Of all the truly horrific things I've witnessed over the past 48 hours there's a particular scene that I know is going to stick with me more than the rest: the newer, bigger Predator ripping Coyle's arm off and tossing it to those terrifying alien hounds. It's not the fact that it managed to rip the arm off – no, that's not surprising in the least. What's seared into my brain is how easily it was done and how cavalierly that limb, dripping and gristled, was thrown aside. Granted, I'd only known Coyle for about four hours at that point and in that short time period he proved to be one of the most irritating members of the human race I'd ever encountered, but still – he deserved better.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to witness far more gruesome things, particularly as it seems I'm not going to extricate myself from this clusterfuck any time soon. Or at all. The moment I'd voiced my panicked agreement aloud, the Predator had gripped me by the arm and hauled me roughly to my feet. Chaos has fully manifested, is here and is steadily drawing nearer; McKenna and his crew are proving woefully ill-equipped and underprepared to deal with this new alien and its pets. The Predator had spoken to me in (garbled, almost indecipherable) English, had made it very clear that my only method of surviving was to accompany him. Where, though? Where the fuck where we going to go to escape the roiling hellscape that is right here and right now?

Once I'm on my feet he takes aim with one arm, firing a blast from a weapon built into his gauntlet. Given the shitstorm that is McKenna and Co. trying to stay alive against creatures from beyond this planet, I'm astonished when the Predator's shot manages to not only strike one of the hounds, but almost blow its head right off its body. Down to one hound, which is good. However, the kill shot yanks the attention of the other Predator – the one my "friend" here has dubbed an "enemy" – directly to us. It tosses its head back and gives a hoarse, unearthly howl before launching itself in our direction.

Holy fuck. It's fast. Incredibly fast. Its strides are probably equal to ten of my own. The gap between us is narrowing and I'm edging backward, starting to breathe in those high-pitched squeaky little gasps I find so fucking irritating when I hear them uttered by heroines in horror movies. The Predator isn't moving, which is more than a little alarming considering that he seemed to be in a real big hurry to get the fuck out of here all of a minute ago. He's standing where he is and it almost looks like he's squaring his stance, hunkering down low in preparation for hand to hand combat.

"What the fuck?" I whisper to him, backing up two more swift steps. I'm all for turning and leaving everyone to their inevitable demises but then I remember the thing fastened to my neck and, as the Predator has just so recently reminded me, its ability to blow me apart. So I'm stuck now between waiting to see what's going to happen (not ideal) and running away anyway with the very high risk he'll detonate my tracking device (extremely not ideal). For lack of anything else to do, I decide to vent what I'm feeling aloud. "What the fuck are you doing?" I shout at the Predator, who's still standing motionless in the face of his charging enemy.

It's almost here. It's almost here and it's not wearing a helmet and somehow, somehow, it's even uglier than the first one. It's also gargantuan, towering over my captor which has to put it somewhere in the range of ten to twelve feet. It's in range now and it leaps, is airborne, with one clawed hand raised in preparation to probably literally tear the other Predator to shreds. Doesn't succeed, though, because at the same time my eardrums are bombarded by the thunderous boom of gunfire, something explosive knocks it out of the air. Hands clapped over my ears, eyes watering from terror or panic (or any kind of negative emotion, really, because I'm currently experiencing them all), I whip around to find that there are two tanks rolling their way onto the field behind and off to the right. Two tanks. Actual tanks. And both of them are firing in our general direction.

