FREE CHAPTER 

THE HUNT

God, my ass is killing me.

Sitting in the rear of a twenty-year-old, camouflage-colored, dilapidated jeep, Jim Saunders, six-foot-four, two hundred-and eighty-five-pound frame, squeezed into an unforgiving seat that sent searing pain through his sciatica with every bump, shift, or depression struck on the rugged African savannah. 

He had been stuck in this position for over three hours, and no matter how much shifting, squirming, or contorting he attempted, nothing relieved the horrendous stresses inflicted on his back. If that wasn’t enough, there was the bonus of his knees being jammed into the unforgiving steel of the front passenger chair, smashing his legs with every strike on the earth as the caravan rolled on.

Part of a five-jeep hunting party leaving base camp at 8:30 AM, they were two and a half hours into their journey when the temperature began rising. At first, he thought nothing of it because, after careful planning, he had been promised comfortable temperatures in September with occasional spikes and drops, but now they were in the middle of a spike with no end in sight. 

The month was supposed to be the most temperate since it marked the end of the dry season and initiated the spring solstice, but as luck would have it, the short straw was drawn by him and his party, and there was nothing that he, nor God in Heaven could do about it now.

Before their departure that morning from base camp, all were informed that a high-pressure system had stalled over the area, meaning the rest of the week would be unusually hot. Added water jugs, sunscreen, and cooling towels went into the jeep, along with a stern lecture from the camp manager to ensure they drank enough water and always shielded themselves from the sun whenever possible. 

Saunders listened patiently as the camp leader stood by the side of the jeep, pointing his finger and warning how those not heeding his advice became victims of sunstroke, delirium, and in extreme cases, death because of the lack of adequate medical care when out on the plains.

As a successful orthopedic surgeon in the Atlanta area, Saunders was knowledgeable about sunstroke and how to avoid it, so he had no issue with the orders regarding covering himself and drinking plenty of water, but dismissed the fire and brimstone speech by assuming the weather anomaly would cause temperature fluctuations of five to ten degrees, but no more than that.

His assessment was incorrect.

Propped in the back of the jeep, he felt like a Thanksgiving turkey roasting in an unforgiving oven. Wearing short sleeves, the sun was torching his fair skin despite copious amounts of sunscreen, as sweat poured down his forehead, stinging his eyes after pooling under the brim of his wide-brimmed pith helmet. With the landscape shimmering in the distance, the temperature was twenty degrees above the original estimate, and with perspiration covering every square inch of his enormous frame, he grew more miserable by the minute. Three hours into the journey, although he knew only an hour remained, there was no doubt it would be the longest sixty minutes of his life. 

Reminding himself that how one dealt with stressful situations was ninety-nine percent mental and one percent physical, he delivered an internal pep talk and dreamt about how the reward would be deliciously sweet when accomplished. It had taken him and his best friend, Tom Galvin, over twenty-five years to arrive at this destination, and for all the discomfort he felt, secretly, there was no place he would rather be. Since college, he and Galvin had spoken at length about their desire to pursue and hunt the largest land mammal on earth.

The elephant.

The two had been avid hunters since they were young boys, when their fathers took them on regular excursions into the wild, and for Saunders, it was searching for whatever game was in season, while Galvin hunted whatever was exotic. Saunders hailed from Albany, New York, where he and his father hunted turkeys, deer, and coyotes, while Galvin hailed from San Diego, California, and hunted larger game such as mountain lions, big-horned sheep, elk, and bears.

After college, the pair attempted to travel to Africa, hoping to claim their first prize of the Big Five, but invariably, business deals, family matters, or other unforeseen circumstances interfered, forcing them to repeatedly postpone their plans. As they aged, it was clear their time to accomplish the goal was waning, so the two committed to this journey no matter what circumstances arose.

