by Chad Oliver
Royce stood up, backed away. He had no guidelines by which he could act. He held his rifle ready and did nothing.
Russell’s body twitched on the red tile floor. A groan of pain and despair was wrenched from the lips of the beaten face. The eyes opened wide. Strange eyes-seeing and not seeing, mirrors for an inner contest that had no name. The body got up on all fours, shuddered. The mouth whined. A foul, sick smell filled the room.
Royce watched in horror. The blows he had struck must have upset some delicate balance. If there were two … beings … in that body, he must have jolted one of them until it could not function. It was coming back, taking over, but it was hurt, crippled …
Bob Russell’s body crawled slowly into a corner of the room. One arm reached up, groped blindly at the wall. The arm fell back. The body collapsed. It trembled for a moment and was still.
Royce walked hesitantly over to the thing that had been a man. He knew the signs; he had seen enough of death to recognize it when it came. He felt for the pulse to be sure. There was no sign of life. He forced himself to look at the face. He was hoping for some sign of peace, of calm, but he saw only agony.
Did I kill him … them? Was I responsible?
He sensed the room around him. The striped zebra-skin throw rugs, the kudu head, the cold massive fireplace. The pictures of Russell’s wife and sons. The shelves of books. The African masks. The tall old grandfather clock, no longer ticking away the seconds of eternity.
It had been a good house. A happy and solid and productive house.
“I’m sorry,” Royce said aloud. “I would have done better if I could.”
He did not even consider trying to bury Bob Russell. There was no time for that, and perhaps Bob would have preferred to stay where he was. He picked the body up and put it on the couch.
Without hope, he walked into the hallway. The telephone was set into a niche about halfway to the bedroom. He did not turn on a light. He picked up the phone, lifted the receiver. The phone was dead.
Royce felt nothing at all; he was beyond disappointment. He went on into the bedroom, got a blanket, and covered Russell’s body.
Numbly, he walked back to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, found some cheese that had not spoiled. He forced himself to eat it. He drank two glasses of water.
There was nothing more that he could do. He had failed, and more than failed. They had taken over Bob Russell, a human being. And he had left Kathy and the children at the Baboonery.
He could not get to Mitaboni. The river crossed the road about a mile from Russell’s place and he could not cross it. He could only go back.
If he could make it …
If there was anything to go back to …
Wait a minute.
“The car,” he whispered. “Bob had a car.”
He went outside through the kitchen door, his rifle ready in his hands. He flattened himself against the wall of the house, letting his eyes adjust to the starlight. He saw no sign of the baboon-things. He believed that they were all so sick that they would not be dangerous, but he took no chances. He moved silently around the house. The night was very still.
He eased his way past the long line of the front porch and paused at the corner. He studied the outbuilding that Russell had used as a garage. The building was dark and silent.
Royce moved in a crouching run to the outbuilding, his boots sucking at the mud. There was no door. He slipped inside and almost collided with Russell’s Land Rover. He worked the catch on the door and slid under the wheel. The door made a loud click when he closed it.
His fingers explored the ignition switch. The keys were not there. He remembered that Russell had once told him that he kept the keys in the vehicle, but he had not mentioned exactly where. He tried the panel that ran along the dashboard and found nothing. He checked the sunshades. Nothing but dust. There was very little space under a Land Rover seat, but he tried that, too. Nothing.
Royce forced himself not to panic. It was incredible that the baboon-things had not bothered him. Russell, of course, had been controlled from inside; he required no guards. But the baboons must have heard the racket in the house, and they must have seen him. The only possible explanation was that the baboons were not able to function properly. Royce knew that a wild baboon removed from its troop could not survive. It must be still worse for these baboons: robbed even of their natural behavior patterns, manipulated by an alien intelligence that had not yet learned to cope with a strange world …
Royce twisted in the seat. There were storage compartments lining both sides of the back. He tried the one immediately behind him. His searching fingers closed on two keys strung on a sturdy clasp chain.
