Blood Trail

by Tony Park

  Bongani resisted the urge to run. Had the man become so cocky that he thought he could take down a rhino just with his AK-47, on his own? It was possible – Bongani had seen rhinos killed by a long burst of fire. While the rounds from an AK were smaller than those of a big-bore hunting rifle, a poacher could kill a rhino with one by firing a number of bullets into the animal’s body and disrupting its vital organs.

  A wary old criminal like this one, Bongani knew, could probably even bring down a rhino silently, with a tomahawk. Perhaps that was his plan, to sneak up on a half-blind, dozy white rhino and hack into the tendons of one of its rear legs. He would then chase the wounded creature and kill it with his hand-axe. It was dangerous work, and skill was needed to get close enough to the rhino to deliver the first, crippling cut, but Bongani had no doubt this man was up to it. If that was the case then the AK was probably just for the man’s personal protection. Yes, Bongani said to himself, that all made sense.

  He did not judge the poacher, nor think him evil, as some would. They were warriors on different sides of a war, that was all. Bongani’s father and grandfather before him had been hunters and they had roamed these lands taking what game they needed, to eat or to trade. Bongani was a convert to the idea that big game, such as rhinos and elephants, needed to be protected to provide jobs and income through tourism, but he did not judge a hunter harshly.

  That said, Bongani knew the man would have no qualms about shooting him if he discovered Bongani was on his tail. He wondered if he knew the man. Whoever he was, he was an experienced hunter and, therefore, dangerous.

  Bongani moved with cautious haste, walking, watching, checking spoor and always looking ahead, left to right, for dangerous game and a deadly man. They carried on, crossing the Manzini Spruit, heading further east with every step.

  ‘This time you will be mine,’ he whispered.

  He reached into his pocket, took a pinch of the sangoma’s herbs from the little packet and put the mix into his mouth and started chewing. He needed all the help he could get. If this guy could make himself invisible or impervious to bullets then so, too, could Bongani.

  Bongani carried on for another fifty metres then paused and listened. A spurfowl began its crowing call. The birds normally made a noise at dawn and dusk, or when they sensed danger. It might be his prey. He carried on, slowly now, rifle at the ready.

  The sun was climbing high and Bongani felt the sweat drizzle from his armpits. He stopped to wipe his brow.

  A blur of movement made him bring the R1 up into his shoulder and he tracked the flash of brown with the tip of the barrel. It was a bushbuck. Bongani cursed – he should have seen the antelope before it saw him. What was wrong with him? He was supposed to be focusing all his attention on the way ahead.

  His mouth felt dry. Perhaps it was the heat, but he had not moved too far. He should not feel exhausted, but his feet felt as though they were weighted down, with lead in his boots. His head felt woolly.

  What is wrong with me?

  He blinked away sweat that stung his eyes. Why was he perspiring so much? His hands felt slick on the rifle’s pistol grip.

  From his front he heard a high-pitched squeal followed by the drumbeat tattoo of heavy feet pounding the dry ground. Another person might have wondered what kind of animal could squeak like that here in the bush, but Bongani knew, instantly, that it was a rhino, making one of its rarely heard calls. He feared he was right about how the poacher might take his next victim.

  Bongani looked down, forcing himself to concentrate. There were the man’s boot prints, but there was also a new set of tracks, several of them, and very fresh. It was the crash of three rhinos they had seen on the screen. The poacher had intercepted them and he had turned right, his footprints now overlapping the big, three-toed spoor of the giant animals. The man was making no effort to conceal himself, though he was also now moving more slowly.

  Bongani tried again to focus his thoughts. He looked at the ground, knowing that he, too, must now veer to the right and follow the tracks of the man and the rhinos he was pursuing.

  He wiped his face with his left hand, holding the rifle in his right, took two steps then stumbled. Bongani hauled himself to his feet and carried on, but the same pattern kept repeating itself. He would push himself onwards, fall, or stagger, then carry on, like a drunken man.

  What is wrong with me? he asked himself again.

  The radio clipped to Bongani’s belt hissed to life. He had the volume set to low, but he could hear Mia’s voice, broken by static. He fumbled for it, barely able to stay standing. His knees felt weak.