As my brain attempts to catch up with reality, the Predator is suddenly right there in front of me, catching me by the upper arms and spinning me around. I get the gist of what he wants – run – but he decides to really drive his point home by shoving me so hard that I stumble two steps and hit my knees. He seizes my wrist, pulling me to my feet while at the same time dragging me with him and it takes me about twenty paces to find my footing again. Once I do it's a perpetual matter of playing catch up. Not that I'm complaining, because a backward glance reveals that while the tanks were able to take the new alien off guard, they aren't faring so well at keeping it under suppression. The military's come in force, I realize, because the sound of helicopters swooping in overhead suddenly becomes audible. This is good but also bad, because while they're distracting the new Predator they are also absolutely still hunting the one I'm running with now, a revelation solidified by the sound of a different kind of gunfire. Bullets bite into the grass in front of me, beside me, behind me, and I'm sprayed with dirt and grass and other assorted detritus. I'm absolutely certain I'm about to feel bullets chew their way up my spine but by some miracle it doesn't happen to me – instead it happens to the Predator. A bullet strikes him high on his right shoulder. He staggers, dragging me with him, and I get splattered with drops of his blood. It's DayGlo green, something so surreal that it commands my attention for just a split second despite everything else.

He rights himself with a growl, pulling on my arm to get me to keep pace. I'm able to do it, just barely, but my endurance is flagging. We've left the park behind and are now racing down a boulevard framed by elm trees still bearing some of their foliage. The sounds of weapons fire hasn't faded but seems to have changed focus. I'm more than willing to guess the new creature is proving to be more than a handful even for the military. What a heartening thought. The Predator guides us to a walking path, yanking me along so roughly that I cry out. If he keeps up with this pace he's going to be dragging me soon. The walking path takes us up and down hills, weaving into the forest. I see glimpses of residential parts of the city through the trees and I wonder if he's leading us back there or if he's seeking isolation. I also wonder if either option will keep the other creature from finding us.

He slows eventually, probably because I'm stumbling every third step. He comes to a halt and releases his hold on me; I hit my knees, doubling over, trying to convince my body to breathe instead of vomit. I've never ran that far that fast before and it's safe to say I'm not even close to being in the right physical condition to even have attempted it. I taste bile in the back of my throat and swallow once, twice, in an effort to make it recede. When finally it does I take a risk and lift my head to look at the Predator, who's conjured up his gauntlet's red holographic display. It's a map and there are a bevy of flashing red spots occupying it. I figure it's safe to assume those belong to everyone looking to kill or capture the Predator, which leads me to my next line of thought: had he known the military was so close? Was that why he'd chosen to face down his enemy instead of running? If so, it was an incredibly bold venture considering what Traeger wants. Bold or maybe a bit desperate, which has me eyeing the Predator from a new perspective now. I've seen the one he labeled as enemy in my own language, seen how it moves, seen what it can do. I have only the faintest inkling of what's going on right now but there are some dots there and as I connect them I realize that maybe my friend here is on the run. Maybe he's on the run and the new alien is hunting him down.

What a fucking abysmal thought.

We're out here in broad daylight and there's all manner of bad news on our tail and that's the reason I'm able to find enough energy to heave myself to my feet. My legs feel weak from over-exertion and I'm not confident they'll support me, but my options are few. "What now?" I ask, voice thready from exhaustion.

He doesn't respond and I don't expect him to, but my words have the intended effect of pulling his attention away from the hologram. He collapses it with the press of a finger and then that implacable visage turns toward me. I'm not sure which is worse: being stared down this way or by his maskless face. At least this way I don't feel like I'm under assault by those callous yellow eyes. I get the impression he's locked in some kind of internal debate, likely reconsidering the wisdom in bringing me along. I'm questioning the wisdom in that choice too because as I see it, I'm nothing but a liability to him, particularly now. For some reason though he saved me from Traeger's men, put the tracker on me, and used me to fetch his gear. Maybe he just needs a grunt to do his bidding, but I somehow suspect it's more than that. It suddenly dawns on me that he if he understands English, it means he's probably aware of just everything that was discussed while he was in captivity, including all I'd said. Maybe that's why I'm here–?

"You going to take a look at that?" I ask eventually to break the silence, gesturing at the wound he's sustained. The blank blackness of his visor stares back at me and he makes a guttural clicking sound and I have absolutely no idea what it means. I start circling around him to get a better look at the gunshot, and without thinking I reach out to touch it. His hand clamps down on my wrist so quickly I yelp. I get the hint – don't fucking touch– and I try to yank my hand away. He won't let go and I start to struggle, confused and afraid and a little angry. It's so easy for him to terrify me, to cow me into submission. It's not fair.

