Manus Xingue

by Jack Challis

  As they round a small bend, the flickering flames of the camp-fire illuminate a horrific sight!

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ exclaims Dublin, as he notices Sgt Kane leaning against a tree in an awkward sitting position.

  ‘Gordon Bennett – rip my reed!’ gasps Lacy, instantly throwing up.

  Kane presents a grotesque sight – his head and right arm are missing – gouts of blood soak his uniform – a large, barbed arrow pins him to the tree. Transfixed and dying, the Sergeant’s left hand had desperately tried to reach for his nearby rifle!

  ‘Holy Mother of God! If only Jim had listened to me,’ Frank Dublin moans with grief. ‘No man should die like that – not a good soldier like Jim!’

  Jack Lacy peers into the gloom clutching his rifle: eyes wide with fear.

  Dublin searches Kane’s blood-covered Bergen.

  ‘Our venereal friend missed half the cocaine – my two shots by the pool must have unnerved the bastard.’

  Dublin picks up Kane’s metal cup – it is still half full of un-drunk blood! Dublin discreetly drops the cup into the undergrowth without Lacy noticing.

  ‘What’s he going to do with the Sergeant’s head?’ Lacy asks.

  ‘What do you bloody well think?’ replies the Irishman, deep in thought.

  ‘But Kane had mousy hair, Frank – Rumpleforeskin is only interested in blonds and redheads.’

  ‘You heard him say hunting was dangerous in Kier Verde country – he is stocking his larder up!’ answers Dublin.

  Jack Lacy throws up again. ‘What do we do now, Frank?’ asks Lacy, still holding his weak stomach – leg it?’

  ‘No - just eat our rations and then bury poor old Jim.’ Dublin answers.

  ‘I’ve gone off nosebag.’ Lacy replies.

  ‘Please yourself.’ Dublin begins eating. Once finished, he stands up. ‘Right, give me a hand - grab Jim’s legs.’

  Lacy obeys but is instantly sick again. The powerful Dublin picks up the body of Sgt Kane and walks into the jungle ignoring the blood. The quivering Jack Lacy again hears a few mumbled words of Latin drifting on the humid night air - in between his own retching heaves!

  Dublin returns, changes his jacket fatigues and checks his rifle. ‘Now if we get out of this alive – Jim died from a bullet in the head. I know his mother – she would not like the truth! ‘Manus Xingue won’t go far tonight,’ continues Dublin. ‘He is in a strange land. My guess is he will be on the other side of this wooded hill – to hide his camp-fire from us. You go to the left, I’ll take the right – keep to the high ground – makes it easier to spot his fire and get a whiff of smoke.’

  Jack Lacy is horrified. ‘Not bloody likely!’ replies Lacy, in disbelief. ‘I am not going out on my tod, in the dark, with Rumpleforeskin lurking – adjacent!’

  ‘Then stay here!’ Dublin suggests.

  ‘No way, José – we go together Frank – or nothing.’

  Frank Dublin, the experienced SAS trooper, shakes his head in disgust. ‘Now, cock your ears,’ orders Dublin, ‘we are trying to sneak up on a man who was born in the jungle, with the senses of an animal. Our only hope is that the cocaine he is throwing up his nose dulls our venereal friend’s senses.

  Now, listen,’ continues Dublin, ‘as soon as we spot his fire, place your feet exactly where mine were, when we are stalking him. And when we crawl forward, stay directly behind me so the ground you are crawling over will have been checked by me – got it? If you fuck up, you Cockney Pikey, I will kill you! Understand?’

  Lacy grins weakly. ‘Of course you will, Frank.’

  The two SAS troopers move into the night. Frank Dublin stops and sits down.

  ‘What are we stopping for?’ Lacy whispers.

  ‘To accustom our eyes to the darkness and wait for the moon – now shut it.’

  The rising moon begins to illuminate the wooded hill with eerie light; the two SAS troopers move off.

  An hour later Dublin stops, sniffs the air and smells wood-smoke; he tests the breeze by dropping his feather.

  The two SAS men inch forward; Lacy is in a cold sweat. The flickering flames of a camp-fire come into view. Both men lower themselves to the ground and crawl very slowly towards it. Dublin signals Lacy to scan the camp-fire. Lacy looks through his telescopic night-sights and witnesses a primeval scene!

  The grotesque Manus Xingue squats by his fire gnawing on a long human arm-bone. Lacy gives Dublin the thumbs-up – wipes his night-sights, which are misting up with the humidity, and takes careful aim again – Manus Xingue has disappeared! ‘Bollocks! He’s legged it,’ curses Lacy.

