by Chad Oliver
Royce did not push himself. He walked steadily but he conserved his strength. There was one deep draw between him and Russell’s place. It was normally dry or nearly dry, but it would be a river of fast water now. He could never cross it in a weakened condition. And he had his rifle to worry about …
Take it as it comes. Take it as it comes.
There were times when the world seemed very small. There were times when it all came down to this: one man and a rifle and water to cross.
A century from now, it might not matter or be remembered. A century from now, even they might be forgotten—or man himself might have vanished from the earth.
But it mattered now. It mattered to him: what he was, and what he might become. He was just one man, but that was all that any man could claim.
He walked on, pacing himself. His shoulders began to ache. He shifted his heavy rifle from one hand to the other. The sky grew darker and fat drops of warm rain began to fall. He welcomed the rain, tepid though it was; he was hot and sticky and his clothes were damp.
Royce heard the water before he came to it. Not the roaring of a river in flood. No, it was a softer sound, a well-oiled sound, a hiss and bubble of swift water …
The road simply disappeared beneath the flow of yellow-brown water. There was no way to tell how deep it was. The current was strong and fast; there were sticks and tufts of grass and uprooted bushes rushing downstream. It had been worse: Royce could see the road damage that indicated that the water level had been far higher during the peak of the rains. There were good-sized trees strewn along the banks where they had been scattered by the force of the flow.
He estimated the width of the stream as about thirty yards. It was not an impossible distance, but Royce didn’t kid himself. He knew fast water. A trout stream half that wide could knock a man down, and that was in clear water where you could see where you were going.
He stepped carefully into the water, testing it. He moved out a yard or two, sliding his feet in a fisherman’s shuffle. The dirty water was up to the tops of his boots and the tug was strong. As he had suspected, the angle of dropoff was steep. It would be over his head in the middle of the river.
He backed out. There was no way he could cross here without swimming. He could not swim with a rifle, and he was not sure he could make it even without the rifle.
Royce forced himself to rest. He sat down on a rock by the side of the road. He unwrapped two cheese sandwiches and wolfed them down; they wouldn’t be helped by being underwater. He fished out his pipe and got it going. The tobacco hissed when the rain hit it.
He got up after a few minutes, knocked out his pipe, and stuffed it in his pocket. He left the road and moved to his right, heading upstream. He had no idea of how far he might have to go, but he knew that the stream would have to broaden out somewhere. Drainages for flood waters seldom stayed in deep cuts; even rivers that always carried water had stretches that were wide and shallow.
It was tough going. There was no trail here, and there were places where he had to force his body through the brush. He stayed as close to the water as he could; the higher water of a few days ago had partially cleared a path for him. The mud was thick and great gobs of it stuck to his boots.
He lost nearly an hour before he found a possible crossing. He saw outcroppings of black gritty rock from an ancient lava flow and the channel of the stream widened perceptibly. The current was still very fast but it was broken into rapids and pools. There was white water mixed with brown. It had to be relatively shallow, but it was plenty deep enough to drown a man.
Royce moved another hundred yards or so upstream, giving himself plenty of room to move with the water. He found a stout tree near the bank and tied one end of the nylon rope to it. He tied the other end around his waist and carried the slack line in a coil in his left hand. He hefted the rifle in his right hand.
He started across. The bottom was good and firm. The dirty water boiled up around his legs, reached his waist. The current was strong; he could not move directly toward the opposite bank. He had to go at an angle downstream. He fought to yield as little ground as possible so that he would not run out of rope.
His right arm, holding the rifle clear of the water, began to pain him. Debris floating down the river almost knocked him from his feet. He had to move slowly, testing the bottom he could not see. For long, agonizing minutes he doubted that he could make it. He had actually reached down with his left hand to untie the rope around his waist when he hit the upward slope. The water dropped to his knees and he was able to move upstream, recovering some slack. He stumbled out of the river, put down his rifle, and tied the end of the rope to a tree. It would be easier now to cross again, if he had to.
Royce rested for a few minutes, but he was becoming concerned about time. He picked up his rifle and trudged back through the mud to the road. It was still raining but he hardly noticed.
It was almost three o’clock. It had been about nine hours since he had left the Baboonery.
Royce made steady progress along the deserted highway. He reached the Russell turnoff a little after four. The little road that led to Russell’s place was not paved. Royce could tell at a glance that no vehicles had passed in or out for at least the past several days. Either Russell had cleared out early or he was still there.
Royce walked through the sticky mud with the open sisal fields on both sides of him. He was bone-weary. The driveway was a long one and it was ten minutes before he came in sight of the low stone-and-wood house with its long screened porch. He saw no signs of activity.
Royce stopped. He heard no dogs barking, and that was odd. Russell would not have taken his dogs with him; he would have left them with his African staff.
Think. This is no time to be stupid.
Royce left the road and entered the sisal field on his right. The footing was soft and the tough sisal blades were strong enough to impede his progress, but the sisal plants were tall enough to give him some cover. He worked around in a curve that would bring him in behind the house.
