He looked to the east and slapped at the mud on his pants and jacket. “Dummy didn’t come running at the scream.”
“He saw something,” Toy explained as the constables hurried to catch up.
“Ran off half-cocked, huh?” Mba said, turning to Toy and stepping in close to his face. “Like you, running into the damn gully and almost getting me killed?” He swept a hand dismissively at the constables. “I know you’re fresh fish,” Mba grumbled. “But I didn’t think we got you right out of the roe.”
He stomped toward the front of the house. The horses were there. No Dummy. Mba had halfway hoped to find him taking a nap.
“Maybe we should contact the other teams,” Onisako suggested.
“You think?” Mba said, frowning. He closed his eyes and opened his mind. “This is Mba…Digger, I’m looking for Biko. Come in. I’m looking for Biko. Connect us, please.”
He glowered at the others as he waited a half-minute and then repeated his call. “This is Mba. You there, Biko?”
A voice echoed in Mba’s head: “This is Bunseki, we’re up about 200 yards from the main road. No Biko.”
“Okay,” Mba said. “Biko’s headed your way. I have the rest of his team but I lost one of mine. Dummy’s on the loose. Tell him to contact me if you see him.”
“Mba, wait,” Bunseki said. “You won’t believe what we found here. The ravine veers 45 degrees to the left, heads west to the main road, like I said 200 yards on from my position, but right at the bend we’ve got a big culvert. It must handle rainwater runoff and sewers from the military base.”
Mba felt a chill run along his spine. “How big?”
“A man could crouch and move through it,” Bunseki answered. “I’m looking at a big rusted iron grate that covers it, only it’s been torn off and thrown twenty feet down to the bottom of the ravine.”
“Daarila,” Mba said, frowning to hide his fear.
“Something’s been going in and out.” Bunseki’s said. “There are tracks.”
“Okay, Bunseki,” Mba said. “Get your team out of there! Suit up, bring your cart and then set up watch. Also, keep your eyes peeled for Biko and Dummy.”
“Copy that,” Bunseki said.
“I’ll bring my constables up to your position,” Mba said, scowling at the constables.
They hung their heads and piled into their cart.
Toy mounted his horse and grabbed the reins of Dummy’s steed.
“The stationhouse has been listening to all this,” Mba said. “So maybe they’ll have some plan put together by the time I get to you, Bunseki. Mba out!”
Something behind Mba had caught his eye. Mba started to turn and… “Uncle Mba?” A woman’s voice said. “I thought it was you.”
CHAPTER thirty-eight
The Poacher watched them go. The fat one talked to the young female after she hugged him. The fat one liked the touch, the pressure. The Poacher could smell it, even at a distance. Even through the cloud of toxins that came from the fat one’s heavy, sick body, the Poacher could smell his need – his desires; his fears.
The fat one squeezed the young female and then looked around with worry until the female smiled and pointed down the road to a parked carriage. The fat one waved a hand and then climbed onto his horse as she walked away.
The Poacher watched them go.
So much skin on the fat one…so much smelly, bristly, crunchy, fatty, drippy skin. And he looked familiar too. But the skin…so much; so smooth on the tongue…eat it and then the terror passes, doesn’t it, for a time?
The female was familiar too. Her skin was soft and sweet and smelled of estrus and fetus and fruit. A shiver ran over the Poacher’s body. It licked its lips, as its own skin flushed and grew moist. It needed to eat…but not the female. She was off limits – no more mistakes like the one before. The Poacher knew the fat one. There was danger here. And the memories were uncomfortable, conflicted with the need for Ritual. Best to forget, then. Skin was beautiful and soft and slippery and sweet and sour and salty. And the memories only ruined the taste with bitter names and words and things.
The rain picked up; started falling harder. The Poacher shivered as the drops tickled its skin. Sweet! Spasm! Sweet! Pain! Sweet. Sweet. Rip. Sweet. Eat. Eeeat.
