“So what’s the plan?”
“A few hours more upriver, find somewhere dry to camp up for the night, and hope for a miracle.”
As it turned out, they only had twenty more minute more of paddling before Hynd led them ’round a bend in the river and saw a crude X-shaped wooden cross standing in a shallow spot on the left bank. He indicated that he was heading over for a closer look while Banks held the other canoe back in mid current, Wiggins sitting up in the rear to cover Hynd’s approach to the bank.
As he closed in, he spotted something hanging on the upper right side of the structure and knew immediately what it must be. As he brought the canoe to a halt only yards from the cross, he saw that his suspicion was right—a single human hand, still bound at the wrist, hung loosely from the ropes. It looked to have been torn off—or bitten—as there was only an inch or two of the arm and below that hung dangling scraps of flesh and too-red blood, still dripping into the water below.
Beyond the cross was a muddy embankment. Even from where he sat in the canoe, Hynd saw the distinctive furrows where canoes had been dragged up out of the river.
“They went through there, Cap,” he said, motioning into the foliage at the top of the bank.
“And we’re going after them,” Banks replied, his features set grim as he replied. “Fetch me that hand, Sarge. It might be all that’s left of some mother’s son. Let’s give her something to bury.”
Hynd fought down a sudden wash of revulsion as he stood gingerly in the canoe, making sure he was balanced before reaching up to untie the knots holding the hand. It was a cold, almost clammy thing under his fingers, black airs across the knuckles and a heavy gold ring showing that the motive surely hadn’t been robbery.
“They fed him to crocs?” Davies asked.
Hynd shook his head. He’d already had another look at the muddy banks beyond and saw how the footprints of the people had once again by overlaid by the heavy, three-toed prints he’d seen earlier.
“They fed him to something, right enough. But I doubt it was a croc.”
- 5 -
Banks let Hynd supervise the landing and stowage of their canoes; the squad moved them well up the riverbank, found the spot where the ones they were following were stowed, and continued beyond that to conceal them under foliage. After that, they worked backwards to the river again, attempting to wipe out any trace of their own footprints. But the mud was so extensive and the signs of disturbance they left so noticeable that the squad’s passage was going to be easy enough to follow by anyone who knew what to look for. Banks’ only hope was that their quarry was focused more on getting where they were going than with worrying about anyone following them.
A clear trail led northwest away from the river and as soon as they had stowed the canoes, Banks led them out.
“You and Wiggo bring up the rear, Sarge,” he said. “Watch our backs.”
He saw the look in Hynd’s eyes; the sarge had got the message. They’d all heard the roars in the jungle, all seen the bloody hand—now in a polythene bag in Banks’ pack—and they all knew that it wasn’t just the kidnappers they had to worry about.
The going was heavy for the first minute, clogging mud underfoot and damp foliage that slapped like wet cloth against them with every step, but the ground began to rise away from the river and the footing soon became firmer. The greenery was still dripping wet but some of the clammy heat went out of the air, breathing became less labored, and Banks was able to settle into the long-practiced rhythmic lope that he knew the team could keep up with for hours on end.
Whoever it was they were chasing, they weren’t taking any care to hide their tracks; footprints, both shod and bare, could be found every few yards. Banks half-expected to come across another crucified figure at each turn in the track—he had a feeling that the first had been an offering of some kind, a placatory gift to whatever beast they’d heard in the jungle. But there was only the track and the trail of footprints to follow as the ground rose higher still and they ascended a long slope rising up and away from the river, soon taking them above the jungle canopy into higher uplands.
They traversed a high range whose jagged peaks marched way into the distance to the north. After a tough hour’s walk, the trail took them onto a high saddle to look down into a long, verdant valley. At the far end, some three miles away, smoke rose from several fires inside what looked to be a town at the edge of a wide, circular basin that stretched away to the northwest beyond that. Banks pulled the team off the ridge, aware that they’d be visible on the skyline should anyone be watching for them. They found a rocky ledge that sat in shade and he called a halt there, gathering the squad around him.
“Take ten, lads,” he said. “I need to suss out what’s what before we head on. Sarge, you’re with me.”
They crept forward to the very edge of the outcrop, lying on their bellies while Banks used his rifle’s scope to survey the scene. Hynd did the same at his side.
The town at the far end of the valley appeared to be fortified, thick walls of stone topped with wooden ramparts. From this distance, it looked to Banks’ eye that the stone structure was one of some great age, looking out of place here in the jungle. But there were ruins all over Africa, long lost to changing land use and climate. The surprising thing about these ones was the sheer number of people that could be seen in the vicinity; there looked to be a population of some thousands within the stone walls, a maze of buildings, some of stone, others the more common beehive huts. Beyond the town, the edge butted up against a rocky wall that delimited the edge of the huge circular basin. A heavy gate was built into the wall, stone pillars on either side supporting a pair of great wooden doors. Above the gate, a balcony overlooked the basin. A row of half a dozen X-shapes ran along the balcony and even from this distance, Banks clearly saw the pale figures hanging from each of the crosses.
He panned back, looking at the crowds of people milling around between the buildings, and his heart sank. He’d been hoping that they’d have to cope with maybe a dozen or so rebels to retrieve the captives.
We’ve got a whole town to go through.
They crept back to where the other squad members were and Banks brought them all up to speed.
“A frontal assault is out of the question. This is going to have to be a stealth job, and for that we’ll have to wait for the cover of darkness. Here’s as good a place as any to wait it out, so get comfy, lads. We’re here for a wee while.”
Davies found a sheltered spot where they could get the stove going with no fear of being discovered and soon had a brew of coffee going. Banks allowed them a smoke to go with it and was joined once more by Hynd as they each lit up.
“Any ideas yet what’s going on here, Cap?” the sergeant asked, keeping his voice low so that only the two of them could hear.
“Feeding time,” Banks replied. “But I’m buggered if I know what’s doing the eating. It feels like a ritual thing though, don’t you agree?”
“Aye. Religious, maybe? You ken how I hate all that kind of shite.”
“If we can get in and out quiet tonight, it won’t matter a jot.”
Neither said it, although they both knew getting in might be simple, getting freed hostages out of a crowded town then back through the terrain to the canoes and downriver was going to be a big ask, even with luck on their side.
“This could go south on us fast, Cap,” Hynd said. “Wiggo knows the score, but the younger lads…”