by Paul Bishop
“Uh-uh-uh.” A black man stepped from the undergrowth holding an AK.
Zeb put his arms on his knees. “Dardeniz. I thought it was you. Why don’t you work with us? You won’t have to constantly look over your shoulder.”
“I don’t do that now. Where I live, you can’t touch me. I should shoot you now but I wait for the boss man. He has waited for years.”
“Why? It’s only business.”
“Sewell say if not for you, his boy Ian would still be alive.”
“How’s that?”
“Two years ago, when we hunt the rhino, you track us. You sic that wall beast on us to head us off. That was you, wasn’t it?”
He grinned. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Yes. The beast seize young Ian and turn him into confetti. Sewell fire a whole clip into it. Nothing. Then, we turn and run ʼcause he made it mad.”
“I didn’t even know he’d brought his son—not that I give a shit.”
Dardeniz leveled his rifle. “Now use your left hand to take the pistol out and toss it over here.”
Zeb did as he was told.
“Don’t try anything silly. Don’t grab a knife or throw a rock. This is only business. All we want is the ivory. We don’t want to kill anyone.”
“Who shot my man Taki with an arrow?”
“It only business and yet look what happen to that poor fellow.”
Zeb put a finger up. Someone was coming. They could hear them thrashing through the grass. The green curtain parted to admit Larry Garretson and one remaining client—the man with the silver hair—looking dehydrated and exhausted.
“Mr. Zebulon!”
“Hello, Larry. Larry, this is Dardeniz. He’s one of Sewell’s men.”
The man with the silver hair held his hand out. “Do either of you gentlemen have any water?”
The poacher unhooked a canteen from his belt and tossed it to him. “Why? There is plenty of water around here.”
“Chuck drank some and died horribly,” Garretson said and looked hopefully at the canteen. After a dozen swallows, the other man handed it to him and he drank. He brought it from his lips and gasped.
“We’re lost. Can you help us get out of here?”
Dardeniz laughed. Zeb chuckled and using a tree for support, he got to his feet.
“What are you doing here, Larry?”
Garretson held up the laminated license. Zeb looked at it and his expression turned dark.
“Who gave you this? The Chinese?”
“Yes.”
“Look,” the client said. “I can pay you very well. I see now this was a mistake. I’ve hunted on three continents and never had anything like the trouble we’ve seen. I don’t think we were properly prepared.”
“There is no proper preparation,” Zeb said.
The guide folded his arms. “Look here, Mr. Perkins, I’m a licensed big game hunter.”
Perkins ignored him. “How about it, gentlemen? A hundred thousand dollars if you return me in good health to Khartoum. I cannot, in good conscience, recommend this safari service.”
“Did you see the elephants?” Zeb asked.
The great white hunters looked blank. “What elephants?”
He put the whistle to his lips and blew.
The heffalump answered. Zeb blew again, harder. The two beasts shrieked and pounded toward them. Dardeniz turned as a massive trunk encircled his neck, lifted him off the ground, and snapped him like a whip to break his neck. The creature tossed him carelessly and stepped on him to grind him into the earth.
Garretson and his client were gone. They could be heard thrashing through the jungle. LeGac was rigid with back against a marula tree. Jean was wall-to-wall grin. She approached the elephant slowly with her hand extended.
“Ola!” she sang. It regarded her with big brown eyes and felt the top of her head with its snout. She knelt, rummaged through her backpack, and found a jar of peanut butter. Her grin still in place, she unscrewed it, scooped out a handful, and held it up for inspection.
The heffalump sniffed, dipped, and tucked it into its mouth.
“LeGac,” she asked softly, “will you film this?”
A drone hovered overhead.
18
The three remaining poachers watched through binoculars. The Afrikaner had abandoned the drones with the vehicle so they only had eyes on the ground.
Sewell whistled low.
“She is beautiful,” Zulu Ken said in hushed awe.
Bortz elbowed the leader in the arm. “Look at those tusks! Blue freaking tusks, man.”
Zulu Ken leaned into the rifle stock. “Just say the word, mon.”
Their leader didn’t think of himself as a bad man. Nobody did, of course. He’d killed many over the years and some in cold blood. But the way the woman approached the elephant had touched something unfamiliar within. What was he doing? He had enough money.
But there was Zebulon, the man responsible for his son’s death. Oh, he knew he was responsible for bringing him and Ian was responsible for coming. And the wall creature was responsible for tearing him apart. But hadn’t Zebulon driven the wall creature their way?
Al Fatah had put a half-million price tag on his head. That was a good payday.
He sighted down his CZ. The bullet would likely make Zebulon’s head explode so they’d need a DNA match to confirm.
“Ho shit, mon!” Zulu Ken coughed and tapped him on the shoulder.
He turned quickly. The cowboy was back, riding his elephant. As it ran toward them, it spooked locusts, crickets, and spiders that drove at them like a haboob of insects. Choking clouds of tiny bugs filled the air. A locust leapt from the brush and struck Bortz in the head to knock him back. He tripped and fell on his ass.
