Blood Forest (Suspense thriller) Read online

  The AK-47 kicked back against Ike’s shoulder. The soldier’s forehead exploded. Even from such a distance, Ike made out the red lumps as they showered down into the mud.

  Soldiers turned in shock, searching for the source of the gunfire. But it had come at a wide enough angle that none had seen the muzzle flash.

  Ike lined up a second shot. This time, the soldiers moved in disarray. Their heads weaved back and forth too quickly, so he picked a belly and fired. A soldier took three bullets in the gut and doubled forward. Before they had time to react, Delani opened fire again.

  The line of militia soldiers halted their movement and fell back. Their weapons waved about, searching for targets in the jungle.

  Good enough, Ike thought, and slipped out of his hiding place. He hoped Delani had the sense to run as well. They had a short window of opportunity to catch up to the others before the remaining soldiers surrounded them.

  20

  Temba found the grave after the mercenaries left. The evidence was clear: a poisoned arrow. The BaMbuti were responsible. The wrongness of it outraged him. After his tears were spent, his eyes fell to another clue, a single bloody sandal. Normally BaMbuti were difficult to track, but at least he had something to go on. He reached the depth of the basin. His eyes scanned the ground for the place he had seen the dropped sandal. As he searched, his feet weaved between the thick flowered vines. The little plants twisted everywhere, one of the few Temba didn’t recognize. The blue flowers looked beautiful, but they got in his way so he kicked them. Blue petals broke apart and drifted through the air.

  A shadow moved at the base of the tree to his left. Temba turned. A small creature stood on its hind legs. Two little eyes stared at him. One paw rested on the tree trunk, allowing the creature to stand. It opened its fanged canine maw and let out a hideous bark.

  The forest is mad, the baboon said.

  Temba could not believe he heard it. The BaMbuti told tales of animals rising up to aid a hunter in need and sometimes those animals used voices. But Temba had never believed such fanciful tales.

  The baboon yelped again, fangs bared threateningly. Temba lifted the spear and took a step forward, ready for an attack. But instead, the baboon seemed to recognize danger. The tiny primate leapt off its root perch and bounded off into the jungle. When it reached a farther tree, it looked back at Temba and barked again.

  The animal meant the bark as a threat, but Temba had other ideas. He began walking slowly toward it, eyes locked. The baboon studied him, flaring its nostrils. Then, when he closed about a quarter of the distance, it turned to flee.

  Temba sprinted after it. His feet slapped the ground, narrowly missing every root and rock. All the while, his attention focused forward on the fleeing primate.

  The small baboon darted through every bush and around stumps, but Temba did not relent. He wouldn’t let it escape.

  The baboon disappeared through a patch of undergrowth, leaves swaying in its wake. Temba didn’t think to slow and he crashed right through. The branches and leaves pulled at his skin until he broke through to the other side.

  He stopped in the middle of an open clearing. A monstrous tree rose up from the center. The trunk stretched all the way up into the canopy, branches fanning out, cloaking the area in darkness. Temba had seen great trees like this before and, as always, it stifled plant growth so the ground remained dirty and empty.

  The baboon stood on one of those giant roots. This time, it hunched on all fours and hissed. The primate had grown desperate, more insistent.

  Something buzzed inside Temba’s head. It worked its way into his ear and to his forehead. Temba clapped a hand to his head, searching for the insect that made the sound. But his hand found nothing and the buzzing didn’t relent. Angry, he swatted his ear, wanting the noise to stop.

  His eyes went up the massive trunk and as he dug his finger into the canal of his ear, something flashed at him from the top of the canopy. He had to squint to be sure, but metal glinted in the sunlight above.

  “What?” Temba asked the baboon.

  The baboon replied with another hiss.

  Temba studied the green leaves with sudden interest. He wondered what could be up there and why would there be something metal in the middle of the forest. Dark lines weaved through the trees, swaying lightly on the breeze. Like the webbing of some great spider, only in neat even rows. Temba had seen cords like those before. They were power lines, carrying electricity from one place to another.

  Where there were power lines, chainsaws and roads would soon follow.

  The buzzing wouldn’t relent, Temba noted with disdain. Could the power lines be making that terrible noise?

  A yip to his right snapped him back to attention. Two more angry yellow eyes glared at him. Temba focused on the ground again and took a reflexive step back. Baboons moved around the trunk of the tree in a swarm. Rows of canine maws hissed. Some crawled from the nearby forest. They converged around the tree and watched Temba.

  The Mbuti backpedaled. He lifted his bow, an arrow nocked. The baboons advanced slowly, keeping pace with every step like a horde of angry demons.

  Temba’s heart pounded in his chest. He knew how strong baboons were. He would be hard-pressed to fend off two. And yet a veritable sea of primates flowed before him. Why were there so many about this single tree?

  Something clawed Temba’s back and he tensed, turning rigid. He nearly spun about before he realized it was only the wall of brush he’d passed through before. Not daring to turn his back to the baboons, Temba pushed through the leaves and branches.

  The wall of green closed in front of him, blotting out the angry yellow eyes.

