The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) (8 page)
Read The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) Online
Authors: James S. Gardner
Tags: #Suspense & Thrillers
“Don't worry about me. I won't run, and I won't miss.” Turner's boasting caused Rigby and Dutchy to glance at each other.
It took them an hour to drive to the circling vultures. They got out of the truck and started to move up. Sam made sure they were downwind. The baobab was at the edge of a dried-up pan. The tree was covered in vultures and marabou storks. Underneath its twisted branches there was a tancolored form. Sam led them into the heavy “adrenalin” grass. The area around the pan was thicketed in mopani scrub and hook-thorn underbrush.
During the night, two black-maned lions had fought over a woman's carcass. One lion rested under the baobab guarding what was left of her. His belly was swollen with human flesh and organs. He flicked his tail to ward off blowflies and he lapped blood off of his paws. His brother waited nearby for his turn to feed. He licked at a deep gash inflicted by his brother. Instantly, both lions stood up to investigate a noise.
Dutchy increased the volume on his tape recorder. The sound of a child screaming carried on the wind. They saw the lion under the tree, but no one saw the second lion circling in behind them. Dutchy had left Jocko in the truck. When the dog saw the second lion crawling towards his master, he went wild. Dutchy turned and motioned to silence him. The lion was now only fifty meters behind him. Jocko tried to squeeze through the cracked window.
“Take him, Max,” Rigby whispered. “No wait! Wait!” He hooked Turner's elbow and pulled him forward. “Watch his tail. As long as he's flicking it, we're safe. If he straightens his tail for balance, he's coming.” The hunters fanned out with Dutchy on the flank. Rigby and Turner stayed in the middle. Sam put his fingers in his ears and squatted.
The lion charge started in slow motion. The male under the baobab came at them slowly at first. The cat extended his massive forelegs to build speed. His arrow-shaped head stayed level. His yellow eyes locked on his prey. As he closed the distance, the big male extended his razor-sharp claws, opened his jaws and spewed deep resonating snorts.
“Take him, Max! Shoot him, for Christ's sake. Shoot him!” Rigby screamed. Mentally thickened by fatigue and the chaos of the moment, Max had forgotten to release the safety. When he pulled the trigger, he got no response. When he turned to run he hit Rigby in the face with his rifle butt, knocking him to the ground. Sam Mabota took the full charge of the five-hundred pound lion. The sound was one of bones breaking. Rigby and Dutchy swung their weapons inward, but realized they would shoot each other in the crossfire.
The first lion's attack triggered his brother's charge. Dutchy turned around and found Jocko latched on the second lion's tail. The cat swatted Jocko. One quick bite crushed the terrier's skull. The lion dropped the dog and headed straight for Dutchy.
“Jocko! My baby,” Dutchy cried. He fired his nitro express, but missed. His second shot blew a hole in the cat's thigh. The enraged lion pounced on Dutchy and tried to deliver a death bite, but Dutchy grabbed two fistfuls of the lion's mane and stiff-armed its jaws. Rigby discharged his .416 into the lion's ear. The big male collapsed on top of Dutchy. Frightened by the gunfire, the first lion bounded off into the elephant grass. The dust and gun smoke settled. The air was filled with the stench of cordite.
“Is anyone hurt?” asked Rigby, his voice shaking. “Where in Christ's name, did that second one come from? Max, why didn't you fire? What the bloody hell happened?”Rigby checked the lump on his forehead for blood.
“It was a defective cartridge,” said Max. “I pulled the trigger and nothing happened.”
“Nothing happened?” Rigby asked.
Dutchy sat next to the dead lion with Jocko in his arms. He was covered in blood and part of his scalp had fallen down over his face. He wasn't crying, but tears ran down his cheeks, mixing with his blood. “My poor Jocko, one of them finally got you. Rigby, I reckon Jocko's barking saved me. I never saw this one,” he said, spitting on the dead lion.
“Jesus, Dutchy, you're hurt. Let me have a look at you. That lion worked you over.” As Rigby surveyed the carnage, he realized Sam was still lying on the ground. One of Sam's legs had a bone protruding. “How bad is it?” he asked Sam, kneeling beside him.