He got close enough to see the kitchen door. He stopped again, uncertain how to proceed. It was all very well to be careful, but it was dangerous to sneak up on the house. He was inviting one of Bob Russell’s bullets in his chest. He decided to call out a greeting, but the sound never came.
He spotted them, sitting in an open shed near one of the outbuildings.
Baboons. Two of them.
Royce ducked down in the sisal, his heart hammering. He slid his rifle into position.
They might just be baboons venturing in around an empty house. It was possible, but he didn’t believe it. And if they were not just baboons …
The kitchen door opened.
Bob Russell came out.
The settler moved as though he were in a daze, or in the last stages of some crippling illness. His stocky body was canted at an odd angle. His long black hair, always brushed straight back, hung like a screen over his face.
Russell shuffled toward the baboons. He passed within five feet of them. They did not react, and neither did he. Russell entered the outbuilding, which was used for equipment storage. He stayed inside a few minutes and then emerged again. He walked slowly back past the baboons, entered the kitchen door, and vanished into the house.
One baboon got to its feet. It stood there in the shed, its limp tail drooping over the patches of bare skin on its rear end. The animal made a sound that was midway between a cough and a grunt. Its long snout, emerging nakedly from the thick ruff of its neck hair, parted in a cavernous yawn. Even at that distance, Royce could tell that the animal was a male by the size of its spikelike canine teeth.
Royce got down flat in the mud between the sisal plants. The implication of what he had seen stunned him. It was obvious that they had not confined their attentions to the Baboonery. The creatures had found Bob Russell’s place. They had been successful here. They had done … something … to Russell.
Probably, Royce thought, they had gott
en to Russell before the rains came. If they had taken a direct route through the bush, Russell’s place was almost as close to them as the Baboonery. Had they taken Russell to the ship? Was it possible that they had simply worked on him here?
Royce bit his lip. How they had done it didn’t matter. It was done. The problem was what to do about it.
He made himself as comfortable as he could. The rain had eased to a drizzle. With the clouds choking the sky, it would be dark in less than two hours. His chances would be better then.
He had to get into that house. There was a chance that the phone was still working. There was a chance that he might be able to help Russell; he could not just abandon the man.
Meanwhile, he could rest. He was reasonably safe where he was. He did not dare push himself to the point of exhaustion. Whatever else happened, he had to be able to get back to the Baboonery.
He cradled the wet rifle in his arms.
He lay there in the cool mud beneath the vast uncaring sky and waited.
10
Royce came to with a start. His body felt stiff and cold. The rain had stopped and there were a few early stars showing through breaks in the clouds. There was a pale light visible in Bob Russell’s house. He judged that it came from the big sitting room. The kitchen was dark.
Royce did not bother with any fancy plan. If the baboon-things were watching the back of the house, they would be guarding the front as well. His best chance was to be quick. He checked his rifle as best he could.
He got to his feet and moved in a crouching run straight for the kitchen door. It seemed to him that his boots squishing through the mud were loud enough to be heard in Nairobi. He could not see clearly in the faint starlight, but there was no sound of alarm.
Royce grabbed the knob on the kitchen door, twisted it. The door opened. He slipped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. It took him long, slow seconds before he could see in the gloom. He crossed the kitchen and flattened himself by the side of the door that led into the house from the kitchen. On the other side of that door, he remembered, was the dining room. Beyond that was the main sitting room. Judging by the light he had seen, that was where Bob Russell was.
He stood absolutely still, trying to control his breathing. Now that he was inside, he was uncertain how to proceed. There might be some of the baboon creatures in the house. He did not know whether or not he could communicate with Russell.
He looked around him as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. There was no place in the kitchen where he could hide. There was a big iron stove and a box of wood next to it. There was a paraffin refrigerator; he could see the wick burning in the blue glass tube underneath. There was an empty wooden table with two chairs. A sink, with dishes neatly placed in a drying rack beside it. Shelves, lots of shelves. He squinted. There was the tea. There was the sugar.
Where were the Africans who worked for Russell? If they had been taken over too …
A sliver of yellow light showed suddenly under the dining-room door. Someone had switched on a light.
He heard Russell’s voice. The words were muffled; he could not make them out. There was no reply. He heard a heavy sound as though Russell had stumbled. The light went off again.
Royce took a deep breath. He could not afford to lose any more time. He had to get close to Russell and he had to try that phone. He could accomplish nothing in the kitchen.
He crouched down, remembering the exact location of the rooms in the house.
He got his rifle into position.
Now.
He opened the dining-room door. It swung silently on its hinges. He went through, moving fast. He sensed the empty dining room around him and did not hesitate. He moved toward the light.
Royce stepped to the right through a hallway. He rounded the corner into the sitting room. He snapped the heavy rifle to his shoulder.
“Easy now, Bob,” he said softly. “It’s Royce. I mean you no harm. Just stay where you are.”
Bob Russell was seated on the couch. There was a half-full bottle of Scotch on the long table in front of the couch. The old grandfather clock in the corner had stopped. The zebra-skin rugs on the red tile floor were dirty and twisted. The kudu head over the great fireplace was hanging crookedly.