After securing the required vaccines and visas, the two spent three days in Amsterdam celebrating Galvin’s newfound freedom as a recent divorcee, attending local bars and partaking of the multitude of drugs available at the city's coffee shops and pharmacies. Although Saunders’ desire for Amsterdam’s spoils didn’t hold a candle to Galvin’s desires when exploring the city nicknamed Mokum, he found great satisfaction watching his friend frolic around and letting loose by smoking large amounts of hash, marijuana, as well as consuming chocolate laced psilocybin bars—if the goal was to forget about his ex-wife, he was excelling at it.

Concluding their Amsterdam adventures, the two boarded the plane to Zimbabwe, where they joyfully recounted tales of their football days at the University of Miami and the shenanigans that dominated their everyday lives. 

Tipping back some beers as the plane descended into Zimbabwe, Saunders reminded Galvin he’d never gotten proper revenge for some of the pranks he pulled on him, and perhaps he’d find some elephant dung and stick it in his sleeping bag while he was sleeping. After drawing a robust laugh from his friend, Galvin assured him he would never be so clever as to pull a maneuver like that on him since he had been married and twice divorced—in short, there was nothing Saunders could conjure in his devious mind that one of his ex-wives hadn’t already attempted.

Besides the two recounting their old tales, the flight was uneventful, and after a safe arrival, the two gathered their belongings, walked to a predetermined location given to them by their guide within the bustling airport, and were met by three intimidating characters dressed head to toe in black, each holding AR-15’s. Saunders’ first inclination was to run, thinking the men had nefarious intentions, but when the lead man smiled and produced a piece of paper with his and Galvin’s names on it, he relaxed.

Walking the men onto the tarmac, they loaded their belongings into a small plane, squeezed in, and Saunders began doing his breathing exercises since he was in a situation that could only be described as his ultimate horror—small planes and cramped spaces. 

He had already lost two good friends to small plane crashes in the Georgia area, and claustrophobia was an affliction that had plagued him since childhood. He could think of no reason why he was so panicked in confined spaces, but sitting in the back of this plane, he was cursing the fact that he had let Galvin handle this part of the trip. When he asked the pilot how long the flight was, and hearing the reply of three hours, it was time to pop two valium and try to relax.

Once in the air, with the valium hitting full effect, he was able to settle in and enjoy the aerial view of the myriad of animals roaming the African savannah. Wildebeests, cheetahs, hyenas, water buffalo, and even a pride of lions came into view, but there was no sign of the magnificent elephant or Saunders’ favorite creature, the hippo. The thoughts of the animals brought a smile to his sluggish facial muscles before he nodded off for the remainder of the trip.

Touching down at the campgrounds, the lethargic Saunders deplaned, was shown his tent, and afterwards, Galvin and he went to the mess hall, where they were introduced to Dembe Abara, who would be their hunting guide for the trip. An intense fellow, he stood an imposing six feet four inches tall, and during the days Saunders and Galvin were at base camp, he wore nothing but camouflage fatigues and a black beret. Staring at the hunters with a glare matching the intensity of a lion, he could have passed for a predator on the savannah, except for his rare jovial laugh, which erupted when recounting stories of growing up a young boy in one of the nearby villages.

The night before last, Dembe called the men into the large tent in the middle of camp where the hunts were strategized, and after laying a map on the table, described how the next day’s journey would be four hours from their present location, and pointed to a place on the map where he was certain the pachyderms would be. When Saunders pressed the guide as to why he thought the elephants might be in that location, the guide smiled and informed him he’d have to trust his judgment since no one on the savannah was better at locating the quarry than him.  

Now thinking of Dembe’s nebulous answers, combined with the intense heat and his overwhelming discomfort, one thought continually coursed through Saunders’ mind.

Maybe I should have stayed in Amsterdam.

