by Botha, Johan
He pulled up the water bottle that was slung over his shoulder with its leather strap. He unscrewed the cap with one hand as the other held on to the rifle.
He pulled his face as he took a swig of the contents. The almost seventy- proof homemade mampoer crawled down his throat with a burning sensation that hit his stomach immediately. Fuck.
He relaxed. The bitterness in his sea blue eyes could be read in many ways.
His strong face was handsome but stern as he looked towards the horizon and took another swallow of mampoer.
Replacing the cap on the water bottle he allowed it to fall back to his side again and membered the rifle; just as a precaution…. in case the baboon moved again.
Absentmindedly he rubbed against the brass plate on the stock of the rifle and his fingers followed the outline of the engraving on it.
During the past few months he had done this a lot as he tried to live with his grief and even sometimes thought of using the rifle to end it all.
The engraving reminded him of what could have been one of the happiest moments in his life…
To my Darling, Juanita,
Happy Birthday,
Yours forever,
Peter
It was meant to be a present for her. It arrived on the agreed date, but it was too late.
For this he blamed himself, if only he could have kept his grip on the safety rope. He still couldn’t understand how it broke. He checked all the equipment before they had left for the morning. He went over the details of that day…over and over. He tormented himself with it. It was his duty to punish himself.
He rubbed the engraving again and again, polishing it with his thumb. He stared at the Baboon he shot in the distance. A scream started somewhere in his head.
Juanita…. God, I miss you. Come back… Come back… I can’t do this without you.
He looked down at the rifle in his hand.
“FUCK!”
All the emotion kept in him for the past four months seemed to come out at once. A vent opened somewhere inside him and he could not stop it even if he tried to.
“WHY?” he shouted.
Did his healing process start with the death of another creature? Maybe it was just the mampoer, he thought to himself.
He looked up at the mountain, cursing the cause of his grief. Why does he keep coming back here? It’s as if there is an answer here…to a question he is afraid to even ask.
Feeling empty, he shook himself, breaking the spell of his malaise and started walking over to the carcass of the shot creature. He felt his strength come back with each stride.
The animal seemed to jerk on the ground and he increased his pace, swinging the rifle to his shoulder.
His flat stomach tensed as he reached the fallen animal. What IS it? He wondered. It doesn’t look right; maybe I put something out of its misery…
He nudged it with his toe while aiming straight at its head.
Peter only had his khaki trousers on and a pair of homemade shoes, made from a Kudu’s skin. He had shot the magnificent buck two months previously while in one of his drunken states. He usually hunted a bit wasted. He didn’t really enjoy killing things, he just felt compelled to do it. He needed a reason to come out to Guardian Mountain. Death seemed to be the only reason he had.
His wide hat, made from the same Kudu skin shaded his eyes in the hard African sun. It must be playing tricks with his eyes, that or the drink is much stronger today, Peter pondered, pulling the brim down lower over his sweaty brow.
It was the first dry season that anybody in the valley could remember from the youngest to the oldest. Some of the rivers were showing signs of drying up as their water level fell sharply on these hot days.
He frowned as he looked down at the carcass and bent over it with his tall frame. Wiping his eyes, they grew large in recognition of the incredulous horror before him.
“What the hell!” he cried out as he stumbled back in shock, tripping over the butt end of his rifle, his own feet and the roots of the mango tree below him.
The now-dead beast before him was no baboon! He didn’t know WHAT it was, but it wasn’t human, and it wasn’t fully animal... It was something like he’d never seen before.
FUCK ME! Peter thought as he got to his feet and poked at the thing again with his rifle. WHAT IS IT?
He was mesmerized. There was so much to take in; the sporadic hair, the growths and the huge organ between its legs… Peter’s eyes could not open wide enough to absorb all the details.
He’d heard legends of eerie creatures but he had shrugged it off as old wives’ tales.
Peter stood up and gazed in the direction of the mountain, stunned, and quickly sobering up. The early morning sun threw its golden mane over the beautiful Hill Valley Mountains and fell on Peter’s sun-bronzed body. He shivered, trying to rid himself of his thoughts.
He felt an evil presence; a cold chill ran down his spine. This couldn’t be happening here. Not in Hill Valley.
Hill Valley, a luscious tropical paradise, so bountiful in their fruit crops that they export to some of the major countries in Europe. The land is rich here, and the continent an enigma.
The ocean once covered this mountain, now stands tall and majestic.
The only hint of its past are the seashells that Mountaineers and adventurers find on the peaks of the mountains and in valleys.