It stood panting in the rain, stress coiling around its spine like a spring. There was danger. The Poacher had to go, had to run, had to leave. There were too many little Gnaw Maws hunting in the wild now for safety. It would leave after the fresh one it had just caught was tasted. When it was tasted and consumed and Ritual made the terror pass. When it made the terror pass. Slip. Chew. Crunch. Eeeat. No more accidents! No mistakes.
The Poacher’s hands shook as it contemplated Ritual – and, with its unblemished skin, this new one would be sweet, the skin would be soft in the best places and marked only where the chains would hold it to the wall. The skin would be calming. The Poacher could barely hide its anticipation as it hurried to eat.
CHAPTER thirty-nine
Jima enjoyed the feeling of security he got from his tight-fitting, Tyrak-skin body suit. The Tyrak always buried their dead at sea. Some enterprising – and bold – men and women of the sea would scavenge the bodies and sell the skins for high prices to sorcerers, medicine priests and tinkerers alike, as the skin retained some of the Tyrak’s great aşe.
Jima had donned the clinging material with only a minor snag when he had to loosen the screws on his leg rings to accommodate the suit’s knee and ankle joints. He was pleased to have managed the suit without the help of any members of the squad. At first, he feared the ridged scar tissue on his legs would bind in the rubbery fittings and force him to seek assistance. But, like everything that Kundo was involved with, the Tyrak-skin suit was the result of extensive planning – or plotting – and was a perfect fit.
The semi-rigid plates of Tyrak flesh on his thighs and calves added stability to his legs, enabling him to lumber unassisted. His slow and heavy steps would never pass for normal in public, but the suit allowed him mobility he had not experienced in twenty years. This development forced him to wonder why he had never looked more deeply into Kamite technology. After the hospital and the endless therapy, he had accepted the wheelchair and leg braces as his lot; the terms of surrender.
He paused by his cot and slid his long, hooded coat over the suit. The lower hem fell close to the top of his boots. Its hood covered the Tyrak-skin hood and mask when they were in place. Jima was pleased. He could not abide the wraith-like image he would present wearing the suit without the coat covering it.
He took a deep breath, settling into the pleasing envelope of the skin-suit’s warmth and a sigh escaped his lipless mouth.
Don’t get too comfortable. If you survive the mission, you’ll never afford this thing on your pension, he thought.
His eyes wandered to the cells. Mau was dissecting Dorn. He had already handed the brain to Iya Siju, who sectioned it and then divined on the samples using the sixteen cowry shell system of Southern Oyo. It would not take long before identification and confirmation of the presence of Bacillus and then the burning would start.
Jima dropped into his wheelchair. His mind returned to the autopsy report he requested and finally received from metropolitan Sati-Baa. The included sketches detailed the post mortem examination of the Gnaw Maws from the furrier building – the Gnaw Maws that almost got Mba. The preliminary autopsy was done on-site by Uti Ngani, a high-level medicine priest who had worked with the squads during the First Outbreak.
The well-crafted images of Shanu Moso’s corpse allowed an incredible degree of examination. Jima had studied the dermal damage and found the predictable contusions and tears in areas that were not distorted by swelling and residue from infection. Torn connective tissues and deep lacerations from bites – evidence of a flesh fight – made Jima certain that Moso had been challenged for alpha status. There was severe muscle damage on the left side of his head, neck and torso that had caused considerable physical defor
mation. The massive infections would have killed him soon.
Jima took note of some unusual marks in the lower abdominal area that extended into the groin and over the genitalia. He had Digger send a telepathic query to Ngani about what appeared to be medical incisions. Had this occurred during the post mortem? He was still waiting for a response.
Jima cursed under his breath. A deep well of anxiety had been filling up since he’d first heard they were going to Badundu. It had him unconsciously picking at his scarred palm, almost to the point of damaging the flesh. He had to be careful of infection.
