“No dog in the video,” Toy said.
“Looked like the same guy,” Mba said. “But I didn’t see his face either.”
“What kind of dog was it?” the Sharif asked.
Mba stared blankly, his mind shifting backward. “It had short, curly hair. It was brown, with a long tail. The thing would fit in my hand.”
“It’s probably not the first time he walked his dog there,” Sharif Maho said.
“That’s good, Sharif Maho,” Binta said. “I want you to handle the investigation of that in the background.” She gestured to the constables who were starting to congregate around the tables. They stood there anxious, excited and terrified, handling their swords or their masks.
“For now, Dummy’s missing in action,” Binta said. “So is Biko. Our top priority is locking down the Gnaw Maw hotspot. We have studied Bunseki’s telepathic messages and that sewer is the hotspot to the lair.”
“Well…good, then,” Mba said.
“I agree…good,” Binta said. “But look at it.” She closed her eyes again. “Digger, give us the map of the storm sewer and drainage system under the base.”
“Yes, ma’am,” came Digger’s voice in everyone’s head.
The map was shared telepathically so the squad would not forget. It showed bright in Mba’s mind: the streets and buildings of Badundu and the military base appeared in orange. Halfway down the map and to the west, Bunseki’s position at the sewer opening was marked in bright red. Green lines ran in a long loop north from Bunseki’s position, under the hangers and the squad’s location in the warehouse. A long green line ran east toward the roads leading out of Badundu. Each green line represented a tunnel under the community. At intervals, smaller branches spread out from the main tunnels. A regular line of them drained rainwater out to the west and a collector ditch along the main road; others fed back to two large circular collection cisterns before draining into the loop where it flowed southward into the ravine.
“It’s right under us,” Mba said, studying the map in his mind.
He focused on a large rectangular shape that sat in the center of the main loop. “What’s that?”
Commander Dinsu chimed in: “Underground storage areas. The military hasn’t used them since the base was fully operational.”
Purple shapes appeared in Mba’s head that linked the rectangle to the sewer system.
“That’s just for ventilation,” Dinsu said. “They are ducts no bigger than eighteen inches across.”
“Big enough,” Mba said. “Jima’s going to want to see this.”
“He’s already watching,” Iya Siju said.
Mba grunted. “How big are those sewers?”
“Specs say they’re five feet in diameter,” Dinsu replied. “They are made of stone, but they shrink down to three feet and are made of steel on the branches that drain into the cisterns. Others shrink down to a foot in diameter and empty into the drainage ditches along the main road. The cisterns are circular stone and measure eight feet high by twenty-five feet in diameter.”
“Is there any way down from the closest cistern to the north of us?”
“Bolted shut,” Dinsu replied.
“Alright then,” Binta said. “We have to secure the hotspot at Bunseki’s position before we go in. And we have to secure the storage space where the road goes underground. The Gnaw Maws must use that space as a backdoor, in case the pack runs into trouble. When the main hotspot is secure, we can consider going in through more than one location.”
“Can’t we just burn them?” Toy asked.
“You can’t,” Dinsu said. “When the Gaters moved in and started developing the east end of town, they upgraded Badundu’s sewers and water treatment system. That upgrade involved sealing off collector pipes from the base, but they didn’t make them airtight. Release oil in there without going over it inch by inch to seal it and there’s no way of knowing where it could leak into the old lines and come up through Badundu’s drainpipes.”
“So we have to go in, kill everything, and then bag it before we can set it ablaze, Toy,” Mba said.
“Bash, bag and burn,” Mba and Binta said in unison.
“But what are you going to kill?” Sharif Maho asked.
“Well, we have a housewife, local wine-head, five college students and five soldiers missing,” Binta said, counting with her fingers. “We have two dead Gnaw Maws, ten dead infected children and we still haven’t heard anything from Dummy and Biko – I’m keeping my fingers crossed there but it’s not looking good. If it’s a new Bacillus hybrid with a high transmission rate, we have at least eleven.”