A wave of relief almost made him giddy. If he could get the damned thing going …
He switched on the ignition and waited a long minute. He jabbed the floor starter with his slippery boot. The engine whined, sputtered, and died. No matter: the battery was okay. He tried it again and the engine caught. He gave it some gas. The roar of the engine blasted at his ears.
Royce set the knobbed lever in the four-wheel mud drive and backed the Land Rover out of the building. He turned on the lights; there was no point to driving in the dark with all the noise he was making. He turned the vehicle carefully and got it headed down the road. He picked up speed. The Land Rover slipped a little from side to side but it was not serious. He drove through the rows of dark sisal without incident.
He bumped out onto the paved main road and turned to the left. The road was in poor condition and the chuckholes and puddles of standing water forced him to take it easy. Nevertheless, it was a breeze compared to walking. There was no obstacle that could stop a Land Rover and he could almost relax as he drove.
He kept going until the beams of his headlights glinted on the river of rushing flood water that had washed out the road. He pulled over and stopped. The water level had dropped some, but the ditch of fast water was still a good twenty-five yards across. He turned off the ignition, cut the lights, and climbed out.
The easy part was over. He would have to walk again.
He gave himself no time to think. He plunged into the brush and picked his way to the bank of the swollen stream. He had more clearance now that the water had receded, and he was able to trudge through the mud at a fairly good clip. He did not need his flashlight. The scattered stars were clear and a warm yellow moon shone through rips in the clouds. There was no threat of rain.
Royce found his rope without difficulty and crossed the swift water. It was much easier this time. He sloshed back to the main road and headed for the Baboonery turnoff.
He walked as though in a trance, just concentrating on moving one heavy boot after the other. The stars turned above him and the moon faded to silver. He heard the calls of a few night birds from the wet black trees; once a leopard coughed from the bush on his left.
When Royce scrambled across the erosion ditch and started down the Baboonery road, it was almost four o’clock in the morning. His neck was sore and his shoulders were stiff. A muscle twitched maddeningly under his left eye. His legs were like iron posts. He kept going by setting himself a series of attainable goals: that baobab tree, that puddle, that rock.
He made it to his waiting Land Rover and stared at it almost without recognition. He climbed in and got underway. He drove clumsily at first with his numbed arms and legs. After he nearly got stuck in the mud, he forced himself to concentrate on what he was doing.
It was daylight when the vehicle jolted across the railroad tracks. A fat golden sun was floating up into a blue sky that harbored islands of dark-bottomed white clouds. The rain-sodden world seemed to be holding its breath.
When Royce pulled up beside the main building, he had been gone a little more than twenty-four hours.
He climbed out of the mud-spattered Land Rover. He did not even have time to look around.
The door opened and Kathy ran out.
As soon as he saw her, he knew that he was too
late.
11
Royce took his wife in his arms. He could feel the tense trembling of her body. He held her tightly, trying to reassure her with a strength that almost failed him. The words they did not speak were the most important words of all. They said: We’re alive, you and I. We’re not hurt. Whatever has happened, we’re not licked yet.
Kathy pushed him back finally. She held both of his hands in hers. She smiled a little, her tired eyes wet with tears. “You look terrible. I’m so glad to see you.”
“I’ve seen you looking better yourself. You’ve been up all night, haven’t you? What in the hell happened?”
She did not answer him directly. “Bob Russell? The telephone? Is help coming?”
“I’m afraid we’re still alone in this, sugar. My big rescue mission was a bust.” Quickly, as undramatically as he could, he told her what had happened. “But what went on here?”
Kathy took a deep breath, searching for coherent words. She shook her head. “You better … see it first.”
