Chaleur

Frank awoke with a shudder in the frightening silence of the night. Lying on his cot, knowing exactly what was in the unknown, his heart leapt and he took a second to catch his breath.

His senses came rushing back, and from the blackness arose the sound of the wind hitting the tent, the smell of the African summer night, and the heavy aftertaste of vomit in his mouth.

After drinking most of his canteen, he checked the fire, his rifle, and the stakes surrounding the camp. Even with the wind, the night was hot and humid.

Two hundred and 87 days had passed, and Frank wasn’t sure how much longer he could last; how long he could make it before the darkness closed in and took control for good, swallowing him whole.

It drove him mad, knowing the inevitable. Sooner or later, the lion would finally get him.

— — — —

It had all started innocently enough. Simply put, Frank was struggling to make ends meet, and took a risk. Odd jobs weren’t paying the bills, and with the sun continuously setting and fewer doors opening up, the wanted ad in the newspaper seemed like a good idea at the time.

“Looking for young, energetic people for life-changing trip to Africa. Call 800-785-6499.”

He mulled over the number for a week, before a night out with friends resulted in him calling at three in the morning.  Of course, no one answered, and Frank was stupid enough to leave a message.

Four days later, the phone rang. With several friends coming into town, as well as the normal amount of applications out, Frank answered the phone without thinking.

“Hello?” he said.

“Yes … is Franklin there?” the voice asked.

“Yeah, this is Frank.”

“Hello, this is George Merrit. I am returning your call about the opportunity to make a difference in Africa. I assume you are still interested?”

Frank had forgotten about the call. After sleeping off that night’s antics, he went back to his daily routine of scouring ads and trying to do something, anything, which might make him money.

“Oh, hey. Yeah, I guess I did call.”

“Well, like I said Franklin, we assume you are still interested?”

There was a pause on the line as he thought. A few seconds seemed like 10 minutes, and finally Frank replied, “Sure, why not?”

Mr. Merrit explained things well enough. His group, or organization, helped bring young people to third-world Africa, to help build hospitals, houses, churches, etc. It wasn’t a part of any government agency or corps, but more along the lines of a wealthy philanthropist who decided to give back in his/her own way.

At least, that’s how Frank deciphered the conversation. Merrit wasn’t the easiest person to read, especially over the phone. But at age 25, Frank wasn’t too worried about the full schematics, just the summary.

Two months later, Frank was landing in Niger.

He was already a good shot, and breezed through the firearms part of training. The rest, however, took a little time to get used to. Usually doing simple tasks for money, Frank learned quickly what real work was. Calluses covered his hands, his back hurt and his knees and ankles cracked constantly.

But it felt good. Something was being accomplished, things were moving forward and there was a goal set in stone. The drive and ambition Frank had lost during his time in the big city came rushing back, and soon enough he wasn’t just a simple-minded worker, but was helping in the daily planning and even oversaw a small group of workers.

There was Miranda, Rob, Jolene and Andrew. Frank even grew fond of Merrit’s right-hand man, John Cole. A brute of a human, Cole never was without his rifle, an 8-inch knife and the smell of bad whiskey on his breath.

So many faces, Frank saw them in the dark. Now … there was just him.

— — — —

These days were about survival, nothing else. For a time, depression, fear, and anger consumed Frank. He was hell-bent on finding the lion, determined to have justice in this savage land.

He was reckless, and it nearly cost him his life. Once while tracking, Frank found himself deep in the thicket. Like tiny hands unwilling to let go, he barely got out and back to his camp before dark, just escaping certain death.

Eluding a giraffe stampede and a run in with an elephant were other results of Frank’s gun-ho attitude.

But after two months without any success — either in killing her or getting himself killed — something slapped Frank back to reality. Now all he wanted to do was get home, see his family, see his friends, marry a nice girl, and have an abundance of kids. But he had to finish this.

From what he could tell, there were more of them at the start. Most of the local workers ran after the first death, and few natives stayed after four or five bodies went missing.

Hysteria ensued, and Frank had a hard enough time comforting his small flock, let alone knowing what to do or how to move forward with the mission. Merrit went days without being found. The same with Cole, but that was expected. He was doing his job: Tracking, hunting, killing.

When Cole didn’t come back, Frank really got worried. Everyone was gone, the workers, the natives, his friends. All dead or ran off by the lions.

— — — —

The one bright spot, thanks to Cole, was that there was just one now. She was the worst, the devil reincarnate: Crafty, intelligent, and deadly. Frank called her Lucy, because she wasn’t just an animal, but something much deeper and more sinister. The few times Frank saw the sleek and slender beast with blades for teeth and jagged claws, the fire and evil in her eyes terrified him.

In those moments before potential death, Frank hadn’t thought of raising his rifle. Luckily, Lucy had a toying nature. She was testing him, seeing how he would react, where his weaknesses lied. If not for the sheer panic of the situation, Frank would still be standing in the plain, the knee-high grass whipping at his legs.