There’s one part of the mountain that towered over the rest and seemed to watch over the valley and its community. That peak was called, The Guardian.
It dominated the area, like an African Lion watching over his pride, tall and majestic as a king. When standing on The Guardian’s head, you had a view unsurpassed by anything in the world. You were in the clouds enfolded in a coat of mist from head to toe. On one side, wind permitting, you have the magnificence of the Atlantic, spread like a cloak beyond The Guardian. White manes in the wind, roaring with pride at being part of paradise.
Turn to the other way and a vista of a thousand magnificent green mountains lay before you.
In the valleys small rivulets flow between the huge fruit farms finding the easiest course to the sea. Dirt roads lead down to the farms and into the small community where you could see traditional huts of mud and grass.
You could always hear the children playing in the sun, their laughter echoing through the valley.
It’s a peaceful place where all worked hard and competition with each other produced the best fruit for the great demand of the European markets.
It’s on one of these farms that Peter stood, remembering now his father’s words of warning never to climb The Guardian, to stay away from this place. Peter should have listened.
The tribes around the farms believed it to be holy ground and they would kill if they knew that anyone was walking around there. Fuck, Fuck, Fuck…
Peter looked around, I need help, I need help… he thought in a panic.
From somewhere above and all around him it seemed, Peter heard an inhuman cry and the earth rumbled for a second as if saying goodbye to the creature lying at his feet.
He looked down again.
“Holy shit, NO!” Peter cried out, dropping his rifle and fumbling forward toward the odd creature.
The carcass seemed to be siphoning into the ground…becoming part of it. It shimmered as if the sunlight was shining right through it. Then there was nothing left of the carcass. Leaving behind in its place a small heap of what looked like river sand, mixed with red blood.
Peter leapt forward, instinctively scooping up a handful of the awful mix and shoveling it into a leather pouch he had attached to his belt. Just as he did the rest of the beast’s remains seemed to be siphoning into the soft ground until there was nothing left.
Peter sat back on his heels and then plopped back on his ass. “Whoa.” He shook his head.
Peter looked at the canteen on his side. He shook his head, took a swig and got to his feet. Watching the spot where the body was moments ago, he turned around an
d sighed.
It was then that something cold and long-dead grabbed his leg.
He quickly pulled away but could feel a strong icy grip that wouldn’t let go.
“NO!” he yelled out. He couldn’t get away! Was he weak from too much drinking? Has he become a coward? With all his strength he pulled again and could feel something ripping into his flesh. He broke free.
He tightened his grip on the rifle and started running like never before. He knew the path back to his old pickup by heart; he had been to this holy place many times before. He jumped over rocks and bushes in his path like a man who wanted to suddenly live.
Peter never looked around but the harsh breathing and cold wall of air behind him kept him going. His lungs seemed to be on fire and the water bottle kept knocking against his side. He wanted to take it off and throw it at the thing but knew instinctively that there was no time to even think of turning around.
He sees his truck in the near distance and felt a surge of energy drive him faster toward his salvation.
The breathing seemed nearer.
He could almost feel as something grabbed the air behind him when he dived into the rusty pick-up.
Peter slammed the door shut with a bang and immediately felt for the keys in the ignition.
Sweat was streaming from his pores, into his eyes, nearly blinding him while he fumbled with the keys. His fingers felt numb and clumsy but eventually turned the ignition.
He looked up as the engine came to life and what he saw on the bonnet made his blood run cold. This can’t be real, this can’t be real Peter repeated to himself, trying to hold it together, dying for a cigarette.
Peter slammed his foot down on the accelerator as he put the rig in gear and could feel it swing and spin as the strong motor came to life. The thing he thought he saw on the hood was gone… where was it? He wondered frantically.
As he kicked up gravel outside, he became aware of a burning sensation on his right calf. Peter reached down and touched it with his right-hand while trying to control the bucking of the truck over the wild African bush.
His hand felt sticky as it reached the source of his pain, and a quick flash to a memory of Juanita’s face told him immediately what it was. He pulled his hand away and looked at it as a burning sensation went through his body.
His hand was full of blood. He had to deal with this, and soon. His head was beginning to clear and his EMT training was coming back. He tried to get a glimpse of how bad the cut was, but couldn’t attend his would and run from the devil at the same time.
Peter tried to push the accelerator down to the floor, knowing that the loss of blood will weaken him. Make him vulnerable to whatever was chasing him. This morning he had still wanted to die but, now, realizing, how near he might be to death he knew that he had to live. He almost smiled as he thought of it now, but he wasn’t out of this yet. He COULD get out of this yet though, he thought, this is what he was made for… he always had been an adrenaline junkie… he finally felt awake!
