So, this is my first attempt at a short Predator fanfiction. I hope you like it!
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QuoteSanderson can't stop.
His pulse races, his breath comes in ragged gasps, and his shirt clings to his back with sweat. The Amazon jungle engulfs him, the air thick and heavy with humidity. Vines and branches claw at his skin as he dashes forward, the echoes of his hurried footsteps reverberating through the dark, tangled undergrowth.
The blood-soaked machete in his hand serves as his only lifeline, though its weight seems to grow with each swing. In his frantic flight, Sanderson's thoughts are jumbled. His heart hammers in his chest. He murmurs words, almost like a prayer, seeking solace in the rhythmic sound of his own voice. His mind races with images of what he's seen and the horrors that pursue him.
He's not sure how much longer he can keep this up. Maybe he should turn around and fight back. He's skilled enough. With caution, he might land a few good hits. But then, he's not entirely well. The fever coursing through him weakens his limbs, makes his vision blur at the edges.
The foliage has swallowed him, a labyrinth of towering trees and tangled shrubs that obscure any sense of direction. He's completely lost. He doesn't know where he's heading; it only matters that he escapes.
Ever since he arrived in this wild, untamed expanse, it's been problem after problem. AmberStone, the corporate entity that holds his company's financial fate in their hands, seems to have set him up for failure. The investment firm had increased their funds in his enterprise by a significant five percent, but the price was steep. They demanded this section of the jungle be cleared for a coal mining operation, effective immediately.
Needless to say, the locals were not best pleased.
A sharp, piercing whistle slices through the air. Before Sanderson could react, a stone arrowhead hurtles past his right ear, grazing his helix and embedding itself into a nearby tree trunk. His feverish symptoms take a back seat. Adrenaline surges through him, his heart pounding like a war drum. Sanderson stumbles, his hand impulsively flying to the wound at his ear. Blood trickles down his neck, mingling with the sweat that already drenched him.
"F**k, f**k!" he exasperates. Another whistle perforates the air, and Sanderson's instincts scream out as the arrow streaks dangerously close, passing his torso by a mere foot before disappearing into the verdant green. Realization dawns on Sanderson; he can't fight the natives. He can't outrun or outpace them. He needs to hide, find cover, and evade their relentless pursuit.
Sanderson plunges through a thick cluster of banana leaves, their large, vibrant veils breaking the line of sight. With a decisive maneuver, he then veers to the left, drops his weapon, and begins scaling the intertwining vines that drape the trunk of a Brazil nut tree. His fingers grip the rough texture of the vines, seeking precarious stability as he ascends, striving for elevation.
Unable to climb any higher, he settles on the lowest branch of the tree, and Sanderson's entire being vibrates with the intense energy of the moment. His nerves, still raw from the chase, send tremors through his arms as he clings desperately to the tree's wooden arm.
Suddenly, the jungle seems to hold its breath. The symphony of the forest - the rustling leaves, the distant calls, the noises of nature - all fall silent, leaving Sanderson perched in an eerie, soundless vacuum. He swallows a nervous lump as he peers down from his treetop vantage point. Below, the figures of his pursuers emerge from the banana leaves, their dark silhouettes moving with a purpose that chills him to the core. The natives - their bronzed skin glistening with a sheen of sweat, clothed in nothing but loincloths, and adorned with elaborate markings.
There are three in total, each one carrying a slender longbow fashioned from sticks. Basket quivers slung across their backs contain a dozen or so arrows, two of which had come close to killing him already. Sanderson remains motionless, hardly daring to breathe as he watches these experienced hunters search for him. Regret presses heavily upon his conscience, ruminating on his foolish decision to not hire more guards. The assumption that the indigenous population would flee at the sound of bulldozers tearing through their ancestral land now seems naive and futile.
He recalls the ensuing attack; how the savages swarmed in and butchered his men. Sanderson, in a desperate bid for survival, seized a machete from one of his fallen workers and fled, driven by pure instinct into the suffocating jungle depths.
"Just f**k off!" Sanderson's inner voice rages. He carefully observes the tense movements below, recognizing the deepening fury in the natives' expressions. The three are exchanging intense glances and subtle, urgent gestures. Their focus shifts, indicating a momentary loss in tracking his whereabouts. They lower their bows, pivot, and begin to head back. Sanderson exhales in a moment of silent relief.
"Yes! That's it, leave!" his mind exults, a surge of hope rushing through him. But in his fleeting moment of jubilation, Sanderson forgets something crucial: his abandoned machete lies conspicuously at the base of his hiding spot.
As the tribesmen retrace their path, one of them catches sight of it. Again, Sanderson's heart plummets. The pounding in his chest quickens, his breaths becoming shallower, every nerve on edge as he braces for the imminent confrontation. He remains frozen in place, praying against all odds that his concealed position might spare him from their notice.
It doesn't. The native's widened eyes confirm the worst: they've found their elusive prey.
"Wait! Please, wait!" Sanderson's voice quivers as he scrambles as far back as he can. The air crackles with tension, and then, a sudden whoosh. A third arrow flies past, a mere inch from his nose. "Stop! Please, for f**k's sake!"
Two more swiftly follow. One lodges itself just beside Sanderson, startling him as it narrowly misses his leg. The second arrow, however, finds its mark, skewering his soft belly. The shock winds him; the impact staggers him. Sanderson falls back from his perch, somersaulting as he careens into the rainforest floor and lands with a bone-shattering thud.
