by L. Z. Hunter
The man stared at them.
Powell tried it again with his name, and then touched his assistant on the shoulder. “Claire.”
“Akia,” the man said.
Powell had no idea what to say next. He held out his hand.”It is nice to meet you.”
Akia shook Powell’s hand, and then slowly turned around, and when he was sure Powell and Claire had walked past him, swung the pickaxe.
“I think we’re done introducing ourselves,” Powell said. He saw the two young ladies working side by side. They used twelve-inch-long hand picks and stood by the dirt wall and chipped away at it, burrowing little holes here and there. “I don’t think I like little kids working here, like this.”
“You going to fire them, then? Give them a final day’s pay and send them home?” Claire said. “I’ve looked over the books. They’re making good money. Not just for the Congo, but for the U.S. Brunson’s not being cheap.”
“I can’t fire them. But I want to make sure they get plenty of breaks and whatever else they need,” Powell said. “Who do I see to make sure that happens?”
Claire arched eyebrows and cocked a hip. “Are you joking right now?”
“Joking?”
“You’re the foreman. This is your dig for the next three months,” she said.
“I’m the project manager.” And then it hit him. “I’m the foreman. I am in charge.”
“You are in charge,” she said.
He shook his head. He didn’t know what he’d gotten himself into, so he lied. “I knew that.”
“Mr. Geology, can you show me what coltan looks like?”
“On your break. Right now, grab a pick and start whacking,” he said.
“And what are you going to do?”
He smiled. “Grab a pick and join you. You know? This isn’t too terrible. I’m kind of excited about finding some coltan. It’s not gold. ”
“So I’m learning,” she said. “So I’m learning.”
Chapter 7
At midday, the thunder roared from the hills above them and echoed through the valleys. The dark clouds rolled across the sky. The blanket of charcoal-grey covered the sunlight. The lightning flashed like blue sparks bouncing around inside the clouds as if part of a Tesla system. The rain came down fast and hard. It felt wonderful. Powell relished the relief. His clothing had been sticking to his skin, drenched with sweat and covered in dirt.
The problem was the pit floor. It became one large puddle. The lightning strikes shot down from the clouds. The storm was directly over them. Somewhere close a tree must have been hit. The sound was loud, a crack and boom. The tall trees were an easier target. Nothing prevented the lightning from hitting one of them.
“This isn’t safe,” Powell said. He was yelling. Claire nodded. “Everyone, out of the pit. Out.”
No one moved. They all stopped digging and stared at him.
He waved his arm for the others to follow. Walking was difficult. Every step he took, he worried the mud would suck his boot off his foot. It reminded him of a reoccurring nightmare he had. In the dream, something was after him. The ground turned to something like glue, or molasses. As hard as he tried to run away from the unseen danger, he never made it anywhere.
Looking back he saw everyone else also struggling in the mud.
“The backhoe,” Claire said, pointing.
Powell wasn’t interested in the backhoe. Right now they needed to focus on finding safe shelter.
The younger girl was talking fast, upset. She looked scared. Her eyes were open wide. Her hands were against her face. The storm frightened her. Powell couldn’t blame her. The storm scared him, too. They were standing in water. If lightning hit the shallow pool, they could be seriously hurt, or worse. He had to get everyone out of the water.
The slightly older girl tried picking up the one about to cry. The extra weight made it tougher for them to move. Powell credited the older one for making the effort.
Powell looked up and around the lip for the mercenaries. They waved for everyone to get out. They sounded encouraging. From above the pit, they weren’t much help. There wasn’t much more they could do. Coming down into the pit didn’t make sense. Why risk their lives, too? That wouldn’t solve the problem of getting out.
“I’m going to grab the girls. You get out of the pit. Now,” Powell said.
“The others…”
“Claire, get out of the pit!”
Thunder exploded above them. Lingered. The lightning came next. It illuminated the clouds. It bounced around inside them, turned the grey clouds blue. Multiple bolts were hurled at the earth. A loud crack resounded. Somewhere, another tree had definitely been struck.