“There will be more by now,” Mba said. “You know the way Bacillus works. Even with lower transmission rates twenty years ago, it got ahead of us. And we haven’t gone door to door. The missing people we know about are the only ones we can count. Who knows what’s in those tunnels or what’s in the ravine.”
“What do you suggest?” Binta’s tone was combative.
“Your call,” Mba relented. “As long as we assume the worst.”
“We’ll follow protocol, Mba,” Binta said, shaking a finger at him. “The squad goes to Bunseki’s location. We’ll take oga’koi-koi number one. We enter there and seal the hotspot behind us. Then, we’ll move up on the west side of the loop and work our way to the cistern.”
“What about the storage space under the main road?” Iya Siju asked.
“Commander Dinsu will put a company of men there, in case we flush them out.” Binta looked at the base commander.
“We’ve got military-issue Bacillus-protection masks from back in the day,” Commander Dinsu said. His voice was gruff. “They’re old, but operational. I’ve got my people breaking them out of storage now. I’ll put twenty men under the tunnel. Their orders will be to stay put and kill anything that tries to come out.”
“They have to stay put,” Mba warned. “They can’t come in until we say.”
“The Commander is also going to prep a squad of his own and bring them, in oga’koi-koi number two, to Bunseki’s location.” Binta nodded at Dinsu. “They’ll be in touch with us while we’re on the move, and can coordinate their insertion, if we run into trouble.”
She looked at Iya Siju and Mba. “They don’t have specific training for Gnaw Maws, but they’ve got enough manpower to destroy anything down there.”
Mba frowned. Something was wrong with this. Still, a squad of soldiers at their backs took some of the heat off.
Jima’s elephant suddenly came to life, trumpeting as it rose to its feet and lumbered away from the warehouse.
“Where the hell is he going?” Mba asked.
“He’s moving out to Bunseki’s coordinates. We’ll meet him there,” Binta said. She squared her shoulders and addressed the squad. “I want us in position when Kundo gives the order…and he will.”
Mba winced, stretched his back and then sauntered toward #1. He stopped after a couple of steps to watch Mau.
Mau was still wearing his mask and carrying a large box. Something about the way he walked disturbed Mba. He was stiff-legged, his body jarring with each step.
“Mau!” Mba shouted.
Mau kept coming. He was now yards away from #2. Mau walked as if he could not control his legs; like a man possessed by some spirit.
Mba glanced past Mau to the space where the elephant had sat. Just beyond it was a tank full of oil that Dinsu’s men had set up for the squad. The nozzle lay on the pavement spraying the syrupy liquid.
“Kill Mau!” Mba yelled as he drew his throwing club. “Kill him!”
He raised the club and poised to hurl the weapon, but Mau disappeared into #2.
“Mba!” Binta shouted, drawing her sword.
Oil was still pouring onto the ground. Dark fingers of it trickled across the warehouse floor. A fireball erupted out of #2’s mouth.
Mba dropped to a knee.
The flames ignited the rivulets of oil. The explosion sent Mba flying. He came to a crashing
halt when his head slammed against #1’s thick armored hide.
CHAPTER forty-one
The Poacher sat at the little table, enjoying the warm atmosphere of flowers, candlelight and company.
A wooden effigy sat on the Poacher’s right. Hundreds of rusty nails protruded from its form – he was playing father at tonight’s little party. Across from him sat a stone carving of a woman with three sets of breasts – she was mother tonight.
“This is all so nice,” the Poacher said, pleased to have the family back together for this important dinner. And this was a special occasion. How often was there a wedding in the family?
Clunk!
“Oh please, honey,” cooed the Poacher, looking past the empty chair across from it and into the shadows. “You mustn’t upset mother.”
Clunk!
“So tell me,” father said. The Poacher gave the effigy a voice very much like the father that left long ago. “What is it you do for a living, young man?”
Clunk! Grunt!
“I understand he’s a constable,” ‘mother’ said, her eyes twinkling in the candlelight.
“But his real passion is art,” the Poacher interjected seamlessly.
