Far Horizon

by Tony Park

  If Hess was smart, Mike thought, he would run as fast as possible to his vehicle and get away from the overland group – and away from Zambia. Mike hoped Hess wasn’t that smart, and was sticking around waiting to finish him off.

  He was almost at the edge of the road when the first shot rang out. The bullet tore through the skin of his left forearm, halfway between his wrist and elbow. Mike pitched forward into the mud and couldn’t stop himself from crying out in pain. He felt like he needed to throw up and he could see bone shining white through the ragged exit hole under his arm. Dragging his left arm uselessly beside him, he crawled to a fallen log and propped the barrel of the hunting rifle on the wet trunk. He scanned the road and the bush along its verge, but couldn’t see Hess. Another bullet zinged over his head and he ducked back behind the log.

  The next sound he heard was at once familiar and ominous – the dull whop-whop of helicopter rotor blades – a sound that could signal death just as easily as it could salvation. Mike looked up and caught sight of a bright light fighting to penetrate the cloud cover above the horizon. Hess darted from the bush into the middle of the road, waving his rifle high and speaking into a walkie-talkie. Hess had assumed he had put Mike out of action.

  Mike could see the helicopter now. The pilot had the nose down to pick up speed as he followed the muddy road over the two hills towards Hess. The chopper’s spotlight was lowered and the beam swept a path along the road in front of it. Mike shifted the barrel of the hunting rifle until Hess was in his sights. He tried to steady the stock with his left hand, but couldn’t bend his arm enough to get a proper grip. His arm was slick with blood from the fresh wound. He centred the crosshairs of the telescopic sight on the centre of Hess’s body and pulled the trigger. Without the support of his left hand the barrel jumped and crashed down again on the log, but he saw Hess slip and fall.

  Mike was on his feet as quickly as his injuries would allow. The hunting rifle was useless to him now – with only one good hand he couldn’t work the bolt action, let alone aim it accurately. He pulled Orlov’s knife from his belt and wished he’d brought one of the pistols with him. Pain coursed through his arm and side with every jarring footfall. As he ran he saw Hess roll onto his side and start to get up.

  As Hess straightened, he raised the AK-47, which was still clutched in his right hand. Mike guessed he had wounded him in the left arm, evening the odds a little, but Hess could still manage the lighter automatic rifle with one hand.

  The helicopter was behind Hess now, not more than a hundred metres away, and the beam of the landing light picked Mike out like a trapped rabbit. He held up a hand to shield his eyes as he stumbled on. The AK-47 rattled from the blackness beyond the cone of light that imprisoned him. Bullets split the air on either side of him, but he could tell Hess was having trouble steadying the bucking rifle. Mike lowered his head and slipped in the mud, crying out as his left arm hit the ground.

  Hess was screaming into the walkie-talkie in Afrikaans. The chopper was close enough for Mike to feel its rotor downwash. Loose stones and drops of water stung his face as he looked up. The pilot was flaring back for landing, the nose rising up like a prancing warhorse.

  The landing light was now on Hess. He was pointing the AK-47 at Mike, one-handed, from less than twenty metres.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Williams,’ he yelled over the whine of the turbine engine. ‘Say hello to your Portuguese doctor for me.’

  Mike rose unsteadily to his feet. He gripped the knife tightly and readied himself for one last lunge. The helicopter rocked forward, its nose dropping back towards the ground as the pilot pushed the machine forwards. Hess was looking at Mike, not at the aircraft behind him, so he didn’t see the tip of the right skid coming closer and closer to him.

  Hess pitched forward as the skid slammed into the back of his neck. He fell, arms thrown wide, and landed hard in the mud. As he dropped, his finger jerked on the trigger of the rifle and two rounds slammed into the ground no more than a metre in front of Mike. Above them, the helicopter pilot wrestled with the controls of his aircraft, desperately trying to compensate for the sudden change in the machine’s altitude.

  ‘Mike!’ Sarah called from behind him.

  Mike glanced back and saw she was on the road. Orlov’s hunting rifle, which he had discarded, was in her hands. He ignored Sarah and closed on the prostrate Hess. He stood over the hunter and stabbed down at him with the knife. Hess was quick to recover, though, and parried the slash with the barrel of his AK-47. Steel rang on steel.