Frowning, he moved his right hand toward his right hip and felt for the familiar steel of his canteen attached to his belt. After running his fingers over the surface and feeling the cold condensation on the metal, he lifted it, unscrewed the cap, and reached for a rag in his rear pocket. Grabbing the cloth, he wetted it, and after removing his hat, drenched his head, neck, and shoulders, squeezing the rag until every ounce of the life-giving elixir was expelled from the cloth. Vigorously rubbing his scalp and neck, he was about to repeat the process when a familiar voice called out.  

“You’d better go easy on that. With this heat, we need to save as much as we can.”

Frowning and looking left, the familiar face of his friend Tom Galvin was sitting comfortably, grinning ear to ear. Per usual, Galvin’s optimism was contrary to Saunders’ thoughts, and he never had the slightest interest in Saunders’ foul demeanor whenever it reared its ugly head. Whenever Saunders grumbled something about the weather or the discomfort of his seat, Galvin was quick with an off-the-cuff remark, further annoying Saunders and his plight. Not one to give up easily, he launched another verbal volley, hoping Galvin might come around and commiserate with him this time.

“Damn, it’s hot,” Saunders muttered.

“What do you mean it’s hot?” Galvin chuckled.

“What do you mean? What do I mean?” Saunders asked impatiently. “It’s one hundred degrees. The sun is directly overhead, and I’m sweating my ass off. It’s hot!”

Galvin burst out laughing. “What did you expect, partner? We’re in the middle of Zimbabwe in the summer! Were you expecting an arctic storm?”

“No, I wasn’t expecting an arctic storm!” Saunders snapped. “But when we looked up the weather for September, it said the average temperature would be eighty degrees. Not over one hundred!”

“Oh, give it a rest, will you? It’s not like we have any control over the weather!” Galvin chided. “We’ve been talking about doing this since we were in college, and now we are about to accomplish it. Lighten up!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Saunders mumbled, rolling his eyes.

“Your friend is right, Dr. Saunders.” Dembe’s voice called out from the front passenger seat. “The harsher conditions make for better adventures on the savannah. I can tell you stories you wouldn’t believe.”

“I’m sure, Dembe,” Saunders replied sullenly.

“Tell him a story, Dembe,” Galvin called out, interrupting Saunders’s introspection with a slap on the shoulder. “Maybe it will lift his spirits.”

“No, really, I’m good,” Saunders replied, grimacing as he shifted his massive frame on the clunky metal seat.

Dembe laughed and looked at Saunders over his shoulder.

“Dr. Saunders, do you see those trees up there in the distance?” Dembe asked.

Saunders looked where Dembe pointed and saw a thick grouping of trees clustered together with an immense amount of undergrowth beneath them. It was impossible to judge from this vantage, but the trees appeared to soar one hundred feet into the sky, with enormous, leafless trunks that defied explanation. The trunk rose into a billowing canopy of leaves, forming what looked like a mushroom cloud from a nuclear explosion. Amazingly, as enormous as the canopy was, the branches and leaves didn’t appear affected by gravity. Nothing dangled, drooped, or sagged but grew from the center outward, standing rigid against the horizon. Below the trees was a gnarled, tangled thicket of undergrowth, separate from the trees, and looking a different species entirely. The thicket rose a quarter of the way up the base of the tree trunks, wrapped around them, and gave the impression that it dutifully protected their immense guardians’ trunks with its embrace from would-be attackers.

“I see them, Dembe,” Saunders replied. “What the hell are they? They’re enormous.” 

Dembe turned and flashed his wide smile. “It is the baobab tree, Mr. Saunders. Around here, we call it the tree of life. Those trunks can grow sixty feet around and can reach one hundred feet into the sky. They are truly remarkable.”

“Is that where you think the elephants might be?”

“Yes, I do. The last time my friend Dakarai and I spoke, he said they were there.” 

“Who is Dakarai?” Saunders asked. 

“My best friend,” Dembe replied. “He and I have been accompanying men like you since we were five years old and are the best guides you will find.”

