Catacombs

by John Farris

  Erika knew she should have stopped for good long ago; but an image in her mind of almost limitless distances to overcome caused her heart to constrict in fright. She hoped for a second wind, an elemental push, enough strength to maintain her for a final mile before dusk. Tomorrow . . . but she was too dispirited to make plans, to think beyond the next short bend of the river.

  Dispirited, and addled. At some point, after one of her frequent pauses, she had simply walked off without the flight bag, leaving everything vital to survival but the blanket, which earlier she had rolled up and wore suspended across her back by a string of tough creeper vine.

  The loss was devastating, yet she could not make up her mind to backtrack and retrieve the bag. Erika was unreasonably afraid of what lay behind her: the dark, lost time, some incomprehensible evil like a blot on her trail, which she had felt for the last hour or so.

  She stood swaying between mirror-like pools of water, the sun glaring down on her from a prison house of trees; she cried wretchedly, one hand shaking out of control. She heard a chattery crackle of semiautomatic rifle fire, a shout. She imagined it was Chips Chapman, calling for help . . . then she heard her mother crooning lullabies. And another, unmistakably British voice, calling, if not to her, to someone nearby.

  Heedless of the likelihood that she was being deceived by a fresh hallucination, Erika plunged ahead, through water, shifting sand, low scrub, demanding of her punished body reserves of energy and nerve. Black spots swarmed before her eyes, formed a curtain of premature night through which she continued to fight her way, stumbling, dragging her feet, falling.

  She got up twice and struggled on but couldn't rise the third time. She lay spent, hearing again the voices, so distant it was impossible to distinguish words. They were bearing away from her. She lay on her side, semiconscious, patiently waiting for the blackness to disintegrate into familiar spots, for the spots to dance and fade away.

  Before Erika could see clearly she smelled the animal nearby, and sensed its power.

  The animal announced itself with a doughty grunting, and desperate whistling sounds of effort. Erika cautiously eased herself to a sitting position in the scratchy dry grass and looked around. A dozen yards away a rhinoceros, almost shot to pieces, was down on its front knees but trying to rise. In the beaten grass behind it there were blood slicks where it had gone down before. If the rhino had managed to stagger just a little farther the last time it might have stepped on her.

  One violent petite eye studied Erika as the rhino tried to heave itself onto all four feet. Its horn was missing, hacked off as it had lain helpless. Erika got to her feet and leaned against a low limb of a sausage tree. She smelled the animal's keen blood and was humbled by its passion to live. And she knew if it got underway again it was capable of anything, including a last blind charge to destroy whatever lay in its path.

  Weak as she was, Erika made tracks.

  Above a group of mature baobob trees on the plain in front of her, a strand of grayish smoke hung in the evening air. The trees looked to be half a mile away. As she walked slowly toward them, dazed and sore, eyes fixed on the smoke as if it were a signal of deliverance, she heard men and the sounds of a camp. She smelled their food, and lusted.

  There was a Land-Rover, muddied, a battered derelict. A tent had been pitched. Two men wearing bush shirts and shorts and high stockings with their shoes were hunched on campstools by the fire, eating roasted meat off the bone. They were white. A third member of the party, black and overweight, with tribal scars on his face like worry beads, was cleaning guns. Erika crunched her way through brush to the inner circle. All eyes turned her way. Astonishment. She was, obviously, a novel sight.

  But the two white men, nondescript, quintessentially British, in their forties or early fifties, also seemed out of place. They were like a pair of clerks, decent hardworking civil servants who had scrimped all their lives to pay for an adventure. And this was it, a cheap and sleazy safari. They seemed morose by their crackling campfire, eking out what glamour remained in this disillusioning situation.

  "How extraordinary," one of them said, breathily. He sucked grease from between his fingers, not taking his eyes off Erika.

  "Manners, Timothy," the other reminded him gently.

  Timothy rose. "Good evening, missus. What a pleasure. Would you care for a bite to eat? Then there's tea, of course."

  "Or perhaps a whiskey. She does look a bit knackered, don't you think?"

  Timothy smiled. "She does at that, Lex."

  "Albert," Lex called to the black man, "why don't you leave off polishing the bloody arsenal long enough to bring us that bottle of Cutty Sark we've tucked away for special observances."