  ‘Get down, Mike!’ Sarah called.

  This time he dropped and rolled away from Hess, aware that he had lost his temporary advantage. Mike heard the crash of the rifle, and Hess instinctively turned and pointed the AK-47 towards Sarah. The round from the hunting rifle whined harmlessly over Hess’s head.

  Mike pushed himself up again and staggered back towards Hess, hoping to draw his fire and give Sarah a chance to reload. He lunged at Hess, shoulder down, aware of the flash of orange flame from the muzzle of the AK-47 and the din of the shot in his ears. Though he steeled himself for the shock of another hit, Hess had missed. As they fell to the ground, Mike heard the repeated click of his finger on the trigger. Hess was out of ammunition.

  Mike slashed wildly with the knife, and felt it tear through fabric and slow as it met flesh. Hess grunted as he grasped Mike’s right hand with his left and punched his wounded left arm with his free hand. Mike’s eyes watered with the pain and in an instant he found himself on his back. Hess’s next blow caught him on the jaw and hot, salty blood flooded his mouth.

  The helicopter settled on the road near them, its main and tail rotors still spinning at high speed, ready for immediate take-off. Hess had one hand on Mike’s throat, and gouged at his wounded arm again with the other. The knife fell from Mike’s hand, and Hess scooped it up and raised the wicked blade above his face, ready to strike.

  As Mike tried to roll out of the knife’s path he heard the sickening thud of wood on flesh. Hess toppled over, his knife hand hanging harmlessly at his side. Mike twisted his body to avoid being crushed by the hunter and looked up to see Sarah silhouetted in the glare of the helicopter’s light. She was holding the hunting rifle by the barrel and had wielded it like a club.

  Sarah dropped to her knees by Mike’s side and reached out for him. Suddenly Hess twisted and rose behind Sarah, the knife still clutched in his hand.

  ‘Sarah, look out!’ Mike cried, too late.

  Hess moved behind Sarah and wrapped an arm around her neck. She dropped the rifle when she felt the sharp point of the knife press against her throat.

  ‘I am getting on that helicopter now,’ Hess said. Blood dribbled from the gash on his right temple where Sarah had struck him with the rifle. Her eyes were wide with fear. ‘It is over,’ he said as he dragged her to her feet.

  ‘It’ll never be over, Hess,’ Mike said, spitting blood. ‘Go, but you can’t kill both of us. You’ve only got a knife and there’ll still be one witness.’

  ‘You think I’m an idiot? You’re coming with me, or I’ll kill the woman now in front of you.’

  ‘You’ll kill her anyway, you cold bastard.’

  ‘That is true, but it’s up to you whether it is quick or very slow. I’ll take the chopper up and out of small-arms range, and drop a piece of her out the door every ten minutes until you change your mind.’

  Above the noise of the whirring rotor blades Mike heard the chug of Nelson’s diesel engine. The truck wasn’t in sight yet, and he didn’t want the boys with the AK-47s opening up indiscriminately on the chopper when they arrived.

  ‘Last chance,’ Hess said as he backed towards the open cargo door of the chopper, dragging Sarah with him.

  ‘Save yourself, Mike. Get to the police,’ Sarah said, but the point of Hess’s knife silenced her and a trickle of blood welled from a tiny puncture.

  Hess looked back over his shoulder at the pilot, who nodded and gave a thumbs-up to show the helicopter wa
s ready for take-off. Hess dragged Sarah backwards and into the cargo compartment after him.

  Mike sprinted to the helicopter, just as the skids started to leave the ground. He jumped in and saw Hess was sitting in the nylon-webbing troop seat opposite him, his back to the pilot. Hess still had Sarah in an arm lock with the tip of his knife pressed against her blood-streaked neck.

  The pilot was focusing his attention on the control panel in front of him, and both his hands were on the aircraft’s controls. They lifted off in a vertical hover and, when they were above the tops of the trees, he held the rudder stick between his knees and passed an automatic pistol back over his shoulder, nudging Hess in the back of the neck with it. Hess quickly stuffed the knife into an empty ammunition pouch in his vest and took the pistol from the pilot.

