Chapter 13: The Apex Kill
Dante moved like a blur.
He reached his pre-selected ambush point within minutes. It was a vantage point that overlooked the entire clearing—the perfect seat for the final act of this blood-soaked play.
He looked down toward the riverbank. Major Dutch was crawling out of the water, looking like a man who had already died and just hadn't realized it yet.
Dutch collapsed into the mud, gasping, his body trembling from the impact of the fall and the struggle against the current. Even a mountain of muscle has its breaking point.
But the jungle didn't give him a second to breathe.
Splash!
Something heavy hit the water behind him. Dutch froze, a snarl of desperation escaping his lips. "Persistent son of a bitch..."
He scrambled toward the bank, his fingers clawing at the slick, grey mud. He barely managed to drag himself into a thicket of ferns before the water rippled again.
The Predator emerged from the river. Its cloaking device was screaming—blue sparks danced across its armor as the water short-circuited the active camouflage. The creature tapped a few commands into its wrist gauntlet, and the shimmer faded completely, revealing its true form to the air.
Dutch watched from the shadows, paralyzed. This was his first clear look at the nightmare.
The creature stood over seven feet tall. It had a massive, bio-masked head framed by a mane of black, quill-like dreadlocks. Its armor was minimal, protecting only the vital joints and chest, leaving its powerful, reptilian skin exposed. On its shoulder, a plasma caster tracked the treeline, its red tri-laser darting through the leaves.
'That's no 'demon' from Anna's stories,' Dutch thought, his mind racing. 'That's... something else. Something not from this world.'
The Predator began its search. It scanned the bank, its mask clicking as it switched through thermal frequencies.
But then, something impossible happened.
The creature's gaze swept directly over Dutch's position. Dutch was sitting right there, barely five yards away, completely exposed. He braced for the blue bolt that would end him.
The Predator looked right through him.
It tilted its head, paused, and then continued walking deeper into the forest.
'It can't see me?' Dutch stared at his hands. He was caked in a thick layer of cold, wet river mud. A realization dawned on him as he touched the grime. 'The mud... it's masking my heat.'
***
Watching the "discovery" from the ridge, Dante began prepping his own tools. He chose a few straight, sturdy branches—tonight was the endgame.
He pulled the last 40mm grenade from his pouch. With his combat knife, he carefully disassembled it, transferring the high-explosive powder and the primer into a scrap of cloth. He lashed the "bomb" to the tip of a sharpened stake.
A makeshift explosive spear. His "one-shot" kill.
He made a second, standard spear by lashing his combat knife to a branch. Once his kit was ready, he went back to his "jerky"—the raw snake. He chewed the cold, rubbery meat, letting the blood sustain his energy.
He needed to be at 100% for the final move. He'd spent the last forty-eight hours marching, tracking, and killing. He lay back in the soft leaves, closing his eyes for a tactical nap, letting the sound of Dutch's frantic trap-building serve as his white noise.
Hours passed. The sun died, replaced by a suffocating jungle night.
Dutch had spent the afternoon working with the strength of ten men. He had built deadfalls, sharpened stakes, and rigged a massive log trap—tasks that usually required a full squad.
Once he was ready, Dutch lit a massive bonfire in the center of the clearing. He stood before the flames, lifted his face to the canopy, and let out a primal, bone-shaking roar.
It was a challenge. A funeral dirge for his fallen brothers.
The Predator didn't keep him waiting. It slammed into the clearing, drawn by the sound. It found the fire, but Dutch was gone.
Suddenly, a spear tipped with a grenade slammed into the ground at the Predator's feet.
BOOM.
The explosion knocked the creature back, shredding its active camo for good and leaving it snarling in the dirt. Enraged, the Predator began firing its plasma caster blindly into the trees. Blue rays of light turned the night into a strobe light of death, shattering trunks and setting the brush ablaze.
Dutch was clipped by a shockwave and tumbled from his perch. As he hit the ground, he rolled and hurled his second explosive spear.
KABOOM.
This one hit home. The blast tore through the Predator's armor, spraying fluorescent green blood across the leaves. The creature let out a high-pitched shriek of agony and bolted into the dark.
Dutch didn't let up. He grabbed his remaining spear and followed the glowing green trail. He chased it into a shallow cave, his eyes wild with the hope of a kill—only to find it empty.
He'd been lured.
Dutch barely had time to turn before a massive hand clamped around his throat. The Predator slammed him against a tree, hoisting him off the ground like he weighed nothing.
The creature leaned in, investigating him. It seemed confused—how had this tiny, soft human caused it so much pain?
But the "Demon" was impressed. Dutch had proven himself a worthy warrior.
The Predator dropped Dutch to the ground. It stepped back, slowly uncurling its fingers. Then, with a series of mechanical hisses, it began to remove its gear. The plasma caster fell. The gauntlet followed. Finally, it reached for its mask.
As the bio-mask hissed and pulled away, Dutch saw a face that would haunt his dreams—a mass of mandibles, wet yellow eyes, and a grotesque, split-jawed maw.
"You're one ugly motherfucker," Dutch wheezed.
The Predator didn't care for small talk. It let out a roar and lunged.
Dutch tried to fight back, swinging a heavy branch, but it was like trying to stop a tidal wave with a twig. The Predator swatted the wood aside and sent Dutch flying with a backhand that nearly broke his neck.
Battered and bleeding, Dutch scrambled toward the center of his traps. He was the bait again.
The Predator, fueled by the arrogance of a hunter who has already won, followed him slowly into the kill zone.
From the shadows above, Dante adjusted his grip on his knife-spear. His heart was steady, his eyes cold.
"Almost there," Dante whispered. "Just a few more steps, you ugly bastard. Make my 5,000 points worth the wait."
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A/n: Hand Over your GODDAMN Power Stones!! I want them all!!
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