by A P Bateman
The man stood tall and broad. He was extremely dark, his skin a shiny black. His hair was a combination of dreadlocks and afro. He glistened in perspiration and wore a loin cloth made from suede or softened leather. He carried a spear and wore a wicked-looking and curiously shaped sword on a leather thong around his waist. The sword was black and mottled, as if crudely honed from wrought iron, and rather than being straight and true, or indeed curved like a sabre. Its blade was a wavy design, the edge on both sides clearly denoted by a thin strip of silver roughly honed into the dark metal. The man hefted the spear into his hand like a javelin. The blade looked like a metal leaf, tapering into a broad tip and the blade looked to be fixed to the shaft by thin sinew or leather lashing. The man looked every inch the African warrior, and as Stone estimated the distance between them, he knew the man was both taller and heavier than himself. At a shade under six-foot and around a hundred and ninety pounds, Stone was built like a light-heavyweight boxer. He had the arms and fists to match, but he felt small in comparison. For a brief moment, he had forgotten he was naked.
The warrior was bathed in sweat, his muscles defined and the sunlight shone directly upon him making him glisten. He tested the weight of the spear above his shoulder, then started to jog towards Stone, closing the distance.
Stone sprinted hard towards the man. Already confusion was on his opponent’s face, as the gap closed too quickly and he was forced to stop and recalculate his throw. Stone did not make it easy, breaking both left and then back to the right as he closed him down and raced to bring the gap down to nothing. The warrior spun the spear around, no time for a throw, he was going to use it as a lance. Stone bent down, scooped up a handful of sand and threw it underarm into the man’s face as he neared, then dropped and shoulder-charged the man at the knees. The spear glanced the top of Stone’s shoulder and he felt it slice open moments before he smashed into the man’s legs. The warrior was bowled over, taking Stone with him. Stone grabbed the spear, ripping it from the man’s grasp and rolled on the sand. He felt the sting of the sand in his wound, but came back onto his feet with the spear at the ready.
The warrior had reacted quickly to the attack. He had the sword out from the makeshift belt and sliced it through the air in front of him to maintain his ground and force Stone back.
Fighting, combat, whatever you chose to call it, is about the occupation of ground. You stand your ground and attack. You aim to occupy your opponent’s space, force them to retreat and continue. After you have taken ground from your opponent multiple times, kept them on the back foot, the retreat, you start to beat them mentally. This was as true on the battle field as it was in the boxing ring. Stone knew this, but it looked like the warrior did as well. Stone lunged forwards with the spear and the man dodged and countered with the sword. Stone could see it was more of a long knife than a true sword, but the man slashed at the spear and a great chunk of wood was cut out leaving Stone in no doubt that the shaft would not last long if the man had too many chances at it with the blade.
Stone stared the man in the eyes. The warrior looked terrified, his eyes wide and the whites highlighted more so by the man’s dark skin colour. Up close Stone could see the man was huge. He stood at least six-six and was easily twenty pounds heavier than Stone. He should not have looked so scared, but then again, Stone didn’t exactly have a mirror handy.
The warrior lunged with the blade, but it was a bad move as Stone had the reach advantage. He used the tip of the spear to parry the blade, and swiped it back across the man’s chest. The wound opened up and bled immediately, but Stone dropped the spear low and swiped back the way he’d come and caught the man’s knee. The warrior slashed at the spear with the blade, but Stone snatched it back and as the blade of the man’s weapon carried on past towards the sand, Stone jabbed hard and the spear went several inches into the man’s gut. The man dropped onto his knees, realisation on his face. He dropped the knife and cupped the wound. Slowly, he turned his bloody palms upwards and steadied them, quite unhurried as if Stone was no longer there.
Stone almost recoiled as a memory, an image played before him. Standing over a young Taliban fighter, the same look on his face, the same bloody hands. The barrel of a rifle, bayonet fixed and dripping crimson. The pooling of blood as rivulets drained from the blade’s blood groove and dropped to the dry, sun-baked earth. The look on the young man’s face as the rifle draws back and then thrusts forwards, the bayonet travelling towards his neck. Stone shudders and closes his eyes momentarily. When he opens them, the rifle and bayonet are gone and the black warrior and the bloody spear are in front of him. Not a memory, terrifyingly real.
Stone stepped back a pace. The man went for the sword and Stone upended the spear and brought the haft down on the man’s skull. He slumped down into the sand and lay still.
6
Stone had dragged the unconscious man to the fringe of the jungle. The man was heavy and the strain hurt his side. He wondered if his ribs were cracked.
The man was badly wounded. Stone was not concerned by the gash to the man’s knee, but the stab wound to his stomach was not only deep but broad. He knew that it needed suturing, but the man was out of luck. Stone needed a fire to sterilize water, a container to carry water and he needed material. That was without sutures. He had the sword-like knife and could whittle some shards of wood and use them as staples, but unless he sterilized them by either flame or boiling water, then he would only cause the man more harm. But he had none of these things to hand. The best he could do was remove the man’s loin cloth, soak it in seawater and press it against the stomach wound. He did this, bathed his own shoulder wound in the water, struggled to look at it, but could see it was bleeding less, already starting to clot and dry in the sun. When he returned, he pressed the loin cloth into the man’s wound, tied some of the leather cord around to secure it in place, then he tethered the man’s wrists behind a thin tree with the leather cord belt to be safe.