“I have no doubt, Dembe,” 

“We are like brothers,” Dembe replied, lighting a cigarette and sending a cloud of smoke directly in Saunders’ face.

“So, I assume you and Dakarai have hunted these grounds many times before?” Galvin asked. 

“This is one of many hunting spots we have used in the past.” Dembe assured. “Because there are so many baobabs, the elephants go there to drink.” 

“Drink? So, there’s a watering hole?” Saunders asked while searching the horizon.

Dembe shook his head. “No, not a watering hole. The baobabs hold the water for the elephants. During the rainy season, the baobabs absorb water, which fills them and makes them swell. When the dry season arrives, the water remains stored in the trunks, and the elephants scratch the bark and drink the water within.” 

“You’re kidding,” Galvin replied, leaning forward. 

“Not kidding, Mr. Galvin. It is an amazing relationship the baobab has with the elephant.” 

“Doesn’t that do damage to the tree?” Galvin asked.

“Sometimes it does enormous damage to the tree because the elephants have to dig deep to get to the water,” Dembe replied. “Stories have been told about elephants knocking the baobabs over, and sometimes when the tree falls, it kills the elephant.”

“That’s unbelievable,” Galvin replied.

“What is that thicket below?” Saunders asked, ignoring their conversation and pointing to a spot below the enormous trees.

Dembe smiled. “Those are thorn trees, and they are incredibly thick, but not only that, their thorns are three inches long! My team and Dakarai carved out a path so we could get to the cluster on the other side. The bushes were twenty feet thick from front to back.” 

“What’s on the other side?” Galvin asked. 

“The baobabs form a U-shaped clearing on the other side with the thorn trees growing at their base. When we hunt, if we are lucky, we go unnoticed and take the animals by surprise because when they congregate around the baobabs, they are too busy working the trees to see us.” 

“And if you don’t take them by surprise?” Galvin asked. 

“Then we chase them with the jeeps!” Dembe laughed raucously, slapping the driver on the shoulder and uttering a few words in his native Shona tongue. The driver, who until now had shown no emotion, laughed heartily with his employer. After a moment, their laughter subsided, and Dembe looked over his shoulder and chuckled at Saunders and Galvin’s perplexed stares.

“I’m teasing you, gentlemen,” Dembe said. “We don’t really chase them. If we surprise the animals, we camp near the thorn trees and wait until morning. Chasing elephants in jeeps can be very dangerous work, and most of the time, not worth the risk. With one swipe of its head, this jeep gets turned over, and we get trampled into the ground.”

“Hopefully, it will be easy to find them then,” Galvin stated.

Dembe nodded. “Last time I spoke to Dakarai, he radioed that there was a large herd in the area.” 

“Is Dakarai going to meet us?” Saunders asked. 

Dembe shook his head. “No. We lead separate expeditions, but he was here two weeks ago and said large herds were around the baobabs, so I’m guessing he had a successful hunt.” 

“He didn’t radio back to let you know?” Galvin asked. 

Dembe shook his head. “He did not. I have been trying to get hold of him, but I’m guessing his radio is broken.”

“Or maybe he just got busy managing the party he was guiding?” Saunders asked.

“Perhaps,” Dembe replied. “But he always calls me after a successful hunt, so it’s surprising there’s no word. When we get to the hunting grounds, I’m sending one of my men to the nearest village to see if he’s there.” 

“You think you need to go to those lengths?” Saunders asked. 

Dembe billowed another cloud of smoke in Saunders’ face. “I probably don’t have to, but it’s weighing on my mind, and I’d like to put it to rest. I’m sure everything is fine, but the village is close by, and we can spare a man, so we will send him there.” 

“How many days has it been since you spoke with him?” Galvin asked. 

“I’d say five at least,” Dembe replied.

“Are you worried?” Saunders asked. 

Dembe shrugged. “I wouldn’t say I’m worried because Dakarai knows his way around the savannah, but I’ll feel better once he’s found. There are many poachers who roam these plains, and they have no problem killing anyone or anything stumbling upon them during one of their hunts.”

