Rhinoceros Summer
Page 30
Caleb raised an eyebrow.
“This is an opportunity here! Learning how to share will take you very far in life.”
He cracked a half smile and held out his hand. “That’s my milkshake.”
She laughed and handed back the cup. If they could keep it like this—Lydia raised Caleb’s hand with her good left hand and kissed it. “Now you’re the ugly one.”
“I’m the ugly one with a milkshake,” he corrected, then he returned the straw to his lips.
The hospital door opened. Lydia knew it was her parents by the way their hands overlapped to push the heavy door open together. Like two puzzle pieces finding out their edges matched after all.
Though they still had lots of questions, and even more concerns, they finally believed her.
She smiled at her parents as they entered, encouraging them to accept what she didn’t yet know—that she had changed for the better. That they should move forward with her, wherever she decided to go.
CHAPTER 33
Paul
After staying to stanch Caleb’s wounds long enough to hear the sirens approach, Paul wandered off into the ranch darkness, limping with the bullet still in his calf. He decided to disappear. He wasn’t going to cause any more problems for his son—if his son lived. He would search for whatever noble death was left to him.
He got himself cleaned up and contacted Billy Compton. Didn’t do any explaining, just asked for a way out of the U.S. to anywhere in Africa, preferably Somalia, Sierra Leone or Darfur. To places where animals remained untouched by poachers because people were too busy killing each other.
He hooked up with a few rich Somalians who got a kick out of letting a poor white man tag along and hunt. He heard again and again the chuff-chuff that signaled an animal thinking hard about charging.
He found himself virgin hunting grounds and record-breaking trophies. He left the carcasses for the scavengers. Sometimes he took the horns or ivory to trade for food, gas, a ride to another hunting spot.
Paul didn’t talk much anymore. Just coughed out thanks for a vehicle, or gear, or food. He kept his sweaty hands gripped on the steering wheel over tracks no vehicle had ever traveled.
He kept the speed slow. It thrilled him to be there though, skirting the edge of the track, doing something that sometimes erased everything that had come before.
Biting flies landed on his bare arms and face, buzzing in his ears. Swamp grass stymied his progress. He let mud soak his legs, allowed the flies to bite him, wiped the sweat from his forehead, made sure to keep his gun clean. He hiked for miles to avoid villages, men in trucks with guns, dead human bodies tossed around like so much trash.
Getting caught meant death. Getting caught would be a relief. But he always made it through.
He’d find the spoor of the animal he wanted to track, and then concentrated on the hours and hours of walking that helped wipe his mind clean. He’d creep into thicker bush and grip his rifle, careful to not let the sweat of his hands make the gun slippery, ready to bring it to his shoulder in an instant. Hoping maybe this time he’d have the guts not to raise it.
The beast would charge. Paul would fire, plugging the animal with a solid. Sometimes the beast continued flying through the air, its head lowered, its horn or teeth or claws ready to tear out a softball-sized hole in a man so his intestines had nowhere to go but the ankle-deep dirt, if he didn’t get out of the way.
Paul always got out of the way.
There was a clean death out there somewhere for him. But when some great beast snorted and pawed at the ground and then charged, he always took the shot. He expected at some point his chances would run out—he wouldn’t make the shot or the animal wouldn’t go down in time. He looked forward to that day, but it hadn’t happened yet. He continued fighting and winning and pursuing the adrenaline surge. He hunted after that feeling. The addiction he needed to feed more than ever.
He went out to force a showdown with some other great beast.
Tried to make that be enough.
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About the Author
Jamie Thornton is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of RHINOCEROS SUMMER and the Feast of Weeds series. She lives in Northern California with her husband, two dogs, a garden, lots of chickens, a viola, and a bicycle. She writes thrilling, coming-of-age, survival stories that sometimes take place halfway around the world, in an apocalyptic future, or in a parallel universe. Her books won’t always stick to one genre, but they will always take the reader on a dark adventure.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Jamie Thornton
Published by Igneous Books
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information please write: Igneous Books, PO Box 159, Roseville, CA 95678.