Predator: Swamp People
Cody Guidry took a rag out of his back pocket and wiped the sweat off of his face. The heat was already oppressive and it wasn't much past ten in the morning. Growing up in Louisiana, he was used to hot, humid summers, but this Florida season was brutal. The sun beat down on him like a hammer.
Piloting a boat through a narrow, swampy channel, Guidry cast a look down at his current charges. Four overfed and underworked oil executives from somewhere in Texas sat in the bow. As a general rule, Cody hated corporate assholes like these, but the money was good. So, he laughed at the bad jokes, nodded his head at the appropriate times and indulged their crude privilege as much as he could stand.
The men, pale and sweating , were visibly uncomfortable in this environment. They were outfitted in the latest tactical clothing, and had brought too much gear for a simple hunt. Cody shrugged. He was being paid to deliver a satisfactory experience and would do just that.
One of the men, his eyes hidden behind a pair of expensive sunglasses, turned back toward the pilot. He was the highest ranking executive on the trip, vice-president of some such department, and was not afraid of throwing his weight around. He treated the lesser executives, not to mention locals, with a barely disguised disdain. He set Guidry on edge.
"Cody, are you sure we're gonna bag some gators? I'd hate to suffer in this heat and have nothing to show for it.'
Guidry put on a smile. "Yes suh, Mr. Hurst. We're close now. I set the bait myself. We'll be up to our asses in gators in no time."
A few minutes of blessed silence later, Guidry put the boat ashore. The Texas men stumbled out onto the ground, their expensive boots getting tarred with swamp mud. Each of the hunters was strapped with a high caliber handgun. Two of them carried .223 rifles. The other half lugged heavier bolt-action hunting rifles. All of the long weapons were augmented with special grips and scopes. Guidry grabbed his old, basic .22 magnum rifle and hopped out of the boat and secured it at the shoreline.
He led the men parallel to the bank, skirting the larger trees and softer mud holes. It was only a few yards to the first gator trap. It was a simple baited hook. Guidry had set the trap the previous day, using a whole chicken upon a heavy 3-prong barbed hook. The four corporate types slogged along behind them. They made too much noise, thought the guide. If this were anything other than an easy canned hunt, these boardroom sportsmen would go home empty-handed.
Cody knew he had hooked a gator before the group broke cover. He could hear the faint disturbance of the water, a soft slapping as the alligator tested the line. He turned back toward the hunters, stopping their progress.
"We got one, hey," said Cody. "Which one of you is going to take the shot?"
One of the men, a balding red-faced director of marketing named John O'Dell, stepped forward. He was holding one of the bolt-action rifles. "I'll do it," he said. Guidry could hear the note of excitement in his voice, an eagerness to make a kill.
"Move up behind me," said Cody. "Dis gator gon be ornery and mean. You gotta pop it right in dat sweet spot in the back of the head. Instant kill. Good?"
O'Dell nodded and fell in behind the guide. The grip on his rifle was so tight, his knuckles were white, his breath quick and shallow. They broke through the final layer of flora and got a clear view of the water. A long pole jutted out from the bank. Attached was a thick, taut line which disappeared into the water.
The pole is anchored in tight," said Cody. "I'm gon go down and pull in the line. When dat gator's head breaks the surface, you shoot it, yeah?" O'Dell nodded his understanding. Guidry scrambled down to the pole and began hauling on the line. The weight put a strain on his shoulders and he knew a big gator had been hooked. The animal began to resist and the guide had to plant his feet in a dry spot to get some more traction. Cody slowly began to pull hand over hand, the veins popping in his upper body. He gritted his teeth and pulled with everything he had. The gator began to thrash as it neared the surface, the embedded hook a painful motivator to get the animal to move.
O'Dell knelt on the bank and raised his rifle. His hands shook a little as he lined up the crosshairs in his scope on the roiling patch of water. He wasn't sure where the gator's head was or if he could place a shot in the back of the skull. This was his first alligator hunt.
Guidry looped the line around his forearm and heaved once more. "He's coming!" yelled the guide. The gator's head exploded up out of the water. It's jaws open as it fought against the barbed hook lodged in the reptile's gullet. "Now! Shoot it," yelled Cody. He wouldn't be able to hold this monster up very long. It was too strong.
O'Dell let out his breath and squeezed the trigger. A small geyser of water shot up on the far side of the gator. The hunter worked the bolt on his rifle, chambering another round. The second shot hit the animal in the back. It wasn't a killing blow, but the wound stunned the gator. It stopped moving, giving O'Dell a decent target. A third bullet did the trick.
