David Gilman - The Devil's breath

As the sliding door swished closed behind him, he moved into an area that was as boxed as the room he had just left. An open steel structure rose upwards to the right; it was the lift shaft. Ahead of him was another closed, brushed-steel door. What next? No choice really. Press the button, get into the lift, find a floor where he could hide until he could see the lie of the land and then he would look for …

The door ahead of him slid open. Along the corridor, a man in a wheelchair, his shoulders drooped, his face unshaven, eyes gazing down at the floor, drugged into semi-consciousness.

“Dad!” Max yelled. But Tom Gordon did not even raise his eyes.

At the sound of Max’s voice, a malevolent-looking man in a white coat stepped into the corridor, shock registering on his face at the unexpected intruder. He lunged for the fist-sized red alarm button on the wall. In a second, wailing sirens would bring armed men storming in. Max had to stop him.

But he knew he would never reach him in time.

“Run,!Koga. Run! Run faster than the shadow that races across the earth when the sun dies.”

Max’s words stayed like a mantra in!Koga’s head, and he did run. Faster and further than ever before. The sky changed color, the land grew cooler and the animals hunted, but!Koga stopped only to sip water. He ignored the growling challenge of the lions as they feasted on a buck, he scattered the herd of springbok and irritated the elephants who trumpeted his arrival and departure.

Finally, as the sun’s rays brought their nourishing warmth,!Koga stopped. He smelled the woodsmoke before he saw it curling from the police outpost’s chimney. A square, two-room bungalow with a red tin roof and dust-stained walls sat perfectly in the center of the arid area designated as its domain. A chain-link fence boxed it in and a flagpole stood rigidly to attention with a limp Namibian flag hanging like a scarf from its neck.

He waited for an hour, until he saw movement and identified the two policemen as they woke to start their daily routine. A needle of steel pointed to the sky, a radio antenna that would summon help.

He moved cautiously towards the policemen, smelled the coffee being brewed and the meat being cooked. A growl from his stomach reminded him how little he had eaten in these past few days. The police would probably be from the Herero tribe, but he would speak to them in Afrikaans, the common language of the once-oppressed people of Namibia. A cop wearing a vest and boxer shorts was cooking on a gas-bottle stove outside the bungalow and he saw!Koga before he could say anything.!Koga stopped in his tracks. This might be a hostile reception. The authorities weren’t always friendly towards the Bushmen.

Like a man enticing an animal to approach closer, the man gestured with the frying pan. You want to come and eat something, boy? !Koga’s mouth watered, he could see it was a thick steak, its juices basting the meat. He shook his head but moved closer. Perhaps this friendly gesture was a good sign. The cop didn’t smile, but he didn’t look aggressive either. He turned the steak over, and the second man came outside, a towel in his hand, wiping away remnants of shaving cream from his face. The two cops looked at each other for a moment and the cook shrugged.

“You all right, boy?” the shaven man called. Neither of the cops seemed too concerned;!Koga stepped closer. Lifting his wrist, he showed them the watch.

“The white man who is missing, I have been with his son. He sent me to you. For help,” he added.

The men became more alert. “We know about the missing man and his son, headquarters have been looking for him,” said the cooking man.

“My people have died; many of them. And this boy. His name is Max and he is my friend, he is also dead.”

!Koga undid the watch and threw it to them. “This is his father’s watch, to prove I have been with his son. His name is on the back.”

The cook caught the watch, checked the inscription and handed it to his partner.

!Koga held the hydrology map in his other hand. “I must speak to Kallie van Reenen. She is at the farm called Brandt’s Wilderness. Only she can help now. This is a paper which shows where the people died.”

The two cops muttered something to each other, then nodded.

“Where’s the boy’s body?”

“He fell into the monster and was swallowed. The monster took him beneath the earth.”

!Koga was more tired than he had ever been before. The food and coffee made his mouth water. Now the cops smiled and the cook hooked the steak from the pan with a fork.

“Come on, son, we’ll deal with this now. You need some food, ja?”

Yes,!Koga needed food and sleep, though the grief he felt for Max still sat on him like a heavy rock. He stepped forward; he had done what Max had asked, perhaps now there was a chance to save Max’s father. He squatted in front of the men as they placed the steak on a plate in front of him.

“You’d better give me the paper for this van Reenen person, then I can tell my people to find her.”

“I can’t do that, I have to give it to her, that’s what Max told me.” He reached for the plate of food but the cook grabbed his wrist.

“Give me the paper,” he said coldly, no longer smiling.!Koga twisted in the sand, but the grip was firm and the second cop had moved quickly to hold the wriggling boy down, a knee in his back.!Koga grunted in pain, his fist still clutching the map, but the man was too strong and unfurled the boy’s fingers with ease.

The cook seized the map and stepped back. “All right, put him in the cell until we sort this out.”

!Koga twisted like a snake under the man’s weight. His hand found the fork and he stabbed it down into the man’s bare foot. With a scream of pain the second cop released his grip, but they lunged for him in an instant.!Koga was too quick. He ran through the gate and made his escape. The men gave up after a few meters, there was no way they would catch the boy judging by the speed he was running, and even if they got their 4?4 pickup truck and gave chase, he’d merge into the landscape. It didn’t matter, they had the map and the watch, and their boss, Mike Kapuo in Walvis Bay, would be very pleased.

The men weren’t so happy, though. One limped, his foot hurting like hell, and they were both hungry-the Bushman boy had stolen their steak.

Max ignored the impossible distance and hurled himself at Zhernastyn-he had to try. Somewhere in the background, an animal snarl reached his ears. Then Zhernastyn caught his white coat on the handles of Tom Gordon’s wheelchair. It snagged him and spun the wheelchair, which tripped him up. As he recovered and reached for the alarm, Max pounded into him. The man was terrified. Max felt so focused, so determined to stop him, that everything else was forgotten. It was like tunnel vision. And the snarling sound he’d heard came from his own lips, which were drawn back across his teeth. Zhernastyn fainted.

Max was on his knees in front of his father.

“Dad, it’s me. It’s Max. I found you.”

He could feel the tears sting his eyes and he wiped them away roughly. Tom Gordon gazed down at his son for what seemed an age in time, and then he smiled.

“Max?” His voice was barely a whisper.

“Yes, Dad, I’m going to get us out of here. And help’s on its way.” However, the last bit didn’t sound too convincing, even to his own ears.

“Max?” said Tom Gordon as he tried to comprehend that his son was somehow with him. “What are you doing here?”

“I got your message, and I found the signs you left for me.”

“Max … I don’t understand.”

Max touched his dad’s arm, frightened at how weak he seemed. His dad had always been so strong and full of energy, and now he was so helpless. Max smiled encouragingly. “We need to find a place to hide for a while, that’s all,” he said as he grabbed the wheelchair’s handles. But Tom Gordon reached back and weakly took hold of his son’s wrist.