A black-and-yellow spider the size of a basset hound raced over to him. Sewell fired as a locust swooped and bit off a chunk of his face but in seconds, the locusts were on them. He staggered, a writhing bolus of vermin. Both Zulu Ken and Bortz danced St. Vitus, fighting no-see-ums, thumb-sized mosquitoes, and locusts. The former fell to his knees and found a bottle of Off! In his backpack. He rose and sprayed wildly in all directions. The other man found his and followed suit.
Sewell threw himself to the ground and rolled viciously to crush the insects. He rose with his clothes torn and numerous oozing gashes. Matthew Montana slid down the elephant’s head, a Remington in hand.
Zulu Ken exploded at him. The cowboy brought his rifle butt up to strike his attacker on the jaw. Ken went down and Matthew drew his sidearm.
The leader got to his knees with his hands behind his head. “Matthew Montana. How much for you to switch sides?”
“I don’t switch sides.”
Zebulon stepped into the clearing. He looked like he’d been rolled in mud and barbed wire. He held his pistol while Matthew removed their weapons. Everyone had a boot knife which, predictably, was easily discovered. When the younger man had finished the search, Zeb put the muzzle of his .45 to Sewell’s forehead.
“I have orders to shoot you on sight.”
“What are you waiting for? You already killed my boy.”
“I was sorry to hear about your son but that’s on you.” He looked around. “Is this all that’s left?”
“Where’s Dardeniz?”
“The elephant killed him. Stand up.”
The three poachers rose warily.
“I’m not a murderer. I’ll shoot a poacher in the field but not like this. I’ll let you go if you give me your word that you’ll poach no more.”
The three stared at him.
“All right,” Sewell said.
“Make me believe you.”
“My heart’s not in it. When you track these creatures for weeks, you develop an affinity for them. I don’t really need the money. You have my word as a gentleman that I’ll never poach in Africa again.”
Zeb turned to the other two men. “Well?”
Ken chuckled nervously. “It’s what I do, mon.”
/> Bortz held up his hands. “You have my word.”
“All right. I’ll take a chance on you guys. You can keep your knives but you’re on your own. If you make it to the wall, fine.”
Sewell stuck his hand out. Zeb took it and turned it to look at the white ring.
“It’s the only ivory I own,” the poacher said. “I gave one to my son.”
“Now we know where the elephant came from.”
Too Much Time
A Story From The Biodome by
TIM TRESSLER
1
Scott Sharpe heard leaves rustle overhead. He raised his M4 and aimed it at the canopy of trees so thick it almost blotted out the sun. A dark shape jumped from limb to limb, followed by a second and a third. One of the animals screeched and a second later, the others joined in and the resultant cacophony drowned out all other sounds.
"Monkeys," he muttered. "I hate those damn things."
A woman's voice buzzed in his earpiece. "Someone's getting cranky," Camila said. "It must be naptime."
He smiled. "I could use some bedtime," he said to his wife. "But I don't want to sleep."
"No, you only sleep when I want to cuddle," she said.
"Sorry, what'd you say?" He faked a yawn.
She laughed. "You're so bad."
Camila walked a few yards behind him. In her right hand, she carried a case loaded with Pita plant petals and three vials of goop. In her left hand, she wielded a machete.
A third voice broke in. "You two realize I can hear you, right?" said Damon Rogers, who walked behind the other two. "I can hear you and it's making me feel icky."
"Sorry," she said. "We forgot how fragile you are."
"Admit it, Damon, this is seriously hot banter,” Sharpe said. “Most people have to pay big bucks to a phone sex line to hear something this randy. You're getting it for free. We should charge you to listen in."
The man scoffed. "I'll vomit in my suit. Seriously. No paycheck's worth this."
"You're such a prude, Damon. Poor Sarah." Camila laughed.
"Hey, leave my wife out of this. I satisfy her."
"Of course you do," she said, a trace of doubt in her voice.
"What? What was that in your voice? Did Sarah say something?"
"Of course not. She brags about your virility. Non-stop."
Sharpe grinned. He thought about teasing Damon more but decided Camila held her own fine. Instead, he focused on watching the suit's infrared scanners for threats and also swept his eyes over the terrain.
After a few seconds, he realized the monkeys had gone quiet and their screeching had been replaced by a distant buzzing.
Shit.
"Locusts," he yelled.
He whipped around to Camila, who stood motionless with her gaze trained on the sky. He and Damon closed in around her to give her time to set the sample case down and take up her rifle.
The first wave of locusts broke through the canopy and dived toward them. Sharpe squeezed off two quick bursts at those closest. The spray of bullets strafed the bug's midsection. It screeched and pulled out of its dive like a jet fighter and winged its way into the trees.
The other man fired his assault rifle into the second mutant and the automatic fire shredded its head and wings. He stepped to one side as the massive bug's body hurtled into the hard ground.
By now, Camila fired at the attackers and quickly knocked one from the sky. Another approached her from behind and Sharpe swung his rifle to empty the magazine into the insect. It uttered an otherworldly scream, angled away from Camila, and rocketed toward him.
The big creature’s sudden shift surprised him. He reloaded rapidly and tried to sidestep it but by then, the dead bug's trajectory was locked in and its body pounded into him.