The ground, saturated, wasn’t interested in the rain. The water was already an inch and a half deep. None of it was being absorbed into the dirt. Powell’s legs felt too heavy. He leaned forward as the wind whipped around him. The thunder was steady. The lightning continuous. The rain pelted exposed skin, and surprisingly, stung.
People shouted behind him, a lot of yelling. He looked back. The miners were on the road, stopped. The bank the backhoe sat on caved. The dirt wall crumbled. The backhoe was about to topple. “Claire!”
She stood under the backhoe. Her legs were as stuck in the mud as his. She was having trouble getting out of the way.
Powell wanted to save her. He started toward her. He couldn’t move fast. He tried, though. His legs strained against the mud. His muscles burned in his thighs. He fell forward when his right boot pulled free. He splashed into the thick sludge. It covered his clothing and face. His hands were coated in it. He tried wiping it out of his eyes.
When the last of the wall gave way, the backhoe fell into the pit. It came down in slow motion, as if it scrambled for a hold on the wall trying to keep itself from crashing into the earth. It toppled over onto its side. “Claire!”
It fell inches from her. “I’m okay!”
The lightning flashes lit the sky. Rolling thunder rumbled around them. The planet seemed to shake from the clamoring tumult. The intensity of the storm grew. The tall trees were bent. The howling wind was insistent.
Powell pushed himself up onto his feet. He trudged his way toward the young girls. When he reached them, they were both hugging each other, crying. Above him was Marksman. He was on his belly reaching down to them. Powell snatched up the smallest girl. She screamed.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” he said. He yelled, or else he would not be heard. That didn’t help calming the children.
Why did he have children working for him?
The girl twisted in his grasp. He knew she was frightened, but she needed to relax. She obviously didn’t understand English. Nothing he said would soothe her. So instead of trying to calm her, he hoisted her in the air, well above his head. Marksman shouted orders, possibly in French. The child lifted her arm. Marksman latched on. He pulled her out of the pit.
“You’re next,” Powell said to the second girl. She was a little older, slightly taller. He laced his hands together and held them down. “Step into my hands. Step right there.”
She stared at him.
He lifted his leg and showed her what to do, placing his cupped hands under his foot. “See? Step into my hands.”
He held out his hands. He nodded encouragingly toward her. She was hesitant.
More lightning filled the dark sky. It reminded Powell of the beginning to some B-horror film, as if some mad scientist was in a lab attempting the reanimation of dead tissue. “Climb up, honey. Climb up.”
She set her foot into his hands. Her hands went on his shoulders as he lifted her in the air. Her hands reached for Marksman. The toe of her other foot kicked into the mud wall. She helped climb her way out.
Powell looked around the pit. Everyone else was out. It was going to be a long trek across the pit.
The backhoe looked to be sinking. He didn’t even want to think about that now. He had no idea how they got the monster piece of machinery here in the fi
rst place. He couldn’t imagine anyway of towing it free. Brunson was not going to be happy.
Thunder clamored above.
Marksman yelled, “Take my hand!”
Powell looked up. Rain fell into his eyes. His vision blurred. Dirt and rainwater ran down his face. The heat and humidity didn’t combat the chill he felt in his bones. He stretched up his arm. Marksman clasped onto his forearm and yanked. Powell used his legs and feet. He didn’t have much more strength. His energy was drained. He climbed the muddy wall; it slid out from under his weight.
Once out of the pit, he wanted to collapse. There was no time. He needed to ensure everyone was okay.
“Are you okay?” Marksman said.
“What should we do?”
“Get everyone to the cabin until this passes.”
They all made their way for the cabin, running close together.
“Claire, are you okay?” Powell said.
“I’m fine, I’m okay,” she said.
They filled the cabin, everyone wet, and dirty. Everyone safe, and alive.
Akia was hollering something. He said it over and over. He kept pointing at the windows. Something else was wrong.