  Both troopers rise, cautiously approaching the fire.

  ‘Cover me,’ orders Dublin, kicking the fire. Jack Lacy sneaks a look in the ashes.

  ‘Bugger me – that’s Sergeant Kane’s bloody head – and a half-eaten arm!’

  ‘Shut it,’ hisses Dublin. ‘I want you to fire a few rounds into the jungle – space them out – keep his head down. I’m going to set up some booby traps.’

  Lacy begins firing; Dublin works fast and soon has two grenades attached to fishing-line trip-wires. Both men back away, leaving the Stone Age scene behind them. After about thirty metres, Dublin stops and sets another booby trap covering their route of retreat – they then leave.

  Later that night, the two remaining SAS troopers sit around their fire. ‘Those grenades haven’t blown yet, Frank,’ says Lacy, looking worried.

  ‘Learn some patience,’ advises Dublin. ‘Our venereal friend has plenty of patience. He’ll sit tight for another hour before he evens moves.’

  ‘Do you think he will pay us a visit tonight, Frank?’ asks the worried Lacy, looking around into the jungle night.

  ‘I hope so,’ answers Dublin. ‘I didn’t spend half an hour wiring up our perimeter with booby traps for nothing.’

  ‘What are we doing tomorrow, Frank – scarpering?’

  Dublin gives Lacy a dirty look; the nervous chattering of the Cockney is annoying the Irishman, who wishes to remain with his thoughts.

  ‘We pick up Chevez’s blood-trail and, if we don’t find him dead, we keep chasing. Now get some kip – I’ll do the night watch.’

  Lacy lies down but keeps a wary eye on the unpredictable Irishman.

  Frank Dublin rubs his eyes, fighting sleep. He is tired, the result of twenty years of deprivation during active service in the Regiment. The bouts of heavy drinking and exposure are taking their toll on the powerful Irishman.

  A thought enters Dublin’s head – he feels in his Bergen and takes out the packet of cocaine and contemplates its contents!

  Lacy is not asleep; he watches the Irishman through half-closed eyes. Dublin’s mind is finally made up. He pours two lines on the back of his hand and snorts them.

  Immediately Dublin is revitalised – suddenly there’s a distant crump of a grenade! Lacy jumps up like a jack-in-the-box.

  ‘That’s Rumpleforeskin’s brain going through his arsehole!’ the delighted Cockney pipes up. Dublin casually lights a cigarette – without response.

  A second crump of a grenade ruptures the night.

  ‘What do you make of that, Frank?’ asks a worried and confused Lacy.

  ‘Grenades don’t always kill outright,’ answers Dublin. ‘A penny to a pinch of snuff, the first one wounded him and he blundered into the second.’

  ‘Or…,’ answers Jack Lacy, ‘he has set the booby traps off deliberately! Rumpleforeskin knows all about grenades – remember!’

  Dublin does not answer. He realises Manus Xingue is capable of anything. Lacy lies down – he is not at ease. Dublin dips again into his Bergen and takes out one of the stolen bottles of bourbon. Breaking the seal the volatile Irishman drinks greedily!

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A BEAUTIFUL AND CAPABLE WOMAN

  The following morning at first light, the two SAS troopers pass the small stream and the pool under the giant tree. Dublin takes out a knife, and hands it to Lacy then, using his great strength, pull
s the massive snake partly out of the water.

  ‘Look at the size of the fucker!’ Lacy exclaims. ‘It’s got to be over twenty foot long.’

  ‘Just cut two big steaks out of the bastard and skip the commentary,’ orders Dublin, ‘and look lively – if Chevez died over-night, I don’t want wild animals eating his body!’

  Lacy complies but with a mumbling protest under his breath…. ‘She’s in a good mood this morning after her drink and drugs party last night.’

  Lacy stiffens when he feels the cold barrel of the Irishman’s rifle press against his neck.

  ‘Do it today and cut the back-chat,’ Dublin orders.

  Soon, the two SAS troopers have picked up the blood-trail of Chevez again from the night before. Dublin is in the lead and is now doing the tracking. The Irishman stops and points.

  ‘Chevez spent the night here, right by the side of the track, which shows he is in a bad way , he has only just moved on – this blood is fresh.’

  ‘My bullet must have clipped a small artery,’ suggests Lacy. ‘Look at the claret he’s lost during the night. I’m beginning to feel sorry for the poor sod.’ Lacy continues.