Guidry felt the line go slack. He lay backward in the dirt and stared up at the sky. "Fuck," he breathed. A red imprint from the line snaked across his forearm where it had dug into his skin. Too many more battles like that and he would be too stiff and sore to walk the next morning.
The corporate hunters made their way down to the water. The men were whooping and hollering, slapping O'Dell on the back and congratulating him on his kill. Cody sat up and watched them, resentment settling into his bones. None of them came over to tell him he had done a good job or clap him about the shoulders. It was the way of things, but that didn't mean he had to like it. A moment later, he pulled himself to his feet.
After the celebration, the group pulled the gator up onto land. It was a good specimen, a bull that Guidry estimated to be over 13 feet in length and weighed close to 600 pounds. "What do you want to keep?" asked the guide.
"That hide would make a fine pair of boots," said Hurst.
"And a belt," chimed in G. Mark Stevens, the other hunter armed with a bolt action rifle.
"Shit, gator that size, you could get belts and boots for every day of the week," said the fourth member of the party, Andrews.
"I'll keep the head and hide," said a grinning O'Dell.
"Good enough," said Cody. "I'll bring the boat around and we'll chuck him in there. Do the skinning and the butchering back at the docks." He started back to where they had left the boat, retracing his steps through the swamp. He had gotten far when he stopped, literally, in his tracks. Something felt off, there was a prickle at the back of his neck. He swept the area with eyes and ears, but nothing registered as a threat. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, of something being out there. A loud guffaw from the hunters broke his concentration. He shook his head to clear it , then resumed his way back to the boat.
The group used a winch to help wrestle the gator into the boat. The carcass took up a lot of space. The men stood around and looked inside the laden craft. "How many more gators can we fit inside this boat?" asked Hurst.
"Don't you worry, none," said Cody. "We can fit three more no problem, even if they are as big as this old son here."
"Good. We're paying top dollar. We expect results."
"I aim to please," said Guidry with an easy smile he did not feel. "Next trap is abut half a mile down." The men piled back into the boat and proceeded toward the next stop. As Guidry piloted through the swamp, he kept scanning the shoreline and the larger trees lining the water. His unease had not gone away. Some instinct was screaming at him to run, but he could not find the trigger.
The hunters disembarked in the same manner as before, leaving the boat tied up and approaching the trap from land. Unlike before, they found something unexpected and disturbing. A big gator had been snagged, but it was not in the water. The animal had been hoisted up, the line tied around a large tree to hold the weight. The body was hanging, the tip of the tail a good four feet from the water. The gator had been sliced open from chest to hindquarters, its guts spilling down into the swamp.
The hunters stood around in a semi-circle, mouths agape, staring up at the dead gator. The brutal, shocking nature of the scene had rendered them mute and frozen for a moment. "Who did this?" asked Hurst, his voice broken by fear
How did they do this?" asked Andrews, his eyes following the line up to the upper reaches of the tree.
"Let's get the fuck out of here," said Cody. "Something is going on and we need to be gone." The dread he had felt earlier had been justified and he cursed himself for not listening to it.
The men hurried back toward the boat. The businessmen were huffing and struggling along the trail much more than Guidry. The guide was the first to reach the inlet where they had left their transport. He pulled up short when he reached the edge of the water. The creeping terror he had felt since the first trap exploded into full blown horror.
The boat had been sabotaged. The depth was too shallow for the craft to sink completely, but the back half was clearly sunk down past the waterline. The prow stuck up into the air.
"No, no, no," said Guidry as he splashed out to the boat. Peering inside, he saw a large hole had been punched through the bottom hull. It was wrecked. Cody pulled back in dismay. His mood soured further when he caught a glimpse of the motor. It was also a ruin. Looking closer, he was sure something sharp had punctured the metal casing. Fuel and oil dripped slowly from the motor into the water. The radio had also been shattered, bits of plastic and wires hanging uselessly down from the frame.
The rest of the hunting troop had caught up and surveyed the mayhem. The men were momentarily silent before a wave of panic engulfed them. They began yelling at Cody and each other in a rising cacophony until it became too much.
"Shut the fuck up," screamed Guidry as he marched back onto land. "Shut up! Shut your goddamn mouths!" The executives quieted, unused to being challenged like this. "The boat is wrecked. We can't stay here. Grab what you can out of the boat that you can pack out of here."
"This is bullshit,' said Hurst. He pulled out his cellphone.
"Yeah, go ahead, big man, I'll wait."
Hurst scowled and stabbed his finger at the small screen. Not getting the response he expected, he held the phone above his head and turned in a tight circle. After a couple of more rotations, he sighed and put the phone back into his pocket.
"Ain't no cell service out in the swamp," said Cody.