“I’ve heard of the poaching problem,” Saunders observed, “but it can’t be too out of control, can it? I’ve heard the government has gone to great lengths to curb it?” 

Dembe roared with laughter, slapping their driver on the shoulder once more, uttering another Shona phrase. The driver once again laughed and nodded his head—Saunders wasn’t exactly sure what the joke was, but he knew it was on him.

“I hate to tell you this, Mr. Saunders,” Dembe replied, “but that is what the government says so Americans keep coming to hunt. Tell me, what did you pay for your hunting license?” 

“Fifty thousand dollars,” Saunders replied. 

“And you, Mr. Galvin?” 

“Same,” Galvin replied.

“So, there you have it, gentlemen,” Dembe announced proudly. “If someone had told you about the poaching problem, you would have reconsidered coming here to hunt, am I right?”

Galvin and Saunders looked at one another, with Saunders shaking his head. “You might be right, Dembe. I have a wife and two daughters at home.” 

“And if that were the case, the government would be out fifty thousand dollars, and how about you, Mr. Galvin? Would you have come?”

“Probably,” Galvin answered. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s all part of it.” 

Saunders looked at Galvin disapprovingly. Some things would never change with his reckless friend, but there was no time to dwell on it. He wanted to extract more information from Dembe regarding the poaching activities.

“It’s not common to run into poachers, is it?” Saunders asked.  

“I wouldn’t say it is common,” Dembe replied. “We run into them one out of fifteen trips but always handle it. What you don’t want to do is catch them in the middle of a kill because you’d be next. There can be no witnesses when one is doing that kind of dirty work.”

Sitting back in the chair, Saunders recalled his wife’s haunting words prior to his departure. The morning before departing, she confessed a bad feeling regarding the trip and told him she had had a nightmare. When he inquired about the details of her dream, she described him lying on the ground, screaming and surrounded by innumerable dark shades, also wailing in agony.

After giving her a reassuring smile and a kiss on the forehead, he assured her all would be well, brushing her concerns aside as an overprotective wife not wanting her husband to leave on such a long excursion. There was a moment he contemplated cancelling the trip to put her mind at ease, but promises were made, plane tickets bought, and visas secured. There was no way to back out without severely letting his college buddy down, not to mention forsaking a bucket list item they’d discussed for thirty years.

Shaking his head to put the memory aside, he looked up to see an ominous sight in the distance. 

Above the baobabs, an enormous number of birds circled. 

His first thought was that they were birds of prey gathering for a hunt, but he realized raptors hunt solo, or at least in small numbers. Not being an expert on the local avian population, he wasn’t certain which raptor species patrolled these grounds, but, except for the Harris hawk, raptors throughout the world predominantly hunted solo. Examining their slow circles, his heart sank when he thought of what species might be circling the baobabs.

Only scavengers circled in this manner.

Leaning forward, Saunders tapped Dembe on the shoulder and pointed to the circling mass in the sky. 

“Dembe. Look above the baobabs there.” 

Dembe had been engaged deeply in conversation with the driver, but when he looked in the direction of Saunders’ pointed finger, he stopped and glared at the sky above the baobab trees.

Leaning forward and squinting his eyes while raising his hand to his brow, he studied the mass for several seconds before sitting back and dropping his head in thought. 

Tapping his left knee and looking perplexed, he reached under his seat, producing a pair of binoculars, which he raised to his eyes and studied the circling mass. Moving the binoculars in a circular motion, he muttered something under his breath, lowered the binoculars, then turned his head skyward and inhaled deeply.

Saunders felt a tap on his shoulder and looked at Galvin, who gave him a grave look while shrugging his shoulders in silent inquiry. Saunders put his hands up to express his confusion, then shrugged as well.

Dembe reached over and tapped the driver on the shoulder.

