Predator endurance

Using the blade of his machete he pried open the casing on one of the 40mm grenades that had washed ashore in his sodden gunbelt. Discarding the warhead, he dumped the dry propellant powder from the shell onto a leaf, mixing it with a mound of magnesium shavings. He opened the narrow, tight roll of gauze that had wrapped the cyanide capsules, fluffing it into a loose bundle the size of a golf ball, then poured the powder mixture over it, working it into the fabric.

Dutch was absolutely clear-headed now as he transferred the ball of explosive-laden gauze to a pliable dry leaf, closing it into a bundle and binding it at the top with a long strand of jungle grass. He twisted the remaining gauze around a match, leaving the head exposed, forming a self-striking fuse that he coated with sap. This too he thickly covered with powder from the grenade and poked the fuse into the leaf. Taking another blade of jungle grass he made a large loop, tied it about the grenade, and slipped the loop over his head.

Finally, using several sections of bamboo of different diameters, he fashioned a crude antipersonnel spear-bomb. The sharpened tongue of his belt buckle served as a firing pin, and a 40mm shell from his belt pouch as the explosive charge.

   The Predator (1987 novelization), chapter 15

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 desperately 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.

  The Predator (1987 novelization), chapter 16