The walls flapped ferociously in the freezing wind.
I couldn’t move. I was frozen. Even my breath escaped me. I couldn’t take it anymore. I surrendered. If they had any shred of decency, they’d kill me quickly. Holding my breath I waited for my inevitable death.
At least I’d die in Africa. At least I’d die taking a chance, doing something worthwhile (is shoveling ellie dung really worthwhile?). I wondered if they’d bury me here, or fly me back home. Maybe there wouldn’t even be anything left of my body, or maybe they’d never find it because the beast would drag my remains far away and bury them. Would I feel it when he bit me? Predators usually go for the throat, so if he got my jugular, it would all be over quickly, but it’d be messy. Would I see my own blood spraying out of my throat, oh God, this was going to be gory.
But wait. What if it was a man? What would he do to me? It would probably be a slower kill. I’d fight him. I’d go for his eyes. Yes, I would poke his eyes out with, with, with what? My chapstick? It didn’t matter. I’d poke him in the eyes with something and disable him. After that, I’d kick him where it counts, and then run and scream bloody murder until someone came to my rescue.
If it was a man, I’d have a better chance of surviving. What if there were two men? No, I didn’t think there were two men out there. There could only be one, two made no sense. Two was irrational, wasn’t it? Or was it? I had to think logically. I had to keep my wits about me.
I listened hard, but heard nothing. It was quiet outside. I slowly peeled back my blankets, careful not to make any noise at all. If the Drill Sergeant was out there, I would have him crucified for this.
Slap! The tent wall caved in and immediately blew out again. Even the wind was getting more aggressive. Anxiety was killing me. I couldn’t take it any longer; I had to get out of this tent. I didn’t even have a flashlight.
Just do it, just get up, open the zippers and make a run for the common area.
I can’t move.
You can do it.
No, I can’t.
Yes, you can.
Outside was complete blackness, which meant I couldn’t even see my attacker before he got me. How would I know what killed me? But if I stayed in here, heart failure would kill me for sure. I had to make a run for it.
I moved slowly toward the door, not making a sound. Why did there have to be two sets of zippers? It was painfully slow opening the inner zipper, one tooth at a time, stealth-like, without a noise. If I was quiet enough, I could surprise the predator and buy myself an extra second or two.
I moved to the outside set of zippers. Breathe, I can do this. With each tooth that opened, I felt the bitter cold wind on my hands that were trembling with fear.
I was terrified, and I’d never been so scared and angry with myself for signing up for something as crazy as this. But there was no time to cry or beat myself up, I had to get out of here alive.
Please, please, please don’t let me die out here, not alone, not now. Focus. Once that flap opened, I was going to run for my life to the common area four-hundred feet away. The side zippers opened, and the final one was the center zipper.
I was still on my knees and getting up into a crouched position so I could push off from my feet, like sprinters do, to get an extra strong start. 1… 2… 3. I yanked open the zipper and took off, running in stocking feet. I could see the faint lights of the common area in the distance—my target, my goal. Tears were streaming from my eyes as I ran with lightning speed, like a gazelle, zigzagging back and forth, to throw off my chaser. All my focus was on the common area, I didn’t even waste time to breathe. Don’t look back. Don’t turn around. Focus on what is in front of you. Focus on the shelter. You can do this. It’s life or death.
I fumbled with the door handle and ran in. I couldn’t believe it. I made it. I stood at the door; one of those farmhouse-style doors where you can close the bottom and keep the top half open, and hid around the corner. But no predator slammed into the door. No one was hacking at the door with a machete. There was nobody there; nobody but the wind and the distant echo of the lions next door.
It was freezing in the common area, and there were no blankets in here. In my hasty escape, I neglected to bring a blanket. I piled up some cushions into a makeshift bed and laid down. I was still terrified, but there was something comforting about being surrounded by concrete walls. I was exhausted, utterly and completely mentally and physically drained. The Drill Sergeant had worked me harder in one day than I had worked in my entire life, and it was only just beginning.
I had survived terror at home, and now I’d faced death here. And this was only my first night alone in the tent camp…
10
Chopping Down Barriers
“What are we doing today?”
“We’re going to the dump,” the Drill Sergeant grunts. Not very exciting, but anything is better than shoveling shit. “Then we’re going to cut branches for the ellies.”
“Oh.” ’I hope I don’t end up a campfire story like the guy who nearly castrated himself.
It’s the first time Harrison isn’t waiting outside. This time it’s a different white pick-up truck.
“Where’s Harrison?”
“In the shop. Flat tire. This is Cruiser.”
Cruiser is in much better shape than Harrison—there are no holes in the floor, and he doesn’t have a chronic transmission cough. Instead, his engine purrs. However, Cruiser is far from perfect, and he has his share of ailments, too. The door handles and rearview mirror are barely held on by tiny metal wires, rendering them nearly useless. There are no luxuries, such as a radio or air conditioning, and the windows are permanently closed in this truck, instead of open like in Harrison.
Cruiser has come with a partner in tow, a rickety, tired-looking and severely handicapped trailer stuffed with garbage bags. It has old bent-up chicken wire for walls, and a back gate whose fastenings are more bits of the same heavily worn wire. Without the hundreds of fragments of wire, this truck and trailer would be in pieces.
After an hour of driving in silence, save for the clackety-clack of the trailer, we arrive at the dump on the outskirts of a small farming town. The dump is shaped like a crescent moon, with mountains of garbage as high as a three-story building. The stink in the air is nearly as disgusting as the carcass from the other day. At the entrance, six men are sitting on crates turned upside-down playing cards. Their faces are expressionless. Each one is clad in heavily stained and torn dark-blue coveralls. They are uninterested in our arrival. One of them nods us in. I’m not sure what their purpose is, since we don’t have to pay, and they didn’t even look at our load. Maybe it’s just a way for them to pass time in this sleepy town.
The Drill Sergeant takes several minutes to undo the mess of twist ties holding the trailer gate on. He is careful not to drop any of the sacred wire, and re-attaches each piece for later use.
As we begin to unload the garbage, a man appears, out of nowhere. He’s not one of the gatekeepers, there are still six men there. Fidgeting his hands, he approaches the trailer, avoiding eye contact. Something is off. The mountains of garbage begin to move all around us. Big white eyes appear in the shadows—lots of them.
“Gerrit,” I whisper.
He ignores me. He’s too focused on the tiny scraps of wire and doesn’t realize we are about to be swarmed by a garbage gang.