Chapter 12: Total Wipeout
"These guys really are giving it their all, aren't they?"
On a distant ridge, Dante adjusted his binoculars, watching the drama unfold with the detached interest of a man watching a nature documentary. He occasionally reached down and took a bite out of a skinned, raw viper.
Crunch. Crunch.
The meat was cold and uncooked, but Dante chewed through the sinew with gusto, treating it like a piece of spicy beef jerky.
A big fight was coming. He needed the calories. Under these conditions, a fire was a luxury that invited a plasma bolt to the face, so he "dealt" with the raw blood and gristle. It smeared across his chin, but he didn't care. His eyes were locked on the lens.
"Found you," he muttered. "Showtime."
Through the binoculars, the refractive shimmer of the Predator appeared. Just as Dutch had predicted, the creature was carefully avoiding every tree rigged with metal tripwires, leaping only between the "safe" branches as it closed in on the Major.
But as it reached the highest limb overlooking the clearing, the world turned upside down.
A vine-snare whipped around the creature's right leg, and a massive, heavy-duty net collapsed over it from above.
"WRAAGH!!"
The Predator let out a scream like a stuck pig—a sound of genuine, high-pitched shock. It was the first time the creature had sounded vulnerable.
The squad saw their opening. They surged forward, weapons raised to finish the goddamn thing. But the Predator didn't panic for long. It began firing its plasma caster in every direction, a blind, desperate frenzy of blue energy.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The blue rays ignited the brush, creating a wall of fire and shrapnel that forced the squad back. One stray bolt clipped the main support line of their own trap.
A massive deadfall log—hundreds of pounds of solid wood—swung down prematurely. It caught Poncho full in the chest.
"AUGHH!"
Poncho's ribs shattered with a sickening crack. He was sent flying, blood spraying from his mouth as he hit the dirt.
The Predator used the chaos to deploy its wrist blades, shredding the net and dropping to the forest floor. It hesitated for a split second, looking at the wounded humans, then chose to vanish back into the trees.
"I got him! I see the bastard!" Mac screamed, his eyes bloodshot with rage. He didn't wait for orders. He bolted into the dark after the shimmer.
"Mac! Get back here!" Dutch roared. "We need to move!"
Dillon stepped forward, blocking Dutch's path. "You take the girls and get out of here. I'm going after Mac."
Dutch stared at Dillon, stunned. "That doesn't sound like the 'Company Man' I know, Dillon."
Dillon gave a hollow, bitter laugh. "Maybe I caught your fever, Dutch. Or maybe I just owe it to the kids we lost."
"You can't win, Dillon," Dutch warned. "That thing is a god."
"Maybe," Dillon whispered, checking his sidearm. "But I'm going to see if gods can bleed."
Dutch sighed, realizing there was no stopping him. He tossed his own rifle to Dillon. "Keep your head down, brother. Good luck."
Dillon took the gun and nodded. "Make sure the chopper waits for us."
Dante watched from the hill as Dillon disappeared into the green hell. He knew how that story ended.
Dutch scrambled over to Poncho. Billy was already there, his face grim. "Major... he's hit hard. Internal bleeding. He won't make it on foot."
"No!" Poncho gasped, clutching Dutch's arm. "Don't leave me! I can... I can keep up!"
"Nobody's staying behind," Dutch promised. He hauled Poncho up, slinging the man's arm over his shoulder. "Billy, grab the radio. Everyone—move for the LZ! Now!"
They fled east, a broken group of survivors. A few minutes later, the silence was shattered by a distant, sustained burst of gunfire, followed by two distinct, agonizing screams.
"Mac. Dillon," Dutch whispered. His face was a mask of grief, but he didn't stop. "Keep moving..."
They reached a narrow, rickety log bridge spanning a deep ravine. Billy stopped in the middle of the bridge.
He didn't cross. Instead, he unslung his rifle, unstrapped his tactical vest, and dropped them into the abyss. He stood there, bare-chested and bloody, blocking the path.
Dutch stopped, his voice cracking. "Billy! Come on, man! We can make it together!"
Billy didn't say a word. He just gave a small, solemn wave of his hand.
Dutch understood. Billy was the sacrifice. He was buying them seconds. With a heavy heart, Dutch turned and led the two women and the dying Poncho across.
Billy stood alone on the bridge, the embodiment of a warrior's final stand. He had been running for too long. He had been afraid for too long. Now, there was nowhere left to run. He drew his massive machete and sliced a deep, jagged line across his own chest.
The cold air hit the raw nerves. He used the pain to sharpen his focus, feeling the slight shifts in air pressure that would reveal his invisible foe.
Rustle.
A tree branch shook. A heavy weight hit the bridge.
The Predator decloaked, tilting its masked head at the lone human. No gun. Just a knife. The creature's hunting instinct flared—it respected this. It retracted its plasma caster, deciding to honor the challenge with its own blades.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The Predator's heavy footsteps vibrated through the log. Billy raised his machete, ready. The narrow bridge stripped the creature of its flanking advantage. It had to come straight at him.
Whoosh!
Billy felt a rush of air above him. He swung with everything he had.
CLANG!
Machete met wrist blades in a shower of sparks. Billy felt like he'd just hit a moving freight train. The impact shattered his grip, sending the machete spinning into the dark below.
Whoosh!
Another strike, aimed at his throat. Billy ducked, throwing a desperate punch into the void. By pure luck, his fist slammed into the Predator's old wound on its thigh. Fluorescent green blood sprayed across Billy's arm.
"RAAARGH!"
The Predator roared in fury. It didn't play fair anymore. It thrust its wrist blades forward with blinding speed, the serrated metal punching through Billy's skull like a hot needle through wax.
"AAAUUGHH!"
Billy's death scream echoed through the entire valley.
Dutch and the girls froze in their tracks.
Swoosh!
A blue plasma bolt tore through the air, hitting Poncho square in the head. His skull vaporized instantly.
Dutch shoved Anna and Monica toward the treeline. "RUN! Get to the chopper! It won't hunt you—you're not armed!"
He opened up with his rifle, providing a desperate screen of lead to cover their retreat. Anna tried to stay, but Monica—remembering Dante's rule—grabbed her arm and dragged her into the shadows.
Dutch fired until his mag was dry, backing away toward a ridge. His foot hit a patch of slick mud, and he tumbled backward, falling a hundred feet into the churning river below.
On the hill, Dante Crowley tucked his binoculars away. A thin, predatory smile played across his lips.
"Finally," Dante whispered, standing up and shaking off the dust. "The hero's out of the picture. Time for the professional to clock in."
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A/N: Let's goooo! Another chapter is coming in an hour! Don't forget to drop your Power Stones to boost the story in the rankings! It really helps me keep the quality high and the chapters coming fast.
First Goal: If we hit 200 Power Stones, I'm adding a bonus chapter!! Also, we're just one 5 star review away from another extra chapter.
Btw, if you want to read ahead, check out patre o n . com/Demonic_Fiction for advanced chapters (20+). Link's in the synopsis and my profile.