"Shit,' muttered Hurst. "Okay, what do we do now? Walk out of here?"
"Nope, at least not the way we came in. There is no land path back." This revelation started the other men squawking again. "Shut it," commanded Guidry. "I do know a swamp dweller who has a cabin out here. He is a stubborn combative cuss and he don't like strangers even a little bit, but maybe he will help us. Maybe."
"How far?" asked Stevens.
"Likely about five miles," said Cody. "It won't be easy."
The men grabbed what they could from the boat, some water, nutrition bars and extra ammunition. Cody led them deeper into the swamp. The guide took the lead with the oil executives following in a single file. The stink of fear hung heavy on all of them and the masters of the boardroom were barely holding it together. They were far out of their element. Their eyes were wide, their breathing shallow, swinging weapons this way and that.
The group had not moved more than a couple of hundred yards when Stevens called out, "Hey, where is Scot?" Andrews had been in the rear of the little column, but as the men all turned, he was no longer there.
"Scot," yelled all three oil men.
"Stop that," hissed Guidry. "Ya'll make too much damn noise." He was tempted to leave the man behind, but he would lose a lot of business if some corporate dumbass died in the swamp under his watch. "Go back and find him."
The party retraced their steps, fanning out a bit, each looking for their lost companion. Going past a copse of trees, O'Dell caught a glint of something lying on the ground. He walked over to it and then loudly said, "Here is his hat and sunglasses." The group quickly converged on him and gathered around the artifacts, staring down at them as if the objects would speak. Cody felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.
"Spread out," he said. "Holler if you find a sign of him." The hunters walked outward, slowly checking the ground and the areas in front of them for any trace of Andrews. Cody knew there were a hundred different ways to die in the swamp and that was without whoever had strung up that gator. He joined the search.
Stevens hadn't walked far when he stopped and leaned up against a tree. He took out a canteen and tipped it back to let the water drain down his throat. The recent events had him shook. He didn't want anything more than to leave this swamp and fly back to the dusty fields of Texas. It was too hot and wet here, with too many damned bugs. Even now, rain was dripping down onto the top of his hat. It took him a minute to realize it wasn't raining. The sky above the trees was bright blue. He turned his face up and liquid splashed against his cheek. Stevens wiped it away and stared at the smear of red on his fingers. He took a step backward and craned is neck upward to get a better view. High in the tree above, he saw a man hanging upside down by his feet. Stevens recognized the hunting clothes of his co-worker. He watched more blood patter down from the body to the ground. Stevens opened his mouth and began to scream.
The others came running at the sound. They found Stevens whimpering and pointing at the corpse of Andrews. Everyone gaped as the dead man hammered home how dangerous their reality had become.
"How did he get up there?" asked Cody. The body was suspended at least 20 feet in the air. The tree didn't have any low hanging branches. He glanced at the other men. They appeared frozen in shock and horror. "We have to go. We are being hunted. If we stay here, we'll end up just like Andrews."
"Who…" began Hurst.
"Don't matter who," interrupted Cody. "Or how. All that matters is we get gone while we can. We can't help the dead." He started off in their original direction at a fast trot. The others fell into line. Stevens was the last to leave. He gave one more look up at Andrews and turned to run.
He barely registered an incoming whooshing sound before a seven-foot metallic spear impaled him through the chest. The force of the blow was enough to go all the way through his body and pin him to the tree behind. Stevens looked down at the metal protruding from his body, weakly raised one arm toward his fleeing companions, and died.
The surviving members of the hunting party fled into the swamp. Guidry led the way, followed by Hurst and O'Dell. The executives began to fall further behind. Their unfamiliarity with the terrain hindered them. The guide began to pull away. Hurst redoubled his efforts to keep up, leaving O'Dell struggling in the rear. The junior man hollered out for Hurst to slow down, but to no avail. Short of breath and with a painful stitch blooming in his side, O'Dell stopped and bent over to catch his breath. He had dropped his rifle whey they had begun to run.
A soft trilling behind him made the man spin around. The sight sent his mind reeling into shock. A seven-foot biped stood before him. It had mottled skin. A metal helmet hid its face, the head framed by wide hanging dreadlocks. The creature wore gauntlets around each wrist and a cannon was perched on top of one shoulder. Driven by instinctive fear, O'Dell moved to draw the handgun strapped around his thigh. He never saw his death coming. Quicker than the human could react, two serrated blades sprang forth from one of the gauntlets. They punched deep into O'Dell's midsection. Stepping forward, the monster lifted O'Dell into the air, the blades cutting deeper into his body.
