Marc Cerasini: AVP: Alien vs. Predator

The first columns of sunlight stabbed through the canopy of tangled branches. Birds took flight, cawing a greeting to the dawn, their scarlet wings staining the pale sky as they skimmed the hard gray angles of a massive stone pyramid. Nearby, the air quaked with the incessant rumble of the river as it pulsed over a serrated cliff then broke on the ragged rocks far below.

Along the jungle floor, where thick vegetation muted the waterfall’s roar, a wet snout parted a knot of vines and branches. Leaves stirred, sending a rustling hiss down an overgrown trail. The wild pig sniffed, then listened. With a satisfied grunt, it penetrated the underbrush and burst into the clearing.

Short tail swishing, the pig trotted onto a carpet of moss near a grove of ancient trees. Aggressively it snuffled the damp, fetid ground. At the twisted base of a mammoth trunk, its body stilled. Then its spotted hide quivered with excitement, and its front paws dug into the soft, black soil, spilling chunks of fungus and a knot of squirming worms onto the green moss. Finally, with loud snorting gulps, the animal began consuming its prey.

Behind the gorging pig, leaves parted again, this time without a sound. A pair of mud-brown eyes peered through the opening in the tight branches, focusing on the wild pig’s twitching hide. Funan the Hunter lifted his paint-streaked face to the sky. Like the pig had before him, he sniffed the air and listened.

Monkeys chattered on high and a single bird cried out, but not in alarm. In the lower branches tree apes leaped and chattered, sending twigs and foliage raining down on the jungle floor. Closer to the cool, moist earth, insects crawled, squirmed, cackled and buzzed through the curling fingers of mist.

Funan smiled. He and his hunt mates had patiently stalked their prey. The time for the kill was almost upon them. But not yet. Only when Funan was satisfied that all conditions were right would he signal his men with his sun-bronzed hand.

Slipping like shadows out of the underbrush, twin brothers Fan Shih and Pol Shih moved to either side of Funan. Like their chief, they clutched wooden spears tipped with chipped obsidian. Camouflaged for the hunt, their faces, torsos and chests were darkened by ash and slashed with brown and green mud. Leafy vines encircled their arms and legs and crowned their heads.

Adorning their hips, untreated leather thongs displayed trophies of previous hunts—skulls, bones, rows of sharp teeth and curved fangs belonging to a dozen species. Dangling from cords around their necks were bits of fur, feather and quartz, magical charms meant to ensure a successful hunt.

As a breeze moved over him, Funan stroked a dried monkey’s tail hanging at his throat and sniffed the air once more. He could smell the pig, the vegetation, and the river in the distance—but nothing else. Yet tension preyed upon his nerves, and his men seemed on edge, too.

Never before had they hunted this close to the sacred temple. Although the jungle around the stone pyramid teemed with wildlife, hunters always shunned this forbidden place. Only during the time of sacrifice, when the local tribes offered up their young men and women to the gods, would the people enter these grounds.

Funan knew he was reckless to hunt near a site deemed so sacred. The hunt should really end now, but he decided otherwise, signaling the last member of their group.

A giant of a man called Jawa moved forward in a crouch, then ducked behind a lump of ropy vines. He clutched a long spear that seemed tiny in his immense hand, and a stout club hung from the leather thong at his hip. Like the others, Jawa was camouflaged with mud and vegetation, and from his belt hung bear’s teeth and a piece of bone from a large jungle cat. His powerful chest still bore the angry scars from the cat’s savage combat.

Unseen at Jawa’s feet, another hunt had reached its lethal climax. A ruddy, gray-green lizard and a horned, black beetle were locked in a death struggle on the jungle floor, oblivious to the giant in whose shadow they warred. When Funan made a chopping motion with his left hand, Jawa stepped out of his hiding place, crushing both lizard and beetle under his brown, calloused foot.

Slipping through the brush, Jawa moved to his position, flanking the pig. He cackled once, imitating the call of the red-and-green bird that inhabited this region. From their own hiding places, Funan and the two Shih brothers rose, spidery mist hugging their legs as they moved.

Funan took the lead. Soon he would be near enough to strike a fatal blow with the first throw—or be gouged by the creature’s tusks should he miss. In a flashing spasm, his muscles quivered, his heart raced. Then, as suddenly as it came, the tension evaporated and a cold calm washed over him.

Lifting his spear, Funan was about to take aim when something went wrong. The pig’s snout, black with dirt, jerked high to sniff the air. Ears twitching, the pig snorted nervously.

Funan did not dare breathe. Behind him, Fan and Pol Shih paused in mid-stride. As a fly buzzed around his head, Funan drew back his weapon. But before he could strike, the startled pig ducked under a log, then vanished in the bush. The echo of the pig’s crashing retreat lingered for a moment, then faded.

Funan looked at Jawa in bewilderment. They had done everything right—yet somehow they had spooked their prey. Behind their chief, Fan and Pol lowered their weapons, perplexed.

Then, abruptly, all sound in the jungle ceased. Every bird, every insect seemed to fall silent. Only the distant pounding of the falling river water penetrated the thick vegetation. In the quiet echo of the thundering pulse, Funan warily scanned the clearing but saw nothing. Fan and Pol Shih also raised their spears, poised to attack. But attack what?

With a loud crack, a black, whiplike appendage shot out from the underbrush and encircled Fan Shih’s legs. Without even a cry of alarm, the hunter was dragged into the bushes, quivering leaves the only sign of his violent passage.

Pol Shih raised his spear, ready to avenge his brother. But suddenly the spear was torn from the man’s hand. Kicking helplessly, he, too, was hauled across the clearing and into the bush. Only after Pol vanished from sight did he scream—once, twice, three times, the last a sustained howl of agony.

Pol’s terror-filled shriek broke the courage of the others. Jawa bolted into the undergrowth, followed a moment later by Funan.

Like the pig before him, Jawa fled blindly through the trees, ignoring the trail to trample through the jungle. Vines caught his arms, and he dropped his spear to move faster, fright driving him on.

Finally out of breath, Jawa stumbled into a clearing domed by interlocking vines. He braced his heaving form against a tree trunk. Panting, legs wide, Jawa listened in the heavy shade for the sound of pursuit. Behind him, he heard Funan’s whipping movements through the jungle, but nothing else.

The black, formless shadow dropped out of the tree with no warning. Landing in a crouch, the large, insectlike beast unfolded itself and faced Jawa. A doglike whimper escaped the warrior as he took a step backwards. He fumbled for the stout wood-and-stone club that dangled from his rawhide belt. But there was no time to fight, only to die. The final imprinting on Jawa’s senses were sharp teeth and gnashing jaws, hot drool and red blood.

Seconds later, Funan stumbled into the same shaded clearing—in time to see Jawa hauled helplessly into the vines above. A scarlet rain sprinkled the ground, and warm drops splashed Funan. The chief hunter, his fist still choking the neck of his spear, searched the branches above for any sign of Jawa.