Jackal's Dance

by Beverley Harper

  Billy sat by himself. He had never felt more lonely in his life.

  Felicity and Philip were still with Dan and Gayle. Leaning against each other, Felicity turned her head so a cheek pressed into Philip’s neck.

  She heard him draw a shaky breath. ‘I wanted to make love to you last night,’ he whispered.

  ‘I wanted it too.’

  Two tiny confessions, two sharings of emotion. It was all they had to give each other.

  The savage orgy finally came to an end, leaving only the sound of people sobbing.

  Jutta had been roughly returned to her father. Bound again, she slumped against him, conscious now but in too much pain to cry. Like Josie, she was naked from the waist down.

  Kalila and James sat, back-to-back, their wrists bound behind them, fingers searching frantically for contact. When they connected, both hung on tightly.

  Not many slept. Towards morning, Matt slipped away. Dan heard his final burbling gasp and then silence. He wet his lips and bent low over the actor’s face, putting them as close as possible to Matt’s mouth and nose. Then, to be sure, he rested an ear against the young actor’s chest. ‘He’s gone,’ he said softly to Gayle.

  ‘Thank God,’ she breathed as tears poured down her cheeks. ‘Thank God he didn’t see that happen to me.’ She was under no illusions. Tonight, or the one after that, it would be her turn.

  TEN

  Tearing agony jerked Megan Ward back to consciousness. It was so bad that, for a moment, it obliterated memory. She lay still, her mind absorbing pain, doing nothing else. Slowly, ever so slowly, reasoning returned. Somewhere at the back of her screaming brain lurked a reluctance to face reality, a black spot which nearly had her slide back into inky oblivion. Everything hurt. Her whole head pounded. It was more than a headache. Something serious? A blow? She noticed a burning sensation along one side. Both her arms were numb. She couldn’t move them. The terrible pain in one was more than she’d ever felt. A great weight pressed on her legs. Everything seemed so dark. She tried to open her eyes. What was wrong? Only one worked. Red and white. She was staring at red and white. Why? Why couldn’t she move? Excruciating, searing, stinging agony suddenly ripped through her upper right arm. Megan screamed, managed to turn her head, then screamed again in horror. The feeding vulture flapped and hopped away, its beak and feathers bright with blood. It didn’t go far, just a couple of metres, and stopped, watching her.

  She tried to move. Then remembered. The whole unimaginable sequence of events, up until the firing started. Terror that she was going to die, boiling, scalding hot, through her entire body. Then nothing. Red and white. The pan, her blood. She was alive. How?

  Megan had no recollection of Eben flying backwards, knocking her off balance, or the bullet passing through her arm, spinning her sideways. Crashing to the ground, hands bound behind, she should have broken both arms. But, because she landed more or less on her face, this hadn’t happened. Think. I’ve been shot. How bad? Where? As her mind slowly found focus, Megan’s fear grew. She couldn’t move. Why? Hands tied. ‘Get behind me.’ The professor’s words came back. She did. It had to be him lying across her legs. The pan, a pool of blood. Hers? Head wound? More than likely. She should be dead. A vivid memory of smiling soldiers raising their weapons, almost in slow motion. No sound, though. You never hear the one that hits you. Where did that thought come from? One eye still wouldn’t open. The pain. Had she lost it? Finally, the thought she’d been unwilling to confront pushed its way forward. More than likely she would be surrounded by dead people – and what else?

  Raising her head with difficulty, the sight of broken, bloodied bodies and gorging vultures brought an inevitable outburst of hysteria. ‘Oh my God! Oh Jesus no!’ Tears of pure terror flowed as her head fell back to the ground. Megan cried and cried. When she finally stopped, both eyes were working again, her tears having washed away the dried blood that had been gluing her left one shut.

  Sniffing loudly, she forced herself to think. The weight on her legs. Get rid of it. Fear lent strength. Megan kicked wildly, pulling her good foot free then using it to push whatever it was off. It worked. Relieved of the heavy burden, she lay still, gathering energy.

  The vulture hopped closer.

  ‘Go away!’ Megan shouted in panic.

  The bird stopped, turned, and went in search of less animated pickings. There were plenty to choose from.