  Once through the foliage, Temba slipped away. His feet came down in the dirt without sound. He wanted to put as much distance between him and the baboons as possible, so he jogged a few yards from the line of brush. But something else had gained his interest now. He had a sneaking suspicion that certain things were somehow connected.

  Instead of returning to the footprints, Temba looked up toward the sky and followed the power lines.

  21

  In her dream, she lay in bed with Brandon with a soft pillow tucked neatly under one arm. When Sam awoke on the hard floor, her arms twisted over her head, she groaned in frustration. Without her watch, she didn’t know how long she had been asleep, but the sun still blazed high in the sky and the afternoon rain hadn’t started yet.

  This is going to be the longest day of my life.

  Something hissed furiously outside, startling her. An angry animal scream accompanied the rattling of wood. She heard the shouts of the BaMbuti, worried but not terrified. And then the scream turned to a low throaty growl, and Sam realized it must belong to some type of jungle cat.

  How did it get so close to the village? It sounded like it was just outside the building.

  After a few more moments, the sounds quieted and the BaMbuti voices calmed. She relaxed a little and once again turned to the task of getting comfortable. No matter which way she sat, with her wrists bound around the support beam every position felt awkward.

  The small stew she ate earlier left her hungry. Her stomach rumbled and her mouth felt dry. She had gone longer than this without food or water, but somehow her helpless state made it worse. Not knowing when her next drink or meal would come only fed her hunger and thirst.

  Bokenga stood over her, holding a large bowl. She hadn’t heard his footsteps. Sam licked her dry lips when she saw him and sat up. The old man smiled as he knelt in front of her. When he set the bowl down, she saw to her dismay a small cloth floating in the water.

  Bokenga lifted the dripping rag and squeezed it. He tucked the corner against his finger and stuck it toward her, an inquisitive look requesting permission. She nodded, disappointed. The old man touched the wet cloth to her cheek, very gently wipi
ng at the dirt and blood there. The fresh water felt good on her sticky skin.

  “Parlez-vous français?” Sam asked.

  Bokenga shook his head.

  She sat in silence as Bokenga cleaned first her face and scalp, then her fingers, feet, and legs. His tender touch relaxed her, as did his dark, heavy eyes. After he finished, he collected the rag in the bowl and stood up.

  “I’m so hungry and thirsty,” Sam called after him.

  Bokenga turned and looked at her, a torn expression on his face. She suspected he was under specific orders.

  BaMbuti have no chieftains or leaders. They have only one master, The Forest.

  “Please,” she pleaded.

  For a moment, she thought it might work. Then the old man shook his head. Sam’s shoulders slumped. As an afterthought, she lifted her hands into the air. “My wrists, they hurt. It’s too tight.”

  Bokenga leaned closer, studying the deep chafe marks in her skin. After a moment, he held up a finger. He carried the bowl out onto the porch and disappeared from sight. Sam sat alone until he returned with more cloth.

  He knelt in front of her and tugged gently at the bonds on her wrists. Then he slid a piece of cloth underneath each thong, so the tough leather no longer touched her skin. It wasn’t what Sam had been hoping for, but the cloth soothed her wrists.

  “Thank you,” she said. And then, just in case, she added, “Merci.”

  Bokenga nodded, rose, and left her alone.

  Thunder crashed across the jungle and soon the sky opened.

  Temba slipped to the edge of the forest. The thick undergrowth at the tree line made it hard to creep quietly, but also shielded him from view. The strange power lines descended to a stone building in the middle of the clearing, but what drew his attention was the scattering of BaMbuti huts to the right and to the left.

  He recognized Kitu, even through the rain. The traitorous Mbuti stood next to Polomo, Mbogo’s son. Temba couldn’t recognize any other faces from this distance.

  The last hour in the jungle and the falling raindrops had done much to quell Temba’s initial rage. At first he intended to jump in and attack Kitu and the others, but now he was beginning to see reason. He knew these people after all. Even after Kuntolo’s murder, Temba refused to believe that they were so far gone. Besides, it looked like a whole camp lived in that clearing, far more than he could handle on his own.

  Temba crept back from the wall of brush. If he was going to do this peacefully he had better do it right. He picked out a distinctive tree trunk so he would remember it later and tucked his bow and arrows behind it, out of sight.

  Temba walked toward the clearing again and took a deep breath. He wondered how they would receive him. Would they attack him as they had the previous night? Just in case, he picked out an escape route through the forest that would bring him past his weapons.

  He almost stepped out when he glanced down and remembered the white polo shirt. BaMbuti sometimes regarded his choice of fashion with contempt. If Mbogo’s people truly feared outsiders he should look Mbuti. Temba tugged his white shirt off and tossed it on the ground at the edge of the undergrowth.

  He walked casually through the foliage and into the clearing. Kitu and Polomo and a few other recognizable faces turned to look at him, eyes wide. Temba’s fists clenched into tight balls and then opened, held out to his sides in a gesture of peace.

  Spearheads rose in his direction.

  The raindrops drumming overhead should have been a soothing sound, but to Sam they felt as if they were pounding on her temples.

