Кристофер Голден - The Predator - The Official Movie Novelization

It was the Predator mask. The one that Rory had worn while trick-or-treating. The one he’d been wearing when he— it— had killed that man on his porch.

He’d thrown it into the bushes close to the man’s house, but he guessed it must have been recovered, and that it had found its way back into Traeger’s hands, as all such Predator tech seemed to do.

Dropping back a little, Traeger pointed the mask in Rory’s direction and waved it like a threat. Panting, he said, “On Halloween, this thing blew up a whole house. How do you fire it?”

Despite its bad associations, Rory guessed he was kind of glad the mask was back in their possession—it might prove useful against their pursuer—but he wished it was in the hands of pretty much anyone except Traeger.

“Um, you don’t,” he said. “It just… fires by itself. When it’s attacked.”

Traeger’s lips curled into a snarl, and for a moment Rory thought the agent was going to call him a liar. But it turned out he was just frustrated. “Really?” he said. “Fuck!” And he glared at the mask, as if demanding it give up its secrets.

Up ahead, Rory saw his dad glance back, and realized he must have heard the exchange. Allowing Coyle to take the lead, he dropped back with Nebraska to speak to them. Rory felt a sense of satisfaction at the fact that neither his dad nor Nebraska was panting and sweating half as much as Traeger was. His dad did look anxious, though, as if, having been name-checked by the alien, he felt a special responsibility to keep them all alive.

Barely giving Traeger and the mask a second look, his dad addressed Casey. “Okay, so what do we know?” He waggled the fingers of his free hand at the side of his head in an imitation of the alien’s “dreadlocks.” “Casey, the… uh… Marley shit?”

“I’m thinking sensory receptors,” Casey said, glancing at Rory as if for affirmation. He liked that. He nodded. “Like cat whiskers. Weak spot, maybe?”

“You said it left you alone back at Stargazer,” Nebraska reminded her. “How come?”

Casey shrugged. “I was unarmed and naked. Didn’t pose a threat.”

“No one’s getting naked,” Baxley shouted from up ahead.

“Speak for yourself,” Nettles retorted.

Despite the situation, everyone snorted laughter, even Traeger and the mercs—it was a brief release of tension they all needed. The only people who didn’t laugh were Rory, who sometimes didn’t get jokes as quickly as others did, and his dad, who not only continued to look grim, but who looked a little irritated now too.

Seeing this, Nettles veered over to him. “Fuck your guilt,” he said.

Now his dad looked surprised. No, more than surprised—startled. “Excuse me?”

Nettles’ voice was low, but Rory still heard what he said.

“You lost men. I get it. You’ll lose some today.” He paused, and Rory saw his expression change, become determined, earnest, like an unspoken promise. “But you’re not gonna lose your son.”

The Upgrade stands on the far side of the crater, facing the ship. All is ready. It has ensured that there will be nothing left for the humans to use, nothing they can turn to their advantage. It glances at the screen, and sees the numbers ticking down—0:09… 0:08… 0:07…

At 0:05, it presses a button on its wrist gauntlet and the ship is annihilated in a flash of intense white light, a contained but devastating explosion that causes the trees nearby to sway and thrash, and that sends an echoing boom rolling through the jungle like a war cry.

As the echoes die away, the Upgrade looks again at the screen.

0:02… 0:01… 0:00…

Time to hunt.

Somewhere behind them came the sound of an explosion, and a brief column of light, which lit up the sky. Traeger wondered what the oversized crab-faced bastard was up to, and then it came to him with a pang of despair. The fucker must have blown up the ship to stop it from falling into enemy hands. Shit, shit, shit!

Boiling with anger, he rooted around once again in his duffel bag, thinking that if he couldn’t have the ship, then he would have the son of a bitch himself. He knew there must be something in here he could use against it—something with easy-to-follow instructions, that didn’t involve him engaging in hand-to-hand combat.

He plucked out a couple of things—a nunchucks-type device, followed by an alien throwing star, like a Japanese shuriken, that required a wrist gauntlet (and, no doubt, years of practice) to operate it effectively—but almost immediately rejected them, dropping them back into the bag. The third item he pulled out, however, was ideal. A compact shoulder cannon, connected to a tiny pad-like sensor, which you attached to the side of your head, and which responded directly to what your brain told it to do.

Although Traeger hadn’t risked trying out the cannon himself, he’d been present at some of the tests, and it had proved an effective weapon. Still running, he affixed the cannon to his shoulder and pressed the sensor against his skull just below his ear. He gritted his teeth, expecting to feel a little pain as it clamped itself to his flesh, but it adhered painlessly. He swiveled his head and the barrel responded, completely in sync with his movements. Bingo!

Feeling some of his old confidence flowing back, he tossed the duffel bag to the nearest merc—it was the one with the yellow goatee and the worried eyes.

“Carry this,” he ordered.

Somewhere to their left—in the darkness of the jungle it was impossible to tell how far away—a branch snapped loudly, a sound that could clearly be heard even over the tramp of their footsteps and the constant rustle-swish of the undergrowth they were running through. Flashlights turned in that direction, but there was nothing to be seen except overlapping leaves and black shadows.

Most of the group simply faced front again and picked up their pace, but Traeger saw the merc with the yellow goatee suddenly stop dead, his eyes going wide and his mouth dropping wetly open. His body shaking as he succumbed to a full-blown panic attack, he delved into the duffel bag and pulled out the shuriken that Traeger had previously rejected.

“Whoa, easy,” Traeger said, but panic had the merc in a vice-like grip now, and he was too far gone to listen. As the soldier turned to face the direction that the branch-snap had come from and drew back his arm, Traeger raised his hands and his voice.

“No, no, no,” he warned. “You need the wrist thing—”

Too late. The merc pistoned his arm forward and the shuriken flew from his hand and disappeared into the blackness of the jungle. Traeger looked at him, aghast, and began to back away.

By this time everyone else had not only slowed, but stopped, and they were looking back to see what was happening, some of them raising their guns, as if fearing an attack. As a couple of the mercs moved toward their goateed colleague, Traeger waved them back, as if the man was infected and should not be approached.

The merc, meanwhile, simply stood where he was, as if rooted to the spot, staring in fear at the black wall of jungle in front of him. All of them could hear the swift metallic whickering of the blade he had thrown, as it sliced its way with apparent ease through whatever was standing in its way. The sound, loud at first, grew fainter, and eventually dwindled to silence; a couple of the men started to relax. But Traeger knew it was not over, and sure enough, after three seconds’ grace, they all heard it again. But this time the whickering sound, faint at first, began to grow louder. The goateed merc’s eyes stretched yet wider with horror as he realized what was happening. The shuriken was coming back!