This is exactly the type of thing that had been part of his life before the accident that ruined everything.
Nearly home, would he be safe? He didn’t feel like it, and his mind was still racing in high gear as he neared the front of the house. He could see that the door was still open and hoped that he could get to it before his attacker did.
The presence he felt was gone but he was scared, in fact he was shit scared and he was a person who thrived on adventure, who likes the adrenaline flowing through him. At the moment he wondered if his body was still fit enough and ready to handle anything that came his way. In his whole life he never dreamed anything like today.
In front of his house he slammed the brakes but it wasn’t easy to get his stiffening leg off the accelerator and the truck jerked a few times like a wild horse before cutting out.
He was breathing hard as he fell out of the pick-up with the rifle in hand and looked around the yard, in case the creature was near him. He left the truck door open as he made his way around it and headed for the awaiting refuge of his home.
Peter half-ran, half-limped his way into the house, feeling a thousand eyes upon him. He got inside, slammed the door shut and leaned against it, trying to calm himself.
“I gotta call Beth” he said out loud as he started to shiver, it’s really cold in here, the thought struck him….
The breathing was back. A scratch came from the other side of the door. Peter moved away from it slowly; looking at it in horror. “No…no.”
He backed away further, looking around him for the source of the cold air, and with the rifle pointing at the door he made slow progress towards the bathroom.
Another pain shot through his calve and he had to lower the rifle to use it as a kierie.
“FUCK!” Peter cried out. Fuck, Fuck, Fuck he continued chanting in his head.
He had to make it to the bathroom before he got sliced to ribbons. With two bleeding limbs, he hit the bathroom doorjamb, slide into the room and slammed the door shut. Hoping the invisible attacker was on the other side of it.
What the hell is happening? Peter thought incredulously. Okay Peter… This IS real, accept it, be smart, you can do this. You are smarter than this. Peter convinced himself with steadying hands he opened the medicine cabinet and took out antiseptic liquid and bandage. Being on the ambulance crew before his leave of absence, at least, meant he had a good first aid supply here. The nearby villagers would often just stop here for some medical aid if they needed help, even now.
Leaning over towards the bath he opened the cold-water tap and pulled his leg over the side. He did not care to take his shoe off.
As the clotted blood washed away he poured half of the antiseptic over it. It was still bleeding badly, but he could see what looked like four deep scratches as if someone had lashed him with a knife. He put a piece of cotton pad on the wound securing it with the bandage as tight as he could. Not my best work, but it’ll do.
He poked around in the cabinet again and as he took two pain pills out he heard something on the outside of the house next to the bathroom wall.
With the pills in his hand he remembered his canteen at his side. With the rifle in one hand he opened the canteen with the other and took a long swallow of the mampoer. Peter then swallowed the pills down with another mouth full of the stinging liquid.
Reassuring himself that he was ok he started to move towards the door and just as he went through he could feel his body stiffen with some new keening noise coming from the other room. He swung around with his rifle, ready to take on the next offense.
As his finger curled around the trigger he realized that it was the telephone ringing.
“Shit!” he almost laughed with relief as he started towards the instrument, hoping that he would get there in time.
Picking up the phone he felt a sense of relief that at least he was still in contact with the rest of the world
“Hallo?” someone questioned on the other side.
“Oh my god, Beth!”
Peter sat down hard on the floor and grabbed for his canteen again as he put the rifle down.
He felt cold.
“Peter? What’s wrong? Are you ok?”
“Beth, something happened … I can’t explain properly over the phone. Please…get hold of Big John ….. Tell him that I need to see him urgently.”
“Really? Why? What’s wrong, Peter?”
Something crashed on the balcony and the whole house vibrated.
“Shit!” Peter grabbed the rifle again.
“What the hell is that noise?” Beth asked excitedly.
“Beth, trust me, it’s something… unexplainable. Just get hold of John and tell him to get his ass over here as soon as possible.”
Another crash …this time nearer.
“Beth you must phone the cops too.”
“I’m coming over!” she said but, realized that the phone was already dead.
****
Another crash made him look
around and once again he could feel the cold biting into his flesh.
Something, like fog came up through the floorboards near the front door and the fog seemed to be filling the main lounge area. It grew colder and colder in the room.
Good God what is happening? I gotta get out of here! My rifle, I must get my rifle!
The phone rang again, making him leap around while the noise level in the lounge seemed to increase. Things were breaking now, falling off walls, swirling around in the air. Thumping…crashing….screeching, cracking and tearing all reached his ears at once!