“I have no feeling in my legs. I'd rather die than crawl like a worm. My youngest wife dreamed this would happen.” “Sam, you're talking rubbish. I'll get you fixed up proper. ” Rigby lit two cigarettes and put one in Sam's mouth.
“We've had a good life together,” said Sam, taking Rigby's hand. His face was contorted from pain. “I want to be buried in Zimbabwe. This country has always been cursed for me.”
Rigby took Sam's hand and said, “My brother, we'll grow old and fat together.”
Sam forced a smile and answered, “I'm already old.”
Rigby had seen too many Africans die not to know that Sam was determined to end his life. He walked over to Max who was sitting on the ground. “Max, what's this bullshit about how you never miss and you never run?” Rigby had to be led away by Dutchy.
The Matabele trackers stayed behind to bury the woman's remains under the baobab tree. Next to her, they buried Jocko. They piled sandstones on the graves to prevent the hyenas from digging them up. When they arrived back in camp, they learned Sam Mabota had died in Rigby's arms. The men wrapped Sam's body in a tent and placed it in the back of Rigby's truck.
A somber Max Turner stood over Sam's body. “I will pray for his soul tonight. I wish he was a Christian. ‘The Lord instructed one prophet to say to another, strike me, but the man refused to strike the prophet. Then the prophet told him. Because you have not obeyed the Lord, a lion will kill you. He was attacked and killed by a lion.' Kings 20:35.' ”
“You can take your religious hocus-pocus and stuff it,” Rigby said. “One of my men will drive you over the border. I'll refund your money, less our expenses. I've got one hell of a long drive ahead of me. Let's say goodbye, and leave it at that.”
“I know you're mad, but there was nothing I could have done differently. It was a defective bullet. I don't care about the refund. As a matter of fact, I'd feel better if I could send some money to Sam's family,” said Max.
“Max, I'm mad at the world. Sam Mabota was like a brother. If you could help his family, I know they could use it. I need to get on the road. Goodbye, Max.” He waited until the truck carrying Max was out of sight before turning to Dutchy, “It took a lot for me not to kill that son-of-a-bitch. Don't think for a minute, I didn't consider it.”
Rigby stood next to Sam's body. “You didn't deserve to die like this. I should never have let you come on this cocked-up safari. This is as much my fault as Turner's. I wish it was me and not you.”
Dutchy put his arm around Rigby and spoke. “Don't punish yourself. Sam knew the risks.” “Bullshit, Dutchy, Sam was too old to do this hunt.”
“
Ja
, but how many of our friends have been killed in this hunting business? We know the dangers, but we must feed our families.”
Rigby turned and looked at Dutchy. “Let me have a look at you. I think a career in the movies is definitely out of the question. It doesn't look too bad, mostly blood, but nothing too deep. We'll get you to a doctor on the way out. You're in for a fair amount of stitching and antibiotics. I reckon a lion's claws are the filthiest things on God's earth.”
“I don't trust quacks. You've got needle and string. You stitch me up. You need to get him in the ground. Sam was a
goed
one. I'll miss him.”
“You won't miss him as much as I will. You there, bring me some whiskey,” Rigby yelled at one of his men. “The doctor needs to steady his sewing hand.”
Dutchy didn't flinch as Rigby reattached his scalp. They consumed a liter of whiskey between them. As Rigby tied off the last suture, he thought about how much he hated Max Turner.
After Rigby finished his doctoring; he drove out of camp with Sam Mabota's body in the back of his truck. A few minutes into the ride, he pulled a bottle of whiskey from under the seat and placed it between his legs.
His first stop was at the baobab tree where his men buried the African woman and Jocko. He took a swig of whiskey before getting out of the truck. Turner said he ejected that defective cartridge near the graves. If I don't have a look, I'll never know, he thought.
He stood over the graves and looked at a spot under the baobab tree. The brass bullet glistened in the sunshine. Before loading the round, he held it up. Just as I expected, the cap isn't dented. The gunshot echoed down the valley. Rigby stuck the spent shell in his pocket and walked back to the truck.
