by TR Kohler
An innocent enough inquiry Kidman has no interest in replying to, already counting moments until their brief interaction is over.
Despite the healthy layer of dirt soiling the man’s clothes and face, nothing about him says merchant. Certainly, not one that deals in produce.
Forced to guess, Kidman would put him more as a bureaucrat of some sort. Somebody used to sitting behind a desk, his budding paunch and the soft skin of his palm when they shook earlier both giving him away.
Physical characteristics that might be common in some parts of the world, but don’t seem to fit with their current surroundings.
“Missionary work,” Kidman replies, inserting the answer handed to him by Ma earlier. Hooking a thumb over his shoulder, he points to the pack strapped to his back. “Care for a Bible?”
A question meant to be in mirth, though the immediate response it evokes is one of revilement. An expression that hints of extreme distaste before dissolving, cast away with a quick shake of the head.
“Good luck getting religion to fly in these parts,” the man replies before immediately pivoting. “Been here long?”
“Few days,” Kidman replies. “Flew into Brazzaville earlier in the week, been working my way north ever since.”
“Any particular reason?”
Recognizing the questions as going well beyond mere curiosity, Kidman pauses before replying. A choice to stem the steady torrent of inquiries.
Delving by someone clearly looking to extract information.
“Was told this was where I could be the most help,” Kidman replies. Barely do the words fade before he asks, “You say you make this trip weekly?”
“The trip?” the man responds, clearly not expecting the question.
“Up north,” Kidman prompts, his having to do so confirming his original supposition that he was being lied to. “To drop off your unsold produce.”
“Usually. Sometimes less. Depends on how much I have available at a given time.”
“Ah,” Kidman says, each bit of interaction heightening the annoyance he feels. “But, still pretty often?”
“Enough. Why?”
“Just wondering how much further it is to town,” Kidman responds.
The last of the gunshots more than fifteen minutes in the past, already Kidman is ready to be on his way again. Leave the man to his own devices and head back in the opposite direction.
Allow him to check out the scene of the fight that just played out before continuing on with what brought him to the Congo originally.
“Oh,” Fumu says, “maybe, a couple miles? If it were dark, we’d be able to see the lights of town pretty plainly by now.
“Pretty much a straight shot between here and Makoua.”
“So you know the way then?” Kidman asks. “Be okay to make it back on your own from here?”
Coming to a stop, he lets the man continue on a couple of paces before having to turn back to face him.
A move that makes obvious the annoyance on his features, though if from Kidman’s decision to depart or just the general direction of the conversation, there is no way to be sure.
Likely, a combination of the two.
If not more.
“I mean, I guess, but where are you headed? You can’t really be-”
“I am,” Kidman replies. “We haven’t heard gunshots in quite a while, so I think the fighting has stopped. People might be hurt and need help.”
The man’s gaze flicks from Kidman to the thickening forest from which they just came. The clusters of trees behind them leading north into the rainforest.
The direction the man was originally going before getting derailed, his real reason for being there something Kidman can only guess at.
On the man’s face is obvious conflict. An internal debate between sticking to his story and wanting to continue pulling Kidman in the wrong direction.
The desire to try and use rank, or age, or whatever else he can, to produce his intended effect.
Outcomes Kidman has no interest in, every moment spent with the man, moving south toward Makoua, a moment wasted.
Extending a hand, Kidman rests it on the man’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Like you said, it’s only a little ways into town, and we’re the only people out here.”
“Yes, but-”
“Besides,” Kidman adds, cutting the man off once more, “it’s the Christian thing to do.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
For five solid minutes, Kidman remains on foot. A slow and steady walk back over the same ground he just traversed. Time spent with the vivid image of his closing quip and the appalled expression it induced from the middle-aged man claiming to be known as Yogo.
Resisting the urge to turn and repeatedly check over his shoulder, Kidman keeps his bearing headed due north. Crunching over the brittle sand underfoot, he waits until he is safely back within the confines of trees before sliding the backpack down off his shoulder.
Digging out the same photo that first brought him here, he checks his surroundings before jumping back to the exact spot where he started.
A return that is markedly different from his previous landing in just about every way possible.
Gone is the frenetic energy of battle waging nearby. No popping of automatic fire reverberates through the air. No flashes of muzzle bursts in the distance. No yelling of orders or screams of pain.
In fact, the only things that even hint of what recently took place is the slight scent of smoke in the air and the heavy stillness that has descended. The kind that can only exist in the moments following conflict, when all forms of life have been chased away.
And the world seems to be holding its breath, waiting to determine if another round is coming.
An eventuality Kidman can’t imagine occurring this time. Not with the scene he first arrived to find seeming so impromptu, a random collision between two small forces rather than a staged battle.
Just as he did on his first visit, Kidman’s initial move is to drop to a knee. Stowing the photo back into his pack, he yanks up the left pant leg of his cargo trousers and slides the pahoa knife from its sheath.