  Having started to work, Megan’s brain was now sending urgent messages. I’ve got to get away from here. Lions. There might be lions. The thought galvanised action. Get up, get up. Turning face down, legs drawn up, she managed to roll sideways and on to her knees. The world revolved and everything went black for a moment. Still kneeling, Megan was violently sick. Got to stand. She staggered to her feet, swayed, stumbled backwards then managed to find her balance.

  Exertion had increased the pulsing pain in her head. She had no idea why it hurt so much. By craning her neck sideways Megan could see that she’d been wounded in the arm. Hands still tied behind her, she couldn’t tell how badly. Got to get back to the lodge. What if those men are still there? Go round the other side. Find somewhere to hide. Get the hell away from here, that’s the first thing.

  Megan had never seen a dead person. Now she stood among twenty-seven, some with gaping wounds so bad they didn’t look like real people, others might have been sleeping. Check for signs of life. She should, reason told her that. But those bloody birds! ‘Can anybody hear me?’ Her voice sounded timid and weak. Megan cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Is anyone alive?’ Nothing. Silence. Except for the feasting vultures.

  She looked down at the professor. His face unmarked, mouth open, thin lips collapsed inwards revealing gums, eyes staring sightlessly, he was a pathetic and undignified sight. Part of one shoulder appeared to be missing. White bone fragments protruded from a mess of dark, congealed blood. The other wound was obviously what killed him. Eben’s heart had been hit more than once. An unlovely and unloved man, death froze his plain countenance ensuring he walked in the shadow of its valley wearing the same humourless mask. To Megan, the professor had never looked more beautiful. She owed him her life. Eben’s words came back. ‘No-one wants to die, dear girl. Do as I say. It’s the only thing that might save you.’ And it had. ‘I will never forget you,’ she whispered. ‘Thanks Prof.’ It was a prayer of sorts. Megan turned and stumbled away.

  The sun’s position in a cumulus cottonwool sky looked to be around eleven o’clock high. The island seemed so far away, shimmering silently in the morning heat. A walk which, so long ago, had taken thirty minutes now took more than two hours. She had to stop often. Adding to pain, exhaustion and fear was the misery of a raging thirst. Megan’s throat was burning, her mouth dry, breath coming in rasps, head spinning. Concentrating on one lurching step at a time, whenever she looked up the island seemed no closer.

  Got to sit down. Oh God, will I ever get there? Mummy, I want Mummy. The men must have left, they’d have seen me by now. Dear God, please look after the professor. I’m so thirsty. All those people. Somebody help me. Please God, don’t let me die. Mummy.

  Megan pitched face down onto the salt-crusted sand. The fall opened up her head wound. When she came round and saw the pool of blood, Megan’s despair became so great that she too wanted to die. But looking up, the island seemed closer. Struggling to her feet, she set off again.

  Megan reached Logans Island exhausted and dehydrated. She’d long since stopped worrying about the soldiers. All she could think of was water. Rational thought had gone – she was like an animal, acting on instinct. It never crossed her mind that the fence might be live, she simply wriggled through it. Staggering across the lawn and up the lodge steps, Megan made for the bar. A jug of water, half full, sat on the sink. She head-butted it over and lowered her face to suck liquid off the draining board.

  The water revived her to a point where she could think again. First, find a way to free her hands. There’d be knives in the kitchen. Megan nearl
y cried with relief when she saw a rack of them. She managed to get hold of a handle and lift it free. Now what? Desperation made her ignore the blade slicing through her skin as she awkwardly fumbled to find a position where she could push its point through the tape. Once a cut had been made the rest should tear.

  Pain and relief surged through her arms when it finally parted. As circulation returned, the wound in her arm gushed blood. Finding a tea towel, she used her teeth and one hand to wrap it tightly. She needed more liquid.

  Taps over the sink yielded nothing. With the generator off, the pump wasn’t working. She located a water jug in the refrigerator and drank straight from it. Her arms shook so much most of it spilled down her front. Now she needed medical attention, rest and food. Probably in that order. Megan had no idea how bad her wounds were. Her sore arm was movable, which suggested that no bones had been broken. She had to clean herself up. The camp site was too far. Check the lodge. No. More water. Sanity was holding up, but only just. Fear kept getting in the way of any ability to reason.