As he drove, he thought about what he would say to Sam's wives. The thought depressed him. At the last second, he turned around and headed back to the place where they had encountered the bandits. God, I hope I find you, he said to himself. He opened the breach to make sure a round was engaged. He downshifted and started up a gentle rise. When he reached the top, he recognized the barricade. As soon as he stopped, they walked out of the underbrush. So, you haven't left, he thought.
“
Hoe gaan dit met jou
?” the man missing a hand asked.
“
Goed dankie
,” Rigby answered.
“
Goed
.”
“Where's your friend, Dutchy? Haven't you heard, there are many bandits in Mozambique?” The other men found their leader's words sidesplitting. Rigby never took his eyes off of the man talking.
“I think you should give us some food.”
“Quite right. I have a nice side of impala wrapped up in the back. Take what you want,” Rigby said, throwing his hunting knife in the back of the truck. Two of them leaned their AK-47s against the side of the truck and jumped up into the bed. They cut the bindings and started to unroll Sam Mabota's corpse.
“Be sure to leave some for me,” Rigby yelled as they uncovered Sam's face. They screamed and jumped back. The others ran to help their friends, but when they saw Sam's face, they also started screaming. Rigby struck the leader on the bridge of his nose with his rifle butt knocking him to the ground. He hit him again. A blood geyser erupted from the man's face. He hit the next one in the temple. He caught the third one flush in the mouth. The last man kneeled down and begged for mercy. One bandit tried to run, but his legs appeared boneless and wouldn't support him.
“
Wat doen jy
?” the one-handed leader asked.
“For starters, take off your clothes. Be quick about it, or I'll shoot all of you.”
“What are you going to do with us?” another man asked.
“I'm gonna watch the lions eat you,” he slurred. “No self-respecting lion would feed on gutless scum like you.” He fired his rifle at their feet. “Start running.”
“
Asseblief
, you cannot take our weapons. Only a demon would leave men out here to die.” The man with one hand tried to stand up, but he wobbled and fell to his knees.
“What about the women? What chance did you give them? You remember the girl with the crippled foot? I'm giving you better than you gave them.” He threw the men's clothes in the back of his truck. He kept firing until they were out of sight.
After taking a swig of whiskey he glanced back at Sam's body and smiled. Sam, you should have seen their faces when I told them I wanted to feed them to the lions. I do believe they shit themselves. Only good thing to come out of this cocked-up safari.
E
xhaustion and whiskey beat him into submission. Just before sundown, Rigby pulled off the road and crawled under his truck to sleep. He covered himself with Sam's woolen blanket and dozed off. He closed his eyes and remembered the day he met Sam. It was at the Selous Scout Regimental recruiting headquarters in Salisbury.
An officer sitting behind a desk addressed Sam. I was next in line.“So, Mr. Mabota, you want to join the Selous Scouts? You do know only one man in ten finishes the course. Yet you still wish to volunteer?”
“Yes, sah, very much so, sah,” Sam answered, clicking his heels together.
The officer circled around Sam, examining him. “Africans never show their age like the rest of us mortals. It says here you think you're about forty. A bit old for this kind of duty, wouldn't you agree?”
“Sah, does it say there I finished number one in my class?”
“Yes, quite right, Mr. Mabota,” he said, twirling a tip of his mustache. “Because of your basic training record, I'm inclined to approve your selection. Your application is accepted. Next,” the officer said.
“Mr. Croxford, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well now, Croxford, I must say there's nothing stunning about your basic training record. Your late father had a brilliant military career. But you see, unlike you, he was a disciplined soldier. Because of your father, I'm inclined to approve your application. I'd be surprised if you make it through the first week. Good luck Mr. Croxford, you'll certainly need it.”
Rigby needed to urinate, but he resisted leaving the warm hollow under his truck. He forgot where he was and banged his head. “Shit,” he uttered. What caused the goose flesh on my arms, he asked himself. He thought he heard something. He strained to hear, but it was quiet. Get a grip, he thought, chiding himself. The sound of leaves rustling made his heart race. He heard an animal sniffing and when he looked out from underneath the truck he saw hairy legs and shadows. The lions started excavating him from his burrow. He tunneled deeper, but the lions were better diggers. When he felt the truck move he knew they were in the bed. You're not lions. You're bloody hyenas and you're after Sam. He crawled out, climbed in his truck and switched on the headlamps. His truck was surrounded by glowing eyes. The canvas tarp wrapping Sam's corpse had been shredded. “Get you filthy buggers,” Rigby screamed, firing his rifle. The cackling hyenas loped off.
