The Obsidian Chamber

27

Proctor tried to rise, but only managed to haul himself to his knees. He checked the position of the sun, which was directly above, a white-hot disk. He had been unconscious for about an hour, he guessed. The rank smell of lion blood filled his nose. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and the world momentarily spun around. Bad idea. Steadying himself, he took several deep breaths and looked about. His pack lay in the sand a hundred yards off, where he had shed it during the lion attack. Near the pack lay the first dead lion, a sprawl of tawny fur. The second lion lay directly beside him, close enough to touch: stretched out, mouth open, eyes and tongue already alive with flies. A sticky, drying pool of blood soaked the sand around its chest.

His KA-Bar knife, covered with dried gore, lay beside him; he cleaned it by pushing it roughly into the sand several times, then slid it back into the scabbard on his belt.

Once again he tried to rise, but found he did not have the strength. Instead, he crawled across the sand, the heat burning his palms. When he gritted his teeth at the pain, sand crunched between them. He tried to spit it out but, through the fog of thirst and pain, he realized he had become severely dehydrated, his lips cracked, his tongue swollen, his eyes raw. There was water in the pack if he could only get to it.

Slowly, he made his way toward it and finally, with a gasp, reached out and seized it, sinking to the ground and pulling it toward him. He fumbled out the canteen and, taking great care not to spill a drop with his shaking hands, unscrewed the cap and took a long drink. The water was almost too hot. He forced himself to stop and wait, taking long breaths, letting that first drink settle. Five minutes passed and he took another drink. He could feel a small surge of energy and clarity returning. A third drink and that was it. If he didn’t save the rest, he’d be dead in twenty-four hours.

The smell of the closer dead lion was overpowering. His .45 lay on the sand next to it. He crawled over and reached for it, then immediately let the weapon drop: the sun had rendered it too hot to pick up. He stared at it for a moment, trying to clear his head and think. He delved into his pack, removed a crank flashlight that had a hook at the end, hooked it through the trigger guard, and slid the gun into a side pocket, zipping it up.

A brief shadow passed over and he looked up, seeing that a column of vultures had formed and were circling lazily, waiting for him to either die or go away so they could feast on the dead lions. He thought, You’re welcome to the lions, but you ain’t going to get me.

Six hours to sunset. It would be suicide to travel in the heat of day; he had to remain where he was until it was dark. He could see, perhaps half a mile off, a lone acacia tree. He would need that shade — if he could only make it there.

The water he drank had given him strength. He grasped the pack again. He had already jettisoned everything in favor of water, save for the knife, gun, compass, map, and a couple of energy bars. But he couldn’t eat now; that would only increase his thirst.

Struggling into a sitting position, he slid the straps of the pack over his shoulders. Now the trick was getting to his feet. Taking a few deep breaths, he summoned his mental strength and then, with a cry, stood up, staggering a bit but managing to steady himself.

One step at a time, one step at a time…

The two lions had separated and tracked him for the better part of three days, and in so doing had driven him from his planned route. The last day, he’d been forced to backtrack and circle so many times he had lost an exact knowledge of his position. Luckily the lions, being male and juvenile, were not good hunters. If they had been fully grown females, he would not have survived the attack. Even so, it had still taken a full magazine from his .45 to stop the first lion; but the second lion came on so fast he didn’t have a chance to reload and he had been forced to kill it with the knife.

He had been mauled on the left shoulder and bitten on the calf, but what had almost done him in was the physical blow from the lion’s final leap, which had hit him so hard he was knocked back unconscious. The lion was already fatally wounded with a knife thrust to the heart, blood pouring out. Proctor had initially woken with the hot, stinking lion partly covering him, surrounded by a pool of the lion’s coagulating blood. He’d managed to drag himself out from under the beast before slipping into unconsciousness again.

Finally reaching the shade of the tree, he removed his pack and sank down, his back against the trunk, head swimming. One more taste of water? He removed the canteen, gave it a little shake. No — he would have to wait until sunset before taking another sip, which he hoped would give him the strength to walk through the night. If he could only reach the Mopipi road, a passing motorist would eventually find him.

Reluctantly, he took out his KA-Bar and sliced open his shredded pant leg, in order to have a look at the bite wound. A row of punctured teeth marks oozed dark blood. He had abandoned the medical kit; there would be no treating this until he got out. At least the bleeding had mostly stopped. His shoulder wound was in a similar condition, not good, but not immediately life threatening, either. Infection was the major concern, but that wouldn’t set in for another twelve to twenty-four hours.

Once again, uninvited, the unbearable agony of his failure crept in, his every mistake and stupidity paraded before him.

Stop thinking. He lay back against the rough bark and closed his eyes.

He had to survive this. In fact, he was going to survive. He knew this for one very good reason: there was something he must do. Wherever Diogenes was, whatever his plan had been, Proctor was going to find him.

And kill him.