“Go faster.”

The driver looked at Dembe, nodded, then picked up his radio to speak, when Dembe grabbed it and threw it to the floorboards, splintering it. 

“No!” he yelled. “Go faster! NOW!” 

The driver hesitated, looked at Dembe in confusion, causing Dembe to remove his glasses and glare at him ferociously.

“NOW GO!!” Dembe yelled.

The driver immediately slammed the throttle down, pinning Saunders and Galvin to their seats. Jostled violently as the jeep reached breakneck speeds, Saunders grasped the arm bar as the jeep broke ranks, aggressively passing the other vehicles. As they passed, the driver frantically waved at the men in the other cars, hollering at the top of his lungs as the confused riders watched them race by, kicking up an enormous plume of dust in their wake. 

Dembe reached beneath his seat with the binoculars in hand, and when he returned to sitting upright, the binoculars were replaced by a nine-millimeter handgun. Standing up and holding onto the roll bar, he pointed the weapon skyward and began firing indiscriminately into the sky while yelling commands to the other drivers. Their driver, seeing Dembe’s panic, began yelling as well. 

“Dembe inoti tinofanira kusvika ikoko nekukasika!!”

Saunders and Galvin looked at one another, unsure of what had been said. All they could do was hold on and go along for the ride.

Every man in the other vehicles took firm hold as their jeeps began matching the lead car's speed. Every bump, jolt, and depression of the uneven terrain became more pronounced as Saunders bounced in and out of his seat, trying to hold on to the grab bar and steady himself, but it became more difficult with every mile per hour accelerated. 

The hot wind stung his face, and desirous to thwart its effects, he ducked his head to cover up, but it was no use—no matter what position he attempted, they were going so fast the wind was relentless.

Looking up, the thicket and the baobabs, which once appeared far in the distance, loomed larger as they rapidly approached. Turning to see what the other jeeps were doing, all that was visible was an enormous billowing dust cloud obscuring them from his vision.

Eventually, the other jeeps broke ranks to match the lead car’s speed and pulled up alongside it as the men screamed at one another. Saunders removed his hat and placed it on the floor as the normally affable Dembe yelled and continued making wild hand gestures at their driver.

The driver was so immersed in his task that he failed to acknowledge his leader, leading Dembe to angrily stomp his foot on the floorboards.

Saunders estimated they were doing seventy miles per hour, and at this speed, the uneven terrain’s effects became more pronounced on his back, sending stinging pains up the middle of his spine and down his right leg. His greatest hope was to arrive soon so he could get out of the jeep and relieve the pressure on his aching back.

Dembe’s erratic behavior was making Saunders nervous, and he wanted him to explain what the panic was about. Certainly, there was cause for concern about the buzzards circling, but this was Africa, and animals must die all the time. After contemplating ways to garner information from their guide, he mustered enough energy to lean forward and ask him, as the wind howled, making it difficult to speak. 

“Dembe!” he yelled. “What’s the matter? Why are we going so fast? 

Dembe ignored him, his gaze focused solely on the vultures.

“Dembe!” Saunders yelled again. “What’s wrong?! Why do those birds concern you so much?!”

Dembe leaned back to address him. “Something is not right, Mr. Saunders,” he shouted.

“Not, right?” Saunders yelled over the wind. “It looks like a group of birds circling. What’s the big deal?” 

“It’s their numbers!” Dembe yelled. “I have been on the savannah my whole life and have never seen such large numbers.” 

“Things must die here all the time, Dembe,” Saunders replied. “Those vultures are probably just circling a carcass.” 

Dembe shook his head. “No, Mr. Saunders. Something is not right. Many more birds than usual.” 

Returning his attention to the circling flock, Saunders acknowledged that the birds’ numbers were huge, but that could mean anything.

“It’s probably just a huge carcass, Dembe!” Saunders replied. “You said this is where the elephants congregate to drink. One of them probably died! That’s probably why there are so many birds!”