Rigby was driving before sunrise. The hillsides were dotted with umbrella acacias budding in anticipation of the rainy season. He passed a cart pulled by four miserable looking donkeys; it was stacked with firewood and Africans. As he waved back, he wondered why Africans appear happy. Maybe it's because death in Africa isn't abstract, it permeates your soul. Life is tolerable when you know death intimately, he reflected. As he drove, he daydreamed about his wife. Early in their marriage, he tried to shelter his wife from the brutality of Africa.
“
Rigby, tell me what you did in Mozambique? The London Times is calling it a massacre. It says the Rhodesians killed over a thousand freedom fighters.”
“Helen, I wouldn't believe anything in the Times. We had been getting intelligence about a terrorist camp operating in Mozambique. The insurgents have been sneaking over our border and laying landmines. Those landmines are killing children. Someone finally decided to do something. That's all.”
“Please tell me you didn't kill anyone?”
“Me? I was part of a demolition team.”
“Thank God. Will this lunacy ever end?” She daubed her eyes. “I'm glad you're not like the others.”
“For me, this war ends in two months,” I told her. But my tour of duty didn't end and as the war turned against us; I became one of the ‘others.' She never asked me about the war again. Men do God awful things in war. Grisly things we keep hidden. Sam was right, some days were not good.
Lupano was a village on the road. Rigby pulled up to the lone petrol pump and got out of his truck. He was surprised by the lack of children. The petrol attendant explained that the story of his journey had preceded him. Africans were wary of a man transporting a corpse. Rigby told him that he felt like Livingstone's trusted servant Susi, who carried the doctor's salt-cured corpse a thousand kilometers to Zanzibar to be shipped back to England for a proper burial. The man said he never heard of Livingstone or Susi. He politely asked Rigby to leave.
***
Sam Mabota's funeral turned into a theatrical extravaganza. People came from every corner of the country. The attendees pitched tents on the Croxford farm. At night, smoke from their campfires cast a halo around the moon. African music struggled against monotonous native rap. Rigby had a truckload of
chibuku
delivered to his farm. Mounds of empties scarred the landscape. Some men slept where they fell, too drunk to find their way back to their tents. The drunken celebration of Sam's life lasted for three days.
On the fourth day, the time came to put Sam in the ground. To the consternation of some, Sam was to be laid to rest in the Croxford family plot. Each attendee carried a small stick to the funeral. A black iron pot sat next to Sam's grave. If they had been treated fairly by Sam during his life, they deposited their stick in the pot. If Sam had wronged them, they would retrieve a stick. The length of the eulogy praising Sam's life would be directly proportional to the number of sticks in the pot. Not one stick was taken from the funeral pot that day.
Sam's five wives and thirteen children wailed and threw themselves on the ground. After his brother's death, Sam had married his sister-in-law for her protection as well as her children's. This was the African custom.
The honor of giving the eulogy was given to Rigby. He delivered the first part in Isindebele. He concluded by quoting Scott Holland's famous sermon in English. “It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was, I am I and you are you and the old life we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.” After the service ended, the mourners waited in line to shake Rigby's hand.
After the ceremony, Mabota's wives buried him under a flame tree in a sitting position facing the setting sun. The approach of the rainy season had only teased the farmers, but it rained that day. People said it was Sam looking out for friends. Whatever or whoever brought the rain, it caused a bursting forth of new life. Green grass shoots and wild flowers escaped hibernation. The scarred landscape was replenished as Sam's journey was concluded.
A sad silence lay on the rolling green hills of the Croxford farm. Three months after the funeral, Rigby continued to visit Sam's grave. He would sit quietly under the flame tree sipping his whiskey. From time to time, his mind would cast off in an unavoidable direction. His daydreaming returned to Max Turner. When he thought about Max, he fondled the spent cartridge he carried in his pocket. It was the bullet that should have killed the lion.