  ‘Bongani . . . this . . . Mia,’ she said.

  He held the handset to his mouth and moved his lips, but he was unsure if he was making any noise as he mouthed the words: ‘Bongani . . . over . . . poacher . . .’

  The words would not come.

  Bongani drew a deep breath and staggered on. It was an effort to lift each leg, to put one foot in front of the other. His vision swam and he had trouble concentrating, but he knew he must go on.

  Ahead of him, Bongani saw fresh blood on the ground. One of the rhinos had begun running – he had heard them all take off – and the man was giving chase. He had to run, as well, but did not know if he could.

  He forced himself onwards, feet clumsily landing on earth and grass as he fought to stop himself from pitching over headfirst. What spell had this man cast on him? he wondered, because this was like nothing he had encountered. Except, perhaps, his recent bout of food poisoning.

  What if . . .

  Bongani heard the squeals ahead.

  Then his radio hissed again and this time Mia was either closer or there was a clearer line of sight between them for the radio waves to navigate, because the message came through undistorted.

  ‘Bongani, Bongani, this is Mia. Send your location please. I’m coming back to Lion Plains and I’ve got Captain van Rensburg with me, over.’

  Her voice was loud enough for the poacher to stop his grisly business.

  Bongani needed to silence Mia, and he fumbled with the volume control on the radio on his belt. He had to look down to locate the knob. His body seemed incapable of doing what his fuzzy brain told it to do.

  ‘Bongani, Bongani . . .!’

  His mind swam. Should he mute her, or should he call her? He felt himself losing control, not only of his motor skills, but of his brain. Bongani pressed the transmit switch and held it in.

  He sensed movement in his peripheral vision and looked to a large termite mound ahead and to his left. It looked familiar. The silhouette of a man appeared. He carried an AK-47, distinctive with its banana-shaped magazine.

  Bongani raised his R1, one-handed, and pulled the trigger, twice. Even in his diminished capacity he knew he had no chance of hitting the man, but the shots might scare him off, or bring Mia to him.

  He dropped to one knee and released the transmit button.

  ‘Bongani, Bongani, I hear gunfire, two shots. Is that you, over?’ Mia asked.

  He had the presence of mind, through the fog that was enveloping him, to press and release the transmit button once, the signal for ‘yes’.

  Bongani tried to raise his rifle again, to draw a bead on the poacher, but the weapon seemed impossibly heavy, his arms next to useless. The man stared at him, no more than thirty metres away now, an easy shot, normally.

  The man brought his AK-47 up into the firing position and aimed at Bongani. Before the man could pull the trigger, Bongani felt his legs give out and he fell, tumbling backwards and knocking the back of his head on a tree root.

  His chin was close to his chest and if he rolled his eyes downward, which took all his powers of concentration, he could look down the length of his body in the direction where he had last seen the poacher.

  Bongani saw, through vision that was becoming increasingly watery, the shape of the m
an walking back towards him. He now carried a long rhinoceros horn in one hand, a small axe in the other. He had slung his rifle over his shoulder.

  He stood there, by the big termite mound, staring at Bongani for long seconds. Bongani kept his eyes half closed, feigning death, which was not hard as he felt as though he was probably paralysed.

  The man slid the tomahawk into his belt, handle first, and set the rhino horn down on the ground. He unslung his rifle and once more brought it up into his shoulder, left leg forward, bracing himself, in a soldier’s stance. He took aim at Bongani, who prepared himself for death, even though he already knew he was dying.

  The man seemed to peer over the barrel, perhaps convincing himself that Bongani was already dead. He thought better of delivering the coup de grace and, instead, slung his rifle again and picked up the horn. Then the man reached up and pulled off the balaclava he was wearing, probably believing Bongani was dead.

  Bongani had to bite the inside of his lower lip to stop from crying out as the poacher glanced back at him. Through his slitted eyes Bongani could see, without a doubt, that the man they had been chasing all this time, the one who had eluded him was, in fact, a very good tracker in his own right. He was, as Bongani had guessed, one of them.