  ‘Is it loaded?’ he yelled back at the pilot. The pilot gave a thumbs-up and then returned his free hand to the stick.

  Hess slid to the far end of the troop bench, dragging Sarah with him. He raised his arm and pointed the pistol at Mike. Mike figured that from his new position Hess was sure he could shoot him without hitting the engine or other vital parts of the helicopter through the padded bulkhead behind him. Hess smiled at Mike, who grinned back at him like a madman.

  Hess pulled the trigger as Mike leapt across the narrow gap that separated them. Sarah was wide-eyed with surprise and fear.

  ‘No, Mike!’ she screamed.

  Hess was open-mouthed in disbelief as he pulled the trigger again and again, but there was no noise, no bullets. Mike smashed his forehead into the Namibian’s nose and Hess wailed with pain. He reached for his face with his hands, and Sarah, seeing her cue, rolled off the troop seat and onto the floor. The helicopter bucked with the sudden displacement of weight and Sarah hit her head on the corner of the metal frame of the troop seat. She got to her knees, swayed, and then collapsed on the floor of the cargo compartment.

  Mike dragged Hess off the seat with his good arm and straddled his chest. The knife slipped from the unbuckled pouch on Hess’s vest and skidded across the floor away from them. Again and again Mike slammed his closed fist into Hess’s face, but he was weak from loss of blood and each blow was weaker than the last. Hess ignored the pain in his face and reached up for Mike, pushing him out of reach.

  Hess stabbed two fingers into the bloodied makeshift dressing on Mike’s side, causing him to lurch backwards. Hess slid from under Mike and got to his knees. Mike lunged again for him and they became locked in a frantic embrace.

  Hess punched Mike’s wounded arm, and then pushed him onto his back and along the metal floor until Mike’s head and shoulders were sticking outside the open cargo door. The slipstream tousled his hair and blew hard and cold on the cuts on his face. Mike was furious that he had allowed Hess to get the better of him again.

  Hess gripped the wrist of Mike’s good arm, keeping it away from him. With his other hand he grasped the belt on Mike’s shorts and pushed him farther and farther out the door. Something hit the helicopter with a loud zing and the pilot threw the machine violently onto its side. Green tracer arced past them and Mike realised the boys in the truck were firing at them. They must have thought Hess had made his escape and decided to try to down the helicopter.

  The pilot’s evasive action had saved his machine from taking another hit and also given Hess more leverage. The whole upper half of Mike’s body was in the slipstream now. His back was arched painfully. As soon as Hess chose to let go of him, he would fall.

  Suddenly, Hess was lying on top of him. Mike struggled to sit up and saw Sarah standing behind Hess’s prostrate body. Her face was sickly white and she was holding onto a webbing strap on the bulkhead to steady herself.

  Then Hess was on his knees again, his hands reaching frantically behind his back, his face contorted in agony. With the Namibian’s weight and hands off him Mike used his legs to slide himself back inside the helicopter cabin. As Hess twisted his torso Mike saw the leather-bound handle of the hunting knife protruding from the centre of his back, where Sarah had stabbed him.

  Hess twisted again to get a grip on the knife handle and, as he did so, Mike pushed himself to his knees and then stood. He kicked Hess in the side mercilessly.

  ‘That’s for Isabella,’ he said.

  The chopper pitched again as the pilot circled and Hess teetered on his knees on the edge of the open cargo cabin. As he was about to topple into space, Hess stopped trying to grab the knife from his back and reached out with his right hand for Mike instead.

  Mike was too slow to back away and Hess snatched his wrist in an iron grip. Worried that the hunter would pull him out if he fell, Mike dropped suddenly to the floor of the chopper, landing hard on his chest and stomach. Hess slipped and fell out the door anyway as the helicopter lurched again, but he did not release his grip on Mike.

  Mike felt as though his arm was being pulled from its socket, as Hess dangled in space below him, kicking his legs as he tried to gain a foothold on the skid. The helicopter was still high, the pilot circling at altitude to avoid mist-shrouded hills and the possibility of more ground fire from the truck.

  ‘Help me!’ Hess screamed, staring up into Mike’s eyes.

  The pilot looked over his shoulders and yelled, ‘Pull him in. Now! Pull him in!’