He grunted in pain and surprise as the impact thrust him to the ground.
Thankfully, it seemed the worst he’d suffered was a little bruising and he shoved the corpse off, scrambled to his feet, and reloaded the M4. More locusts had filled the sky, their buzzing interrupted only by sporadic gunfire from his teammates.
To Sharpe's horror, most of them seemed focused on Camila, who stood astride the case containing the goop and Pita petals. Could they sense the case's contents? Were they trying to stop the humans from removing these items?
There was no way to know.
"Camila," he said. "Get away from the case."
"Copy that," she said.
Before she could move, one of the locusts lunged at her. Its mandibles closed around her waist and it pulled her up from the ground.
Her sudden screams filled his earpiece. His stomach roiled and, for an instant, his breath hung in his throat. Only when she screamed again did he find his voice.
"Camila," he shouted.
The other locusts gathered around the one that had snatched her. To his horror, he knew this was about to turn into a midair feeding frenzy. He sprinted toward the knot of flying creatures and raised the rifle as he moved.
Her limbs flailed in the midst of the swarm and he swung the rifle to locate a good target. There was no way to shoot without possibly putting a bullet into her.
The swarm began to move away and he sprinted to keep up with them.
Camila's voice sounded in his earpiece. "Scott. Scott... Oh, God."
"Camila? I'm here. I'm coming for you, honey."
"Scott...it hurts."
"Hang on, Camila. I'm coming. I swear—"
More screams stabbed into his ears. First, hers, the sound of sheer agony. Then, spurred by helpless rage, he cut loose with screams of his own. Damon was at his side, his weapon up and also looking for a target.
Sharpe began to fire at the locusts farthest from the center of the swarm, hoping the gunfire would scatter them or draw them to him.
Her pained yelling seemed to echo inside his helmet and swallowed every other sound. The gunfire, the buzzing, and dead locusts that thumped wetly against the ground faded.
He heard none of it.
All he could hear was Camila, terrified and dying.
Her body, battered and bloodied, plummeted to earth and the screams ended.
2
When the last woman on earth he ever wanted to see plopped into a chair across from him, Sharpe was halfway through the afternoon’s first beer. He set the mug on the table, folded his arms over his chest, and for the first time in a long time, questioned his policy of not punching women.
Alexandra Richards smiled. “Buy a girl a drink?”
“Rat poison on the rocks? With a side of ricin pellets?”
She pouted. “Don’t be like that, darling. I’ve traveled halfway around the world to ask for help. And I've brought a friend.”
He ignored her calling him darling. It wasn’t a term of endearment. She referred to everyone as darling while her voice dripped with condescension as though she was surrounded by pets.
“You should’ve called ahead.” He unfolded his arms and grabbed his beer. “I could’ve saved you the trip.”
Her gesture was dismissive. “I called at least a dozen times. You never returned my messages.”
“Most people would’ve gotten the hint.”
Alexandra laughed and showed him another smile. She was a beautiful woman. Her dark hair fell in long waves well past her shoulders. Her almond-shaped eyes—probably the work of an expensive New York plastic surgeon—were a deep brown. Whenever she smiled, her pretty red lips parted slightly and offered a hint of flirtatiousness. Today, she wore a red business suit with a short skirt that revealed long, toned legs.
Sharpe knew better, though. He'd dealt with her enough to know better than to buy into her beauty and country-club charm.
Instead, he dwelled on her gaze and saw the reptilian flatness, like a python eyeballing a mouse.
Another minute passed in silence while they stared at one another.
"If you're going to ogle me," she said, "you should at least buy me a drink."
"I wasn't ogling you," he replied. "I w
as trying to decide whether to spray you with holy water or simply hit you with an iron rod."
She uttered a mirthless laugh.
"Oh, that's funny," she said, her voice flat. She crossed her legs and smiled again. "How does one get service around here?"
His patience was dwindling. "Why are you here, Alexandra?"
"Darling, I have a job for you."
He scoffed. "To recap, the last time I worked for you, my wife died horribly and your company didn't pay me for my work. Does any of this ring a bell?"
With a slow, deliberate movement, he moved his glass to his lips, stared over the rim at her, and drained what was left of his beer.
“Darling, I wish I could change the past,” she said. “I really do. I’m terribly sorry for what happened to your wife in the Biodome. But life must go on. Camila would’ve wanted that for you.”
Sharpe slammed the glass down on the wooden table's scarred top. Heat radiated from his face and his fists clenched so tightly he could feel the nails digging into his palms.
He leaned forward, locked eyes with her, and said, “Lady, don’t ever tell me what my wife would’ve wanted. Do I make myself clear?”
She opened her mouth to reply. Before she could utter a word, though, a hand settled gently on his shoulder. He turned to find an attractive, forty-something woman beside him. Her brown hair was pulled away from her face. The top four buttons of her shirt were undone, and Sharpe found himself, not for the first time, admiring her cleavage.
“Eyes up here, sport. Your glass looks empty,” Patricia, METRO’s waitress, said. “Do you need another?”
“It might sweeten me up,” he said.
“I know what would sweeten you up,” she said. “But you won’t get it. Not from me, anyway.”