Switching personas was simple; it helped make the terror go away to get outside itself and watch. It was simple changing in and out of other peoples’ skins. Sometimes it was the only way it could do what it had to do to survive. Memories were awful. When it was calm the thoughts were bad; could bring the terror back.
The Poacher had seen the information about art in the fresh one’s – the guest of honor’s – pocket while he was being undressed for dinner and still unconscious from the nerve pinch.
Clunk!
“Well, he’s not very talkative,” father said and then coughed.
The Poacher coughed too and then chuckled with release. “Strong, silent type.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full dear,” mother warned.
The Poacher laughed again.
Clunk!
The Poacher gazed across the table at the guest of honor.
Bang!
There was a time the Poacher wanted a normal life, even tried a short-lived marriage, but nothing worked after father left and the terror came. No time for marriage and children with all the work at the workshop. Sweet. Sweet. Skin. E-eeat.
The Poacher felt a sudden pang of fear. Its heart raced.
Clunk!
The guest pulled at the chains that held him on his toes against the wall.
Bang!
He heaved again.
The Poacher felt tears well up in its own eyes; pressure throbbed in its temples. Gasping, the terror crowding, it reached out for the knife and fork, leaned forward and stabbed the flap of skin that covered its plate. Heart pounding, it sawed at the lower edge, rolled the strip around the fork and pushed it into its mouth. Eeeat. Sweet. Sour. Funky. Musty. Sweet. Sweet. Eeeat!
Clunk!
The Poacher’s eyes rolled back and its body bucked as it chewed the moist mixture of blood and skin.
Clunk!
Sitting across from him now, seeing the guest’s gory tissue rise in painful, passionate torment, the Poacher wondered if the playful fantasy of father and mother shouldn’t be replaced by the honeymoon.
Careful, that’s how it happened before. When the mistake was made and the other one got away. Can’t get caught in Ritual.
“Mother,” the Poacher said, slipping into a feminine voice. “Don’t you like your food?”
The Poacher referred to a choice strip of brown skin that had been peeled out of the guest’s thigh. Its own skin was starting to grow bumps of excitement, anticipation and fear again.
“I’m watching my figure, dear,” mother responded. “You help yourself.”
The Poacher’s fork flashed out and snatched the strip of skin, stuffed it into its mouth. Sweet! Spasm! Sweet! Pain! Sweet. Sweet. Smooth. Sweet. Eeeat!
Clunk!
This time, the guest made a nasal moaning sound and something like a whimper. He was getting tired. Breathing past the cloth stuffed into his mouth was exhausting work.
The Poacher laughed along with mother and then dabbed blood from its smiling lips with a napkin. Its eyes remained locked on the guest. The Poacher picked up its knife and stood, its eyes roving over the big guest’s body. So much to choose from. Eeeat.
Clunk!
The guest’s eyes remained locked on the Poacher’s. His chest heaved with pain, with anticipation as the Poacher walked around the table. Blood continued to weep down the guest’s thighs.
It was so simple to catch this one. The Poacher had led him to its carriage; to couple; to have mating rituals in the carriage. And the guest came without hesitation. Then, the nerve was pinched and the gag came out – and then into the house, across the galley and down the stairs.
Thump. Thump! Clunk!
The Poacher stepped in close, raised the knife and held the blade under the...
BANG came a noise from upstairs.
The Poacher paused.
Bang! Rattle. Boom. Boom. Boom.
The little dog started barking. Something was outside – at the door banging. Little Gnaw Maws? Bad ones! Still the doggy barked.
The Poacher shuddered at the high-pitched yelp.
Boom. Bang.
Gnaw Maws! The Poacher knew the gully was quickly filling with them, that there was a pack gathering somewhere near. Why can’t they be quiet and bite in secret? Now coming up to doors! That wasn’t right. It was very bad. Things were getting out of hand. The Poacher sighed and looked wistfully up at its guest. He had heard the noise too. The Poacher grabbed a muscle in the guest’s shoulder, near his neck, and squeezed.
The guest jerked against the wall. He stiffened and then collapsed, asleep and hanging in his chains.
