The Devil's Breath

by David Gilman

  “You all right, boy?” the shaven man called. Neither of the cops seemed too concerned; !Koga stepped closer. Lifting his wrist, he showed them the watch.

  “The white man who is missing, I have been with his son. He sent me to you. For help,” he added.

  The men became more alert. “We know about the missing man and his son, headquarters have been looking for him,” said the cooking man.

  “My people have died; many of them. And this boy. His name is Max and he is my friend, he is also dead.”

  !Koga undid the watch and threw it to them. “This is his father’s watch, to prove I have been with his son. His name is on the back.”

  The cook caught the watch, checked the inscription and handed it to his partner.

  !Koga held the hydrology map in his other hand. “I must speak to Kallie van Reenen. She is at the farm called Brandt’s Wilderness. Only she can help now. This is a paper which shows where the people died.”

  The two cops muttered something to each other, then nodded.

  “Where’s the boy’s body?”

  “He fell into the monster and was swallowed. The monster took him beneath the earth.”

  !Koga was more tired than he had ever been before. The food and coffee made his mouth water. Now the cops smiled and the cook hooked the steak from the pan with a fork.

  “Come on, son, we’ll deal with this now. You need some food, ja?”

  Yes, !Koga needed food and sleep, though the grief he felt for Max still sat on him like a heavy rock. He stepped forward; he had done what Max had asked, perhaps now there was a chance to save Max’s father. He squatted in front of the men as they placed the steak on a plate in front of him.

  “You’d better give me the paper for this van Reenen person, then I can tell my people to find her.”

  “I can’t do that, I have to give it to her, that’s what Max told me.” He reached for the plate of food but the cook grabbed his wrist.

  “Give me the paper,” he said coldly, no longer smiling. !Koga twisted in the sand, but the grip was firm and the second cop had moved quickly to hold the wriggling boy down, a knee in his back. !Koga grunted in pain, his fist still clutching the map, but the man was too strong and unfurled the boy’s fingers with ease.

  The cook seized the map and stepped back. “All right, put him in the cell until we sort this out.”

  !Koga twisted like a snake under the man’s weight. His hand found the fork and he stabbed it down into the man’s bare foot. With a scream of pain the second cop released his grip, but they lunged for him in an instant. !Koga was too quick. He ran through the gate and made his escape. The men gave up after a few meters, there was no way they would catch the boy judging by the speed he was running, and even if they got their 4×4 pickup truck and gave chase, he’d merge into the landscape. It didn’t matter, they had the map and the watch, and their boss, Mike Kapuo in Walvis Bay, would be very pleased.

  The men weren’t so happy, though. One limped, his foot hurting like hell, and they were both hungry—the Bushman boy had stolen their steak.

  Max ignored the impossible distance and hurled himself at Zhernastyn—he had to try. Somewhere in the background, an animal snarl reached his ears. Then Zhernastyn caught his white coat on the handles of Tom Gordon’s wheelchair. It snagged him and spun the wheelchair, which tripped him up. As he recovered and reached for the alarm, Max pounded into him. The man was terrified. Max felt so focused, so determined to stop him, that everything else was forgotten. It was like tunnel vision. And the snarling sound he’d heard came from his own lips, which were drawn back across his teeth. Zhernastyn fainted.

  Max was on his knees in front of his father.

  “Dad, it’s me. It’s Max. I found you.”

  He could feel the tears sting his eyes and he wiped them away roughly. Tom Gordon gazed down at his son for what seemed an age in time, and then he smiled.

  “Max?” His voice was barely a whisper.

  “Yes, Dad, I’m going to get us out of here. And help’s on its way.” However, the last bit didn’t sound too convincing, even to his own ears.

  “Max?” said Tom Gordon as he tried to comprehend that his son was somehow with him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I got your message, and I found the signs you left for me.”

  “Max … I don’t understand.”

  Max touched his dad’s arm, frightened at how weak he seemed. His dad had always been so strong and full of energy, and now he was so helpless. Max smiled encouragingly. “We need to find a place to hide for a while, that’s all,” he said as he grabbed the wheelchair’s handles. But Tom Gordon reached back and weakly took hold of his son’s wrist.