He lies amid the detritus, unable to move, yet fully aware. A pool of blood darkens his shirt, oozing from his wounded stomach. Numbness creeps through his limbs, leaving his arms and legs unresponsive. Each breath arrives in desperate gasps, a struggle for air. Fighting to focus with one eye, he observes three indistinct figures closing in around him. One of them brandishes what appears to be a short spear, the makeshift weapon held with intent.
Sanderson resigns to his fate. This is where it ends, in the very place he sought to dismantle and desecrate. With one last labored breath, he accepts the inevitable.
Then, all three of them hear it. A distinctive guttural clicking.
The natives promptly divert their attention, scanning their immediate surroundings. Familiar with all the Amazon's sounds—the jaguars, snakes, caimans—this noise didn't match any of them. With a heavy thump, something large and weighty lands behind them, the impact causing a swirl of dust and leaves to rise up. The three instantly pivot, initially seeing only the trees and vegetation. However, one of them discerns a peculiar sight amidst the natural landscape—a spectral, translucent shimmer, nearly eight feet tall, materializing before his eyes.
In a panic, the tribesman yells in an unfamiliar language, a string of urgent words that Sanderson can't comprehend, gesturing intensely at the ethereal being. The remaining two also catch sight of the apparition, and they begin to scream out in shock and fear.
The spear-wielder boldly lunges towards the ghost, intending to strike. Yet, in one fluid motion, the mysterious entity swats the spearhead aside and seizes the tribesman's throat. It raises the man from the ground with one glimmering arm, clicking inquisitively.
With a firm squeeze of its hand, the native's neck immediately snaps. Then, as if it were child's play, it proceeds to tear the native's skull from his torso; drawing out the entire spinal column, intact, covered in fleshy, visceral pulp.
Blood sprays across the other two tribesmen. They remain motionless, almost as paralyzed as Sanderson, silently contemplating their next action. Should they run away? Or should they avenge their fallen brother?
Hesitantly, one of them readies an arrow in his bow, preparing to aim. But as he looks up, the spear-wielder's head collides with his chest like a bolas, knocking him off his feet. The other attempts to flee, frantically howling as he hastily retreats into the thicket.
From his feeble position, Sanderson watches the spectral figure observe the runner, showing no inclination to pursue. However, his attention is quickly drawn to a subtle movement on the apparition's shoulder. It's a new appendage. A surreal, blue glow intensifies within this ethereal extension before a searing bolt of light is unleashed. The luminous projectile streaks past Sanderson, into the rainforest, trailing the escaping native. Suddenly, the frantic yells come to an abrupt halt.
Struggling to his feet, the last surviving tribesman cautiously lifts his hands, a clear display of submission. He surrenders his bow, his body trembling with fear. Wincing, he feels a sharp pain in his chest, likely a broken rib.
The entity closes in, each of its footsteps resonating with a pronounced thud. It approaches the unarmed tribesman and then stops, looming over him, examining its frightened quarry.
Without warning, the ghostly shimmer then dissipates, revealing a formidable creature. Its towering frame is encased in an intricate, otherworldly armor, seamlessly blending with its dark, mottled skin. Across its muscular physique, a complex array of technological devices and weaponry is strapped, lethally sophisticated. The being's head is concealed behind a distinct gray mask, and from it, a cascade of tube-like dreadlocks flow, each strand thick and black.
From its advanced wrist device, a pair of serrated blades extend, gleaming with an imposing edge. The creature maneuvers its blades with precision, swiftly cutting through the air, and in a calculated move, it wedges them deep into the tribesman's neck.
Just as it did before, the native's skull and spinal column are yanked from his lifeless corpse. The alien produces another series of guttural clicks, somewhat reminiscent of a cat's purr, evidently satisfied with its kill. It takes a moment to admire its trophy before advancing to retrieve the spear-wielder's head as well.
As it approaches, the creature notices Sanderson panting in short, rapid breaths. It tilts its head curiously, recognizing that Sanderson is doomed. With an arrow lodged in his belly, multiple bones in his neck shattered, and grappling with a fever, Sanderson won't survive for much longer.
The entity reaches behind and retrieves a small, silver container from its belt. It kneels down slowly, positioning it right beside Sanderson's face. In the depths of his despair, Sanderson's thoughts scream, "Just f**king end it!" Yet, he remains unable to voice his plea, trapped in silent desperation.
The creature then rises and takes a step back. Suddenly, a sharp whistle emanates from its mask. It's a recorded playback of some kind, but from a high-pitched instrument not of this world. The unusual melody stirs something within the container, setting it into motion. The lid tumbles off, unleashing a swarm of thousands of tiny, insect-like organisms that crawl out and envelop Sanderson. Sanderson's eyes snap open. He feels their bites, their stings, but cannot protest. They are consuming him alive.
Minutes pass, and the alien watches as its pets strip Sanderson down to his bones and clothing. That's one more trophy for its collection. Once again, the melody plays, this time slightly different from before, and the swarm obediently retreats back into their container. The creature then steps forward, secures the lid in place, and clips the container back into its belt.
Drawing in a deep breath, it roars out like a triumphant lion. Exotic birds scatter from their nests in the trees, disturbed by the fierce noise. Nearby animals sprint away in the opposite direction, seeking immediate distance.
The Amazon is now its hunting ground.