  A kilometre further along the trail, Dublin and Lacy are moving cautiously along the track. Dublin holds up his hand – they stop. Dublin points to the track – the signs are clear.

  ‘Rip my reed!’ Lacy exclaims. ‘Chevez doesn’t stand a chance – poor bastard – not in his state!’

  On the soft, damp earth of the jungle track are the prints of Chevez’s home-made, tyre-tread sandals and his heavy blood-trail. Superimposed over these are the pugmarks of a big cat!

  The practical and professional Dublin rubs his stubbled chin and thinks aloud. ‘Chevez may have malaria and be wounded but he can still take one of us with him. If that’s the man-eater’s tracks, the cat could do us a big favour!’

  ‘But the man-eater,’ Lacy points out, ‘is not going to eat him on the track – it’s going to drag him off deep into the jungle – we could lose Chevez’s body!’

  ‘That’s a sound point,’ replies Dublin. ‘The cat could also eat his left ear – then we’ll be well fucked – we got to catch up!’ The two SAS troopers hurry forward.

  Just two hundred metres ahead of the pursuing SAS troopers, Chevez is staggering drunkenly, often falling. He is still bleeding heavily. He stops and, with shaking hands, cuts a thick stick with his machete to support his rapidly weakening legs, and struggles on. The high-pitched, staccato warning call of a blue sunbird causes Chevez to stop and look behind. His fuddled, malaria-ridden brain, searches for the significance of the bird’s call. Suddenly it comes to him – the blue sunbird’s call signifies danger – a predator!

  Chevez turns around, swaying, looking behind him, eyes fixed on a bend of the track seven metres away. He wipes the sweat from his eyes. Then the danger suddenly dawns on him – the man- eater!

  Quickly plunging the stick into the ground, Chevez steadies his rifle using the stick as a support. Almost immediately a large jaguar rushes around the corner and springs at him! He fires his gun, wounding the man-eater and deflecting it from its spring. The jaguar bounds into the jungle but does not go far! Chevez staggers forward – he is now on his last legs!

  The two SAS troopers, now only fifty metres behind, hear the shot and run forward. They are soon at the scene, Dublin noticing the wounded jaguar’s blood splashed on some foliage a short way off the track. He wrongly presumes the blood belongs to Chevez, believing his quarry has collapsed at the jungle’s edge.

  Dublin takes a couple of steps into the jungle and finds himself staring into the wounded man-eater’s intent, unblinking, yellow orbs! The wounded and hungry jaguar springs at Dublin before he can bring his rifle to bear. Man and cat fall back onto the jungle track.

  Dublin screams to Lacy ‘Fire! Fire – you useless prick!’

  The cat is on top of Dublin. While the jaguar’s front claws grip his shoulders, the hind claws rake the Irishman’s abdomen – the big cat’s fangs search for Dublin’s neck vertebrae. The man-eater has killed over a hundred people in its five-year reign of terror and knows man’s physical vulnerabilities.

  The powerful Dublin manages to hold the cat’s head off his thick neck, then realising the danger of being disembowelled by the its raking hind legs, he rolls it on its back, wedging his body between its hind legs, stopping its raking talons. But the claws of the cat have already inflicted terrible damage.

  Meanwhile, once over his shock, Lacy fires two shots off in quick succession. The jaguar struggles free, bounding into the jungle.

  ‘You … stupid Cockney pimp!’ Dublin screams, ‘you’ve shot me in the guts!’

  ‘Sorry Frank!’ Lacy apologises, ‘the round must have gone straight through the cat and into your guts!’

  ‘Jesus Christ – this is not how I wanted to die!’ groans Dublin, ‘shot by a stupid Cockney wanker like you – I would rather the cat had killed me.’

  Jack Lacy begins to undo Dublin’s tattered tunic, revealing deep claw wounds which are bleeding heavily. He pulls down Dublin’s trousers. ‘Well, fuck me, it’s not too bad, Frank – your escape belt and all of Taffy’s stuff in your pockets has saved your balls being ripped off!’

  Then after a quick thought, ‘How come you get an escape belt – any sovereigns in it, Frank?’ Lacy asks. ‘Can I have a look?’

  ‘Fuck you!’ snaps Dublin. ‘I am bleeding to death – it’s my poxy stomach you should be wanting to look at – Jesuit wept!’

  Jack Lacy inspects Dublin’s stomach. ‘Bloody hell Frank, you’re a hairy fucker, Gordon Bennett! You’re covered in black hair – like a gorilla!’

  ‘Look, you Cockney bag of shite! You are a medic – not a judge in a beauty contest. Look at my guts for Christ’s sake!’

