Stolen Life (Beauty in the Stolen 2)

“There’s no need to walk up and down to the bungalow.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I’ll meet you out front.”

I go to the kitchen to tell Shona she doesn’t have to bother with dinner. While I’m there, I throw an apple, a banana, a corkscrew, and a bottle of wine into a paper bag. Armed with my dinner, I meet Banga on the deck.

I need a long bath and a big glass of wine. I was so upset this morning about my fight with Ian I forgot to put on sunblock. My shoulders have burned. I’m covered in dust, and my back is killing me from being bent over for most of the day. I have blisters on my palms from overturning soil and a splinter under my skin. The worst, however, is the piece of paper that’s burning a hole in my pocket as I follow Banga down the path.

The mossy smell of the riverbed drifts to my nose. An odor of rain hangs in the air. I look up. Thick clouds are rolling in, obscuring the horizon. The glow of the setting sun shines golden above the blanket of gray-purple clouds, creating a beautiful dusk. Drumming sounds in the far distance. It’s an echo that flows in tandem with the river. The villagers must be having a party. Except for that, everything is quiet. Too quiet. There’s no chirping of crickets or croaks of bullfrogs.

I stop. “Banga, wait.”

He pauses.

“Listen.”

He looks around. “What?”

“No insects. It’s too quiet.”

The trees farther down the path rustle. All of a sudden, a chorus of monkey screams tears through the sky. Like a swarm of bees, they flee from the branches, shrieking as they catch the overhanging branches to swing themselves across the stream that forks from the river. Some climb down the trunks and scatter while others go higher. Birds join the pandemonium, making a raucous noise and lifting like a cloud of flapping wings into the sky.

My heart beats in my throat. Blood gushes in my ears, drowning out the awful screaming of the monkeys.

Banga lifts his rifle and aims, looking left and right for the invisible danger.

Then I see it. A large baboon swings from a tree and drops to his feet three hundred meters in front of us. Standing on his back legs, he bares his teeth. Upright, he’s as tall as Banga, and his canines are the size of pocketknife blades.

“Shit,” Banga says quietly.

We stand frozen. A trickle of sweat runs down his temple and plops on the collar of his khaki shirt. He blinks sweat from his eyes and wipes a sleeve over his forehead before slowly resting the rifle against the hollow of his shoulder.

I swallow, not daring to take my eyes off the baboon. Saliva runs from his mouth as he watches us. If the locals chased him away with guns, he should be afraid of the one Banga is pointing at him, but there’s no fear in his crazed gaze. He howls at the sky and charges.

It’s too far to get in a good shot, but Banga acts instinctively, pulling the trigger. The baboon jerks. He stops and looks at the blood that pools on his side. No! There’s only one thing more dangerous than a rogue baboon, and that’s a wounded one.

Before Banga has reloaded, the baboon is charging again. My heart stops and starts painfully, the beat hurting my chest. Snarling, the beast dives through the air. Long, sharp, yellow teeth flash in front of me as he knocks Banga to the ground. The rifle falls from his hands. A scream splits the sky—a human scream this time. I act on pure instinct, snatching up the rifle and reloading while a mixture of tearing, animalistic growling, and human howling echoes in my ears.

I aim.

The baboon looks up. Blood drips from his jaw. Banga lies motionless, his cries quiet. The animal jumps on all fours. There’s no hesitation. He comes for me. I only have one shot at this. The weapon isn’t a shotgun with a wide range. It’ll have to be a killing shot. I can’t miss. I won’t have enough time to reload.

When he hurls himself through the air for a second time, I shoot. The bullet hits him between the eyes. He falls between Banga and me. I reload and shoot again, just to be certain, even if he’s not moving.

The pain in my chest is acute, my heart battling to meet the adrenaline demand of my body. Reloading again, I go over and press the barrel against the big male’s chest. Dead. His eyes are glassy.

Throwing down the weapon, I run to Banga. There’s blood everywhere. A pool of red has already soaked his shirt. Gripping his collar, I rip the shirt down the front. Buttons fly everywhere. His chest is torn up, the skin and flesh an ugly mash of meat and blood. My hands tremble as I yank my tank top over my head and push it against the wound, but the blood seeps through my top and pumps through my fingers.