him through the tree line as well. To their amazement, there was no network of handmade bungalows, but a section of cleared out jungle a half mile long. Resting at the end of clearing sat a strange, dark object. The men only stared in amazement.
"Captain, what the fuck is this?" Bolanowski asked, shaking a bit.
"I don't know, Staff Sergeant. This isn't anything I have been informed off. I would have been told of a downed aircraft in the area," Larson said, his eyes not leaving the strange aircraft.
"Well, what's your call Captain? Check it out, or no?" Taggart asked, seemingly unnerved by the situation.
"We best check it out," Larson said, gripping his CAR-15 in his hands. "Taggart, follow the tree line to our right, get up in those trees and provide some cover, in case any gooks come walking up."
Taggart nodded, running off to the right and disappearing quickly into the jungle.
The rest of the group followed Larson, sticking close to the tree line as they made their way closer to the grounded air craft. Jack was apprehensive about the situation but pushed forward, like he had been trained to do in the past. As he and the group loomed closer, the vehicle began to take better shape. It was half imbedded into the ground. It wasn't too large, only about 10 meters in length. It was a dark, dull grey. No windows were visible, and no exit hatch could be seen. The men circled the vehicle and inspected it.
"A single man aircraft, it what it looks like sir," Wilson said, breaking the silence.
"That's what it appears to be," Larson said, staring at the vehicle. He snapped himself out of the trance and focused his attention on the vicinity where Taggart may be hiding. Whistling as loud as he could, Larson waved for Taggart to rejoin the group.
After seeing the Captain beckon for him, Taggart slowly propped himself up from the limp he had been resting on. Throwing the gun over his shoulder, he slowly began to make his way down the tree. Suddenly, rustling leaves above him caught his attention. Taggart looked up quickly, seeing nothing above him. Shaking it off, he began to once again descend from the tree. Just then a strange, purring sound filled his ears, and something grabbed him powerfully, and began to drag him up the tree. Too scared to scream, he scrambled for his sidearm. Shaking, he drew his pistol from its holster and looked up toward his attacker, only to be staring up at an edged weapon coming down on his face. The blades sliced through his skull, sending his gun and parts of his skull falling to the jungle floor. The invisible attacker purred quietly, and began to lift Taggart's dead body further up the tree.
Larson heard some commotion in the distance. Jack heard it as well as he wondered about Taggart.
"Captain…"Jack simply said.
"Yeah, I heard it too. You, Wilson and Lee check it out. Keep your eyes open, some Charlie might be sneaking around," Larson said.
Jack nodded, and the three jogged their way across the dirt clearing.
"Captain, I can't reach base," Ford said, with disappointment in his voice.
"Yeah I supposed we wouldn't be able to," Larson said as he threw his gun over his shoulder.
Larson had no idea what to make of this. There was hardly any friendly activity in the area for some time. Combat didn't even make it this deep in the jungle. Larson closed his eyes as he wiped the heavy, thick sweat off of his forehead. Suddenly, his peacefulness was broken.
"Captain…This might be one of them fuckin' UFO's!" Ford said yelled from the other side of the mysterious aircraft.
"Don't be a god damn fool, Private," Larson said, frustrated.
"I'm just saying Cap'n," Ford said. "Keep your mind open, cause this doesn't look like a friendly."
"I'm well fucking aware of the situation Ford. Now shut up and get back to the radio," Larson commanded.
Ford nodded, and returned to his duty.
Larson looked up as he heard Jack shouting from the distance.
"Bolanowski, keep an eye out. I'm gunna check this out," Larson said as he dashed from the ship toward the others.
He broke through the tree line and a few yards ahead of him were Jack, Wilson and Lee, circled around something lying on the ground. Making his way up to them, he could see the fear lingering amongst them, and worry burning in their eyes. He then realized they had been looking as a mess of blood and tattered clothing, as well as Taggart's fire arms.
"Where the fuck is he?" Larson said, worried.
Lee stared up the tree, and motioned Larson's attention to a streak of blood traveling up the tree.
"This isn't Charlie," Jack said.
"Captain!" Ford yelled from across the way. "Colonel Withers is on the line!"
Confused as about what to do, Larson took off toward Ford, and the others followed along behind.
After he ripped the radio from Ford's hands, Larson shouted, "Colonel, we have a situation here. One man is missing, possibly dead. And we also came upon an unidentified aircraft. Requesting permission to abort and return to base for debriefing."