  Albert seemed to groan as he turned his head away and got up from the fallen tree on which he'd been sitting. He plodded toward the Land-Rover, which was parked a few feet beyond the fire, nose on.

  Timothy stepped away from his campstool, casually dropping a gnawed bone into the flames.

  "Well, well. I'm Timothy Wardrop. And this geezer is Lex Pynchon."

  "Get stuffed. Pleased to meet yer, Miss–."

  "Erik . . . a."

  "Sit down; do sit down, Erika. Afraid we haven't much to offer in the way of accommodations, rather roughing it as you can see."

  Albert was groaning again as he yanked cartons and duffels from the back of the Land-Rover. He seemed to be suffering from some deep psychic pain. The other men ignored him.

  "But where in heaven's name did you come from?" Lex asked Erika. "Can there be a tour group nearby?"

  Erika shook her head, her eyes thick with tears of thanksgiving. She found her voice.

  "I'm alone. I was–in an accident, some time ago. My plane crashed."

  "What?" Lex said.

  Timothy narrowed his eyes. "That is a rather nasty patch on your forehead–you must have been struck quite a blow. Inconceivable you've managed to survive in this poxy place. Was anyone with you?"

  He took her by the elbow and lowered her to the campstool. Closer to the fire, Erika saw how ragged they both were. Timothy had gone without shaving for a couple of days; his hair was twiggy and he had a rank odor. There were dark spatters on his shirt that might have been grease, or blood, and she thought fleetingly of the rhinoceros, seemingly used for wanton target practice. She swallowed and shuddered and stared at a drooling hunk of steak which Lex was turning on a spit.

  Timothy continued to hold her by the elbow, twisting to shout at the black man, "Albert! The whiskey, man, and I don't mean the day after tomorrow."

  'Well, I don't know where you put it," Albert whined.

  "Don't go snarky on us, I'm warning you. Lex, would you have a look, there's a good chap."

  Lex got up scratching. The sun didn't agree with him; his lips were scabbed and he had an ulcer on one cheekbone, another on his right forearm.

  "Whatever you say, Timothy."

  Albert let out another shrill, despairing cry. Lex glanced at Timothy across the fire, smiling bleakly, and shrugged. Timothy hunkered beside Erika, his hand sliding from her elbow to her wrist, almost a caress. It was not a clerk's ninny hand; she felt a rasp of callus that gave her goosebumps.

  Erika moved her head a little away from the fire, which was making her skin smart. She turned to look at him. They were almost at eye level. He was mouse brown and anonymous, his face without character. Both he and Lex seemed like overage waifs, not legitimized by ordinary human emotions.

  The confidence in his grip was almost worrisome. She tried to smile, to be grateful.

  "Can you–help me?"

  "Not to worry, Erika. No more tramping about. A dollop of whiskey, a good feed, you'll feel a hundred percent in no time."

  "The others–"

  "Oh? Thought you said no one was with you in the aircraft."

  "I mean– It's a long story."

  "Well. Take your time, dear girl." Timothy turned to lift a stoneware coffeepot from a grill over a circle of coals. He poured scalding
coffee into a mug. Lex came back, jauntily brandishing the bottle of Cutty Sark. Albert trailed him sulkily.

  "Albert, mind the meat don't char. Now then." He broke the seal on the bottle and offered it. "Sorry, Erika, we've come away without the Baccarat goblets. Should hit the right spot all the same."

  She nodded, took the bottle with her free hand, sipped cautiously. It was better than she could have imagined. Lex, whistling tunelessly, began slicing pieces of medium-rare steak into a plate for her.

  "Erika's got quite a story to tell, she says," Timothy remarked idly. He was stroking her wrist.

  "I'm dying to hear. But we must let her eat. Biscuit, Erika?"

  "Yes." She put the bottle to her lips again. As she did so she heard a pitiful moan that stirred the hairs on her nape. It was human, not animal. She glanced quickly at Albert, but the moan hadn't come from him.

  "What was that?"

  "One of the prisoners, most likely," Lex said, sounding bored.