  In a pantry she found Caitlin’s supply of bottled spring water. She took one. Moving slowly, ears and eyes alert for any sound or movement, Megan searched the entire bar, dining room, kitchen and craft shop areas. No-one. Sitting on the steps outside she cautiously investigated the cause of her pounding headache. Dried blood – hers and Eben’s no doubt – and bone fragments. Frightened, unsure of the exact damage, Megan decided she should attend to her wounds before attempting anything else. There was a medical kit in their bus at the camp site but the lodge should have something more comprehensive. Where?

  Megan got up and, using a carved walking stick from the curio shop for support, made her way towards reception. The stick helped. She was concentrating on one thing at a time, not willing to consider her next move until she’d completed this one. There were no medical supplies in reception, but going through to Billy’s office, she got lucky. Clearly marked with a red cross, an unlocked cabinet on the wall yielded bandages, tweezers, pain-killers, a broad-spectrum antibiotic, a tube of antiseptic ointment, Dettol, a sling and safety pins. All went into a plastic bag taken from the waste-paper basket. She had to see the damage. Must be mirrors in the bungalows. On her way out Megan tried the telephone. Silence. No dial tone.

  The full-length mirror revealed her woeful condition. At first glance Megan thought she had to be badly injured. Hair stiff, caked sticky with blood, more splattered on her face and arms. The green shirt she’d been told to put on was blotched black where blood had soaked in and dried. A livid welt and severe bruising adorned the left side of her face. Megan approached her reflection slowly, afraid of discovering the true extent of her wounds. She had to force herself to look.

  The top of one arm was a mess. A bullet had gone in one side and out the other. She could see clear to the bone. Something white and wriggly looking, a muscle perhaps, dangled from the exit wound. There was nothing she could do but keep it clean and covered. Same with the damage to her head. Where had the bits of bone come from? As far as she could tell, they weren’t hers. A furrow of torn flesh ran from her left temple to just behind the ear. A perfectly straight line, not deep and about a centimetre wide, removing skin and hair. Painful but not life-threatening. She let out a shaky breath. Okay, so far so good, she’d been lucky. More than lucky. Clean up, change clothes, attend to the injuries. Megan took two antibiotic tablets with water from a full thermos flask beside the bed. Six a day should do it until she could get professional help. At least that would keep any infection at bay.

  Megan flicked a light switch. Nothing. No power. She remembered reading on the camp site noticeboard that its water supply was gravity fed from an overhead tank. Okay. It would be a chance to get her own clothes too. Movement seemed easier knowing she hadn’t been too seriously hurt. It took a while to walk there but the earlier panic had eased. Clean up. Have to get rid of the blood. The water must come from a bore. Probably undrinkable because of salinity. That’s okay. Salt won’t do any harm, might even help the injuries.

  An hour later, Megan felt considerably better. A cold shower had washed her wounds clean, removing all the dirt and coagulated blood. The Dettol stung like hell. She had changed into clean clothes. A proper bandage around her arm helped ease the pain of mutilated flesh which, while the injury continued to ooze, had stopped bleeding. A sling now held it firm against her body. The support, together with two pain-killing pills, reduced the ache to bearable. She also bandaged her head to keep it free of flies. Looking in the mirror, Megan concluded that not even her own mother would recognise her. God, how lucky she’d been. A fraction further over . . . It didn’t bear thinking about. The bruising was coming out quickly now and her left eye was beginning to close.

  What to do next?

  Check the island for any sign of life. Find a way to communicate with the world outside. Megan knew by now that the soldiers must have gone. Someone might have avoided capture? Back at the lodge she checked each of the bungalows. In number four she found Mal Black. Megan could see that he was dead even before removing the pillow from his face. She was strangely unaffected by the horror frozen on his features. There were twenty-seven much more grotesque bodies out on the pan being eaten by vultures.

  Silence pervaded the staff quarters, as it did the rangers’ rooms and manager’s cottage. In the office Megan managed to find keys for the game-viewing vehicles. At the workshop her excitement quickly changed to despair. Not one would start. She knew how to drive but the workings of an engine were a mystery. Fixing the problem was not an option. She didn’t even know what it was. Keys belonging to guests, tried on their vehicles in the car park, produced the same response. Nothing.

