A Time of Predators

Curt shifted a little uncomfortably on the ledge. Predators? He had come after leopards, had found hyenas. Of course, dangerous in the aggregate or when trapped, but... predators? Scavengers, rather. Not that it made any difference, he told himself uneasily. He would take them one by one, so they would know it was coming and would have to wait for it, tasting their fear like the taste of a brass bullet casing.

Two thirds of the way along the ledge was a jutting shoulder of rock which narrowed the path to just a bit wider than a foot. To get beyond it, Curt had to edge around with his back to the rock. Perfect.

He followed Champ’s progress by purportedly cautious sounds: the scrape of a shoe on rock, panting, a muttered curse. Did Champ really think he was making a silent approach, so he could take Curt by surprise? Or was he so confident he didn’t give a damn if Curt heard him? Finally the noises showed that Champ was on the ledge, was waiting for Curt to betray himself. So Champ thought he was undetected! Curt let him wait for two minutes, then scuffed his boot, once, to knock a single pebble off the path.

Then he waited.

Two minutes later Champ’s left hand and arm came gradually into view around the knob of rock, as he edged along with his back to the cliff face just as Curt had done.

Now.

Curt kicked with his right leg, jackknifing in the middle for added balance and power, shattering Champ’s elbow with the steel-shod tip of his boot. It was a beautifully delivered kick, which would have sent any normal opponent hurtling into space by mere reflex action.

But Champ’s reflexes were those of an animal, for he sprang not out, but sideways, yelling with shock and pain but still sideways right past Curt, so they were facing one another on the ledge a mere yard wide.

“You... you busted my arm!” exclaimed Champ in amazement.

Then he sprang. Curt, still unnerved by his opponent’s agility and strength, was driven back into the rock before he could set for a defense. His head slammed into the stone; he went woozy for a moment. Champ’s head came up under his chin, forcing his head back, arching his back, at the same time that Champ’s right arm circled Curt’s waist and his clenched right fist dug into the small of Curt’s back.

Legs wide-spread, Champ turned their locked bodies, inexorably, so Curt’s back was to the drop. Still dizzy from his head striking the rock, Curt found his left arm pinned in the terrible strength of Champ’s bear hug; his right hand was free but had no ready place to strike, since Champ’s head was drawn down between his giant trapezius muscles like that of a turtle into its shell. Curt groaned. He was strained so far back that his face was pointed skyward, his shoulders actually were over the chasm. There was a muted double pop, and pain tore through his chest as two ribs cracked.

The pain snapped him back. All finished, was he? Not quite yet.

Curt drove his left knee up between Champ’s legs. The big man shuddered, squirmed, tried to shield his testicles from the second blow he knew would come — but he didn’t slacken his grip.

Again. Champ moaned. He turned his head to the left, grinding his skull harder against Curt’s jaw. But he also exposed his face. Curt locked his right hand into a judo fist, second knuckle of the middle finger protruding, and drove it with all his strength into the place that he hoped Champ’s left eye would he.

It was.

Champ screamed, twisting away and back, clawing his right hand at the injured eye. Curt teetered for a second on the edge, almost gone, then got his balance just as Champ lurched toward him, yelling, all fighting sense gone in rage and pain. With almost surgical precision. Curt used his steel-shod right foot again, but driving it this time into Champ’s crotch. The big man collapsed, going down onto his knees like a heart-shot buffalo, and Curt smashed the knife edge of his right hand in a backhand blow at the exposed neck vertebrae to crush them. He struck three inches too low, across the back of the shoulders, but the force of the blow’ knocked Champ forward, right over the edge.

Curt was dragged to his knees by the ragged knife-blade of pain between his ribs. He dragged in shallow half-breaths, choking still from that awesome bear hug. He looked over the edge.

Champ had slid head-first for the first few feet, had clutched a protrusion of rock with his right hand, had clung desperately as his body slid by into space. His fingers had held on even under the shock of the full weight of his body; now he swung over emptiness by just that one hand, his broken left arm dangling uselessly at his side.

When Curt looked over, he stared right into the fear-stricken face.

“I...” Terror thickened Champ’s voice. “Mister... please...”

Debbie moaning on the phone — please. Curt watched, unblinking, as the clawed fingers began to very gradually straighten.

“Please...”