by P. J. Day
“The pheasants are protected too,” said the finance minister.
“Then I would eat the grass just like the wildebeests.”
His quick wit turned the room in his favor. Chuckles led to throat-clearings that then led to an appreciative silence. The panel was now ready to deliberate their approval.
“Mr. Daw, we are impressed with the service you have given our country. After much deliberation, we have no doubt you are the right man for this job. On behalf of the conservancy, we are eager to appoint you first lieutenant of our first-class forest guardian regiment,” the woman said. “Your experience with helping the SPLA in Lokichogio by protecting Kenya’s national interests will certainly help in protecting Kenya’s greatest interest, if not the world’s, and that is the preservation of Juma.”
Tarik smiled as a sense of relief washed over him. “Thank you. Juma is in safe hands.”
“I have no doubt.” The finance minister gave Tarik a final glare before diving back into his phone.
Tarik stood from his chair as the panel dispersed from the round table. A few made their way down to shake his hand. Behind them, Tarik’s wife waited in the shadows, a grateful smile on her face. At her hip stood Dante, their son, who held a plastic toy version of Juma as he eagerly waited to give his dad a happy hug.
***
It had been three weeks since that pressure-filled afternoon where Tarik’s entire being had been meticulously scrutinized. It was during this time that the conservancy finished their roster of what they felt were the best guardsmen ever assembled.
Two infantrymen from Tarik’s Lokichogio regiment, whom he’d personally recommended, joined his unit. Along with Tarik’s recommendations, Nigeria and South Africa volunteered one each of their tactical special forces units, and the U.S. offered a drone along with one of their most accomplished operators.
Tarik rested in the brand-new white leather recliner in the upgraded commons where guards were pampered as if they were rock stars.
“If only they would have hired me sooner,” he joked to himself. “Why wait until there is only one rhino left?”
On the wall, a large 4K television played The Expendables. He paused the lacing of his boots and gawked at the screen. He’d never before seen Sylvester Stallone and his skin so veiny and glossy and starkly different than the grainy and less-puffy version of the movie star he’d seen from a bootleg Rambo III DVD in Lokichogio.
The smell of Blue Mountain coffee scented the room and bags of gourmet popcorn and nuts were readily available for the rangers by the microwave.
He’d never before been spoiled like this and neither had his son Dante, who had snatched a bag of honey-roasted almonds for himself just before sprinting toward the bathroom after downing a premium sports drink.
Loud crunching and wet smacks caught Tarik’s attention from behind the recliner.
“How are you liking the almonds?”
“Yummy,” replied his son Dante, mush-mouthed and bouncy.
“Come around. Let me show you something.”
The lanky boy, with a dirt-smudged blue school uniform top, took one agile step and stood in front of his father with two fingers inside the almond bag.
“Want to learn to tie your boots like a man? Like a soldier?”
Dante eagerly nodded his head.
“See how I laced my other boot?” Tarik said. “Just like a ladder.”
“Like a ladder? Why?”
“For stability. The last thing you want is to sprain an ankle while a hyena chases you.”
“Then shoot it. With your gun.”
Tarik smiled and shook his head. “I could, but remember my job is to protect hyenas. I will outrun them rather than shoot them.”
“You cannot outrun a hyena.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I can outrun a hyena.”
Dante had inherited the gift of speed from his maternal grandfather. At the age of six, he could outrun second graders. At seven, the school’s soccer coach. At eight, his father, along with the fastest sixth grader of them all, Bolaji the Bolt, who had proved no match for Dante’s chicken legs.
“So, you’re faster than a hyena now?” Tarik asked playfully.
“Maybe. But not faster than a cheetah.”
“Glad you’re humble, child.”
As Dante’s confidence grew, so did his attachment to his father. Tarik’s hot and cold temperament created an irresistible dynamic for the boy. At times, he’d thought his father wanted nothing to do with him, but suddenly, as if the sun shone through the angry clouds that flooded the savannah, reassurance would come in the form of a toothy smile.
“You promised me that we’d see Juma last week, remember?”
“I know, son. I have not forgotten.” Tarik paused. He then recalled that ever since he had arrived at the conservancy he’d been quite the absentee father and husband.
He stood and placed his hand on his son’s thin shoulder. “You finish your homework and I might sneak you out of the house one night. Do not tell your mother. She did not even let us finish the rifle training.”
Dante grinned and nodded his head and said, “Can I bring my binoculars? Will you let me pick up his poop?”
“His poop? What’s wrong with you, boy?”
“To collect Juma’s DNA so when he is gone, we can clone him.”
Tarik chuckled underneath his breath. “Don’t be silly, boy. You have been watching too many movies,” he said. “Run home. You need a head start on your homework.”
“Will you be home for dinner?”
“I do not know.”
“I will tell mom to save you a plate of food.”
Tarik reached out and wrapped his long arms around Dante in a rare show of appreciation for his son. If only his wife could be as understanding and patient. Lina longed for Tarik’s company and the family life she’d left behind in Lokichogio. Protecting oil fields was routine. Predictable. Derricks and pipes never moved like rhinos did. When he’d guarded the oil fields, Tarik had always been on time for dinner. Had always been around to change a diaper or two on his off days.