Waiting a few seconds, Larson finally heard Wither's voice.
"That's a negative Captain. Complete the orders given to you," Withers ordered.
"Yes…Yes sir," Larson unwillingly said.
The men stood around him, scared for their lives. Larson was also scared, for the first time in his life.
*****
Night had fallen. The jungle was dark, letting in hardly any light from the full moon over their heads. Jack had begun to recognize to certain aspects of the terrain, and knew they were clearly on the right direction. Not a word was spoken amongst them, as if silence was their own language. Fear had a hold on the group. This wasn't what they expected. It was not the worst, but the strange craft and Taggart disappearing into the trees was enough to chill a man to his bones. They were trained killers, but you can't take the humanity out of someone. No matter how twisted you can make a man, he can always break.
"Jack!" Larson yelled quietly, throwing a signal out telling everyone to halt and kneel.
Jack quickly ran to the front of the pack, meeting Larson.
"According to this map, the camp should be just ahead," Larson said. "This look about right?"
"It's coming together Captain," Jack assured. "Just about a hundred or so yards ahead."
Larson nodded his head and said, "Fall in."
Larson stood up and signaled the group to keep moving. The squad slowly marched forward, making their way toward the goal of their mission.
The men made their way through the camp slowly. The area had not been artificially lit at all, the fire posts had burnt out long ago, but the light from the moon gave the men enough vision to see what they needed to see.
It was deserted, not a soul inhabited the camp. The camp consisted of three barracks, as well as a make-shift mess hall and a series of cages made of bamboo. The team systematically searched each barrack for any survivors. Jack walked through the small village with Larson, guns ready for anything. As Jack and Larson approach the final barrack, something rustled from inside the closed building. Looking at one another, they clicked the safeties off of their machine guns. Walking up the wooden steps, the two kicked the door in, and a rush of rot filled their noses. Staggered by the stench from inside, the two realized what they had run into. From a giant hole through the roof of the barrack, the moon light revealed over a dozen skinned, headless corpses hung upside down, strung up from the rafters above them. Against the wall were tables, and mangled guts and clothing laid strewn about on the tops of those tables. It appeared to be some sort of makeshift slaughterhouse. They only stared in awe, as the Ford and Bolanowski ran into the grotesque medley of dead Charlie.
"Jesus…Fucking…Christ…," Ford said, the fear shaking his voice.
"Captain…What the hell is this?" Bolanowski asked as he lowered his weapon.
"I'm not sure, private. Ford…Get on the horn and tell the Colonel we are returning to base. This isn't anything I had been briefed on. I was not told about another guerilla outfit working these parts. This camp is deserted. We are getting the fuck outta here," Larson said.
Wilson and Lee had begun searching through the belongings of the missing Vietcong. The windows of the barrack had been propped open, giving perfect vision for the looting. Wilson rummaged through bags of stolen goods as Lee kept an eye out for the Captain.
"Hurry the fuck up man," Lee said nervously.
Suddenly, the commotion behind Lee halted.
Looking behind him, an invisible force was holding Wilson's dead body in the air, blood running off of his boot and pooling up on the floor below him. Lee stared as the attacker flung Wilsons dead body to the side of the barrack. The moonlight bent as the figure walked into light. Lee only could stand and stare. He had never believed in ghosts, and today he had suddenly changed his mind. Lee suddenly found himself, and raised his shotgun, and fired.
The buck shots hit the Predator in its right shoulder, ricocheting off of its armor. Lee pumped the shotgun as the three red dots positioned themselves on his forehead.
Larson, Jack and the others ran from the building and down the path toward the gun fire, only to see a streak of red brain matter flying through the air, and Lee's dead body rolling down the stairs and resting on the soft dirt below. The four slowed down, knowing the attacker could still be in the barrack. Larson and Jack were the first to approach the door way. With their trigger fingers ready for anything, they made their way into the building. Seeing Wilson's dead body, they soon realized they were alone in the barracks for the time being.
"It's clear," Larson said.
Soon, Bolanowski and Ford entered the room as well.
"Captain…I don't understand…" Ford said, with fear in his voice.
"Keep your head on straight Ford. Get on the horn now," Larson ordered.
"Captain, I don't think it's safe to move through the jungle at this time. We need to sit put until day break and make out move in the morning," Jack said.