  If Mike had been holding onto Hess, instead of the other way around, he would have let go, then and there. Mike wanted Hess dead more than anything else in the world, but there was nothing he could do while Hess gripped him. Mike was using his free hand to help keep himself inside the helicopter by gripping a strut supporting the troop seats. ‘Help me, Sarah,’ he called.

  She grabbed hold of Mike’s belt and started to drag him back across the cargo compartment floor. Slowly, painfully, they hauled the struggling Hess upwards. Eventually, he was able to hook a leg over the helicopter’s skid and pull himself to a sitting position.

  Mike sat back on the aircraft floor, drained by the effort. Hess stood on the skid, one hand holding the roof to support himself. He smiled at Mike again as his right hand reached behind his back.

  ‘Mike, look out!’ Sarah screamed.

  He saw the flash of steel as Hess pulled the bloodstained knife from his back. Mike dropped onto his back as the blade arced down towards him. He drew his knees protectively up to his chest. He avoided Hess’s killing stroke, but the point of the knife scored a bloody trough down one of his shins.

  Mike kicked out, ankles together, and caught Hess in the stomach with both his feet. Hess lost his grip on the roof and sailed backwards, arms windmilling. Mike couldn’t see the ground below and guessed they were three or four hundred feet above the blackened bush. Hess didn’t scream, but Mike knew he would never forget the wide-eyed look of surprise on the Namibian’s face as he fell.

  Sarah knelt beside Mike and wrapped her arms around him as he sat up.

  ‘It’s over,’ she said.

  The pilot settled the helicopter into a hover with the stick between his knees and removed his helmet with his free hand. He turned and looked at them over his shoulder.

  ‘Sarah, meet Captain Fanie Theron of the South African Police Service,’ Mike said.

  ‘Did you have to do that?’ Theron shouted. He was trying to look stern, but Mike saw the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth as he shook his head.

  ‘Yes,’ Mike replied.

  Epilogue

  Michael Williams had found a quiet piece of Africa where he could recuperate. He was ready for some peace.

  Over the past few mornings he had watched two old bull elephants drinking from the Zambezi River, casting dark reflections on the water like black irises in shining blue eyes. Crocodiles basked lazily on golden spits of sand in the middle of the day and the hippos came out to graze in the afternoon, as the sun set.

  The only sounds in his refuge came from nature, not from man. Last night he had heard hyena calling and the night before that it was a lion.

  Three months of eating, drinking and fishi
ng had cured the worst of his wounds, including a bout of bilharzia, which he had probably picked up from the flooded river when they rescued Sarah. The gunshot wounds had turned to pink puckered scars. The memories and the dreams were taking longer to go away.

  The house where he had been living, if one could call it a house, was a two-room fishing shack on the Zambezi near Chirundu, in the far north of Zimbabwe. The place wasn’t much to look at, but the big concrete verandah was well shaded by a cracked asbestos roof, and the fridge worked.

  Mike had left his job, mainly to escape the glare of publicity that followed his last overland trip. Despite what some people said, he hadn’t been sacked. In fact, bookings actually increased and Rian had begged him to return after a rest at the shack, which was owned by some Zimbabwean friends of his.

  He had decided that he wasn’t going back, though. Forward, maybe, but not back. He had made pretty good money working for Rian on the overland trips and, with all his food and expenses covered by the job, he had managed to put some cash away. Lately he had been thinking about buying some land, perhaps setting up a small game farm and a lodge. The proposition would be more attractive if he could find a partner, although not necessarily a financial partner.

  An old African caretaker also lived in the fishing shack. Moses had kept Mike company over the long, hot summer months on the river. They would fish for bait together in the mornings and then go out on a boat to drift lazily in the current in the hope of bagging a tiger fish or two in the afternoon. Mike never caught many of the tenacious fighting fish, but that was fine with him. He found no great thrill in hunting, fishing or killing.

  Rian and Susie forwarded get-well cards and postcards from the other members of the tour group, and just the other day he had received a letter from Nigel. He and Nigel had been flown out of Mfuwe airport on an air ambulance to Lusaka as soon as Fanie Theron had touched down in the helicopter. They had missed the chance to say a proper goodbye to everyone else.