"Fucking let go," I snarl, and too late I remember he doesn't like being snarled at. He wrenches my arm and I stumble toward him with a pained whimper. We are suddenly very close and he's staring down at me with such focus that I can feel his enmity even though his mask hides his true face. As though to remind me how very tenuous my existence in this world is, he tightens his grip until the bones in my wrist are grinding against each other. My eyes start to water in agony and I'm about a heartbeat away from dropping to my knees before he relents, letting me go and shoving me back. It's about as gentle a reminder to behave as I can expect from him, and I'm clenching my teeth so hard it hurts as I glare at him.

Gunshots. Closer than I want them to be. Both our heads are jerked around by the noise. More shots, mingled with shouting. I inhale, preparing to embark on another mad dash in any direction that isn't here. The Predator begins to move, yes, but he's striding instead of running, looking at me sidelong and growling his equivalent of "follow" as he does so. I obey. We move off the walking path and into the forest. My footsteps are loud in the fallen leaves. His are much less so, a fact I find incredulous considering his size. He moves quickly and I fall into line behind him, attempting to shadow his steps. I still can't believe I'm doing this, can't believe I'm willingly following this killing machine as he leads me toward the sounds of conflict. My fingers stray up, brush over the tracking device embedded in my neck. I guess I can believe what I'm doing after all.

The commotion grows louder, voices lifted in alarm, sporadic gunshots. We walk until the Predator holds up one hand and I freeze where I am. He half-turns, pointing to the ground with a grunt. Stay here. I watch as moves away from me, as he takes his place in among a cluster of birch trees, as he activates whatever device it is that causes him to become invisible to my naked eye. The noise we'd been tracking grows louder, running steps rustling leaves as they approach, voices close enough now that they're understandable. Too late I realize I'm being used as potential bait, something to draw the attention of whatever's coming so that the Predator can have an advantage.

"Over here!"

And there they are, bursting into view over the rise of a steep bank: McKenna and Nebraska Williams, racing side by side. Nebraska's got a shotgun and McKenna his rifle and both of them are running while looking over their shoulders, clearly being pursued by something. That something is the last of the hounds and it's gaining on the two men with every one of its bounding strides. It gathers itself on its hind legs, preparing for a fatal leap; both men dive to the side, hitting the ground hard. McKenna rolls over, looks up, and sees me, mouth opening to holler a warning. The hound is airborne and I stand riveted to the spot even though every muscle I have is screaming to move, to dive, to go anywhere that isn't here. I fully expect to see the hound pounce on one of the men and bite the head off; instead the hound is bowled over by a projectile of the likes I've never seen before. It's a net, I realize as the canine strikes the ground and immediately begins to thrash, a net made of thick metal strands that don't give way as what they contain furiously fights against it.

McKenna and Nebraska are on their feet, the latter heading for the hound with nary a glance at me. McKenna's looking at me with a frown and eyebrows raised.

"He's here," I tell him in as quiet a voice as I can manage even though I know it's going to carry.

His brows descend immediately in comprehension and he whirls around, rifle raised. The Predator has let his cloak drop. He strides past McKenna without even a glance, clearly dismissing the Ranger as a non-threat. McKenna takes it personally as he was meant to, lining up for a shot to the back of the Predator's head.

"You can't!"

McKenna doesn't agree with me. "I can." he replies calmly.

The Predator's almost to the hound. Nebraska, seeing what's on approach, hastily backs away. "You can't," I say, attempting to keep my voice even, "because that tracking device he put on me I told you about? It's an explosive. And he can trigger it at any time."

I hate that I have to plead with McKenna to spare the Predator's life while at the same time I'm certain that this is just the way the Predator wants it. McKenna glances back at me, eyes narrowed. "You couldn't have mentioned that before?"

"Would you have helped me if you knew I was wired to blow?"