As his life began to slip away, O'Dell heard his own voice thrown back at him. "I'll keep the head and the hide," mimicked the killer. It dumped the man to the ground. Bleeding profusely and gasping to draw air into his wounded body, O'Dell began to crawl away. The creature followed, then straddling the man, plunged the knives deep into his back, dragging them down through the flesh. O'Dell died with a mouthful of dirt, his final thoughts of his wife and kids back in Texas.
The killer reached down with one large clawed hand and grasped the base of O'Dell's spine. It braced one foot on the body and gave a powerful yank, pulling the backbone and skull away. Holding up the trophy in one bloody hand, the creature let out a roar of triumph.
The sound stopped Hurst in his tracks. He whirled around to ask O'Dell and Stevens if they had heard it, but there was no sign of them. Hurst yelled their names , then called for Guidry, but the guide continued on his way. Hurst cursed and raised his rifle. He began to walk back, looking for his lost companions. Hurst blinked sweat out of his eyes as he croaked, "O'Dell, Stevens, where the fuck are you? Come on, we've got to go. That fucking guide is leaving us behind."
His mouth bone dry, Hurst reached for a canteen hanging at his hip. Glancing down, he saw a triangle of red dots moving across his torso. As the oil man furrowed his brow trying to process this development, a plasma bolt slammed into his chest. It was an instant death as his heart was incinerated. His weapon dropped from his nerveless hand. Hurst fell to his knees and then went face first into the grass, his open eyes seeing nothing.
Cody Guidry ran headlong into the swamp, unaware of the grisly fate which had befallen his hunting party. His only thought after finding the hanging carcass of the Texas oil man was to escape. Opting for speed over stealth, Cody splashed through the terrain, dodging and jumping over obstacles. A lifetime spent in swamps served him well. He made good time, but five miles on foot through a swamps a tall task, especially when being pursued. Eventually, he had to stop to catch his breath and reorient himself.
Already hyper-alert and fueled by a massive dose of adrenaline, the guide's refined wilderness intuition saved him. He caught a sliver of movement from the corner of his eye and ducked away. A spinning disk whirred through the space where his neck had been. It sliced through one small tree and and buried itself into the trunk of a larger one. A snarl of rage came from somewhere behind him. Cody didn't give a second to ponder what had just transpired. Instinct drove him to run again. His trail was a chaotic zig-zag over tree stumps and fallen logs, around hanging vines and between trees. A blue bolt whizzed by his ear and threw up mud and rotten leaves when it exploded into the ground. Another came so close he could feel the heat of the plasma as it passed near his bare arm.
Panic drove Cody faster, his breath coming in great gasps. He ran until he came to a water channel too large to jump and no easy way to cross. Without hesitation, Cody jumped into the water, saying a quick silent prayer that no gators were lurking nearby. He swam to the far side and crawled up onto the bank. He cast a glance backward to see if anything was still chasing him.
There was a splash in the channel as if someone had dropped a huge invisible boulder into the water. Guidry saw a crackle of energy dance across the surface and out of that rose a nightmare. The monster roared and began to wade toward Cody. He saw the cannon mounted on the thing's shoulder swivel toward him. He noticed the wicked looking blades on a wrist gauntlet.
Guidry hauled himself up and began to run again, his flight fueled by a new wave of terror. He broke onto a patch of flat, dry land with sparse vegetation. Too late, he realized his error. He made a turn to get back to cover and slammed into a solid mass. Cody sprawled to the ground, looking up into the pitiless eyes of the creature which had hunted him through the swamp.
The Cajun scrambled to his feet and drew a knife out of his boot, holding it out in front of his body. The creature gave a soft, pleasurable hiss. Cody heard his own voice emanate from behind the mask. "We got one, hey." The monster flicked its wrist and the twin blades extended. The two opponents slowly circled each other, measuring for weakness.
Guidry drew a deep breath. "Fuck it," he said and charged the monster.
Early the next morning, a boat maneuvered through the swamp. This craft was emblazoned with the symbol of the county sheriff. It slowly trolled down the channel until it came upon the wrecked boat of the hunting party.
"There it is, Sheriff," pointed out Deputy Alan Brownlee.
"I see it," said Sheriff Mike Jones. "Let's go take a look." The hunting tour company had called his office late yesterday after one of their hunting parties had failed to return. The sheriff knew Cody Guidry. He was an experienced guide and a lifelong swamp rat. It was unlikely he had simply gotten lost. With no word of the lost party by morning and armed with a route of the tour provided by the company, the sheriff went searching
Squatting in a tree near the wreck, the unseen alien hunter watched the boat approach and trilled softly to itself. New prey was on the way. The hunt would continue.
The End