Predator appearance, spear and tree agility

Far up in the tallest cottonwood, high above the wreckage of the camp, the alien had taken in every infinitesimal movement the team had made. As the men exited the site and disappeared into the trees it uttered a low trill as it sprang from the tent of leaves into the humid air, sweeping across to a lower branch in a neighboring tree.

In that horrible moment it was clear at last that the invader had found a form. Etched against the tropical sky it was humanoid and vast, seven feet tall with ice-blue scales from head to foot, and it swung from tree to tree with the brachiating ease of a golden gorilla. It wasn’t man exactly but a vision of a man, tortured and perfected by a mind that longed to advance the species and make it triumph in the jungle habitat. Replication wasn’t good enough. In homage to the warriors it had tracked all day it sought a shape deep in itself. As if to fight them to the death it had to be itself and them all at once.

Skillfully and silently, with fluidlike grace, the creature descended branch to branch till it reached the jungle floor. As its powerful three-toed feet flexed in the moss it surveyed the destruction, the remains of burning huts, the dead and dying men. With its glassy eyes bright as tungsten it saw the last flicker of life dissipating like guttered candles. It saw glimmering, ghostlike bodies slowly darkening into charcoal. It saw what this queer precarious world would look like when it ended.

Lithe as a dancer it glided across the clearing to the trailhead, stooping to pick up the dead scorpion. It turned the insect over and over in its three-lingered, prehensile hand, the lifeless creature’s color fading to black as death cooled it. The alien seemed puzzled, as if it could not work out why this species man killed its own kind and other kinds. Then it cocked its hairless bullet head and began to make a low humming sound that gradually modulated into an uncanny and dead accurate imitation of a human voice. Mac’s voice.

“Dillon, over here,” sounded the eerie, chilling mimicry as it replayed the scorpion incident.

Then the alien discarded the insect like a useless broken toy and strode across to the base of the tree from which it had descended. There it picked up its weapon—a short spear that it gripped like a rifle, another kind of homage. The weapon instantly changed color and keyed to the alien’s skin, a merging of reptilian tones till the arm and the weapon were flesh of one flesh.

Instantly the creature turned and made for the trail where the men had disappeared. In seconds, with perfect simian dexterity, it had sprung to the lower branches of a tree, grasping the rough bark with its clawed, hammerlock fingers, pulling itself up through the branches with astonishing speed and agility. Then it leapt free into the air again, swinging exultantly from the crown of one tree to the next.

As it moved in the direction of the commando team it was actively stalking now; its passive observation was complete. In its wake the jungle froze in silence, as if every creature in the wild, weak or strong, suddenly considered itself fair game. What the moth knew, what the parrot knew, what the puma knew—at that moment the terror crossed all species, all except man. No wonder the temples were overgrown. No wonder the Mayan tribes had vanished without a trace. Man didn’t even have the wit to run for cover.

   The Predator (1987 novelization), chapter 7