She led him toward the shed that housed the generator. Even from a distance the damage was obvious. The flimsy structure had been ripped to shreds. The drainage ditches were still intact, but their purpose no longer existed. The generator was wrecked. Royce took one look at what was now a pile of junk and knew that it was hopeless. He had repaired that cantankerous generator more times than he cared to remember, but his efforts had amounted to little more than inspired tinkering. He was not enough of a mechanic to rebuild a demolished generator from the ground up. In any case, he did not have the necessary equipment. The generator was finished and it would stay finished.
Tired as he was, the significance of the destroyed generator could not escape him. They had no lights except for a couple of camp lanterns. The freezers were out, which threatened their food supply. The pump would not function, but water at least was no immediate problem.
He thought: They may have trouble with baboon behavior patterns, to say nothing of human behavior patterns. But they can damn well figure out a primitive electrical system. And they can set us up for a long, long night …
“What else?” he said.
Kathy took him to the long-roofed baboon shelter. Six of the cages had been broken into. Six baboons were gone.
“I guess they needed some replacements,” Royce said in what he hoped was a light tone. “The troops are getting a little thin.”
“They waited until late. It must have been nearly midnight,” Kathy said wearily. (Midnight, Royce thought. Where was I at midnight? I must have been just about leaving Bob Russell’s—could that have been just last night?) “They knew what they were after—knew just where to go. They probably knew you were gone. They headed straight for the generator and the cages. The men heard them, saw them. They did what they could. They drove them off with bows and arrows. Mutisya was bitten in the leg. I cleaned it up, bandaged it. The men are afraid, Royce. They don’t know what is going on. I can’t even begin to explain. And I’m afraid. All those hours … no lights … not knowing if they were coming back … The kids don’t understand at all; they’re so damned cheerful …”
Kathy’s voice was rising, veering toward hysteria. Royce cut her off. “The things that came … just baboons?”
“They’re not just baboons. You know …”
“I mean, just in baboon form? Nothing else? No machines, no armor, no men?”
“I—we—just saw baboons. Royce, what are we going to do? I can’t face another night here in the dark. I’m only human, I’m scared, I’ve got Susan and Barbara to think about. I’ll do anything you say, but we can’t just sit here.”
Only human. I’m only human, too. Is that enough? “Look, Kathy. I’m dead on my feet. I can’t even think. I’m here and we’ll be ready for them tonight. But I won’t be of any use if I’m a walking zombie. Tell Wathome to rustle up some breakfast. I want to talk to Elijah and Mutisya. It isn’t too likely that anything big will happen before it gets dark. I’ve got to get a few hours of sleep—you should too. Then we’ll figure out what we can do.”
Tears rose in Kathy’s eyes again. She had hoped—believed—that help was on the way, that the nightmare would be over with his return. All through that terrible night she had kept herself going by holding fast to the thought that Royce would be back with the sun, that Royce would somehow take care of things. And now he was back, and it was all as it was before …
He held her, tried to comfort her. “Baby, we’ll be okay. We can all get in the Land Rover if we have to. We can drive to a place where they can never find us.” (And where might that be, friend? At the bottom of a mudhole?) “As our British friends say, you’ve got to keep your pecker up.”
The phrase always tickled Kathy; she managed a feeble smile. “That’s a hell of a thing to say to a woman.”
“It refers, I think, to a bird’s beak. Anyhow, you’ve got to trust me. I’m all there is.”
She kissed him lightly. “I guess you’ll have to do, then. Sorry to go all female on you. I’ll get Wathome busy in the kitchen.”
She left him and Royce almost staggered with the release from play-acting. He was so shot he could barely stand. His hopes, too, had gone down the drain. He saw no way out, no effective action he could take.
Unless …
There was some truth, perhaps, in the old adage: The best defense is a good offense. He had been on the defensive from the beginning. If he could hit them where they lived …
Yeah, but what offense? Bows and arrows?
He rubbed his burning eyes. His head felt as though it were stuffed with cotton. It was dangerous to try to make plans now, he knew. He just wasn’t tracking.