Nodding his head, Larson agreed.
*****
Jack could smell death lingering in the hot, muggy air. He sat crouched near a window in one of the barracks, studying the jungle in front of him. He could hear bombs exploding miles and miles away. The war raged on, but somehow that seemed more pleasant than what he was experiencing here. This is something else, something way more advanced than some simple-minded slopes running about in the jungle. This had a mission. This was had a goal to reach. Jack had a feeling this thing had been stalking them, following their every move since they had come upon its vehicle. And somehow he knows that they aren't there to rescue missing POW's; the government knew they were long dead.
His thoughts were broken up by Larson entering the room.
"We are moving out. Ford reached Colonel Wither's," Larson said.
"What did he say," Jack asked.
"Well…He isn't going to be very happy with me, let's just say that," Larson said as he chuckled.
Jack nodded, got to his feet and left the barrack behind with Larson and joined the rest of the men.
The four men walked their way through the thick jungle, with a 6 mile hike ahead of them. The men were barely able to rest during the night, and jungle heat began to take its toll on the men's bodies. Exhausted from the heat, they were slowly running out of water. Jack walked along side Larson, and he soon broke the silence.
"So Captain, where are you from?" Jack asked.
"I am from Greenville, Illinois. About ten miles from Chicago. Born and raised there," Larson said. "I worked at a steel mill for the majority of my life, before the draft came calling. I didn't want to go, but I felt I needed to, to serve my country."
Jack was hesitant, but felt compelled to ask, "What happened to your squad, Captain?"
Silent for a bit, he finally spoke. "We were sent to blast some Charlie outta a nest they made themselves on a hill near Ha Tihn. We were told there were only 12 of them…there were about 35. We got ambushed, took them 4 days to get to us. By the time they reached us, I was the only one left. One of the privates that made it through with me bled to death an hour before the medevac came in. That changed me…for good."
Jack was speechless. He had no answer for Larson's story, and Larson didn't expect an answer. Silence soon fell between the two of them once again.
The Predator traveled swiftly through the trees, watching the four of them travel through the dense jungle. Studying the four left, it made its decision on what to do, and how to finish off the hunt. They prey was about to make it out of the jungle, and it could not allow them to do so. So it began to set its plan in motion…
*****
Jack and Captain Larson still lead the group, making their way to the river, hoping to find transportation waiting for them. Jack caught a shimmer of light to the corner of his eye, and came to a stop, making everyone else stop as well. The three others were puzzled. Jack stared toward the tops of the trees. He looked over at Larson, and noticed the three red dots fixed on the middle of the chest.
"Captain! Look out!" Jack yelled.
Larson turned as the blue laser cut through his left shoulder and exiting out of his back, knocking him to the ground, lifeless. The three began to spray the trees with their machine guns. Soon, the three ran out of ammo, and the jungle went silent.
"Where the fuck did that come from?" Ford yelled, hysterical.
From out of nowhere, the blue laser cut through the air and blew Fords right arm clean off of his body. Jack pin-pointed the location, and lobbed a grenade in the area of the attacker. A few short second later, it exploded, uprooting three or four trees.
Jack sat on his knee, the M16 pressed against his shoulder tight. Dirt and leaves settled, leaving no bodies. Movement in the trees above shot straight behind Jack as he turned to see Bolanowski
"Bolanowski!" Jack yelled as he swung the gun and gripped the trigger. Bullets tore through the leaves and limbs at the canopy above.
With Bolanowski disappearing in the distance and the Predator chasing after in the trees above, Jack reloaded his M16 and flung it over his shoulder. After scrambling to Larson's side, he had realized he was alive, but barely. Helping Larson to his feet, the two rushed off into the jungle, heading straight for the awaiting boat.
Bolanowski was at his breaking point. He could hear the Predator in the trees above. As he ran, he shed articles of his uniform, hoping to make it easier for him to run. Jumping over fallen trees and tripping over roots, he finally hit a brick wall. He had fallen trap to the Predator. His foot hit a booby-trap. His body was jerked into the air and he smacked his head as his body was yanked upward. Disoriented, he had found the composure to grab his sidearm. Swinging slightly back and forth, he waited for his killer to emerge. Just as he wanted, the invisible figure leapt out of the trees and landed a few yards in front of him. Bolanowski raise the fire arm and fired all 7 rounds within 20 seconds. When the smoke cleared, it was revealed that the Predators cloaking system had somewhat been damaged in the exchange. Bolanowski dropped the gun, and waited. The Predator removed the computer from his left wrist band, dropping it on the ground below. The alien examined Bolanowski, who was shouting curse words and obscenities at it.