  It was his cousin, Alfred.

  ‘Famba kahle,’ Alfred said in Xitsonga, wishing Bongani safe travels. Alfred turned and walked to the big termite mound.

  Bongani’s vision swam and he could not lift his head to get a better look, or open his eyes wider – not because he feared he would alert Alfred, but rather because his body was refusing to obey the commands his mind was issuing. Alfred disappeared from view.

  Bongani tried to reach the radio to tell Mia what he had just seen, how the poacher, Alfred, had vanished, just as surely as he had every other time they had tried to catch him. But his hands and fingers would not move.

  Then Bongani died.

  Chapter 24

  Sean and Benny searched the second, still-standing empty school building and found no traces of explosives.

  Captain Henk de Beer, who had been picking over the ruins of the other building, along with a police crime scene investigation team of two, came to Sean.

  ‘Captain van Rensburg wants us to check out the hut where the sangoma lives, but I’m not sure about search warrants,’ Sean said.

  ‘Let me worry about that,’ Henk said. ‘Come. Her instincts are usually right. She didn’t get to be a captain by being just a mooi vrou.’

  They walked past the ruined building and headed up the rise towards the rondavel.

  Sean held Laura’s beanie under Benny’s nose then let his dog off his leash. Benny bounded away.

  ‘You think the captain believes there’s a connection between the missing girls and the muthi trade?’ Sean said.

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’ Henk made hard work of the gentle uphill climb, huffing as he walked. ‘I’ve seen some things, I’m telling you.’

  Benny was scratching at the front door of the circular hut when they caught up with him.

  Henk put his hands on his hips and drew a deep breath. ‘You trust that dog of yours?’

  ‘With my life,’ Sean said.

  Henk tried the doorhandle and found the door locked. ‘Police, anybody home?’

  There was no answer.

  Henk grinned at Sean, drew his pistol, lifted a leg and kicked the door open.

  Benny darted inside and the two men followed him in. Sean took in the garish animal prints on the wall and the musty smell, and saw Benny scratching under a bed in the second of the hut’s two rooms. Benny lay down on a zebra skin on the floor, tail out and ears back, indicating.

  Henk stood over Sean, pistol at the ready as Sean got down on his knees and reached under the bed. He pulled out a black top with an ‘Under Armour’ logo. He held it up.

  ‘Women’s, small size.’

  ‘Jissus,’ Henk said. ‘I’ll get Sannie to call the lodge, where the mother is. Something tells me she’s going to say her daughter was wearing this. Let’s take more of a look around.’

  ‘Good boy,’ Sean said, ruffling Benny’s neck. ‘Fetch your toy, boy, fetch!’

  Benny turned tail and ran out the door.

  ‘Toy?’ Henk said as he opened a chest of drawers. ‘It’s work time, not play time.’

  ‘Benny needs to be rewarded every time he makes a successful indication,’ Sean said. ‘He’s got a conk, a ball on a rope, that he loves to play with. He’ll be back at work just now.’

  Sean opened some old kitchen cupboards fixed to a wall above a table with a kettle and gas cooker plate. A minute later Benny trotted back in with Sean’s daypack clamped in his jaws. He dropped the bag at Sean’s feet and Sean unzipped it and took out the toy. Benny bit the conk and Sean tugged on it, patting and congratulating him at the same time.

  Henk opened a chest deep freezer, set up against one wall of the hut, and suddenly reared back and swore.

  Sean left Benny to chew on his toy and went to the detective. Looking over his shoulder he saw what the detective had discovered under some frozen chops and a bag of chicken feet.

  A severed human arm, wrapped in cling film.

  *

  ‘Bongani, Bongani,’ Mia kept saying into the radio as she and Jeff drove through the reserve. Tears of frustration ran down her cheeks. Captain van Rensburg was in the back of the vehicle, fatigue plain on her face.

  ‘Mia, this is Sara, I’m mobile now, and I’m close to Bongani.’

  ‘Where, over?’ Mia asked.

  ‘By the big termite mound. I’m pulling up now.’

  ‘He’s been shot, I know it,’ Mia said.