Chapter 8
The rain fell relentlessly. It hammered the cabin. The wind threatened to scatter the large leaves off the roof. They flapped above. The wind picked up speed. It screamed and whistled as it crashed through trees and branches. The storm loomed above them. Thankfully, the thunder was somewhat muffled inside the cabin. The lightning surrounded them, setting the outside aglow through the Plexiglass windows.
Akia’s shadow was illuminated by each flash. He was by the window, pointing. He kept shouting something over and over. He wouldn’t look away.
“What’s he saying?” Powell said.
Claire stood beside him. She was shivering and filthy. She grabbed onto his arm.
“He said something was out there,” Marksman said. He re-gripped his hold on the assault rifle. “It’s nothing.”
Powell looked around the room. “This isn’t everyone. Where are the others?”
Claire said, “What do you mean it’s nothing? It’s something. Look at him. He’s terrified.”
“There were more than five people working in the pit,” Powell said. He pointed at each person as he recounted. Eight mercenaries. Five employees. Himself, and Claire. “There were more than just fifteen of us.”
Akia continued shouting. It was the same thing over and over.
“What did he see out there?” Claire said.
Marksman looked around at his team. “He thinks he saw a K-Rex.”
“A K-Rex. The thing you told us was a myth,” Claire said.
“It is a myth. The storm can do that. You have the wind blowing branches all over the place. It got dark fast. The lightning makes it look like a strobe light in some dance club. Everything gets distorted. You can’t tell a person from a tree trunk,” Marksman said. He turned toward Akia and spoke at him in a harsh tone of voice.
Akia held his hands together in front of him, his fingers fidgeted with one another. He lowered his head, as if ashamed. His eyes still darted toward the window, expectantly. Marksman pointed at one of the cots and barked a command. Akia was hesitant. He slowly moved away from the window. It looked like he was being dragged by an unseen force. Eventually he shuffled his way over and sat on a cot. He kept his hands laced together on his lap. His lips moved quickly, but no words escaped his mouth, as if he might be praying.
“Louis,” Claire said. “Did you hear that? Something was out there. That K-Rex thing.”
Powell held up a hand. He wasn’t as concerned about a spooked native. He wasn’t an idiot. There wasn’t time to worry about imaginary monsters. He was in the middle of his own crisis. The backhoe toppled into the pit, and he had no idea how to excavate it. He didn’t even know how they would upright it. He’d been on-site a full day and the operation was in serious jeopardy. Topping it off, and perhaps more of an immediate concern were the other, missing, employees. “Marksman? Ask what happened to the others that were working with us, please,” he said.
“They run home. They’re used to rain, but storms like this make them apprehensive, you know?” Marksman said.
“Make me feel better, ask them,” Powell said. He could not imagine running through the dense forest during such a storm. Maybe the Congolese didn’t understand how lightning worked and that hiding under trees during a storm was dangerous. “Marksman, please.”
Marksman grunted. He spoke to the five workers. He paced the floor.
Powell watched their expressions. They watched John Marksman while he talked. One of the men said something and pointed.
“What did he say?” Powell said. He attempted introductions, patting his chest. “Powell.”
“Ruhakana. Ruh,” the young man said. He was shorter and far stockier than Akia. His skin was nearly as dark. His red and white striped dress shirt was covered in filth. His khaki shorts dripped. He stood barefoot in a puddle. If he was over fourteen years old, Powell would be shocked. The young man had a baby face look to him.
“Ruh. Nice to meet you,” Powell said. “What did Ruh say?”
“He said he saw the others run into the trees, headed home,” Marksman said in a cocksure tone of voice. He even stood cocky-like, as if saying, See. I told you.
“All of them, Ruh? All of them ran home?” Powell said. “Ask him, Marksman.”
“Asked, and answered,” Marksman said.
“Our people are out in that storm. They could get lost, or hurt. We won’t know,” Powell said.
“Are you suggesting we follow them to make sure they made it home?” Marksman said.
