Predator spear vs gun

 With a speed that all but made it a blur in Schaefer’s eyes the predator attacked, hurling its weapon at the major with a wild triumphal shriek. The razor head of the spear sliced through the wooden stock of the gun, narrowly missing Schaefer’s hand, severing the trigger guard and breech. Sparks flew as metal clashed on metal, steel on starstone.

  With a last roar of adrenaline Schaefer took full combat command. “Stay low!” he ordered the fleeing girl, his last surviving commando. And as he scrambled for a defensive position himself he could feel the alien back away and turn to go downhill. But it wasn’t fear, and it wasn’t retreat. The major knew that the alien simply could take its own sweet time. It didn’t need all its bodies at once. It was enjoying its earthling war and seemed to want to prolong the pleasure.

  The alien tossed Ramirez’s body aside as if it were a bag of trash. It was determined and focused now, all its otherworldly hunter’s tactics and cunning raw and ready. The raging water posed no obstacle to the creature, and it sailed across like a hydroplane, barely breaking the surface even where it was five feet deep. As it arrived at the north bank of the river it churned up rocks and dirt with its spurs as it strode to Billy’s body. It bent and began to pull the Indian apart, its narrow yellow optic nerve centers pulsing as it searched out the fading heat patterns of Billy’s cooling organs.

 Huddled among the rocks Schaefer only realized now that he’d been wounded. The force that had ripped the gun from his grip as the diamond head of the alien’s spear shattered the rifle had gone on to slash deeply through Schaefer’s shoulder, laying open the flesh almost to the bone. With his gun broken and useless, the major saw no alternative but to make a break down the canyon in the wake of the girl and run for his life.

   The Predator (1987 novelization), chapter 15