  Somewhere on the darkening plain there was a piercing shriek from a feline predator, the parrotlike, raucous cries of jackals. Erika felt the night closing them all in; they were pledged, magically, to the circle of fire, each other's humanity, the unstable mood of the moment.

  "Prisoners?"

  Timothy jerked his head toward the Land-Rover. "Just there. Nothing for you to be concerned about, they can't harm you."

  "They've had a very trying day," Lex said with a solemn wink.

  "What did they do?"

  "Poachers," Timothy explained.

  "Oh. Oh, I see. Then you–you're with the government."

  Lex sliced a bit of tenderloin for himself and popped it into his mouth.

  'Warden? Us?"

  "We're of the Guv, not the government," Timothy said cryptically.

  Lex liked the joke. He rocked on his heels, laughing.

  Erika got up suddenly, her eyes wide, and twisted away from Timothy's grasp. A piece of wood on the fire snapped like a shot. With her blood running cold she turned and walked to the Land-Rover.

  The two men remained where they were, craning casually, keeping her in view. She still had the fire in her eyes and couldn't see well by the silvering light of the sky. There was some baggage scattered on the ground behind the Rover. She heard a dismal sigh, saw movement, looked again.

  They were two black men, lying a foot apart, naked, wounded, horridly acrawl with flies, lashed hand and foot, tied to the back of the vehicle by their ankles. One of the prisoners moved his head in slow anguish. The other was breathlessly still. Erika dropped to her knees in shock, her face inches from a putrifying eye, from the buzz of flies. She bolted up with a scream.

  "Oh, no. No, no, no!"

  Lex and Timothy came on the double.

  "What's the matter?" Lex said. "We told you they was a bad lot. Poachers. Tried to skimp on the Guv, go into business for themselves. Wouldn't pay their tithes. The Guv don't take kindly to such actions."

  "Jawbony tonight, aren't we?" Timothy cautioned. "Natter, natter, natter."

  "What's the beef? She's never going to tell a living soul."

  "You can't–you mustn't do this. It's monstrous. Look at them."

  "Calm yourself," Lex said uneasily, scratching and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "We was all getting along swell, wasn't we? Here's how to look at it. These coons are tougher than you think. Dragged them a couple of kilometers, that's all. Wore the arse and goolies off them. They'll recover, but damn if they'll cheat on the Guv again."

  "I demand you release these men while there's still a chance–but this one's not breathing! What's the matter with you, how could you be so unspeakably vicious–"

  Timothy sauntered over, coffee mug in hand. "Dead, is he? That's news." With a flick of his wrist he doused the head of the silent one with the steaming coffee. Flies filled the air, the unfortunate victim bucked and gave off a hissing scream.

  "You bastard! How dare you treat another human being this way!"

  "What's that? They're just wogs."

  "Now she don't like us," Lex said, his shoulders drooping.

  "Shut up, sod."

  "Whatever you say, Timothy. But couldn't we get on with it, like? Seeing as how she's' not going to go for a little bit of sugar?"

  They both looked at Erika, as they had looked at the suffering black men on the ground. With a chill-provoking ingenuousness.

  "She's not what I'd call flaming great tit."

  "But she's had her share of hard knocks, don't you see. Still she must have some juice in her yet."

  "I don't reckon we're in a position to be choosy."

  "That's it exactly."

  "Now just a moment," Erika said, although her throat felt as if it were clogged with quick-drying cement.

  "Can't see the harm in a little sport," Timothy said.

  "As we both have a touch of the clap, I don't suppose it matters which of us goes first," Lex said, a hand on his belt buckle.

  Erika began to back away from them.

  Somewhere in the thicket beneath the score of trees that made up the stand there was a ripping crash, a series of grunts and snorts. Albert reared up, his carved face a sheen of fear.

  "Rhino!"

  "That old brute?" Timothy said. "He must be three-quarters dead by now. Well, don't stand there, take the Rigby and go finish him."

  "Not me!"

  "Do what you're told, you fucking imbecile, if you don't want to wind up joining these two behind the Rover!"