  “Not yet.”

  “What? Dad, we have to get out of here!”

  His father shook his head. “Not yet,” he repeated.

  Max looked where his father’s trembling hand pointed. The door had closed when Max had launched his attack. Could he drag this doctor to the security point, use his palm-print to open the door, and then get his father out in time?

  “You need him,” his father said, and shook his head, as if trying to remember something.

  “Dad, what is it? What have they done to you?”

  “Memory,” his dad said falteringly. “I took … I took … a potion … herbs and stuff … Bushmen gave it to me … had to …”

  He fell silent. Max waited, uncertain what to do or say, but he knew that time was not on their side. “Dad, I don’t know what to do, other than get you out of here.”

  His father nodded and struggled to string together the words he needed. “Had to blot out my memory … much as I could … fooled them…. Listen, son … listen … they wanted the … evidence. Everything. I’ve hidden it … it’s here … my Land Rover.”

  “Your Land Rover’s here?”

  Max’s dad was beginning to lose consciousness. Whatever they’d done to him made the effort of recognition and speech too difficult.

  “Dad! Where? Where is it?”

  Tom Gordon was sweating, the exertion of staying awake draining away his energy.

  “Big hangar somewhere … near … near a fan … may be a generator …”

  Max knew that had to be on the next level. He remembered the water pipes tunneling upwards from the hydroelectric tank room. That might make sense. This place had to be below ground, so the next floor up was probably at ground level. That would give access to the outside. If he could get up to that room, hide his dad and find the evidence, they might still have a bargaining tool if they were caught. It might at least buy them some time.

  “Where’s the evidence, Dad? Where is it?”

  “Land Rover …”

  “OK, I know that. But where? In a panel? Spare wheel? Where?”

  His father’s head dropped, his lips barely moving. Max put his ear closer. “Water proof … water … proof …”

  Max held his father’s face in his hands. “Dad, I know the water’s being poisoned, I found the hydrology map. But where is the proof?”

  But his father was unconscious.

  So now what? Where to keep his dad safe until he could come back for him? Right here. Right where he’d always been, because then if anyone came looking, they’d see he was still in his bed.

  He wheeled his father back into the room and with a lot of effort manhandled him onto the hospital bed. Stepping back into the corridor, he saw what was obviously the doctor’s office. There was a coffeemaker and a small fridge, which yielded a couple of pots of yogurt, a tub of something in rice and a carton of milk. Max wolfed the lot in an indecently short time and followed it with a belly-churning belch. Now he had to get out of there.

  “Doctor Zhernastyn has left the controlled area,” the woman’s voice said.

  So that’s who you are, Max thought, as he eased the still-unconscious man’s hand back onto his lap and pushed the wheelchair through the doors, with Zhernastyn secured to it with surgical tape wrapped around his body and across h
is mouth.

  The lift slid down, the doors eased open and Max trundled his cargo inside. The panel showed there were six floors. Those from the basement through to the fourth floor were clearly marked, but there was a button above those that said PRIVATE: CODED ACCESS ONLY. That would be where Shaka Chang hung out. Max pressed the second button. The lift moved with stomach-dropping speed. Once again the doors glided open. “Ground floor. Vehicle Maintenance. If you’re driving today, be careful, Doctor Zhernastyn. Goodbye.”

  Max eased the wheelchair forward into a hangar-sized cave which had been blasted out of the solid rock and turned into a modern work area. He could hear music playing somewhere, and the clang of a wrench as it fell to the floor. Massive doors had been slid back across the hangar’s opening, revealing the glare of the desert that filtered in far enough to create a soft sheen of light across the highly polished floor.

  A twin-engined jet sat, parked at the center of the hangar. Dust bags covered the air intakes. The gleaming black metal sported a thin line of trim that ran like an arrow along the fuselage and up to the tail fin, where it formed the start of Shaka Chang’s corporate logo—assegais and a shield. The upturned wingtips gave the plane a cutting-edge look, and Max reckoned the wings must have spanned twenty-odd meters. But there was still plenty of room for all the other vehicles. Skeleton Rock must be like an iceberg, Max thought. There’s a hell of a lot you don’t see from above. And it’s probably just as deadly, looking at that gear.