His silence speaks volumes. I knew as much, which is why I'd omitted this vital piece of info. I haven't forgotten that it was McKenna who left me to suffer at the hands of Traeger's men back at the compound. He hasn't lowered his rifle but he hasn't pulled the trigger yet either.

"Hey, what's he doing?" Nebraska circled around a tree and is pressed against it, leaning out of cover just enough to be able to be able to see what the Predator is doing. Said alien has drawn to a halt beside the hound, which is still alive even though the net is slowly constricting, wires slicing through its skin to leave behind a criss-cross pattern of neon green blood almost the same shade as that of the Predator himself. That it's an agonizing process is apparent by the shallow, high-pitched yips the hound is emitting.

I shake my head in silent answer to Nebraska's question. I have no idea what the Predator is doing. I'm as surprised as they are when he points at Nebraska and crooks a finger.

"What the fuck." is Nebraska's response while at te same time McKenna warns him, "Don't."

The Predator repeats his gesture, a little more emphatically this time. Nebraska eases out from behind the tree, shotgun prepped and ready. The Predator walks around the hound, crouches, gestures at the shotgun, and presses a finger against the hound's temple.

"Why's he telling me to shoot it? Why's he telling me to shoot it there?"

I volunteer what very little information I know. "He and the other one are enemies."

That grabs the attention of both men. "How do you know that?" McKenna demands.

"He told me."

McKenna scowls. Nebraska huffs out a disbelieving laugh. "He did," I insist. "In English. He told me the other one was his enemy and that if I went with him I'd survive."

McKenna's incredulousness rises over the agonized whines of the hound. "And you believed him?"

I scowl, tipping my head to expose the side of my neck where the tracker's located. "I didn't have much choice, did I?"

"Let's have this discussion another time," Nebraska says sharply, "because right now I need to know what the fuck to do."

"Do what he's telling you," I say. McKenna is silent, a muscle ticking along his jaw.

The Predator hasn't moved, still has his finger pressed against the head of the hound. After several moments of deliberation Nebraska moves into position. The Predator lets his hand fall away, allowing the Nebraska to press the barrel of his shotgun at the spot indicated. Another few seconds tick by, all of us waiting expectantly to see what he'll do. He pulls the trigger abruptly, the shot painfully loud. The hound jerks, legs twitching before falling still. The Predator rises and Nebraska backs away, reloading as he does so. The Predator pays him no mind, instead reaching down to grab the net. It retracts at his touch, swiftly collapsing in on itself until it's just a metal sphere sitting in his palm. I've seen so many wondrous, horrifying examples of his technology over the past 24 hours that this doesn't even phase me.

McKenna's still staring down the length of his rifle at the Predator, who in turn is busy with his gauntlet and acting like nothing in the immediate vicinity is even remotely a threat to his life. His arrogance in this regard is warranted and I think also calculated, because that tic in McKenna's jaw has intensified. "What now?" I ask my captor in an attempt to keep the Ranger from murdering him, and by proxy, me.

"Hey!"

Nebraska's shout whips my head around. He's staring at the body of the hound, which should be still and lifeless. It's not. The hound is alive and is getting to its feet slowly, shaking its head violently as it does so. It takes a step and lists to the side, takes another and tilts in that direction too. We three humans are staring at it in utter disbelief. The Predator ignores it.

Nebraska's edging back, clearly keen on putting a tree between himself and the hound. "Ain't no fucking way we can put it down if it lived through that."

The hound's head jerks up at the sound of his voice. It lurches in his direction, giving a bark before immediately hitting the dirt. It struggles up again and then just stands there, panting, head lolling from side to side as it looks at us all.

"I think," I say after a minute passes and it's still just standing there looking around vacantly, "that maybe you lobotomized it."

McKenna makes a dubious noise and he's busy circling around, trying to keep both aliens in his line of sight. After a moment I approach the hound, casting a glance at the Predator as I do so. He's watching me and as I pause in front of him, gesturing to the hound, he gives a nod with a short growl. I contemplate him for a moment, wondering if this is wise, wondering if I'm about to inadvertently give him a bit of amusement at my expense as I so often seem to do.