Dembe emphatically shook his head. “Something is off, Mr. Saunders!”

So engrossed in his conversation with Dembe, Saunders failed to realize they had arrived at their destination. Screeching to a halt at the perimeter of the enormous thicket of thorn trees rising ten feet in the air, Saunders looked around to get his bearings. 

As Dembe promised, an enormous grouping of gnarled thorn trees surrounded the baobab trunks, and small animals scattered into the thick brush, disappearing one by one. At the top of the baobabs, the number of vultures was greater than he ever could have imagined. Looking like gnarled, ancient monsters with their shriveled heads and beady eyes, they placidly stared at the arriving marauders, and judging by their loud squawks, they were none the happier for the intrusion.

Scattering in and out of the billowing canopies, and pecking at one another, some flew from the branches low into the distance and disappeared, while others flew straight up to the sky where they circled lazily with the rest of the pack. Others held firm, repositioning themselves on the branches to continue staring at the intruders below. Those perched at the very top of the canopies cast eerie shadows on the ground as their flapping wings gave the impression of hundreds of demons lying in wait.

Dembe leapt from the jeep, sprinted toward the edge of the thicket, and, reaching the perimeter, bent to one knee, with eyes fixated on the ground. It appeared he was listening for something, but with his men running and yelling as they exited their vehicles, it was incomprehensible to think what he might be listening for.

To his left, the trail he spoke about lay in wait for them to cross, but it looked far from providing easy passage. At one time, it must have been four feet wide, but it appeared to have suffered months of neglect, with many of the thorn branches sagging onto the path, and various plants sprouting from the ground below. Large white thorns three inches long protruded from the hanging branches, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine how someone could lose an eye if they weren’t careful navigating their way through the passage. 

A man ran to where Dembe knelt and began speaking to him, making emphatic hand gestures. Dembe did not look up as the man spoke, but intermittently nodded and waved his hand as the man punctuated the ends of his sentences. When the man finished speaking, Dembe looked up a final time, nodded, then bowed his head with eyes fixed on the ground once more. Saunders looked to their driver, hoping to get a reaction, but he sat stone-faced, eyes focused on Dembe.

The man speaking to Dembe rushed back to the jeeps, barking orders as the men scrambled toward the rear of the vehicles. Once they identified what they were looking for, they began lifting large totes, throwing them to the ground, producing a distinctive metal-on-metal clanging sound.

Curious about what the enormous bags contained, Saunders moved closer and saw the men producing several Uzis, which they handed out to the surrounding men who snatched them, and moved close to Dembe, where they awaited their next order. 

Without warning, Dembe stood and pointed to the six men closest to him, ushering them to specific points by the thorn trees, where they dropped to one knee as their leader tapped them on the shoulder and barked orders in their native tongue.

Immersed in Dembe’s movements, Saunders didn’t see Galvin move alongside and leapt out of his skin when his friend touched him on the shoulder.

“Whoa! Easy, buddy.” Galvin exclaimed.

Saunders exhaled a deep breath. “God, you scared the hell out of me.”

“What the hell do you think is going on?” Galvin asked, looking in Dembe’s direction.

“I don’t know,” Saunders replied, shaking his head. “Those buzzards are sending Dembe into a tizzy. I would think someone who’s spent his life in Africa would be used to seeing them flying around a carcass, but he keeps insisting there are more birds than he has ever seen. Something has him spooked.” 

Galvin nodded. “Agreed. What do you think he’s listening for? He’s kneeling like a statue there.”

“I have no idea. I can only assume he’s listening for poachers, but with all the noise, if there were poachers on the other side, you’d have to be deaf not to know we are here.”

“Well, one thing I agree with Dembe on is this whole thing feels weird,” Galvin said while loading his weapon. “Not what I was bargaining for.”

“Nor I.”

“You going to get your gun?”  

