Alex Scarrow - Day of the Predator

He cocked his head curiously. The long fishhook-shaped razor-sharp claws on its left front paw clacked together carelessly.

The last of the new creatures suddenly turned and looked back in his direction. It must have heard something, the snick of his claws. Incredibly the creature’s eyes looked directly at him — right at him — and yet seemed to see absolutely nothing. Its eyes panned slowly from left to right then finally it turned and headed off after the others.

The creature looked down at his claws: four of them, long and lethal, curled from the digits of one arm, three… and a broken stump

… from the other — damage caused many seasons ago fighting off a young male who had foolishly decided to challenge his leadership. The challenger had died, of course, and in a rage he had torn the body to ragged pieces in front of the rest of the pack as a lesson.

The claws usually grew back. The young female who’d lost her claw today during the kill, she would have a new one before a new moon. But his stump had never regrown a claw. A constant reminder that his days as leader were numbered by how long he remained effective.

Slowly and very lightly, Broken Claw stepped backwards, away from the fern leaves and further from the well-lit small clearing into jungle darkness. His powerful rear legs strong and agile — capable of incredible speed, but also able to move in almost complete silence.

A simple thought passed through his mind — a thought not made up of words, but ideas.

The new creatures must be watched.

Instinctively he sensed there was something terribly dangerous about them. Until he knew exactly what it was, until he knew how weak or dangerous they could be, the new creatures should be carefully observed, studied, until he was sure he had the measure of them and then… then, when these things were least prepared, when they were certain these pale creatures had no concealed powers, they would be attacked and feasted upon. And the pack could celebrate their dominance once more as the quiet killers of this world, decorating the jungle with their organs, painting their blood on their hides.

His sharp teeth snapped together softly, and he resolved that patience, for the moment, was the correct course of action.

65 million years BC, jungle

Liam heaved a sigh of relief as he caught a glimpse of the raging river and the long slender trunk that bridged one rocky bank to the other. It appeared Becks had finished her work on the bridge. It could now be raised, courtesy of a crudely rigged counterweight of a bundle of logs. They were tied together and connected to a stout rope of a dozen twisted vines, which ran up and over the thick branch of a canopy tree that stretched a sturdy limb out above the river. The other end of the rope was tied round the end of their ‘drawbridge’, a thirty-foot trunk as straight as a javelin and a slender foot in diameter. It was thick enough to take their weight, one at a time, but not so heavy the supporting branch above would snap as it was raised.

One by one, they stepped on to the log, and cautiously inched their way over the tumbling froth a few feet below. Liam was the last one over and, as he anxiously awaited his turn, he scanned the wall of jungle behind him, wary that, being the last one on this side of the river, he might prove a tempting morsel for some hungry beast.

But his turn came, and a few moments later he was on the far side with the others. ‘OK, let’s raise the drawbridge.’

Between them they pulled on the counterweight of logs, and with the creak of stressed vine rope and the branch above taking the burden, the bridge rose up until it was approximately at an angle of forty-five degrees.

‘Good enough.’ Liam looked up at the sky. The sun was beginning to head for the horizon and long dark shadows stretched across the river. Through the trees and tufts of bamboo thickets on their side of the river, from the direction of the clearing, they could hear the echoing hack of blades on wood: the others working on their camp, their home… a temporary home, Liam found himself hoping. The sound of activity was reassuring.

‘I hope somebody’s got the kettle on for us,’ said Liam.

A minute later they were just stepping out into the broad clearing, keen to see what the others had managed to construct in their absence, when they heard a scream echo across the open space.

‘Uh?’ uttered Lam.

On the far side Liam could see movement. Someone running. It was the girl Laura, running, staggering, stumbling to her knees, then back up on her feet. Behind her, pursuing with a swift purposeful stride, a figure all in black with flaming red hair: Becks.

‘Whoa… catfight,’ uttered Jonah, grinning like an idiot.

‘Hey!’ Liam called out. ‘What’s going on?’

Laura glanced his way and changed direction towards him. Becks was swiftly closing the gap. He noticed her holding one of their bamboo spears in one hand, the tip bright red with a splash of blood.

What the…?

He ran forward. ‘Becks! What’s going on?’

Closer now, he could see a long gash down Laura’s left arm, blood splattered across her bright pink sweatshirt.

‘Oh God! Oh God! She’s trying to kill me!’ Laura screamed. The rest of the group on the far side of the clearing, where a row of simple frames of wood had thus far been erected, were watching the scene in stunned, uncomprehending silence.

Finally Laura collapsed in a pile at Liam’s feet, clasping at her arm and looking back in panic as Becks strode forward. ‘She speared me!’ gasped Laura. ‘Just walked up and stabbed me for no reason!’

Becks came to a halt several yards away and looked calmly at Liam. She even smiled her faltering horse smile, lips slowly stretching to reveal a row of perfect teeth. ‘Hello, Liam,’ she said.

‘Jay-zus, Becks! Why’d you go and attack the poor girl?’

‘Mission priority. She has to be terminated.’

‘ What? ’

Becks nodded at the others standing just behind Liam. ‘All of them as well. The others, and you, Liam.’ He thought he detected a hint of regret in her voice as she said that. ‘After that, I must purge this area of evidence of human occupation. Then I must self-terminate.’

‘What? That’s crazy!’ said Lam.

‘Becks, listen,’ said Liam, spreading his hands slowly. ‘This is not necessary, all right?’

She took another two strides forward, reached down and grabbed Laura round the throat, and effortlessly lifted her up off the ground, her legs kicking in the air. Laura scrabbled and scratched at her face, one hand finally grabbing a fist of Becks’s red hair.

‘BECKS! STOP IT!’

Liam’s command halted her. She looked at him, confused. ‘It is a mission priority. We have already caused unacceptable levels of time contamination.’

‘PUT HER DOWN!’

Becks stared at him, but remained poised and perfectly still, Laura still dangling, kicking, struggling and slowly choking; the sharp ragged point of the spear held in Becks’s other hand hovered mere inches away from her throat.

‘THAT IS AN ORDER!’

Becks’s eyes slowly panned from Liam to Laura then back again. Her eyelids fluttered momentarily then finally she said, ‘Affirmative.’ She released her grip on Laura and the girl tumbled heavily to the ground, Becks’s red wig wrenched from her bare head, still clasped by Laura’s bloody fingers.

‘Now, put that spear down!’ snapped Liam.

She obediently released her tight grip and it clattered on the soft ground.

Laura’s breath chugged in and out in whooping gasps while the others stared in stunned silence at Becks and her bald head, already sporting a quarter-inch fuzz of dark hair.