by Tony Park
A zebra stallion snorted and his harem of females wheeled and galloped away from their approach to the river, raising dust clouds with their pounding hooves. The matriarch of an elephant family on the far bank raised her trunk at the mix of new scents. A pair of Egyptian geese honked in panic and took off as Sonja’s feet sloshed through the mud.
The creature looked up at her, white eyes blinking from black mud. ‘Help,’ it croaked.
Sonja paused and, seeing no sign of a weapon, slung her rifle over her shoulder. The black ooze reached above the tops of her boots, slowing her progress. She saw the outstretched hand. The man coughed and spat, trying to get to his hands and knees, but slipping.
The mud was foul here, stinking of animal shit and dotted with algae. The water was a sickly bright lime green in places, fringed with a wicked-looking red. Out of habits learned as a child she scanned the river left and right.
‘Help me.’ He reached out for her. ‘Bees …’
She slogged closer and took his hand, hauling on it.
‘Thank you.’ He coughed again as he thrust his free hand into the goop to steady himself. ‘Are you …’
She let go of his hand and he fell again, face first.
He coughed and spluttered. ‘Holy shit, what did you do that for?’
The noise of four gunshots silenced his protests. Sonja saw at least two hit home and the water a metre behind the struggling, cursing man’s right boot started boiling.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!’ He scrabbled forward on all fours, through the mud, past where she stood, legs apart, braced, smoke curling from the muzzle of the M4, her gaze still fixed on the slowly settling ripples. ‘What the hell was that in aid of?’
‘Flatdog.’ She let the rifle dangle by her side from its sling, the barrel comfortingly warm against the bare skin of her thigh. If there was one creature she didn’t mind seeing dead, it was one of these prehistoric beasts. Man was fair game to a flatdog, and vice versa.
‘A what?’
‘Crocodile.’ She reached down again and dragged him to his feet.
She wiped her hand on her shorts; it was sticky and gooey, and not just from the mud. She sniffed her fingers. ‘You were after the honey in the beehive?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Elephant dung smoke; the way they were buzzing when I passed the tree. The way you buried yourself in animal shit and mud to escape them.’
He made a futile attempt to wipe the worst of the muck from his clothes and skin but winced when he wiped his eyes and drove more mud into them.
‘Here.’ She handed him her water bottle. ‘Just a little. For your eyes.’
He followed her back to dry land, onto the grass, sluicing his face as he went. He stopped and she turned when she no longer heard his feet scuffing the dry grass.
‘Wait a minute …’
She looked at him. White shone in the black face as his mouth broke into a wide, almost idiotic grin.
‘Wait just a freaking minute! Ha ha!’ He broke into laughter and started doing an impromptu jig on the spot. ‘Woo-hoo! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!’
Sonja was confused. She moved a hand slowly to the plastic pistol grip of the M4 and took a step backwards.
‘You’ve been watching me all along, haven’t you?’
She shook her head. ‘I just got here, man. And lucky I did. Who are you?’
‘Who am I?’ He started laughing again. ‘Oh, lady, this is rich. But save it. This is great. We really have to get this on camera. Wait. We are on camera, aren’t we?’
Sonja licked her lips. The man was mad.
‘Ray? Gerry? Cheryl-Ann? Come on out, guys,’ he bellowed. He started spinning around, searching the trees on either side of the river. He cupped his filthy hands on either side of his mouth. ‘Where aaaaare you? Come out, come out wherever you are. You got me, guys. Let’s talk.’
‘Talk about what?’ she asked.
‘Oh, come on. I get it. This is the surprise. Goddamn, you had me going there for a while. Please, please, please tell me you got me running into the river. I got stung, like, three times, but I’m not mad. You guys had me worried for a while but …’
She held up her free hand, palm out to him. ‘Mister, calm down. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think we need to get you some more water.’ She turned and started walking back to the tree line, lengthening her stride to keep the distance between them. Shit. She shouldn’t have followed his tracks in the first place. She could have given him a wide berth. Now what was she going to do? She couldn’t leave a madman to die in the bush.