He walked on rubber legs to the men’s quarters. Mutisya got up out of bed to let him in. Royce embraced the man without awkwardness. “I know what you did last night,” he said. “I thank you for it. Someday, I hope I can thank you properly.”
Mutisya retained his dignity. “A man does what he must do,” he said quietly. There was a gentle rebuke in his tone. Royce should not have been surprised, he seemed to be saying, that the men had done their jobs properly.
Royce examined Mutisya’s leg by loosening the bandage. The puncture wounds from the spiked baboon canines were deep but clean. There was no sign of infection. “We’ll want to change that dressing before tonight,” he said, pulling the bandage tight again. “Is it painful?”
Mutisya grinned, exposing his filed teeth. “Compared to a Masai spear, it is nothing. I am well.”
“Give it as much rest as you can. I have a job for Elijah, but I want you to stay off that leg for awhile. Okay?”
“Okay, Mr. Royce.”
Royce found Elijah and expressed his thanks to him. He told him to get a crew together and drag in some firewood. “Pile it in the places where the outside lights are.” he said. “It will be better than nothing.”
Elijah blinked behind his tinted glasses. “The wood is wet,” he said with his customary optimism. “It will not burn.”
“We have petrol—plenty of it now that we can’t keep the generator going. The wood will burn.”
Elijah looked dubious but Royce was too tired to argue. He plodded across the muddy ground with the welcome sun warm on his aching shoulders. He entered the breezeway, greeted Wathome who had a fire going in the cookstove, and slumped down at the wooden table in the sitting room.
“No place like home,” he muttered.
He fought to stay awake until the food arrived, too weary even to attempt conversation with Kathy. He drank two cups of strong, black coffee, which had no effect on him whatsoever. He ate three fried eggs, six slices of fried Spam, and four pieces of charred toast. Surprisingly, it all tasted delicious.
He went into the familiar bedroom and felt better when he saw the kids still sound asleep. He moved to take a shower, remembered that there was no water, and simply piled into bed without any preamble. It felt great.
“Call me by three this afternoon,” he muttered. “Don�
��t forget, for God’s sake.”
Kathy smiled. “It’s not likely to slip my mind,” she said.
Royce buried his head in the pillows and closed his eyes.
Sleep was instantaneous.
When you get really tired, there are no thoughts at all.
“Royce!”
A detached part of him, floating way up near the surface, heard Kathy’s voice. But it was far away, it could not reach the rest of him. If he could get down deep enough …
“Royce!”
He felt something digging into his shoulder. The whole bed seemed to be shaking. He swam up from somewhere, not without a flash of irritation. He opened his eyes.
“Look,” he muttered. “What kind of a joint is this anyway? When I leave a call I don’t mean …”
Kathy cut him off. “Royce, wake up, for God’s sake!”
“I’m awake.” He blinked. “What is it? What’s …”
Kathy’s fingers tightened on, his shoulder. “Barbara! She’s gone. They’ve taken Barbara!”
Royce jerked up in the bed, his eyes wide and staring. He looked in confusion at the window, saw the curtains blowing gently and the sunlight beyond. “It’s still light. What time is it? They wouldn’t …”
“Oh, wake up, wake up! They came … the baboon-things … just now. I was in the kitchen with Susan. Barby wandered outside to play in the mud … I didn’t see her at first … she was right outside the door …”
He felt a cold horror. “You saw them take her?”
“I saw them. They grabbed her and ran. I could hear her crying. Royce, we’ve got to get her back before … before …”
Royce leaped out of bed, threw on his clothes, yanked on his muddy boots. He grabbed his .375 and shoved Kathy ahead of him into the breezeway. “Show me. Quickly now. Exactly where did they go?”
Kathy pointed a trembling finger. Royce’s eyes followed the line of sight, across the open compound, beyond the baboon cages, to the dark line of the bush still rain-wet under the bright afternoon sun. He saw movement there, shadows …