The Poacher walked to the table by the washbasin where it kept its gear and picked up an axe. It left the guest in the secret room and stood at the bottom of the stairs while the noises BANGED and BOOMED above it. It didn’t want to fight the little Gnaw Maws, just scare them away before they brought trouble. They must have followed, must have smelled out its lair. That was bad. The Poacher had met them in the gully when it was stalking. For some reason, they listened—and didn’t bite.
There was a great CRASH upstairs. Many feet thumped on the floor and the little dog barked a final time.
Teeth bared, the Poacher roared as it charged up the stairs.
CHAPTER forty-two
The driver of Jima’s elephant used the litter’s lift to lower Jima onto the street in front of the house. He grunted as he slowly let the thick rope slide between his gloved fists. Once Jima was safely on the ground, the driver, who everyone simply called Corporal, tethered the elephant a few yards away.
Jima found the house to be a pleasing collection of symmetrical architectural shapes – nothing fancy or wasteful. The house was constructed of dark red clay – unusual for houses in Sati-Baa, which were mostly built of wood and then covered in thatch. A warm glow leaked out around drawn curtains. The door, constructed from tightly woven straw, was closed.
Jima wore his Tyrak-skin suit. The mask was in place under his hood. The Tyrak-skin amplified the sounds around him: a gourd rolled in the breeze; the corporal hummed a tune as he paced toward the front of the elephant; a dog barked far away.
Jima felt whole, though he knew it was an illusion; and he felt safe, though he knew that was an illusion, too. There’s still time to back out, he thought. He slid forward in his chair and heaved himself onto his feet. He cursed under his breath as he lumbered to the stone footpath that led to the door. Stay sharp, Corporal, Jima thought.
The corporal answered telepathically. “Yes, sir!”
Jima made excellent time crossing the lawn – the suit allowed him a more economical use of his energy, even though his gait was somewhat stiff.
The realization and freedom welled up in him and produced a pleasant gasp in place of a smile. You should have looked i
nto the Tyrak-skin sooner, he thought.
He arrived at the door. He rang the bell and sank back under his hood. Then he looked toward the street, clicking his teeth. A sound from inside. Was it inside? Then he thought perhaps it was the wind pressing against the windows.
He moved forward to peek through the tiny spaces in the door. He saw a toppled table and chairs. There were muddy footprints, leaves and detritus tracked all over the floor. A glowfly chandelier hung over the scene. Jima drew his sword. He shoved the sword into the door jamb and pressed inward. The door flew open with a loud crack. He swung back to the street before entering.
The corporal’s eyes were wide as saucers. He drew his shortbow clumsily.
“A hunting pack!” Jima shouted. “Hurry!”
He struggled past the door, shuffling inside. His sword swept from corner to corner. He moved into the house, the point of his sword leading the way.
“Hello!” Jima shouted. His amplified voice sounded alien in the setting. “Anybody here?”
He lumbered toward the kitchen. Something alerted him, set his nerves on edge and he turned, but it was the corporal. “I couldn’t establish a psychic link with Captain Dambe,” the corporal said, his muffled voice tight with anxiety. His bow swung toward the kitchen.
“Someone’s been taken,” Jima said. “At least three Gnaw Maws entered here.”
“Daarila!” The corporal swore.
Jima continued forward.
“Shouldn’t we wait for backup?” The corporal asked.
“Someone’s been taken,” Jima replied. “Every second counts.”
“Taken?” the corporal’s voice shook. “Don’t Gnaw Maws just take the skin?”
“Usually,” Jima said. “But this isn’t usual. Something is different. It’s important that we find out what.”
He stepped out into the night, pleased with the stability offered him by his Tyrak-skin suit.
The corporal followed.
Jima anxiously studied the shadows. Trees loomed high over him and a gusting wind made the dark underbrush shake and sway. Jima moved across the grass. Footprints made a path toward the forested ravine. To his left, a broad expanse of lawn opened onto Lowola. He could see the lights of several large homes on the far side. The trail led to the right, on a western course, where the ravine passed through the center of Badundu.
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