"The fuck are you doing?" McKenna growls as I walk toward the hound. Nebraska echoes him once I get closer to the hound, which has turned to look at me. I stop a couple of feet from it and wait; it pads toward me and then pauses. I hold my breath, not at all confident that any of the other three will be able to protect me if this goes south. The hound takes another step toward me and bumps its head gently against my legs. I sigh in relief, lift a hand to pat it on the head, but wisely decide not to.

"Great," Nebraska says, sounding not at all impressed. "Now we've got a pet."

"What I want to know," McKenna taps me on the shoulder to get me to turn around, "is what the fuck your friend over here is planning next. And why I shouldn't just end him right now."

The next words out of my mouth are unplanned. "You really think you could?"

McKenna's blue eyes thin to slits. "I hit him last time."

Seems I've hit a nerve. Good. Still, there are other, bigger concerns to address. "Look, you want him dead, I don't care, but can it wait until I don't have this thing on my neck?"

Nebraska chimes in, approaching but giving the now-docile hound wide berth. "You got any guarantee he'll take it off once he's done doing whatever it is he needs to do?"

He reads my answer in my grim expression. I don't feel like dwelling on that right now. Instead I say, "We've got bigger problems, like the other Predator. And Traeger."

"Exactly, which is why we need to get the fuck out of here." McKenna impatiently swings around to look at the Predator. "So what's it gonna be?"

The Predator has an answer already prepared, his gauntlet displaying an image that I don't recognize. McKenna does, though, and his breath hisses out from between his teeth. "What is that?" I ask.

"His ship."

His ship is oddly formed and looks largely unlike what I would have imagined. The display rotates, zooming in and then out before focusing on a certain part, and that part starts flashing red. The Predator points to that part.

Nebraska ventures to voice the obvious. "He needs his ship."

"Where is it?" I ask McKenna.

The Ranger rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "It was in the jungle. Where it is now I don't know." His eyes flick to me. "Shouldn't be that hard to guess, though."

"Traeger's got it," I say with a sigh.

"Which means you're not getting to it," Nebraska adds. "Breaking back into that place is a bad idea. Especially now with that other one…"

I agree with all of this but I don't have much say. Until this thing on my neck is gone I don't get a choice. The Predator's holographic image is still spinning and flashing but he's not moving. He's clearly waiting for McKenna and Nebraska to reach a decision. I'm surprised by this. I was under the opinion he operated alone and well, why not? He's destruction in motion, a deadly and intelligent thing that never should have arrived here, that mankind is not prepared for. But I've also witnessed his adversary, like himself except inexplicably more and I think now that maybe it's not so odd that he's looking to form an alliance, however uneasy and tenuous it may be, to get what he wants. I've no illusions as to what will happen afterward. Someone, alien or human, will die.

Judging from McKenna's expression, he's thinking along the same lines as he stares hard at the creature that killed his friend back there in the jungle. I fully expect him to walk away. I would.

"So you need our help, huh?"

The Predator does nothing, merely regards us all from behind the opaque lenses of his mask. McKenna's weighing his options and I'll wager that what he's thinking about more than anything is whether or not he'll get a chance for payback.

I'm correct. "All right," he finally says with a nod. He smiles at the Predator, a savage baring of teeth. "I'll help you out." It's more a threat than anything else.

That the Predator is aware of this is evident in the way he tilts his head to the side and that sound he makes, that low rolling trill I've come to think of as his cutting, spiteful laughter. McKenna's got another thing coming if he thinks he'll catch this one unaware, and then I realize that's part of the game to the Predator, something he'll enjoy. McKenna won't get out of this alive. I probably won't either.

Nebraska tries to be the voice of reason. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he demands of McKenna.

"No," the Ranger says, still locked in a staredown with the Predator. "I'm not kidding at all."

.x.