"If you're going to do it, fucking do it already!" Bolanowski yelled.
The Predator reached behind its back and drew a long machete-like sword from the sheath on its back. Gripping it in his right hand, he raised the blade as high as he could. Bolanowski closed his eyes as the blade came down in one clean swipe. His head fell to the ground, blood poured from the decapitated body. Standing alone, the Predator cleaned the blade and placed the sword back into its leather sheath. Looking behind it, the Predator removed the plasmacaster from its left shoulder. Removing this weapon ensured this final kill would be fair. A justifiable end to a worthy opponent, it thought. Fully extending the wrist blades on its right wrists, it continued after Jack and Larson, ready to end the hunt once and for all.
*****
Jack was running on low, the heat taking its toll on his body. Larson wasn't losing blood, due to the cauterized wound. He was barely conscious, and could hardly respond to anything Jack asked. The two suddenly hit a small drop off. The two tumbled down a steam, 5 foot slope, finding themselves lying on the floor of a small stream. Jack got up slowly; a deep pain in his right side erupted. After he caught his breath, he scrambled to Larson's side.
"Captain, are you oka…"
Jack was cut off, because the Predator had a strong hold on his back. In one powerful jerk, Jack was tossed a few yards back, striking a tree. Lying on the ground, he watched as the large Predator was preparing to finish off Larson.
"Hey, asshole!" Jack yelled as he whipped the M16 off his back and gripping in his hands.
The long black dreadlocks whipped as the Predator turned its head sharply. It snarled as it turned toward Jack. The beast was in full view now. Its skin was dark green, with black spots littering its body. Dull grey armor rested on its shoulders, face, groin, thighs, and calves. Around its neck was a necklace, crudely fashioned from animal bones. It stood well over 7 foot tall, casting a shadow over Jack. The wrist blades ready for the kill. The ground seemed to shake with every step it took closer to him. The eyes glowed a deep red, forever burning an image into Jacks memory. That was when he gripped the trigger.
Not many bullets remained in the clip, maybe 10. His accuracy was off, due to the fact that he held the gun in one hand. Two bullets struck the beast in the stomach, sending it staggering back. With a loud roar, it fell to the ground. The machine gun was empty, and Jack no longer had his sidearm. If the beast rose, he had no other option to choose from.
Jack waited, and sure enough the Predator slowly rose, fatally wounded. Green blood oozed from underneath the eerie mask. After it pulled the rubber hoses from the mask, it slowly lifted the firmly pressed mask from its face. It had its fair share of battle scars. The upper right tusk was missing, possibly due to a fight. Additional talons extended from the bottom of the lower tusks. Its large forehead was a pale tan. The Predator coughed up more florescent blood as got to its feet. Finding its composure, it let out a loud, deafening roar before charging toward Jack. Grabbing him by the neck with its left hand, it pressed him against the tree Jack had collided with. He was over two feet off the ground, eye level with the beast. The Predator pulled back its right arm, the wrist blades a foot from his face. Jack closed his eyes, and made peace with the inevitable, but the silence was broken by three loud pops.
The creature released its grip on Jack, and the two fell to the ground. Jack looked up to find Larson, who had just fired three shots from his side arm directly into the back of the Predator. The beast sat on its knees, dying. Jack got to his feet and looked down at the dying monster. He then realized a sword on the back of the alien. Pulling the sword from the sheath, he held the large blade tightly in his hands. The beast looked up, and spoke.
"A fitting death for an unworthy performance," the Predator eerily said.
Jack raised the blade, and came down in one clean swipe. The head of the beast rolled a few feet as the body fell limp to the ground. A large puddle of green blood formed around the dead alien corpse and Jack found his way to the side of Larson, who still clung to life.
*****
Jack sat in the boat, hurt and wounded. Larson lay on the floor of the boat, barely alive. Jack had a lost look on his face. The boat was cutting through the river quickly, bouncing up and down on the wakes. The sun was setting, but the muggy heat still lingered in the air. In Jack's hands, he held the large metal mask the Predator wore. A fitting souvenir for a pointless war, Jack thought.