Though protecting Juma was safer than patrolling pipelines from terrorists and disgruntled militias, chasing an animal with a mind of his own definitely proved more challenging. At eight years of age, young Juma roamed the park in hormonal disarray, oblivious to its perpetual solitude as a species.
Wild white rhinos lived to be forty to fifty years old. A pampered one like Juma perhaps even longer. Tarik knew if he did his job well, the lonely beast would provide a pleasant life for him and his family, and if he saved properly, a proper retirement too.
Tarik led Dante to the door. Home was a ten-minute walk from the commons. The modest two-story cottage, whose look matched the resort’s safari theme, was a substantial upgrade over the brick-and-cement block they’d left behind in Lokichogio. And Dante finally had his own room with his own bed and a desk for schoolwork.
Right as Tarik planted a farewell peck on his son’s forehead the phone rang. He sighed and quickly backpedaled.
“Tarik speaking.”
“Is Dante with you?” Lina asked.
“Yes, he is. He was about to leave and make it in time for dinner,” Tarik said, silently ordering Dante to run home again. Dante ignored his father’s gestures and languished outside, kicking dirt clumps in the dying heat.
“You have been gone for ten hours.”
Tarik briefly ignored Lina and cleared his throat and gestured at Dante. This time he playfully tugged at his belt.
“Tarik?”
“I won’t be home for dinner,” he answered matter-of-factly, his attention never wavering from his insolent son.
“Tarik, I need help around the home you know. We have a leak. Water is collecting in the tile grooves.”
“I will call Francis in the morning,” he said. “I will make sure he checks for leaks after he is done with his shift at the hotel tomorrow. He does the plumbing for a 300-room hote
l. Our kitchen is nothing compared to what he sees every day. He will have it fixed quickly.”
Lina sighed. “I never know when you get home now. Your schedule is not stable.”
“We are paying the bills and saving money, are we not?”
“Saving?” she said. “A pittance. You know there will be no saving until Andre has been paid off.”
Tarik paused. His mind wandered from the bliss of domestic toil and raced toward the memory of a peculiar phone call he’d received last November in Lokichogio.
‘You’re late,’ said the man’s voice.
‘Only a week,’ Tarik said.
‘Two weeks late.’
The man on the phone didn’t sound like Andre but he was clearly someone representing his interests.
Tarik stared out his window into the darkness. Light rain pelted the glass. A reflection of Dante lifting his bottom from his chair as he reached for a roll briefly took his attention away from his gaze.
‘Tell Andre I will have it on Friday. I just need three more days.’
‘You know, Tarik, do not take this the wrong way, but tell Lina she looks stunning in white,’ said the man. ‘And your son, he is getting very big and strong too. His table manners need a little work though.’
Tarik dropped the phone and sprinted out into the living room. He then grabbed his rifle that he had laid next to the door and ran outside.
‘Where are you, you son of a bitch!’
Only the sound of raindrops hitting the tin roof answered back. Dante and Lina followed Tarik and stood at the door.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘Get back inside,’ Tarik yelled.
‘Is there someone out there?’
‘Now!’
He scanned the darkness for a shadow or anything that moved. Storm clouds concealed the moonlight, the howling wind deafening suspicious rustling. His heartbeat the only heightened stimuli he perceived at first. But all Tarik and his eyes needed was a small break in the clouds. For that small splash of moonlight entering his eyes revealed shadows that weren’t there just moments before. There above the escarpment overlooking the camp and behind a large rock that split a trail leading down toward the soldiers’ homes was the figure of a man.
Tarik aimed his sights and held his breath and fired a shot. A spark from the bullet grazed the granite and lit the surrounding area well enough where he could see a man quickly turn around and disappear just over the hill. The camp’s alarm wailed seconds after the rifle was discharged. Tarik gave chase. Halfway up the incline, he heard an engine start and the sound of spinning tires on loose dirt. As Tarik reached the top of the trail all that was revealed to him were taillights.
His newfound role had distracted him just enough to where his debt was no longer an all-consuming burden. But there it was spinning like a crooked top in the back of his mind. All it needed to replant itself like some parasitic vice was Lina’s ill-timed, but skillful, ability for vivid recall.
“Please think of our safety. Pay Andre back quickly.”
“I will, Lina,” Tarik said. “I have even quit chew.”
“Good. That stuff was bad for you.”
“I agree.”
“So, will you be home for supper?” asked Lina one more time, knowing she had rattled her pillar of a husband.
While in a trance, Tarik coldly answered, “I do not know. There is something I still need to do. Before sunset. Save me a plate.”
The Last Rhino
is available here:
Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK
About the Author
P.J. Day lives with his wife and two daughters in southern California, which serves as the backdrop for his inspiration and indignation.
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Table of Contents
MUSINGS OF A POSTMODERN VAMPIRE
A novel by
Acclaim for the novels of P.J. Day:
Novels and Stories by P.J. Day
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Musings of a Postmodern Vampire
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
The Sunset Prophecy
Chapter One
The Sunset Prophecy
Mercy’s Magic
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Mercy’s Magic
The Last Rhino
The Last Rhino
About the Author