– – – – –

It was almost over now. Three hundred days in, she was getting restless. The time for games was over; soon enough, it would be him or her. Frank was also growing impatient. He only had a handful of bullets, and knew he’d need all of them to dispense of the hellcat.

“This is it Lucy,” Frank said out loud, speaking for the first time in days. “What’s it going to be?”

He had constructed a makeshift stand using a nearby tree. From there, he could be out of reach while still being close enough to hit her with the butt of his rifle — not that he wanted to. A leg from the lone remaining goat hung down in the middle, an enticing treat for any carnivore.

Frank just hoped it’d work, that the lion would take the bait and allow him to end this nightmare.

Three nights had passed, and nothing. Frank couldn’t stand it, the waiting, the excruciating sound of a lion’s growl on the night air. Gentle breezes felt like gale-force winds. Humidity achieved an unprecedented thickness. The only relief was the rain, which hadn’t come in weeks, maybe months.

— — — —

As Frank prepared to climb up into the stand for the eighth time, the sunset bled across the sky. He looked at the piece of goat meat hanging on the string. By now, there was little goat left, between what Frank ate himself and the rotted, wasted pieces of flesh he tossed away.

There was an eerie calm in the air, and then a thunderclap in the distance.

“Tonight is going to suck,” Frank thought. He climbed the stand, sat down and started to laugh. “As if other nights have been better?”

As the rain crashed down on him, like a boxer laying into his sparring partner, something tugged on the stand. Frank sat absolutely still to make sure his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him, that something besides the rain and wind was creating the strange vibration.

Then, among the thunder and whistling of the wind, he heard her growl. Lucy was right underneath him, devouring the goat leg.

Without thinking, Frank was unloading his first clip, firing in every direction. Had he not started screaming before the first shot, he might have had a chance of at least wounding her. But Frank’s aggressiveness got the better of him, and before he knew it Lucy was off into the darkness.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Frank screamed. His voice was animalistic, unlike anything he had ever heard before.

He swung down from the stand and took off into the blackness, streaking bolts of light leading his way. Frank ran faster than he had ever in his life. His legs burned and he could feel the blood, like battery acid, pumping through his body.

His lungs burned, his legs throbbed. Finally, Frank collapsed, just outside a clearing. As he slowly came to his feet, a flash of lightning split a nearby tree in half.

She was out there, hidden in plain sight. Frank knew it; he could feel her. He just couldn’t pinpoint Lucy in the dark. He moved into the opening, screaming in desperation and angst, “Here I am!”

Frank stood there: The weary warrior, ready for the final wave of attack — his last stand.

The wind changed direction, and for the first time, amid the rain and his own watering eyes, Frank knew where Lucy was. She was there, squatting in the brush, her devilish eyes sizing up her next meal.

Before he could raise his gun, she was on top of him, trying to grab him by the neck. Frank’s only weapon was now the lone barrier between himself and death. Her claws dug deep into his arms and shoulders. But he held strong, his arms like stubborn logs propping up the castle walls.

She roared with anger while Frank cried out in pain. The ground underneath them began to shift and move, not only from the rain, but the blood that leaked from Frank into the dirt.

Frank felt he was starting to sink, and needed to make a move before being stuck like a turtle on its back. So he did the only thing he knew how to do, the thing he had done for most of his life: He gave in.

Lucy crashed down on him, her right paw sinking into Frank’s left shoulder and throat. The pain was nonexistent, because this was now the plan. She was front-heavy, and Frank pushed up with his legs into her stomach. Watching the lion flip over the top of him, it all appeared in slow motion.

She was off him, and Frank was on his feet. He tried to raise the rifle with his arms, but his left side wouldn’t work. He shoved the butt into his right armpit, and put the large cat in his sights.

Lucy turned, snarling. She jumped, trying to pounce back on top. One final bolt of lightning painted her black silhouette across the sky, and a shot rang out.

Then … silence.

— — — —

Frank lay on the ground, the weight of Lucy nearly suffocating him. He slowly came to and — realizing the situation — manically fought to push the beast off. The rain was coming down hard now, but steady.

He gingerly rose to his feet, staring at the dead lion that lay before him. Emotions rushed from all sides, and Frank fell to his knees and let out a cry not even the rain could outpour.

Soon, Frank’s tears had stopped and a warmth came over him. He felt at peace with himself, with the world, with nature. He had finally seen something through to the bitter end, and there was no doubt this was the bitterest of possible endings.

He started slowly making his way north, toward camp. There, Frank would rest, and everything would be OK. His entire existence — the universe — had changed now, for the better.

Frank felt light-headed; he needed to rest now. He sat down, against the charred stump of the tree.

“Just a few minutes,” he thought. “Then, back to camp.”

He closed his eyes, and allowed the warmth to close in, take control, and swallow him whole.