Кристофер Голден - The Predator - The Official Movie Novelization

Emily pressed herself against the railing, staring at him as he rushed upward. “Quinn, you’re scaring me.”

He strode across the kitchen, almost dragging Emily in his wake. “You let him order any video games he wants?” he tossed over his shoulder.

Despite the situation—or perhaps because of it—she bristled. “Excuse me?”

“I specifically said no first-person shooters. No combat games.”

He heard her swear under her breath.

“Did you ever think maybe he plays them to connect with his father?” she retorted, almost hissing the words through her teeth. Then Emily seemed to catch herself, realizing how often they’d been in this argument before. “Oh my God. We’re doing this.”

McKenna had the impression she was going to say something more, but then they marched into the living room and Emily froze. He couldn’t blame her, really, as in the moments they’d been downstairs, the house had quickly and silently filled with lunatics. They’d apparently left Dr. Brackett—Casey—in the RV, but the rest of them were there: Nebraska, Coyle, Lynch, Nettles, Baxley. Every one of the crazy fuckers who’d become his de facto new unit, at least until this horror came to an end. McKenna surveyed his team, saw Lynch shuffling his cards and Coyle rubbing the stubble atop his shaved head, eyes wide. Baxley and Nettles were rummaging around the living room, picking up framed photos to look at them and wiping a bit of dust off the fireplace mantel.

The room was full of Emily’s paintings, the beautiful and heartbreaking works of her imagination, and the paintings were drawing the attention of the men too. Nebraska was leaning forward to peer at one with the intensity of an art critic assessing technique.

“What are you doing? Give me those!” she snapped, striding forward and snatching a couple of her paintbrushes out of Nettles’ hand. She wheeled on McKenna. “Who are these people?”

The corner of McKenna’s mouth lifted in the closest he could come to a smile. “They’re my unit. They’re soldiers.”

She gaped at him, incredulous. “They look like ushers at a porno theatre.”

Nebraska had now straightened from the painting he’d been examining and was looking at her. He raised an eyebrow.

Aware she might have overstepped the mark, Emily said, “No offence.”

Eyebrow still raised, Nebraska addressed McKenna. “The wife?”

“For better or worse,” McKenna muttered, wondering if Emily might grab a kitchen knife and murder them all. Seeing them through her eyes made them seem that much crazier. He sighed and tiredly waved a hand around the room. “Emily? Loonies. Loonies? Emily.”

As the Loonies murmured shy greetings, McKenna hurried around the room, snatching up pictures of Rory—school photos, holiday pictures—plucking them off the walls and side tables.

“Wait, back up,” Emily said, shaking her head as it all sank in. “Your unit? What happened to Haines? Dupree?”

McKenna took a deep breath. “They’re dead. And the thing that killed them is looking for Rory. So. You can think I’m crazy all you want…” He closed his eyes briefly. He wished to God he wasn’t here, wished he wasn’t having to say these words. “But now? Our son is in a kill box.”

Emily looked shell-shocked. The color drained from her face. “Looking for Rory…” she repeated, her voice low and croaky. Then suddenly the volume ramped up, became abruptly shrill, panicked. “ What thing? ”

“It’s…” McKenna saw the terror and accusation in his ex-wife’s eyes, and was suddenly at a loss for words. Turning desperately to the Loonies, he said, “Guys, what is it?”

Coyle was the first to respond. Fumblingly he said, “Um… it’s not, like, a person. It’s… a creature .”

Eager to help, Nebraska said, “You know Whoopi Goldberg?”

Emily looked at him in bewilderment. “Yes.”

“It’s like an alien Whoopi Goldberg,” he said helpfully.

Emily just stared at him. And when she finally murmured, “Oh my God,” it was unclear whether she was horrified by the image Nebraska had conjured in her mind, or horrified simply by the fact that she was having to trust her son’s welfare to a bunch of crazy—and possibly dangerous—people.

McKenna decided it was probably best not to muddy the waters still further by allowing time for the other Loonies to chip in. Instead, he started to hand out the pictures of Rory, his voice brisk, authoritative. “I want a grid search. Three teams…”

His voice tailed off. In his peripheral vision, he saw that Emily was shrugging into her coat, having snatched up, of all things, a fireplace poker. He marched across and grabbed it from her hand.

Furious, she squared up to him. “Our son’s in danger !”

“That’s right. And last time I looked?” He hefted his gun. “This is match grade.” Now he lifted the poker. “This? Not so much. But points for originality.”

Casey’s head jerked up as the door of the RV opened, her hand going instinctively for the handgun on the table beside her. But it was only McKenna and the Loonies. McKenna was all business.

“Nebraska,” he was saying, “find some wheels. Nothing flashy.” Nodding across the room, he added, “Casey, you’re with me.”

He paused for a beat, fixing each of the guys with a look of purpose and determination.

Then he said, “Let’s find my son.”

Rory had been wandering the street without ringing any doorbells. He had no candy, which didn’t seem like the best possible result of trick-or-treating. Without his mother or father with him, it seemed unexpectedly frightening to just walk up to a person’s door, ring the bell, and ask for… well, anything. He still loved the anonymity, but somehow his earlier excitement had dissipated. His focus, instead, had been on the helmet and the cool thermal imaging he saw through the eyepieces. That alone had been enough to occupy him as he had walked around the neighborhood.

Now, though, the absence of candy had begun to seem like something he would regret later, so he had begun to study the other kids who were going door-to-door, intending to replicate the process. It was so simple. He’d done it before, just never on his own.

Go on, dummy , he thought.

Rory took a deep breath, watched a Moana and a zombie accept candy from a smiling middle-aged woman in a witch’s hat, and took a step forward. It was time.

“Hey, Ass-burger!”

Wincing, Rory glanced over to see E.J. from school. Even with the helmet covering Rory’s head, the prick had somehow recognized him. Maybe his clothes, or just his build. It was possible, given how much of E.J.’s focus had been on him over the past couple of years.

Rory turned to head in the other direction and nearly ran into Derek, E.J.’s troll-like sidekick.

“What’re you supposed to be?” Derek sneered.

“Leave me alone.”

“Or what?” E.J. asked, boxing him in from behind. “You’ll wash your hands five hundred times?”

He snickered at his own joke as Rory hurried away. The bullies fell in after him, dogging his heels. They weren’t going to let him off that easy—of course they weren’t—so Rory made a beeline for the nearest house. Only when he’d already committed to that direction did he notice that the porch light was off, which meant the owners were either not home or not participating in trick or treat. The house had a patchy lawn and needed a paint job, and one of the shutters hung askew. If someone had told Rory the place was haunted, he wouldn’t have been surprised—and he didn’t even believe in ghosts.

Crap. He ought to veer off, find a different safe haven, one where people were home and kids and parents were gathered on the steps or the front walk. But when he glanced back, he saw E.J. and Derek standing on the sidewalk, smirking in pleasure at his terror. This house might not be the escape route he had hoped for, but he had no choice other than to try it.