  Megan had to get help. The phone was dead. Could she walk from Logans Island? What about lions? A weapon. The lodge had guns. Find them. Back in Billy’s office was a large steel cabinet. Judging by its size, it could well contain the rangers’ rifles. Keys? Where would she find them? Megan located a bunch in the top desk drawer. None of them fitted. ‘They wouldn’t leave those ones in the office,’ she told herself. ‘Look in the manager’s house.’ That was where she found them, a drawer full of keys, all conveniently tagged and identified. Megan took any marked ‘guns’ and one that said ‘safe’. The gun cabinet needed two keys. Inside were the rifles. She removed them one at a time. ‘God, they’re heavy!’ Hefting each, she chose the lightest. Even so, it seemed to weigh a great deal.

  Megan was functioning more efficiently now, taking decisions and acting on them. Unfortunately, she knew next to nothing about guns but was certain that they needed things called bolts. These had none. Her father used an old .22 rifle. He kept the bolt and bullets in a separate place. Try the safe. The heavy door opened easily to reveal, among other things, rifle bolts and boxes of bullets. The third one fitted perfectly. She worked the empty action, dry firing it a few times. Ammunition. Which? Each box was marked with its calibre, but turning the rifle every which way, Megan could find no corresponding information. Trying a bullet from each box, the 30.06 slid smoothly into place. Gingerly she pressed another three rounds into the magazine, pushing them down with a finger while she closed the fully loaded weapon.

  On a shelf above were hypodermics and a selection of drugs. Megan removed two vials of morphine and two needles. If infection did set in there would be more pain than she could endure. The drug would help. She considered taking the snakebite kit as well but, in the end, left it where it was. Megan already carried more than she’d have liked. If a snake bit her on top of everything else, she should probably take the hint and die.

  Now she had a gun. Experimenting was one thing. The practical reality of firing it, given her physical condition, quite another. But she had to practise. There should be a safety catch. It had to be that little lever near the trigger. Which direction is off? There was only one way to find out. Picking up the weapon, she went outside.

  Megan was right-handed so the stock should have snugged against that shoulder, steadied by
her other arm and fired using her right forefinger. She couldn’t do it. Her wounded arm made it impossible. She tried the other way around. Awkward, less painful but, with her right arm in a sling, she was unable to support the barrel. Lifting the firearm in her left hand, Megan fired from the hip. Well, that was the plan. She rested the stock against her tummy. With the barrel pointed vaguely towards the pan and waving around like a demented windmill, she pulled the trigger. The noise was deafening, recoil punching the butt halfway to her backbone. ‘Ouch! Shit!’ Dropping the weapon, she doubled over with pain. Despite her discomfort, Megan suspected that if the stock had been against bone, the pain could have been worse. If she needed to fire again the best bet might be a shot into the air, hoping that the noise alone was enough. It certainly had been for her. Megan’s ears were still ringing. Straightening, she retrieved the rifle.

  Okay, she thought. So now we know the safety catch is off. Should I leave it that way? No. Daddy always said how dangerous that is.

  All of this had taken time. It was nearly four-thirty. Too late for self-drive vehicles to be this far north. She might as well spend a night at the lodge and set off first thing in the morning. The rest would probably be good for her. Although urgency was an issue, the terrorists had already killed those they didn’t need. The others, and Megan had to assume they were being held hostage, would be kept alive. Bit hard to demand a ransom for those already dead.

  ‘Eat, then sleep.’ She was talking aloud to herself, the sound somehow comforting. If she didn’t keep busy and focused, panic would set in.

  In the kitchen Megan devoured a chunk of cheese, two apples and drank some milk. Painkillers and antibiotics, two of each, followed. The silence was uncanny. It would be dark soon. She’d done everything possible for herself. The need to rest overrode everything. ‘Can I sleep here? A bed would be more comfortable than my tent but what about that dead body? Come on, girl, it can’t hurt you.’ Megan opted for bungalow one. Its proximity to the main building was somehow reassuring. The bed looked so inviting. She crawled under the duvet. ‘I won’t be able to sleep,’ she told herself. ‘Too much in my head. At least I can rest.’ The events of the day, both physical and emotional, had taken their toll. Megan’s system went on strike. She was deeply asleep within a few minutes.