‘OK,’ he said, running a sticky hand through hair gelled with mud and honey. ‘I get it. Still need to play along. Just tell me, on the QT if you like, are we being filmed now? Just so I know whether or not to set the handy cam up again.’
She stopped and looked at him. His eyes were wide and intent. He believed the questions he was asking were sane. True madness. ‘No, mister, we are not being filmed. I can confirm that.’ He started walking towards her. ‘Keep your distance.’
‘Keep your distance? Who are you supposed to be? Sheena of the freaking African Jungle or something? Ha ha.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Or is it, “Hasta la vista, baby”? Doesn’t matter. It’s your gig – your character. I’m getting the camera. Stay right there.’
She took another pace back as he passed her. Beside the tree, on its side, was a video camera mounted on a tripod. He unclipped the camera from the head and raised it.
‘No!’
‘What do you mean, no? You’re the surprise guest star. Say something to the folks back home.’
‘No!’ In the army, working with special forces, there had been a blanket ban on operatives in the Det being photographed or filmed by the media. As a mercenary she guarded her privacy and anonymity just as fiercely. She raised her palm and pressed it against the lens as he closed on her.
‘OK. Very good for the opening shot, but let’s get serious now.’ He cleared his throat. ‘So, who are you, mystery gal of the bush?’
‘I said, no filming.’ She grabbed the lens and pushed the camera, ramming it back into his chest.
‘Hey, take it easy. There’s reality TV and there’s reality, OK?’ He raised the camera again. ‘So, who are …’
Sonja slapped the camera, hard enough to make him fumble and almost drop it. While he was cursing she swung her M4 up and across her body. She didn’t point it at him, but he seemed to get the message.
‘Hey, hey … OK, no camera until you’ve done your makeup. I get it. I’ve gotta say, though, I think you might have overdone it a bit on the method acting, Lara Croft.’
She took a step back from him, her rifle still held up and ready. ‘Who are you?’
He looked around him again. ‘OK. I get it, I get it.’ He cleared his throat again, and laughed loudly.
‘Drink the rest of that water. I think you might have heat stroke. You’re not making sense, mister …’
‘Chapman. Coyote Sam to my friends and gun-toting saviours.’ He winked.
Dehydration and heatstroke – she was sure of it. ‘I found your tent.’
He drank the rest of the bottle of warm water in one long gulp then wiped his lips, leaving a smear of mud and honey. ‘Uh-huh. And don’t tell me … you used your excellent tracking skills to find me here and save me from the crocodile. Incidentally, that was a nice touch. Are they blanks in that rifle?’
‘I think I need to get you back to your tent. Throw me the empty water bottle. Wait here.’
He saluted her and tossed the bottle. ‘Yes, ma’am!’
Sam sat in the shade of a tree – not the one with the bees – and watched the woman walk back out to the river. She held her assault rifle in her right hand, by its pistol grip, and the empty plastic water bottle in her left. She waded out through the mud into the river, which was only knee deep. When she reached midstream she looked up and down the watercourse then bent to fill the bottle.
Sam righted
the camera on its tripod and started recording. He kept the device at arm’s length, so that if she looked back at him she wouldn’t see him staring into the viewfinder. He could see the LED screen from where he sat and when her back was to him he zoomed in on her.
She was a looker. No makeup, and he couldn’t help but notice as she bent over that atop her nicely shaped legs was an equally perfect arse. He scanned the surrounding bush, the far tree line, and even the air, looking for the camera team. If they were here they were well hidden. Maybe she had a concealed camera on her and she was filming him.
He had to hand it to Cheryl-Ann; this surprise was almost the best yet. Up until now the red-headed chef in the outback had taken the cake. In fact, he remembered chocolate torte in the well of her belly button. This one was different though – she was a hard-body and not a willowy waif like the Aussie girl. She straightened and started wading back towards him. She was fit. She had broad shoulders and a narrow waist, but her hips were still wide enough to give a hint of hourglass. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a ponytail. It was functional, but he bet she’d look great with it teased out. Like her legs, her arms were sculpted. This girl worked out, and then some. As she came closer, he saw that her eyes were green. The way she moved, and those eyes, reminded him of a cat. He’d only seen footage of lionesses – not one in the wild yet – but that’s what she reminded him of. Powerful, predatory, pitiless. She could eat him alive – if she played her cards right.