A quick, silent movement done as his gaze darts around, checking every shadow. Each nook and crevice.
All possible places where somebody might be lying in wait. Someone lingering after the fight or maybe someone still searching for the man claiming to be Yogo.
Invisible enemies that do not show as Kidman rises and begins to creep forward. An approach that again causes him to abandon jumping ahead. Remaining on foot in the slim chance he is being watched, he creeps from tree to tree.
Making use of the cover afforded him, he keeps on, ignoring the sting of sweat in his eyes. The burn of lactic acid in his quads.
A march that takes a full five minutes before finally the site of the recent fight comes into view.
A clearing just over thirty yards across, the area is bisected by the same two-lane track he and Yogo were using as a guide earlier cutting straight through the center. A road pockmarked with divots, none larger than the gaping maw just north of the clearing’s midpoint.
A spot of upturned earth that Kidman guesses to have been the spot of a land mine, as evidenced by the burning remains of a Jeep nearby. Turned on a side by the power of the blast, the vehicle rests with its undercarriage exposed to Kidman, most of it charred black with smoke.
A result of the blaze that once engulfed it, now appearing to have dwindled down to a fraction of its original power.
A visual that provides one small additional point in favor of the tale shared by his temporary traveling companion.
Sprawled on the ground around the wreckage are a trio of bodies. Men dressed in camouflage uniforms, the thin material spotted with blossoms of dark red.
Fresh blood that hasn’t yet started to dry, likely due to the heavy humidity in the air.
Individuals that clearly aren’t those from the unit Wilson Pruitt dispatched, these men’s physical appearance and the
ir uniforms depicting them as local militia. Members of whatever force Yogo claimed to be following north out of Makoua.
Needing to go no closer, Kidman keeps himself tucked behind the base of a tree. Body pressed tight against the trunk, he chances quick glances, scanning the area.
A ground reconnaissance that paints a fairly clear picture of what played out. An exact enactment of what he originally suspected, the guerrilla tactics employed pretty universal. Standard fare for uneven forces, the rebels using surprise and misdirection to score a quick win before disappearing.
A buried explosive allowing hidden fighters to swarm in.
Use chaos and confusion to pick off a few of the militia members.
Retreating as soon as the opposition was able to regroup and begin to mount a return attack.
Who the exact players are on either side, he can’t be exactly sure. Knowing only that they are the usual division between some sort of paramilitary force and locals that no longer wish to be controlled, beyond that would be completely guessing.
Motivations and allegiances.
Boundaries and intersections.
Things that aren’t of his immediate concern as he checks his surroundings once more. A quick glance for signs of life before lifting his gaze to the towering palm tree he is pressed against. A trunk rising more than forty feet into the air, the top sprouting a plume of fronds underscored by a cluster of green coconuts.
Sighting on the smooth part immediately south of them, he jumps straight up. A quick burst, risking the chance of being seen in the name of getting a clear view of the scene below.
And, more importantly, to help plot his course moving forward.
Moving north away from the wreckage of the Jeep still burning in the center of the clearing is the same two-lane he’s been walking since arriving. A deeply rutted path winding through the thickening forest, eventually disappearing into the heavier vegetation just beyond his sightline.
Tailing off to the east just beyond the clearing is a much smaller tract. One that seems to avoid the heaviest of the forest, choosing instead to swing out around in a scything path.
A pair of options that he considers only for a moment before making his decision.
And immediately jumping back to the ground before heading to the north.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Hazik begins yelling long before even entering his mayoral residence. The instant his feet cross over from the dirt path onto the concrete sidewalk lining his property, he lets the concentrated venom roiling through him begin to spill out.
A single word repeated over and again. Each one stretched out a bit longer. Every successive time packed with a bit more angst.
“Fumu!” he belts out, making his way toward the front door. Stamping his feet on the concrete path, he leaves a trail of dried mud in his wake. Detritus picked up on his long walk back into town after parting with the man that had seemingly come from nowhere.
Another damn American having arrived without visible reason or purpose.
A man whose every word was either a lie or a blatant sidestep. Some young punk who clearly didn’t know who Hazik is, believing him a fool.
One more of a recent string, going to visit the held prisoner being what brought the entire incident on to begin with.
“Fumu! Dammit!” he snaps again as he bursts through the front door into his residence. Shoving it open as hard as he can, he pays no mind as it hurtles backward before slamming into the wall.
A thunderous crash that echoes through the cavernous front room. Reverberates past the stuffed animal heads lining the walls and the display cases filled with cultural artifacts from the area.
Displays that are a complete waste of effort and space, put there by his predecessor in some sort of ill-fated attempt to bring in visitors. Tourists that might have some bit of interest in the random knickknacks and tchotchkes.
An idiot that seemed to forget that there was only one thing the area offered that was of any value to the outside world. The thing he has spent the last six months amassing a force and scouring the surrounding area in search of.