  Erika turned and ran, but was shoved hard from behind and pitched over on one shoulder. She rolled to the edge of the campfire. Sparks bit her cheek, glowed in her hair. Timothy snatched her up and dusted her before she could burst into flame. Then her clothes disappeared in tatters, as if the men were two callous children plucking the wings off a fly. She lost, in moments, everything but her sturdy shoes. They were adept at rape, it was a professional collaboration, and she hadn't the strength to resist.

  Fortunately a numbness crept through Erika; she was anesthetized by despair, an acknowledgment of total defeat. All feeling was reduced to a sullen heartthrob, a struggle for breathing room. The jolting, humiliating attack couldn't concern her. She was free to move only her head, but that at least was a blessing. She didn't have to look at Lex, whose scabrous face was only a foot or so from hers, or Timothy, who stood staring vacantly over Lex's shoulder as he wrestled his unwieldy peggo out of his pants.

  Behind the Land-Rover she glimpsed a startling resurrection: a dark angelic figure rising slowly from his knees with one widespread, lethal wing poised and glittering in the moony light. A prisoner, she thought, miraculously made whole and freed from his bonds. His face turned toward the scene of this new atrocity but she could see nothing but a single huge, clotted white eye. He looked away, one hand on the ground for balance, head forward like a sprinter's, pointing toward Albert, who was oblivious of everything but the rape while he loaded his rifle in slow motion.

  Erika realized that he could only be another hallucination, this avenging angel; yet he seemed more real than the cutthroat now rompering her, laboring with a monotonous broadside of balls against her exposed nates to achieve his mean little spasm.

  She watched in fascination as the angel seemed to fly, low to the ground, arriving in a frenzy at the shoulder of the startled Albert, who barely sounded his cry before he was whacked solidly across the chest by the sharp edge of the angel's wing. Erika gasped in admiration; there was no immediate evidence of injury but the black man's arms fell helplessly. The muscles which enabled him to raise his arms had been cut in two. The rifle dropped but before it touched the ground the angel was off again, heading her way in a series of powerful leaps and bounds, and she observed that he had no wings, only a panga with a blade some two feet in length.

  In the background Albert was running in agonized circles, weeping, his useless hands flapping at his sides. And behind him, the wounded hornless rhino, survivor of enough gunshots to kill half a dozen men, bur
st into the clearing.

  The angel, with a drawn-out cry of retribution, flew again, over Erika and the hunched back of Lex Pynchon. Timothy reeled away from a savage back-handed blow with the flat of the panga, and for two seconds, at most, all their business was in suspension.

  Erika looked up at the bandaged but familiarly dusty face of Oliver. His good eye was distorted with rage and Erika quailed, certain that he was more angry with her than her attackers, that his next blow would be aimed at her throat.

  Instead he glanced at the rhinoceros, which had come to a momentary halt while sniffing out its victims in the clearing. The rhino rounded on the unfortunate Albert, who had fallen and was awkwardly trying to get to his feet.

  Oliver snatched Lex up by the back of his shirt. Lex dangled a few inches above the ground, his penis, like a plucked chicken's neck, at a twitching right angle to the rest of him.

  Oliver pointed with his panga.

  "Get up!" he shouted at Erika. "Run!"

  Then he turned and sized up the squirming man he held. He brought the panga down in a smart chop, discarded Lex with a contemptuous heave and returned his attention to Timothy.

  Erika rose shakily to her feet, hearing a ghastly trampled scream from Albert. She looked around as the beast trotted a few feet beyond its victim and stood snorting bloodily, trying to distinguish with its poor eyes the shapes milling near the fire.

  Timothy had picked up a glowing brand with which to defend himself. Oliver, demonstrating the adroitness of a Russian dancer, sprang at him in a stylish crouch and circled, feinting, weaving, his panga swishing too fast for the eye to follow. The befuddled Timothy began falling to pieces like a badly made clay statue.

  Lex was up and running, half cocked, toward the Land-Rover. Oliver leaped to intercept him, then heard the rhinoceros coming; he changed direction to snatch Erika out of the way. The rhino, for all its wounds, was almost as quick on its feet as the black man.

  Oliver, shouting, tried to distract the animal, to draw its second charge away from Erika; but it was Erika, naked, her pale backside gleaming, who received all of the rhino's attention. She ran straight for the woods in a panic, not the best strategy for eluding a charging rhino.