“Don’t worry, Harrison’s a champ, he won’t let us down!”
I can’t tell if he’s trying to convince me or himself.
We come over the crest with an abrupt jolt. It’s even steeper on the other side. It will be a miracle if Harrison stays in one piece after being subjected to this thrashing.
Harrison nose dives over the edge and takes off down the hill. He is at his maximum speed, and the pedal is on the floor. The speedometer reads forty miles per hour. Not good, considering lions can run at speeds of fifty miles per hour. Harrison remains vigilant as he careens over large rocks, and doesn’t even hesitate as he takes out walls of scrub brush. He’s horking and choking, but carries on with unrelenting determination.
The lionesses are still in hot pursuit, and not far behind them, the male has also joined the chase. They’re not even panting, it looks like an easy jog for them. I, on the other hand, can barely catch my breath from holding on for dear life inside this tin suicide box.
The Drill Sergeant leans forward over the steering wheel, searching the ground to avoid major obstacles.
“I have to stop,” he finally says.
“What!” I scream. “Why?”
“I have to open the back, let the carcass out.”
“You’re going to get out of the truck? Are you crazy?” Of course he’s crazy. He’s driving like a madman and has me hanging onto a shred of metal that is the single barrier between life and playing a harp with the angels.
He’s going to be eaten alive if he gets out. They’re right behind us! What is he thinking? He can’t die out here. If he dies, what will happen to me? I’m going to be the one who gets stuck in the holding pattern of those stupid gates with a lion clawing me out through the busted window.
Harrison bottoms out briefly in a ravine, but then speeds up to the other side. Hallelujah. I breathe a sigh of relief, but it’s quickly snuffed out by my growing anxiety that the Drill Sergeant is going to get out of the truck. Can I even remember how to drive a stick shift?
Harrison slides to a grinding halt. The Drill Sergeant leaps from behind the wheel and sprints to the back of the truck. I can’t watch, I don’t want to look back. The last time I did, those lions couldn’t have been more than a hundred yards behind us. I hear the clunk of the back open, and a fraction of a second later, the Drill Sergeant is back in the driver’s seat.
With a loud hhhhhhuuuuuuuukkkkkkk, the transmission is jammed into reverse. We are now speeding down the hill backwards in another game of chicken with the lions. I jam my feet harder into the rusty holes, the sharp metal pinches them, but it’s nowhere near as painful as rolling out my door into an awaiting lion. The Drill Sergeant slams on the brakes, and I slam into the dashboard. The carcass torpedoes out the back with brute force, gaining height and speed, it hits the ground with a large thud. The lions stop to inspect the drop.
The Drill Sergeant turns off the engine and tells me to sit quietly and not move. I can’t move or speak even if I want to. I’m frozen.
After what feels like several minutes, my heart resumes beating, and I carefully remove my camera from its case. I press the ON button, and out of the silence emerges a bing bing bing from my camera. The Drill Sergeant glares at me. Damn you, Canon for not having the foresight to silence this feature for situations like this, when a harmless melody could stir up the aggression of a lion, finalizing this life or death situation.
I expect the lions to pounce on the carcass and feast, but they don’t. All three of them are watching us, instead. The male sniffs the back of the truck and leans forward. He opens his jaws and a long, fat pink tongue slowly emerges. It licks a disgusting glob of sticky, gooey blood off Harrison’s back and returns to his mouth. It arouses him. He won’t be satisfied with an already dead prey, he wants… more.
I stare out the back window in a frozen state of raw terror— fear has long since vacated. My eyes meet his, and I can’t pull away from his stare. Don’t make eye contact, you idiot. It’s hopeless, I can’t look away even though my life may depend on it.
His canine teeth hang over his lower jaw like daggers, long, sharp, and pointed. The wind blows through his shaggy black and brown mane, whipping it around his face and into his eyes, but he still doesn’t flinch. A golden inferno burns within eyes that are lined in charcoal black. Focusing their intensity, they scorch right through me, rendering me powerless under his spell.
He is six-hundred pounds of solid, ripped muscle. Each one of his front legs is thicker than my body. But his real strength lies in his jaws with a bite force of 1,000 psi.
“He likes you,” the Drill Sergeant whispers.
“I wish he would like you, instead,” I whisper back.
The lions have no experience in the wild. Why aren’t they going for the carcass? They must think that Harrison is an animal, and they have captured him. Now they are calculating their attack. These lions have no fear of humans and never before has it been more evident than now. Why aren’t they going for the beef? Is it because they can smell the chicken sitting in this truck, and it’s more appetizing?
One of the lionesses skulks to my side of the truck and lies down. She can’t be more than five feet away from me. She’s staring at my reflection in the side mirror as I look back at her, watching for any sign of movement. I curse the open window and useless door that she could easily pull me out of.
The words on the side mirror read: “Objects are closer than they appear.” If she were any closer she would be in my lap. The rush of adrenalin leaves my body trembling. I can feel my temples pulsing, as my brain screams for more oxygen in order to remain on high alert. My heart is wedged in my throat. This must be the Drill Sergeant’s plan to get rid of me now that there are no witnesses—feed me to the lions!
The lioness slowly stands up and takes one step forward towards the mirror. One more step, and she will be here. She is not afraid.
A faint whisper emerges from my dry lips. “Gerrit…?”
With a loud hhhhhuuuuuuuukkk, we lunge forward. The huntress follows, sprinting now to keep up with us, still on my side of the truck. The Drill Sergeant accelerates and Harrison obeys, taking us up the hill at full speed. About halfway up, the lioness stops. Thank God.
“Was she pursuing us?” I ask.
“Seemed like it, didn’t it?” The Drill Sergeant lets a grin slide across his mouth.
I search his face for some kind of a sign, a hint of fear, perhaps, but find nothing there except aloofness.
We watch as the lions begin to devour the carcass. They peel off the hide and it snaps back in resistance like a rubber band. The flesh comes off in long strips and ribs explode under the effortless pressure of the male’s jaws. Soon, the carcass is unrecognizable as a cow, and the circle of life is complete.
The day is drawing to a close, and as we make our way to the tent camp, I feel a new uneasiness. My stomach starts to churn as I wonder how in the world I am ever going to sleep tonight, now that I’ve met my new neighbors, and now that I am completely alone.
9
Terror at the Ritz
“You’re late.”
Standing over me is an attractive young man with gorgeous green eyes. He’s speaking in a thick, foreign accent, and it’s difficult to make out his exact words, but I think he’s just said something sultry like, “You’re great.”
I love it when my dreams are enriched with details like this. Don’t wake up, don’t wake up… I just know this is going to be an amazing dream. It’s so real. It’s as though I can reach out and touch his strong arms that are crossed in front of his even stronger chest, or follow the line of his rigid clenched jaw with my hand. I wonder why my imagination has made him look so authoritative and cold in this dream. Come on, imagination, soften him up a bit, or better yet, make him look like Dwayne Johnson.