Infection – the word seeped through him and he wistfully pined for his room at home and a game of kigogo. Everything outside that room threatened infection: even human interaction; even words. Infection got into you and started doing things, started changing you, altering your behavior until, suddenly, you had to…
Something tugged at his memory. He had forgotten so much after the attack; after the Gnaw Maws left him for dead, as if he had purposefully deleted memories; had pushed it all away so nothing triggered deeper realizations.
He put away the autopsy illustrations and report and then grabbed a blank piece of parchment. He brought the parchment close to his lips and whispered: “Kanan Biko; Uti Ngani.”
Crimson lettering appeared on the tan parchment. Three quarters of the way down the list was a name that stood out: Mujedin. He remembered whispers about the Mujedin Building Outbreak – 100 percent communicability.
Captain Biko killed his whole squad; but there was more to the story. Kundo said it was still classified. And it was all so many painkillers ago. He wondered if Old Man, Vos Anana, had access to such classified information. It was unlikely, considering his open hostility toward Kundo back in the day.
Jima closed the window and returned to the scroll. Was it possible Ngani was treating Biko after the tragedy at Mujedin?
Ngani checked in on you, too, he thought. Are you involved, Jima?
“Looking at drawings of naked corpses, again?” Mba said from the doorway to Jima’s room.
Jima glanced over at Mba and sputtered a curse before swinging back to the scroll and rolling it up. “You can’t just walk in here!”
“I’m not in…” Mba pointed to his boots; his toes were just outside the room. “I just brought the younglings back.”
“What is it?” Jima snarled. “What do you want?”
“Hard to believe we’re back at this,” Mba said. He noticed that Jima’s wrists and forearms were covered in some kind of dark blue protective material.
“Not when you realize that history is full of instances where people refuse to learn from history,” Jima said.
“I just mean...” Mba cleared his throat. “It has been so long since we dealt with this madness and here we are.”
“What do you want?” Jima rolled aggressively toward Mba and stopped two feet away.
“Learning from history, okay?” Mba replied. He noticed that Jima’s legs were covered in the same dark blue material. “A bit gets through to me,” he said, tapping his temple with his index finger. “I know you don’t think it’s true, but I do learn.”
“Get to the point,” Jima snapped.
“You and some of the other captains turned your noses up at me because you hated the fact that a mess like Mba could produce results!” Mba said. “And even getting skinned wasn’t what turned you against me.”
“Get out, Mba,” Jima sighed.
“You knew what we were up against,” Mba said, shaking his head. “You hate me because you lost your daughter…and you lost her because of me. Because you got turned into…that.” He gestured at Jima’s covered form. “Because of me.”
Jima grabbed his wheels with his skinless fingers and rolled backward a few feet from Mba. His voice quivered with repressed rage. “Mba, if you are through giving me your evaluation, leave; I do not have time to waste on nostalgia. It has been an unpleasant experience working with you again. Now get out!”
“But I have a report...” Mba started,
“Report to Binta, then,” Jima said, cutting him off. “She will forward relevant information to me. I will not work with you!”
Jima swung his wheelchair toward Mba. The action pulled the hem of his hood back to the crown of his skull. His face exposed. Blood vessels glistened, the bare muscle on his jaws flexed monstrously and his eyes rolled in their sockets. Without brows or features, the face was capable of a single naked expression – hate. “Just get out! I’m too busy for your drama.”
Mba’s shoulders slumped. “Look, we’re cousins…can’t you just...”
“Cousins?!” Jima shouted. “What is it, Captain Mba? Not enough honey wine around here? Are you having trouble finding iboga in Badundu?”
“Man, damn you, then!” Mba roared, turning in the narrow doorway. He stormed off.
Jima shook his head and rolled after Mba until he filled the doorframe. He took a deep breath. His lungs rasped wearily. He tipped his head back and noisily swallowed spit before he said: “When will you understand that there are no pledges or promises that will win you forgiveness? If you are headed to an early death and damnation from wine and guilt, you deserve it for the young men and women you took to their graves, if not for what you did to my daughter…to my life.” Jima laughed. It was a harsh laugh.