  Lacy wipes the blood away from Dublin’s stomach and sees a long, red scorch mark along Dublin’s hairy abdomen, caused by Lacy’s bullet – along with many deep, but not life-threatening, claw wounds.

  ‘Hang a trout,’ says Jack Lacy with a grin, ‘my bullet only grazed your hairy Darby – you are not gut-shot! I’d better get some antibiotics down you, and a good shot of morphine.’

  ‘Show me how much morphine you have in that syringe!’ demands the suspicious Dublin. ‘I don’t trust you!’

  Lacy gives Dublin a shot of the pain-killing morphine and begins to clean and dress the Irishman’s wounds.

  few minutes before the man-eating jaguar sprang at Chevez, in a clearing only a kilometre away, two young, attractive native women sit outside a jungle hut, preparing food. One wears a colourful, cheap, cotton frock and is beautiful, even by western standards. The other young woman is dressed in the manner of a wild Indian; wearing only a bead girdle. A baby swings in a hammock nearby.

  The two women talk in the Kier Verde tongue and are in a happy mood.

  ‘When we finish, we’ll go and bathe at the waterfall,’ announces Maria Chevez, the woman with the cheap frock.

  ‘The medicine that Rondo brought has made you well again, Maria,’ remarks Tapia, the younger sister. ‘It is much better than chewing cinchona bark.’

  ‘I must thank you again,’ replies Maria, ‘for looking after the baby and me when I had malaria.’

  ‘You are still Kier Verde and my sister,’ answers Tapia; ‘and this knife is as blunt as a pig’s arse.’

  Both women giggle. ‘I will sharpen it for you,’ says Maria, walking over to a stone. Suddenly a shot echoes in the distance – both women freeze.

  ‘Soldiers!’ Tapia gasps.

  ‘No,’ answers Maria, ‘that is Chevez’s gun. I recognise the sound, but it is strange – he never shoots so near our home!’

  Rondo,’ replies Tapia, ‘told me the Cat-people are coming north, looking for man-meat and if the evil one, Manus Xingue, is with them, you must be very careful, Maria.’

  The women stand still and listen. Soon they hear another two rapid shots, the ones fired by Jack Lacy at the man-eater.

  �
��That is not the sound of Chevez’s gun,’ says Maria, looking concerned. ‘He may be in trouble – I must go and help him.’

  Maria rushes to the eaves of the hut and pulls out a hidden shotgun with a leather sling.

  ‘Stay with my baby,’ Maria tells Tapia. ‘If I am not back soon take the baby to the tribe.’ Maria slings the shotgun over her shoulder and picks up a machete.

  ‘Wait,’ says Tapia, ‘you must take this.’ Tapia hands Maria a long, strange-looking, curved mask made from fresh, green leaves. The leaf mask has a fibre strap. Maria hangs it from her neck, like a hat, and hurries into the jungle quickly and silently, until she gains the jungle track.

  Maria Chevez soon finds her husband lying at the side of the track, unconscious and shaking with malaria fever. She is horrified to see he has left a clear blood-trail. Maria drags Chevez off the track a few metres into the jungle. Ripping her frock, she ties a tourniquet round his arm and stops the bleeding. She then cuts a few branches and cleverly pushes them into the ground, breaking up his outline expertly, camouflaging his prone body. She then takes off his home-made sandals. Walking backwards towards the track, she obliterates the trail that would betray their position.

  Back on the track, Maria puts on Chevez’s sandals; then, with her machete, cuts her leg, causing it to bleed! She continues down the track, walking erratically to imitate her husband’s condition, leaving a distinct blood-trail. After a hundred metres, she reaches a small river. Shading her eyes she looks into the water – only seeing large stingrays. However, on the bank she notices the freshly shed skin of a huge anaconda – which could not be far away!

  Maria crosses herself and enters the water keeping a sharp lookout, holding her shotgun ready in one hand. With her other hand she protects her genitals from a Candera attack! Maria’s blood is dripping into the water and being carried downstream to a shoal of black piranha that are becoming excited and begin to swim upstream towards her!’

  Maria walks downstream laying a false trail; returning, she crosses the river.

  Reaching the other bank, she continues for a dozen metres, purposely leaving clear footprints; she then stops when she reaches hard, rock-covered ground. She tears her frock again and ties a tourniquet on her leg to stop the bleeding. Maria takes off Chevez’s sandals and ties them around her waist. Then, cutting two large leaves and using them as stepping-stones, she makes her way back to the river – leaving no visible, return trail!