Ian Ross said something. Marksman held up a hand, silencing the member of his team. “Listen, Powell. This isn’t like the states. I don’t want to sound like a heartless asshole here, but we’re not going out in the storm. You want to go look for them, be my guest. I hope nothing happened to the others. I do. I swear. But if they get hurt, that’s not our problem. There’s no workers’ compensation here, if you know what I’m saying.”
He was right. He did sound like a heartless asshole.
Powell pursed his lips. Marksman knew he couldn’t go looking for the others. He wouldn’t know what was or wasn’t a path. He’d be lost in ten minutes. How would he track them? They could have exited the path at any point, and it was highly unlikely they all lived in the same area. Marksman assessment wasn’t wrong; it was just his attitude that annoyed him.
“We better get comfortable. It could prove to be a long night,” Powell said, addressing everyone.
Claire whispered, “What about what Akia said?”
“There’s nothing out there, Claire. It’s a storm,” Powell said.
“Did you see his face, how scared that guy was? I believe him. I think he saw something.”
“A dinosaur? Please, Claire. We have to figure out how to get that backhoe righted. If you want to worry about something useful, worry about that. We have to come up with an idea.” Powell knew he’d lost his temper. He felt bad taking it out on Claire. He didn’t have the time or patience for discussing prehistoric nonsense. There was no denying an overwhelming sense of dread in the jungle. He felt it, a little scared. Admitting this was another thing altogether. He wouldn’t do that. The idea that a monster was just beyond the pit waiting to eat them, though, was ridiculous. If anything, he was more worried about spiders, snakes, gorillas, and lions. Those were viable threats.
Chapter 9
Once the storm passed, the workers seemed anxious about going home. Well, everyone except Akia. He hadn’t moved off the cot. Powell was too tired for arguing, he instructed Marksman to tell everyone they could go home in the morning. When it was light out. They wouldn’t be expected to work the next day. He wanted Marksman to assure them they would still be paid. No one would lose wages because of the storm.
“Their families will be worried about them,” Marksman said.
“Tel
l them it’s better they show up in the morning alive, than risk walking home in the dark and, God forbid, something happens to them,” Powell said.
“Tell them that?” Marksman said.
“Yes. Tell them,” Powell said. He knew he might sound a little overprotective. He didn’t care about workers’ compensation issues. He was concerned for these people. This might be their normal surroundings, and they might be comfortable with them, but he wasn’t. They made him fretful. Way he saw it, he might never feel at ease in the jungle. It was a jungle, after all.
Powell barely slept. He sat on the floor, back to the wall after he’d given his cot to the two young girls. Too much was on his mind. It was a whirlwind of thoughts whipping about inside his brain. He didn’t care if he lost his job. Getting fired was one of the least of his issues. It didn’t stop that thought from taking up space in his skull. He didn’t want to stay in the Congo for three months. Contract or not. He wanted to go home. It wasn’t about being scared. It was more about wanting to get the fuck out the jungle. He couldn’t believe he’d sold out. For a few extra dollars, he’d let Circuitz own him. Whose fault was that? Not theirs. The pennies they threw his way didn’t impact their bottom line at all. They made billions each and every year. Giving him an extra five or ten thousand a year, what was that to them? It was nothing. Nothing. He let his personal greed get the best of him.
He didn’t even like camping. The one time he went camping with his family, he’d hated it. His father rented a spot at the amusement park campgrounds. The weekend stay came with tickets for admission into the park. They’d packed hotdogs, and marshmallows, and all kinds of gear his father borrowed from friends who did camp. It took over an hour to set up the family-sized tent. The first night went all right. Sitting around the fire had been the best. They told ghost stories and made s’mores. When it was time for bed, they barely fit inside. It was hot and humid. The tent was like a sauna. The heat and humidity was nothing compared to the Congo. He hadn’t known that then, though. The next two days, and nights, all it did was rain. Water made its way into the tent. Everything was wet. He felt dirty the entire time. No one else had any fun; by the last day his father used more cuss words than non-cuss words, and his mother gave up yelling at him about it.