Russell stared at him vacantly. His eyes were red beneath their bushy black brows. He needed a shave. His hard, capable hands were trembling.
Royce moved forward slowly. He lowered the rifle from his shoulder; it was too heavy and awkward to hold it that way for long. He kept it trained on Russell’s torn white shirt.
“Bob! It’s Royce Crawford. Can you understand me? What’s happened to you?”
The settler made a strangled noise deep in his throat. He lurched to his feet, knocking the bottle off the table. There was no sign of recognition in his bloodshot eyes.
Royce took a step backward, his finger tensing on the trigger. “Hold it, Bob. I know you’re not responsible …”
The being that looked like Bob Russell groaned. He shook his head. He advanced toward Royce, the fingers on his work-toughened hands opening and closing.
Royce felt a cold chill of horror but he could not bring himself to fire. He could not send a bullet tearing through the guts of whatever was left of a man who had been named Bob Russell. He knew that his failure to shoot was stupid but there was no time for second thoughts.
He reversed the rifle, holding it by the barrel. As Russell came closer, Royce swung the rifle butt. Russell ducked under it and the force of the swing turned Royce half around.
Before Royce could recover, Russell was on him. The hard hands dug into his shoulders, grinding against bone. Royce grunted in pain. He smelled a sick stench and there was black hair in his face. He felt a sharp burning at his throat.
My God, he thought. He’s trying to bite me!
Royce dropped the rifle. He stopped thinking and let his reflexes take over. He twisted into position and brought his knee up, hard.
Russell shrieked an animal cry. His grip loosened. Royce pulled back a step and went for the face. He threw rights and lefts as fast as he could, more out of fear than anything else. He wanted to keep Russell away from him. Some of the punches landed but they did no damage. Royce’s arms felt like cardboard—cardboard with puffs of cotton where fists should be.
Russell shook them off. He moved in, grunting. He threw a clumsy blow with his open hand that caught Royce on the side of the head. Royce went back against the wall as though he had been hit with a crowbar. He tried to brace himself. Russell came in low, using his head like a battering ram.
Royce felt the white fire of anger. He sensed his strength coming back to him, flowing into him like burning oil.
He had come too far to louse it up now.
“Okay, friend,” he whispered. “Let’s see how good a job they did on you.”
Royce attacked, protecting himself with his arms. He was bigger than Russell and he used his reach. He backed Russell across the room, hurting him.
Lead with your left, stupid, he told himself.
He did. He threw no more wild roundhouse punches.
He jabbed with his left, keeping it in Russell’s face. Russell was awkward; he could not counter. Russell’s nose started to bleed. Royce used his right sparingly, going for the eyes.
Russell backed against the table. He groped for a wooden chair, lifted it over his head.
Royce went in under it. He drove a left to the belly, folding Russell like an accordion. The chair crashed to the floor. Royce swung a short right uppercut, straightening him up again.
Russell was helpless. He was a target, nothing more.
Royce took his time. He threw a left with all his strength behind it. Russell started down, his eyes glassy, his arms jerking spasmodically. Royce clipped him with a right as he fell.
Royce got on top of him. He took Russell’s head in both hands, grabbing it by the long black hair. He raised the head to slam it against the hard tile floor.
He stopp
ed before he completed the action. His anger drained away. Russell was completely helpless. That head he held in his hands harbored a brain. It might not be Russell’s brain any longer, but still …
He lowered the head gently to the floor and staggered to his feet. He recovered his rifle and sank into a chair. He began to shake and his chest heaved. He felt sick at his stomach.
Where were the baboon-things? If they had not noticed all the racket in the house they must be deaf. Or else …
He looked at the beaten body on the floor.
“Jesus, Bob,” he said in a low voice. “I didn’t mean …”
The body stirred. The bloodshot eyes opened and looked right at him.
“Royce?”
It was the voice of Bob Russell.
Royce crossed over to him, his heart hammering. He knelt down and cradled Russell’s head in his arm. “Bob, can you hear me?”
The sick smell of the man was overpowering. The eyes were filmed, distant. “Hear you,” he said weakly.
“What’s happened? What can I do?”
There was a silence that seemed long. Royce was afraid that Russell was … gone again. Then he heard the whispered words: “Kill me.”
Royce, who had been on the verge of doing exactly that a few minutes earlier, groped for something to say. “Tell me what happened.”
“Hard … to talk. Can’t most of time. Am caught … inside. Can’t explain. It will be back. You … don’t understand.” The voice faded away.
“Bob, listen to me. I know about them. I know about the ship and the baboons. Did they take you to the ship? What are they after? What did they do to you?”
The eyes stared at him. The bloody face frowned in desperate concentration. “Came … before rains. Round metal, spider legs. Can’t remember … things. Lights. Noise. Something … inside me. In my head. But all crazy, confused. Didn’t work, Royce. They don’t … know enough yet. Not even for baboons. They … it … so different …”
“What do they want?”
“Don’t know. They’re afraid. So different. Can’t explain. Don’t understand us, this world. My head … it’s coming back. Don’t let it. Kill me. Don’t let it come back …”