He had started to recall military service in Afghanistan. He had gone in to a compound to evacuate the wounded enemy for medical treatment. First they bombed them, then they bandaged them, a soldier had commented. It mirrored the man before him. Maybe he should have simply killed him, but without the heat of battle it was murder. Stone wasn’t about to run the man through, and he wanted to try and communicate with him, find out where he was and why the man had tried to kill him. But first he needed water, and he knew that if the man woke up, not only would he need water too, but the promise of it would get him talking.
Stone scoured the high-water tideline as he made his way back to the precious water source. He had seen footage on the television of beaches littered with flotsam and jetsam, but here there was only weed and driftwood. Not a container, plastic bag, bottle, flip-flop or fishing net in sight. Nothing. Not a single imprint of mankind.
The sand had dried and it was only by mentally marking out the two headlands earlier that Stone could be sure he was in the right place. There was no sign of water and when he found the point where he was sure he had entered the jungle; something became strangely obvious to him. He could not find his own footprints. He got down on his knees and studied the ground carefully, ran his hand gently over the sand. On the fringe of the jungle were clumps of palm fronds growing out of the dirt, their roots spreading out across the surface of the sand, as if they had rejected the beach and were blindly seeking out nutrient-rich earth. He picked up a frond and gently brushed it over his footprints. They disappeared, leaving beads of damp sandy clumps in their place. The ground looked the same as when he had returned. Maybe he was in the wrong place? No. He was sure, positive that his tracks had been purposefully cleared away. But why would the warrior do that? And why had the flow of water suddenly stopped and dried up?
Stone edged his way cautiously into the jungle. He kept his eyes moving; from the ground to avoid snakes, spiders and scorpions, to the area in front of him, also using his periphery vision as well as he could in the dark shadow of the
jungle. He would stop every so often, his ears challenging a noise, his eyes daring movement. He wasn’t necessarily remembering military training; these were primordial senses that seemed to come naturally to him.
The earth was damp, but there was no longer a flow of water. He climbed up the slope where it had trickled down. Nothing. No sign of a spring or overflow from a pool. Just damp earth. Strangely, the ground started to slope away. There was no evidence of mud or an area of dampness. The more he thought about it, the more he started to feel he was confusing the site. He turned around and made his way back down the earth slope, his feet occasionally coming close to tiny scorpions. He used the knife to hack down a thin, leafy branch and holding it in front of him, he brushed the ground in front of him like a travelling Buddhist monk. It was the first confident steps his bare feet had made since leaving the beach.
Back at the base of the slope, Stone thought about his earlier visit and walked to the tree that he had urinated against. The ground smelled foul, the impurities of his dehydrated waste reeking, even as it competed against the rotting jungle vegetation. There was no doubt about it – he was in the right place. But physics and geography meant that the stream of water that had saved him earlier should never have existed in the first place.
Back on the sand and in the bright, welcoming light, Stone surveyed the beach as he had done so before. He weighed his options, knowing it was both important to keep them open and have more than one. He could strike out the other way and look for habitation, or something of use that he could learn about his location. There were no ships or boats on the horizon, maybe if this was an island there would be shipping lanes on the other side. With some innovation he could make a raft or a smoky signal fire from leaves. It would take time, as he had to fabricate some makeshift tools first, but he was confident that if he could locate another water supply and consume enough food, he would both discover and make what he needed. There may also be more islands and he may well be able to swim and island hop his way to habitation.
The warrior. Why had the man attacked him? And where was this place for him to have met such a man? Stone could not stop thinking about this. He had left the man tethered to a tree. He knew deep down that he should have finished his opponent. Now he had left a man to fate, most probably certain death without medical attention and water. He had left himself wide open to fate also. What if the man had friends who could release him? There was also the possibility that the man could escape and come after him looking for vengeance. In showing mercy he had left a loose end and he may well have endangered himself because of it.
Stone climbed the rocky outcrop and surveyed the horseshoe bay. It appeared the same as before, except that the reef had been almost completely immersed by the tide. He could see a shoal of what he assumed where tiny fish in the shallows. No doubt the baby sharks would be shadowing and herding them as they learned to hunt. He reflected that he could try fishing for them, maybe with the spear if he could adapt the blade and fashion prongs in place.
Stone was feeling confident in his abilities. He was remembering more, but it was a subconscious thing. He knew things, rather than remembered them. He knew survival techniques, but they came to him as he thought about his situation. He couldn’t reason with himself and set a mental task to remember the day he had been taught something specific, but he knew that he had skills and knowledge which was seeping out from the chasms of his mind.