The very same that now seems to have delivered a line of Americans onto their doorstep.
“Fumuuuu!” Hazik calls, letting his voice roll out as he strides through the open room.
In no way does he actually believe Fumu to be back yet. Considering he just spent the last couple of hours walking parallel to the only route running due south into Makoua, he would have seen the man if he somehow made his way past.
More likely, Fumu pushed north. In pursuit of the rebels, he was probably drawn deeper into the rainforest.
Perhaps he even turned east, opting to go pay the prisoner another visit. A prime opportunity to unleash some fury after the encounter with the rebels.
Hopefully, enough to get the man talking.
And to get bastards like the one he just spent an hour with far, far away.
Moves Hazik can only wish didn’t lead them into an even larger ambush, wanting to believe that the surprise planted along the road was the utmost of the local villagers’ capabilities.
Needing to put his own angst somewhere in the meantime, do something to release the roiling animosity within, Hazik stomps through the open space of the main floor. Each step planted firmly, bits of dried mud and dust scatter across the tile.
A trail that will need to be cleaned up directly, somebody on his staff having to prove their usefulness.
Continuing the exaggerated pacing, Hazik makes it through the room and on to the back half of the building. A path that takes him to the foot of the staircase where he makes a turn back in the opposite direction and begins to ascend.
More foot stomping that serves as a warning to all, his entire staff seeming to have evaporated from sight.
No mind that it is the middle of the afternoon.
Reaching the second floor a moment later, Hazik considers going to his living quarters. Stripping out of his dirty clothes, the allure of a shower is almost intoxicating. The chance to wash away the sweat and grime from his afternoon in the woods. Hours spent basting under the heat and humidity.
The weight of everything that has gone wrong in the last couple of hours.
Rinse it all from his body, allowing it to flood through the drain at his feet, before emerging fresh.
Ready to come at things anew.
An option he only just manages to sidestep, instead turning into his office. A quick pivot that sees him stride past his desk sitting silent and the dozen slips of paper resting atop it.
Notices of phone calls missed. Less important matters that will have to wait.
Things he has no mind for at the moment as he goes out to the rail of his balcony. The same exact spot he stood in alongside Fumu the night before, and peers out.
A pointed stare toward the far edge of town, hoping for any sign of the many answers he finds himself craving.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Situated directly atop the equator, there is no reprieve from the omnipresent heat. No break from the potent warmth of the sun, even now as it sits just inches above the horizon, the air temperature still hovering somewhere close to triple digits.
That much, Kidman can do nothing about.
What he can rid himself of is the oppressive weight of the humidity on the rainforest floor below. The heavy moisture content that seems to be superheated by the sun beating on the canopy above.
A veritable steam cooker, harnessing the heat of the sun even while keeping most of it blocked from view.
Nestled high in a kapok tree more than a hundred feet off the ground, he sits with his back pressed tight to the trunk. A quick hop from the forest floor to two lower branches before finding this particular perch, he sits with legs dangling down over either side.
Content to sit for just a moment, his head is tilted back against the tree. Eyes closed against the approaching rays of the sun sitting almost parallel to the ground, he allows a few faint puffs of breeze to touch
the perspiration on his skin.
A blessed respite from the heat below.
A state that almost has him wishing for a few moments on that back porch he and Kari Ma shared in Canada years before.
Almost.
At what point the terrain changed from just heavily treed to woods to rainforest, Kidman cannot pinpoint exactly. Traveling through a mix of walking and jumping ahead, it wasn’t that he noticed a clear demarcation.
More a gradual transition, the foliage around him becoming thicker, the humidity in the air heavier, the moisture content of the soil beneath his feet much higher.
The lack of sunlight more noticeable.
A change taking place over an hour of time and a couple of miles of distance, until the world around him barely resembled the one outside of Makoua where he bid farewell to Yogo.
Reclined high in the trees, Kidman allows himself exactly five minutes. Time enough to let some of the sweat evaporate from his brow. Moments to replay all that has transpired in the last couple of hours through his mind.
A reel he gets perfectly aligned before drawing his backpack up into his lap. Eyes still closed, he operates completely by touch as he fishes out the satellite phone from deep in the bottom of the pack.
A moment later, it is pressed to his face, the sound of a ringtone echoing into his ear.
A shrill tone that is heard only once before being snatched up.
“Already?” Ma asks. A single word that hints more of surprise than accusation.
“You said to call when I knew anything,” Kidman replies.
“Already,” Ma repeats, the inflection completely different. “That can’t be good.”
“Nope,” Kidman answers. Pausing a moment, he considers where to best begin before opting to go with his initial arrival in the country. A fraction of a second after departing her side.
A fast overview that details the initial fight and his later analysis, leaving his trek with Yogo aside for the time being.
Unimportant details that she doesn’t need. Facts that pale compared to his final discovery before departing the battle site a half hour earlier.