He pressed the stop button on the camera then called: ‘I’m all yours. Take me to your leader.’ He winced and reached back between his shoulder blades. ‘Oww.’
‘Bee sting?’
He nodded. ‘I think so. I can’t reach it.’
She drew a short-bladed skinning knife from a pouch on her belt.
‘Whoa there, cowgirl.’
‘Relax. Sit still.’
She moved behind him and he did as he was told. He felt her fingertips on the nape of his neck and the collar of his T-shirt stretching against his Adam’s apple as she searched. He shivered. Her touch was firm and cool, like gunmetal. He shuddered again as he felt the razor’s edge of the blade touch his skin.
‘I said, be still.’
‘OK. You’re not going to dig it out, are you?’
She ignored him and he felt the edge of the blade sliding across his skin as she brushed towards the stinger and, he imagined, shaved bare any hairs that might have sprouted since his last waxing.
She pushed his head forward with her free hand, her fingers burying themselves in his hair. Man, he thought, this is hot. He really hoped someone was recording all this from afar. He could smell her. He felt himself start to stir. In his peripheral vision he caught a glimpse of the tan-coloured dressing stuck on her thigh. ‘Did you hurt yourself? Oww!’
‘Still,’ she commanded again. ‘Yes. There, it’s out. It’ll hurt for a day or so.’
He rolled his neck and shoulder muscles. ‘You’re telling me.’ Free to turn his head he saw the blood spotting the sticking plaster on her leg. ‘What did you do to yourself?’
‘Cut myself shaving.’
‘What did you use, your skinning knife?’
‘Come, crazy man.’
He almost said, ‘Whenever you say the word,’ but the gun made him think twice. It also made him nervous. The closest he’d ever come to shooting something – anything – was a tranquilliser dart into a coyote’s rump. ‘Can you put that thing away?’
‘No. Get up.’
He sighed and dragged himself up, wiping his sticky hands on the grass as he did so. All that did was coat them in fine sand. ‘Can I go wash in the river?’
‘The blood from the croc I shot will bring the others – and maybe lion and hyena. We should go now. I’ve got more water with my horse.’
Her horse? This just got wilder and wilder. A cowgirl in Africa. ‘Giddyup,’ he said in his best Kramer voice. She walked off in silence, and he followed.
‘So,’ he called to her back, ‘what do I call you? Jungle Jane?’
She ignored him.
‘OK, OK. I’ll just play my part as the out-of-depth star then … But we do have food, right? Surely Cheryl-Ann …’
She stopped and turned, her right hand still gripping the business end of the rifle. She raised the barrel a fraction. It was enough to stop him in his tracks. ‘I said I’d get you more water when we get to my horse.’
He chewed his lip. This didn’t make much sense. If this starlet was bucking for an Oscar she was wasting her time on Wildlife World. He didn’t recognise her, but suspected she might be reasonably well known in South Africa, even if he couldn’t place her.
‘I found your tent,’ she continued, ‘but no sign of a vehicle. There aren’t any of your tracks, either – except to the beehive. What did you do, come by helicopter?’
‘You know it, sweetheart.’
‘Don’t call me sweetheart. Are you some kind of filmmaker?’
Sam tried to run a hand through his hair, but it had solidified. ‘Look, Jane of the Jungle, for the record, and for whoever, however, this is being filmed,’ he cleared his throat again, ‘boy, am I glad you showed up. Lead on, I’m ready for the next scene, and a decent meal.’
She remained silent, staring at him down the barrel of her rifle.
‘Oh, come on. Enough, already. Shit, I’m fucking filthy, I’m fucking hungry, I’ve been stung by a bee, and I was supposedly almost eaten by a fucking crocodile.’ He raised his fists to the sky and threw back his head. ‘WHAT MORE DO YOU FUCKING WANT, CHERYL-ANN?’