  The wheelchair’s tires squeaked as Max turned to the right, hugging the rear wall and ducking low behind a couple of Humvees, painted black and bearing Shaka Chang’s coat of arms. A dune buggy and a sleek helicopter, also black, sat further forward. This looked like Shaka Chang’s personal playroom, and his toys were expensive. Somewhere near the front of the hangar, a couple of mechanics wiped their hands and moved away from the open cowling of a small aircraft. It looked as though they were going for a coffee break. One of the men switched off a portable radio and they disappeared into the glare. Max could see that a glider, the tips of its huge wings balanced tenderly on supporting blocks, lay as still as a moth transfixed by light.

  Max hugged the wall, seeing no sign of his dad’s Land Rover. At the far end of a ten-meter passage cut into the wall—a corridor big enough to drive a lorry through—Max could see a smaller room, if that was what it could be called.

  Edging forward cautiously, he found himself inside a smaller version of the hangar. This seemed a more workaday place, though it was just as immaculately clean as the hangar, containing racks of spare parts, a block and tackle, heavy lifting rigs and a couple of inspection pits. In the opposite corner, fairly well tucked out of sight, an engine diagnostic center sat gleaming, its various computer screens dark—a purpose-built area that looked like something out of a Formula One garage. A huge enclosed cooling fan was bolted to the wall, and it turned lazily on a low power setting, massaging the room with cooled air. Half a dozen motorbikes and a couple of pickup trucks stood in a neat row on the far side, in addition to several quad bikes and two very sleek Class 3 sand yachts. These were the ultimate: a steer-able front wheel and two fixed at the rear. That single wing-shaped sail could snag a breeze and rocket the slender Kevlar hull along at up to a hundred and twenty kilometers an hour.

  One of Max’s friends had taken him once to help at a sand race in north Devon, and let him try his hand. The thrill of hurtling along that close to the ground under the power of wind was an experience he wouldn’t forget. But those memories were getting in the way now; he had to concentrate on finding his dad’s Land Rover.

  At the end of this room was another opening, and Max ran towards it—this and the other hangar might be his way out. Keeping in the shadows, he peered out across the landscape. The big hangar opened onto the vast plain, but this corner of the fort was on the edge of a plateau, so the ground dropped away to the river. That would make sense. That river must be fed from the Devil’s Breath crater, and he could see the marsh grass and the crocodiles basking on the sandbanks. A narrow set of rails led down a ramp from this opening, where a motorboat was held fast. Matted, tissue-paper-like fiberglass showed a nasty gash below the waterline, and there were signs that someone had been working on the repair. Something sharp and with enormous crushing power had caused that damage. It wasn’t too hard to imagine what.

  The boat had obviously been hauled back up the ramp for repairs; it was too risky to work on it down there—those crocs could move too quickly. There seemed no way out except across that desert, in full view of the fort.

  Zhernastyn was coming to, but the initial shock of finding himself strapped in a wheelchair gave way to immediate compliance when Max pushed his face into his. “You make a sound, you try anything, and I’ll push you down that desert ski ramp and let the crocs untie you.”

  Zhernastyn nodded furiously. He’d seen the driver, and others, fed to those man-eaters. Max pulled the tape from Zhernastyn’s mouth, the whiskers tearing away like a Velcro strap being undone. Tears wetted Zhernastyn’s eyes.

  “What did you do to my father?”

  Zhernastyn scrunched his face up and bared his teeth, like a baby about to burst into tears. “It wasn’t me,” he blubbered. “I only did what I was told to by Mr. Chang.”

  “Oh, that’s all right then, I won’t hold it against you.”

  “You won’t?” Zhernastyn said, eyes open wide now and surprised at the boy’s leniency.

  “No, of course not. I’ll pin a note to your chest to tell the crocodiles they mustn’t hurt you because I said so.”

  There was the briefest of moments while Zhernastyn seemed to think about that proposal, but then fear swallowed him again.

  “What was the drug?”

