Part 14 (1/2)

She didn't relinquish her glare, as the two heard rustling from outside.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Delani enter. ”Ms. Singer?” the mercenary asked. ”Is everything all right?”

”Tell your men to keep their hands to themselves,” Nessa growled and stormed out of the hut.

”Is there a problem here?” Delani asked Ike. For several seconds, he waited but the Australian did not respond. ”Is there going to be a problem?”

”I hate that b.i.t.c.h,” Ike replied.

”Good,” Delani answered, satisfied.

Eventually the rain died away and night fell. Ike lingered by himself, stopping to do a few idle ch.o.r.es. He clipped his nails, inspected his gun, and counted his money, all the while muttering to himself or silently fuming.

He missed Brisbane. His thoughts turned to that place a world away. Gla.s.s buildings stretched into the sky, the air void of insects. The pubs sprawled with lovely women. Australian culture, good music, and good food were on every street corner. People went about their business with no concept of horror. Ike had been there at one time. But no more. It was too late. Africa had changed him forever.

Delani insisted on an early night. They'd be up and out the next morning. Ike slipped into his bedroll, removing his trousers and over s.h.i.+rt. He placed his Desert Eagle amidst the leaves and branches that formed his mattress.

The sound of Delani snoring filled his ears. Alfred tossed and turned nearby, mumbling. Only Gilles slept quietly. Ike wondered if Nessa was behind her makes.h.i.+ft curtain. Maybe she had found another place to sleep to avoid future encounters with him.

The thought made his face hot. He pushed thoughts of her away and felt the slow haze of sleep overtake him.

A nearby movement startled him awake.

He froze, looking up in the darkness. He barely made out a silhouette hovering over him. The figure stood still and silent.

Ike slipped the fingers of one hand out of his bedroll. His hand brushed through the leaves and sticks until they touched the cold metal of his pistol. It was still there. He slid his hand farther toward where his pack and clothes rested. Remembering the way he had laid everything out exactly, he found his pants and in one of his pockets, a small penlight.

He flicked the light on. The flash blinded him temporarily. In the haze, he saw Nessa put her hands to her face. She whispered harshly for him to put it out and moved to cover it with her hands.

Instead, he rested the penlight on the floor. Leaves and branches blocked most of the light, providing dim illumination.

”Can I help you, luv?” he asked, propping himself up on his elbows.

”You can start by being quiet,” she snapped.

”Right. Got it.”

He thought he saw traces of a smile at the corners of her lips. She crawled forward until her face was over his. She closed her eyes and kissed him. Her ponytail hung over her shoulder tickling his neck. He felt her hands on his bedroll, tugging it open.

When she pulled her lips away to fumble with the covering, he grinned and shook his head at her. ”So this is how it's going to be, is that right?”

She didn't say anything and a moment later her body lay snugly on top of his, her legs straddling his waist.

”Well then, if that's how it is,” Ike's voice trailed.

He caught her eyes again and a flash of a smile. ”Good,” she whispered.

Katika Giza.

(In the Darkness).

”Do not call the forest that shelters you a jungle.”

-African proverb.

13.

Tears in the ragged tent let rainwater through. The droplets drenched Mosi, making him quite miserable. The wetness sank into the cloths he used as a bedspread until they were saturated and heavy. Mosi cursed under his breath; he had gone through such lengths to get a tent.

The tent had been Jean's up until the night before. The first tear hadn't been enough to warrant the lieutenant pa.s.sing it on. But when Mosi secretly sliced two more tears in it with his machete, Jean had cried for another. And after all that risk, what did Mosi have to show for it? He was just as wet as his brothers.

Mosi slipped back in the tent, tucking his legs underneath him. He wrapped his wiry arms around his knees, doing his best to keep dry. The rain poured in front of him, not showing signs of abating.

The sound of footsteps made Mosi sit up straight. He pictured the landscape as if he were standing outside. The Army had set up camp in a thicket, chopped to pieces by footmen. Trees surrounded the thicket, but the gap above was wide enough to expose the stars. Three-dozen men slept out there-a few unlucky souls on watch. Among them slept General Zadu and his bodyguards, as well as some of his top lieutenants.

Mosi listened to the crunching footsteps as they circled his tent. The night outside with the clouds from the storm blotted everything in darkness. He heard footsteps over the pounding rain, but he could only make out a shadow through jagged holes in the fabric.

Who is that? For a moment, he imagined that the night watchmen had been overrun and invaders were slowly moving through the encampment, slitting throats. An image of a b.l.o.o.d.y machete flashed in his mind. His hand slid to his own machete, tucked under the folds of the soaked cloth. He gripped the hilt, pulling the rusted blade out. He set it on his lap, watching for more signs of movement.

Deadly invaders moved like shadows through the forest. Some of the others had noticed them earlier that day. They insisted to Zadu that they were being stalked. When asked by how many, some claimed only a couple. Some claimed tens-hundreds even. Talk of ghosts started. Spirits existed as one with the shadows and slipped out to crack open your skull and feast on your brain.

Zadu told everyone to stop talking about spirits. His warnings worked, because the soldiers were more afraid of Zadu than any ghosts.

Ghost.

The word rattled in Mosi's mind. Do ghosts make sounds when they walk?

He thought they wouldn't. Likely they would move by floating just off the ground like a pygmy, never really touching. If that was so, then the figure outside must be a man.

The footsteps lingered, circling Mosi's tent again. He found it hard to tell in the driving rain exactly where they fell. But they were close, he was sure of it. The figure outside clearly wanted something. Mosi felt its eyes peering through the tent. Measly fabric couldn't hide him.

The rain stopped suddenly, ominously. Mosi froze, daring not to breathe. For several long moments, he heard only silence. Then the footsteps began again.

”Who's there?” Mosi cried in Swahili.

”Mosi?”

Mosi?

The voice sounded strange in his mind. He recognized it as belonging to Imani, his closest friend among the Askari Nahuru. But something was off. A deep echo inside his brain told him that there was something else there.

”Mosi, are you okay?” The question sounded rehea.r.s.ed, the concern behind it fake.

”Go away,” Mosi shouted. He flexed his fingers over the corded hilt of the machete. Sweat from his palms stuck to the fabric.