He screwed his eyes shut tight, hoping, praying that when he opened them Cheryl-Ann and the crew would emerge from behind that big old leadwood tree in front of them with an ice bucket full of Perrier and Budweiser. What were they trying to do, break him? Turn him mad for the sake of ratings? ‘For Christ’s sake, this is Wildlife World, not the Military Channel, and …’
He felt his right wrist gripped and pulled behind him. ‘Hey!’ He spun around, trying to see her, but she sidestepped faster than a rattler striking. ‘Ouch!’ She wound his arm back up into the small of his back and forced him to double forward. When he clawed back at her with his free hand she grabbed it. He heard a zip and felt his wrists being drawn together. ‘What the fuck is that?’
‘Snap ties. I need to restrain you until you start talking sense.’
‘OK, that’s it! You are so fucking fired, lady. This prank has gone far enough and you can tell …’
The last thing he felt was her fingers digging into the skin behind his collarbone, at the base of his neck.
He was heavy. Not fat – far from it – just a big build, and when his shirt rode up she saw the carefully sculpted abs that could only be purchased in a gym. And no chest hair. She shook her head. Gratefully, she lowered him to the grass, in the afternoon shade cast by his dome tent.
His breathing was steady. The effects of the hold she’d applied to the pressure point would wear off shortly. She’d carried him the two hundred metres to his camp site over her shoulder, in a fireman’s carry, her right hand still gripping her weapon. It reminded her of special forces training, but she forced the memory from her mind. She drew her knife and cut the ties that bound his wrists behind his back. She’d overdone it a bit, as the skin was red and his hands were cool. She massaged the life back into them, but used a new tie to bind them in front of his body, though looser than the first.
She fetched a dirty, smelly T-shirt from his tent and moistened it with water. She cleaned his face. He was a good-looking madman, she would give him that. He had thick, black wavy hair that reminded her of an actor – one of the two guys from the Pearl Harbor movie. She couldn’t remember the man’s name. She didn’t have much time for TV in her job, except for the twenty-four-hour news channels, which were always reporting on some war or other.
When she checked the white T-shirt she saw a skin-coloured stain in amidst the black silty Okavango mud and the amber of the wild honey. She sniffed
it, then wiped a finger over his forehead and checked it. ‘Makeup?’
He blinked, then groaned. She rocked back on her haunches as he tried to sit up.
‘What? Where … You!’
She raised a palm, not touching him, but when he saw his wrists were tied again he lay back, closed his eyes and screamed.
‘Hush. Listen to me, mister. I don’t know who you think I am, or even if you know who you are, but I have no idea who you are or what you are doing here and that is not from some script or some movie or some television show. Now, tell me who you are, for real, and how you got here.’
He looked into her eyes and she could tell he wasn’t insane – just frightened. When he told her his story she shook her head at the absurdity of it all, but it explained what he was doing here alone in the bush, covered in mud and makeup and toting a video camera.
‘Fok,’ was all she could say.
‘Does that mean what I think it means?’ he asked.
She leant forward and cut the plastic cable tie between his wrists. ‘Yes, in Afrikaans.’
‘So, you know who I am. Who are you?’
The lie came quickly to her lips. Always base it on truth, Steele had drummed into her. ‘I’m a professional hunter.’
He stared back at her for a few seconds, not moving, lying back in the grass. ‘I just told you the truth, so please do me the same courtesy.’
‘It is the truth. I come out here on the concession in my spare time to go horse riding and game viewing and to shoot my quota for the pot. You do know you’re on a hunting concession, don’t you? There are people with guns here. It’s not a smart place to be filming.’ The other thing Steele taught her was that when your cover was challenged go on the attack. Turn the tables on the questioner.
He shook his head. ‘If you worked on this concession you’d know we’ve been planning this film shoot for three months. You’d also know there are no hunts scheduled this week because we’ve made a block booking and we’ve bought the quota to shoot what we need for the pot to make this documentary. You’re not who you say you are. What’s your name?’