  “Different ones. He’d taken something from the Bushmen. I couldn’t identify it in his blood tests. It seemed to block out parts of the memory. I tried everything. But he was very, very stubborn. So stubborn, I doubled the dose. He was so strong-willed, he resisted so much, he made me so angry, I …” Zhernastyn got carried away by the memory of his patient’s ability to withstand his efforts. He saw Max’s eyes narrow and felt the wheelchair nudge towards the ramp. He sucked in air so quickly he nearly choked. “No!” he spluttered. “Paradyoxinalthymiate! It’s an experimental drug!”

  Max stopped the wheelchair and faced him again. “There’s an antidote?”

  Zhernastyn grimaced and cringed. “I could try and develop one,” he whispered, in a vain attempt to save himself.

  OK, if Max could get his dad out, there had to be a scientist somewhere who could help him. “Where’s my father’s Land Rover?”

  “Through there.” Zhernastyn nodded towards the wall on the far side of the small hangar. The light from outside threw a glaring sheen across the rock face, disguising the next chamber whose entrance, another passage cut in the wall, was engulfed in shadow. These huge underground chambers must have needed tunnel-boring machines to excavate them, but that would have been no problem for Shaka Chang; he had everything he needed for the massive dam project, further north. Max grabbed a roll of duct tape from a workbench and wrapped it across Zhernastyn’s mouth.

  Max had seen photographs and films of air-crash investigators as they pieced together the wreckage of air disasters, and this was exactly how it looked, on a smaller scale, as he pushed Zhernastyn into this next chamber. A Land Rover had been completely dismantled and every piece, every nut and bolt, every panel and welded seam, had been taken apart. As if by a pathologist’s postmortem the vehicle had been thoroughly dissected and lay, spread across the floor, on a massive tarpaulin. The engine block had been cut in pieces and lay at the center of it all. Max parked Zhernastyn and walked slowly around the dismembered carcass. This had obviously been done by experts, and if they’d found nothing then what could he do? He let his eyes wander over the bits and pieces, then he concentrated on each portion of the jigsaw puzzle. There was nothing that could possibly hold any secret.

  It
had been picked clean by Chang’s vultures.

  Shaka Chang grunted with exertion. The man had attacked him from behind, taking Chang by surprise as he dealt with another assault from the front. The first man slashed upwards with a knife, but Chang stepped inside the knife thrust, blocked the man’s arm in a scissor grip, pushed his shoulder hard into the other’s chest and felt his breath expelled. He kept hold of the man’s wrist as he fell, twisting it in a swan-neck grip. The knife dropped, the man yelled in pain and, just as Chang was going to use his considerable strength and kick the man hard to keep him down, the other assailant had run in from the room behind him.

  Slye stood in the doorway, frozen by the violence. Hating the brutality of it. He could barely move, in case he was somehow caught up in the assault.

  Chang took the blow to the back of his neck and it stunned him momentarily. He sagged, nearly going down on his knees, and then the man had an armlock around his throat. A knee in his back and one arm pressed in just the right place to cause unconsciousness and death. And the attacker was as big and as strong as Chang. Chang hadn’t heard him approach. But that was exactly why he paid these men so much money to be his bodyguards. They were very good at their jobs, but he wanted to be better than the professionals. He wanted to be better than anyone at everything.

  Chang rolled, letting the man’s weight carry them, and jabbed him hard with his elbow. It took three or four severe blows, but finally the man succumbed.

  The men, now on the floor, groaned, each recovering from the hurt inflicted on him. Shaka Chang rubbed his neck and reached for a towel as he spotted Mr. Slye, nervously waiting to be summoned closer.

  These weekly workouts in the fort’s dojo kept Chang in good shape; he was determined that people should never forget that he came from a warrior breed. Chang dabbed the sweat around the jade and Moldavite bracelet, linked by gold. He never took that off. It was his talisman. Jade from his mother’s homeland, China, meant protection, the gold mined from his homeland, its chain forged and crafted so tightly that the bracelet should never break. And the Moldavite droplets held fragments of life—entombed secrets—from before man walked the earth. Legend had it that the green translucent meteoric glass, fragments from a massive impact fifteen million years ago, carried the energies between those of extraterrestrial origin and those inhabiting Earth. He never tired of gazing at the bracelet’s beauty.