  A sound at the porch made her lift her head. As rain poured in sheets outside, Guy appeared in the doorway, holding a beaten umbrella. A young Mbuti man stood next to him, spear in hand. She recognized the man as the one who had carried her through the forest.

  Guy stepped inside, half-closing the umbrella. He said something, and the Mbuti man drew a long steel knife and knelt next to Sam. She recoiled at the sight of the weapon, but he grabbed her wrists and slipped the knife under the leather thong, cutting her free. He prodded her to her feet.

  “Just in case the spear isn’t enough to stop you,” Guy said as he gestured to a small pistol tucked into his belt.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “I imagine you’re getting uncomfortable on that hard floor.”

  She couldn’t argue; her whole body felt stiff. It felt good to stretch her legs. The young Mbuti placed a hand on her bicep to push her along, but Sam resisted.

  “Where are we going?” she demanded again.

  “Somewhere you’ll be more comfortable,” Guy replied with a sly grin. “My hut.”

  “I think I’m fine right here.”

  He shifted to better expose the pistol at his belt. “I don’t believe that is your decision, Sam.”

  The threat was clear. She clenched her fists and bit down on her lip. She stood her ground and refused to budge.

  The young Mbuti looked to Guy, unsure what to do.

  “Temba. You should not have come.”

  Polomo stepped forward from the ring of Mbuti men. They stood in the rain, droplets sliding down their naked chests. Water splashed on their scalps and shoulders, like a thousand tiny bullets exploding on impact. Temba stood before them, his eyes intense despite his relaxed posture.

  “I am not allowed to come and speak to my friends?” Temba asked. His voice trembled, originating high in his throat.

  Kitu stared from the background, but Temba could see the guilt on his face.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Polomo insisted. “You brought strangers into the forest.”

  “Who here killed Kuntolo?” Temba demanded. He turned to look at the faces of the other BaMbuti. “One of you did. I found his grave and a poisoned arrow.”

  They stood in the rain, watching, as Temba paced back and forth like a caged animal.

  “Why have you taken Sam and Alfred?” Temba asked suddenly. “Where are they?”

  “You mean the white girl and the one-armed man?” Kitu asked.

  “I want to see them,” Temba demanded. He pointed to the ground in front of him with a firm index finger. “I want to see them here in front of me. You have taken Kuntolo. You can do this for me.”

  Polomo shook his head. “We can’t do that, Temba.”

  “Why not? I will take them out of this forest. We will go far away from here, and I will forget all about what you did to Kuntolo.” Temba wasn’t sure he could keep that last promise, but he made it anyway.

  “We cannot. I’m sorry,” Polomo insisted.

  “Then bring me Sam, the woman. You can keep the other one,” Temba reasoned.

  The gathered Mbuti exchanged glances. Polomo spoke for them. “I’m sorry, Temba. We cannot release them.”

  “Why not?” Temba demanded.

  Polomo turned away. His hands limp, as he gazed into the jungle. Streaks of rainwater dribbled down his muscled back.

  Kitu, Temba’s adversary from the previous night, was the first to fill the silence. “It is because he wants them.”

  Temba furrowed his brow. “Who wants them?”

  Kitu’s eyes narrowed for a moment before glancing up at the sky. “The Great Molimo.”

  Sam held her breath for several long minutes as Guy stared at her. His expression turned from frustration to pure amusement. After a moment, he turned to the Mbuti and spoke in their lilting language. The young man grabbed Sam by the wrists, yanking her arms back forcefully. Sam kept her eyes locked on Guy the entire time.

  “Why do they listen to you?” she asked. “What did you offer them? Are you paying them?”

  “Paying them?” he chuckled. “They are not so concerned with money.”

  “Then why?” It made no sense.

 
“Suddenly you are full of questions, Sam. Yet you refused to answer mine. Why should I answer yours? What will you give me if I satisfy your curiosity?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That is no way to get what you want.” His next words were in the BaMbuti tongue, and Sam felt the fresh bonds on her wrists tighten.

  “It doesn’t really matter. I just can’t figure out what the pygmies would be doing hanging around with a creep like you.” Sam had expected that to sting, but Guy’s face revealed nothing. “I figure you have to be paying them or bribing them with something. That’s the only way they would ever do anything for a dirty Frenchman.”

  She saw a subtle shift in his reaction to a look of superiority. She added: “Or a Belgian.”

  “I am not paying anyone. What is here was left for me,” Guy answered cryptically. “The BaMbuti worship the forest. I control the forest. Therefore, they worship me.”

  Her face twisted in confusion. Control the forest?

  As if he had read her mind, he replied, “Yes, Sam.”

  Kitu stepped in front of Temba. A nasty bruise swelled one eye and a deep wound, half-closed, marred the back of his shoulder. Temba remembered making both of them.

  “The forest has been asleep for a long time, Temba,” Kitu explained. “You have seen it. Although maybe you haven’t, since you have abandoned the ways of your people.”

  Temba didn’t respond. He was used to this one by now. Many didn’t care about Temba’s ways. Many tried to adapt as he did. There were always those bitter voices. The ones who said that the BaMbuti should return to the forest for that was the only way they could survive. It was, as even Temba agreed, where they belonged.