Mba walked away, his anger overcoming the many pains that stabbed at him.
CHAPTER forty
“Captain Mba,” Toy said, drawing Mba’s attention away from his anger at Jima. “A constable in Metro found Shanu Moso’s cart.”
Mba stopped and nodded.
“She found it parked four days ago,” Toy said. “A block away from the Ndeleya furrier building. There was a thin sheet of wood covering the driver’s seat. Under it she found blood, lots of it, caked on the leather and pooled on the floor.”
“Daarila!” Mba said. “Did Kundo bag the cart?”
“Yes, sir,” Toy said. “The constable, too.”
“Damn,” Mba said, shaking his head.
He walked outside, toward Binta and Iya Siju, who conferred by the Oga’koi-koi. The field glowed from the huge lanterns set in every corner.
Commander Dinsu was there too, looking grim in his combat uniform. Sharif Maho was there, wearing an anxious look
“They found Moso’s cart?” Mba asked.
Toy and Foots were a step behind him.
“I’m just viewing the report,” Iya Siju said, looking up from a scroll.
“Lots of blood,” Binta said. “Moso manifested in his cart.”
“And drove from Badundu?” Mba asked.
“No, he drove to Metro and manifested when he got there,” Binta explained. “Then, he self-ritualized.”
“Did he, really?” Mba asked, glaring at Iya Siju.
Iya Siju shrugged and handed him a blank parchment.
Mba ran his palm over it. Images appeared, showing the inside of Moso’s cart from various angles.
Mba poked a finger at the driver’s seat. It was smeared and stained with blood. There was dried blood on the seat and on the reins, but that was it.
“You see that, Binta?” Mba said. “That’s not right.”
“Not right at all,” Binta agreed.
“What’s do you mean, Captain?” Foots asked from over Mba’s shoulder.
“There’s no blood spray,” Binta replied.
“Self-ritualizing is messy,” Mba said.
“Internal hemorrhage?” Iya Siju asked.
“Never saw that,” Mba replied. “And we saw everything.”
Binta stared Mba in the eye. “Kundo said there’s no sign that anyone else manifested.”
“Any news from Dummy or Biko?” Mba asked.
He had given Binta a quick report about the disappearances after checking in with Bunseki’s team and bringing Toy, Onisako and Bun Son back to prepare for deployment.
“Biko broke off his telepathic link with Digger as soon as Bunseki dropped him off with his cons
tables,” Binta replied. “And we have this…” Binta closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
A moment later, Mba heard Digger’s voice in his head.
“Yes, ma’am,” Digger said.
“Digger, show everyone the images you received from Dummy…a minute before his mind goes black.”
An image of the side of Dummy’s hands waving before him came into Mba’s mind. The constable was moving quickly. Leaves whipped by him and struck his shoulders with audible slapping sounds. There was a pounding thud at each heavy footfall. He turned to glance occasionally to his right where the ravine dropped into shadow. He growled unintelligibly. Then he stopped.
“Hey!” Dummy shouted.
Someone in green moved through the undergrowth away from him.
Dummy glanced down. A metallic hiss followed. Dummy’s hand came into view. It was holding his sword.
“Hold it there!” Dummy ordered.
Someone, obviously male, faced away from Dummy. He was dressed in green and brown and wore a hunter’s cap. There were gloves on his raised hands.
Dummy looked back in the direction he had come. The landscape had dropped gradually and there was no sign of Toy. Dummy swung back to the man in green and brown, who was just turning toward him, but the man’s face was obscured by his raised hands.
“Oh,” said Dummy, his voice softening. “Hello. Sorry about the sword; I didn’t know...”
And then Dummy’s telepathic link to Digger went dead.
“Almost sounded like he knew the guy,” Mba said to Binta and then described his own glimpse of Dummy and a little man in green and brown with a little dog.
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