Stone decided to test himself. He closed his eyes and tried to recall his college graduation. It was there. A warm day, bright sky. His mother and father proudly congratulating him on the sports field. His friends standing behind them gesturing to make him laugh. But he couldn’t remember what he had studied. And he couldn’t remember where. He shrugged. It was a hell of a lot more than he had been able to remember a few hours ago. He drew on the memory of Kathy in the bar. He could picture her. Her cream soda, her glossy lips, her satin black hair. Her sharp cheekbones, her eyes, dark and inviting. And Isobel. He could picture her, remembered meeting her at a buffet. She is wearing a smart skirt and suit jacket. It’s business. Other men are talking in the circle, they are wearing ID badges and visitor labels. Still he is neither sad nor happy. She is clearly part of his past, but he remembers no more.
Tired, he decides to sit and look out at the open ocean beyond the bay. The water is green, a glistening emerald with dark shadows of deeper water in patches. Or perhaps it’s weed or dark rock. He starts to think back to what this beautiful woman had said about the computer expert being terrified. Stone had thought Kathy’s comments seemed a little dramatic. He closed his eyes again and tried to recall more of their conversation.
7
They had left the bar and travelled in Stone’s red Ford Mustang. An original 390 GT, but uprated at great personal expense. Sixties iconic cool with modern technology. A cooling and electrical system that worked, Brembo brakes, racing inspired suspension and magnetic shock absorbers and an extra one-hundred horsepower over the original. It was Stone’s personal obsession and a metaphor for living in the moment, one drawn on through tragic loss. Money was no good to you when you’re dead.
Kathy was quite comfortable travelling with Stone. She had only just met him, but her long-time friend had personally recommended him. She was a good judge of character, or liked to think so, and Stone hadn’t said no to her proposition. Not yet, at least.
“You live quite a way out,” Stone commented. There had been a long pause which had broken into an uncomfortable silence. “I thought you’d be in a fancy apartment in DC. Chevy Chase, close to the political action.”
“Well, the social affairs desk is a pretty web-based affair. I can do it anywhere. Whenever there’s a big deal happening in town I stay with friends,” she paused. “It’s not that far out.”
“Where are we heading?”
“Near Great Falls.”
Stone nodded.
“You know it well?” she asked.
“I know there was an unofficial raceway at an old airfield out there. I ran this down there a few times. A run what you brung affair.”
“Racing driver, eh?”
“I’m sure Isobel told you,” he smiled. “She wasn’t much of a motor racing fan.”
“Her loss,” she said quickly. “Another mile and take the next left.”
Stone slowed the Mustang and worked the windshield wipers. A misty drizzle had started and made the street lights have a halo effect. The wiper blades smeared the glass, greasy from the road spray. The street lights became more sporadic and the houses more infrequent. Great pines lined the road and Stone could see that they grew thicker and the houses were built into clearings. After the left turn Stone kept the car at around forty-five, waiting for another instruction.
“Half a mile,” she said. “Then look out for a road on the right.”
“Really out in the boonies,” he commented.
“Suit’s me. I can walk with the boys. It’s relaxing to be out the city.”
“The boys?”
She smiled. “My babies.”
“Oh, right,” he said, quite surprised she had children. He took the right turning. “How far now?”
“We’re here,” she said. “On the right. Park behind the BMW.”
Stone eased in behind a dark BMW X5 SUV. He looked at the house. It was a take on a log cabin but designed with modern elements. It looked expensive, and the car was in keeping with both the property and the location. He imagined plenty of other faux cabins spread out in the woods. Yuppie types enjoying the great outdoors, but with good road and rail links and supermarkets and coffee houses five minutes’ drive away.
“How did you get into the city tonight?” he asked, eyeing the SUV.
“My editor lives a mile up the road. We had a breakfast meeting. He gave me a lift. I sometimes do that, then get the train back and a taxi up here. The station is only two miles away. I work from home much of the time, or travel to interview sources and contacts.”
Stone
nodded. “I suppose that works out well for your boys.”
“I guess,” she opened the door and stepped out onto the gravel driveway.
Stone followed her up the pathway and the four wooden steps to the decked porch. She unlocked the door and as she opened it she reached inside and flicked on the light. There was an almighty scrabbling sound on the wooden floor and two of the biggest dogs Stone had ever seen bounded into the hallway and charged at them. Kathy held out her arms and both dogs leapt up, tongues out, forcing her to close her eyes and turn her head this way and that to avoid a slobbery licking.
“My boys,” she told him.
“No shit,” he said.
“Not a dog person?”
“I guess. But these aren’t dogs, they’re wolves. Crossed with horses. Big horses.”
She stood aside and they bounded past Stone like he wasn’t there and charged outside. She closed the door behind them. “I’ll give them ten minutes. They’ve been cooped up all day. They had a walk this morning. Sometimes I have a walker come round and take them out if I’m busy.”
Stone nodded. He looked around the hallway as she kicked off her shoes and picked up the mail. She walked, stockinged feet into the kitchen. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
“Cream and sugar, right?”
“Sometimes.”
“Black and sour in the morning.”
“What else did Isobel say?”
“Not much,” she smiled. “Well, not too much.”
Stone turned to the door. He could hear scratching. “Shall I get that?”
“Oh thanks.”