“Not until I know what is going on. Something tells me we may not be hunting today.” Saunders responded, staring at the tops of the baobabs. “I got a bad feeling about this.”

“Yeah, me too. Hang on, I’ll be right back.” Galvin replied before running back to the jeep, presumably to get more supplies.

Dembe continued speaking to the soldiers while making elaborate hand gestures. The men stared intently in his direction, and when finished, nodded their heads in acknowledgement. 

After speaking to the last one, he went to the trail’s opening and peered through. Without turning, he raised his right hand in the air, and a man from the jeeps ran to him with a machete. After handing it to him, Dembe stared intently down the trail, then entered, hacking away the overhanging branches as he proceeded.

Galvin reappeared, with an elephant gun in hand, as he approached their driver, whose gaze never wavered from Dembe. 

“What’s going on?” Galvin asked. 

The man sat silent, ignoring Galvin, causing him to pull on the man’s shirt.

“Did you hear me?” Galvin asked again. “What the hell is going on here?”

This time, the man shot Galvin an icy stare, then fixated on Dembe once more. “Dembe wants us to wait here.”

“Why would he want us to wait here?” Galvin asked. “If he is worried about poachers or something on the other side, he needs as many men as possible to go with him!” 

“I don’t know what it is.” The man answered impatiently. “If he says we wait, then we wait.” 

The swooshing sound of Dembe’s machete cutting the branches resonated as the men patiently waited to observe his progress. Each cautious step saw him hack more limbs from the trail’s center, making the clearing on the opposite side more visible.

Saunders maneuvered himself so that he could look down the trail and witness the other side. The thorn trees were thick in front of Dembe, but from the little he could see, he noticed vultures congregating on the ground, flapping their wings, and dancing around excitedly, pecking at one another. 

Other than that, nothing else was visible. 

It was frustrating not being able to form a picture of what lay on the other side, but then the thought hit him: did he really want to see what was on the other side? If vultures were congregating there, the site had to be dominated by one thing.

Death.

As Dembe approached the exit, the vultures squawked their disapproval of the intruder invading their territory by multiplying their cries and actively leaping branch to branch within the large baobabs. Whatever feast lay on the other side, it was theirs, and like all wild animals, they were in no mood to share. 

Approaching the trail’s exit, he crouched, peered in all directions, listened intently once more, and examined the ground while grabbing a handful of dirt. Bringing it to his nose to smell, he lowered his hand, rubbed the dirt in his palms once more before discarding it, and slapped his hands together.

Rising to his feet, he raised his Uzi into firing position and burst into the clearing beyond.

At first, he swiveled his head left and then right three or four times, then walked forward about ten steps, and looked around once more. Once it looked like he had absorbed the situation at hand, he stood frozen, staring at an object directly in front of him. An eternity passed as Dembe stared, and without warning, dropped the Uzi and the machete, then crashed to his knees, sending up a billowing cloud of dust.

Burying his head in his hands, he slowly shook his head, then began slapping his head violently. With each strike, he moaned and soon was shaking his head back and forth violently, striking himself with closed fists repetitively. 

Falling forward, he began pounding the earth, sending up plumes of dust, then grabbed dirt by the fistfuls, flinging it wildly while wailing at the top of his lungs. As the intensity of his wails increased, so did the pitch of the vultures’ cries in the trees as they danced in a more animated fashion while pecking at one another with reckless abandon.

Arching his back, Dembe reached his arms to the sky as his body shook violently with intermittent bursts of cries escaping his lips, causing more vultures to descend from the trees, landing on the surrounding ground, and hopping around in all directions. 

Rocking back and forth, Dembe pulled at his hair, lurched forward, and slammed his open palms into the ground, letting out an enormous shriek echoing off the trees’ canopies, and drowning out the din from the raucous scavengers overhead.

Leaning back as far as he could, he raised his arms to the sky.

Then he screamed.