  They came to another Land Rover, a short wheelbase model with a video camera mounted on the back, another of the webcast filming vehicles. Mia stopped, leapt out and sprinted into the bush.

  Not far from the mound, Sara was on her knees, bent over Bongani, her mouth over his as she blew air into his lungs, causing his chest to rise.

  ‘How . . . how is he?’

  ‘Mia,’ Sara drew a breath, ‘get us a chopper. Now!’

  Sannie and Jeff arrived at the clearing. Sannie took out her phone. ‘I’ll organise the chopper. What’s his condition?’

  Mia dropped to her knees and started compressions, pushing the heel of her right hand down on Bongani’s lower chest with her left hand.

  ‘No gunshot or other visible wounds,’ Sara said. ‘No pulse when I arrived. I saw him fall down on the Vulture monitor – he showed me how to move one of the cameras in order to follow him – and I got straight in a vehicle. I was here within five minutes, but I don’t know when he stopped breathing or why.’ Sara lowered her mouth to Bongani’s and blew in another breath as Mia removed her hands.

  Sannie started dialling. ‘Best guess?’ Mia asked, as Sara broke contact.

  Sara shrugged. ‘I think it’s a cardiac arrest, brought on by something. Poisoning? Snake bite? I haven’t been able to check all over his body. Mia, I know it’s hard to believe, but I saw the poacher on the camera. The resolution was too grainy for me to identify him, but I watched him disappear, for real.’

  ‘I’m calling the MAJOC.’ Captain van Rensburg got through to the Mission Area Joint Operations Centre, the headquarters for the fight against poaching in the Kruger Park, located near Skukuza Airport. She asked for the air operations officer.

  Between them, Mia and Sara kept up the routine of breaths and compressions. Mia didn’t have time to dwell on what Sara had just said about the disappearing poacher.

  ‘OK, one of the national parks’ helicopters is on the way, but the doctor’s busy elsewhere delivering a baby,’ Sannie said.

  Mia looked to Jeff, who glanced away from them, staring at something in the bush, then bent and grabbed Mia’s rifle.

  ‘Hey, what are you doing?’
she said.

  He put a finger to his lips with one hand. ‘I thought I just saw someone.’

  ‘Shit, Jeff . . .’ Mia said as she went back to administering compressions.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Jeff whispered. He crept away, towards the nearby termite mound.

  Captain van Rensburg was back on the phone, giving more directions to be relayed to the pilot.

  Jeff crept off into the bush, but right now he was the least of Mia’s worries. She looked down at Bongani, who was still not breathing. ‘Please, Bongani, please.’

  Bongani opened his eyes wide.

  ‘Ka faen!’ Sara sat back on her haunches, exhausted.

  ‘What?’ Mia said.

  ‘That’s Norwegian for “WTF”,’ Sara said. ‘He’s breathing!’

  Mia took Bongani’s hands in hers. ‘Can you hear me?’

  Bongani seemed dazed, and any sound he could have made was temporarily drowned out by the noise of the national parks’ green and yellow helicopter flying low overhead.

  Sannie dashed to the gravel road nearby to guide the pilot in and, moments later, returned with a crewman.

  ‘How is he?’ the man asked.

  ‘He’s breathing, but only just, and we don’t know how long he was without oxygen,’ Sara said. ‘He needs to get to a hospital, as fast as possible.’

  Jeff had returned from his foray into the bush, giving Mia a shrug that she assumed meant ‘false alarm’. The four of them each took an arm or a leg and lifted Bongani. Mia felt every wince and cry that he made as they did their best to quickly but gently get him to the waiting chopper.

  ‘Lie him on the back seat,’ the crewman yelled over the noise of the engine. ‘There’s only room for one more.’

  Mia was torn between wanting to be with Bongani and finding the man he’d been following, especially if the fugitive had poisoned Bongani in some way. Gone was her remorse and conflict over shooting the first poacher. Now she wanted nothing but justice – revenge.

  ‘You brought him back to life,’ Sannie said to Sara.

  ‘I learned advanced combat first aid, from my time in Afghanistan,’ Sara said.