Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

89

The first sting had been on his calf, twenty minutes ago.

Fowler had felt a sharp pain, but luckily it didn’t last long, fading into a dull ache, more like a hard slap than the initial bolt of lightning.

The priest had planned to suppress any screams by gritting his teeth, but forced himself not to do so yet. He’d try that with the next sting.

The ants had gone no higher than his knees, and Fowler didn’t have the slightest idea if they knew what he was. He tried his best to seem like something that wasn’t edible or dangerous, and for both reasons there was one thing he could not do: move.

The next sting hurt a great deal more, maybe because he knew what would come next: the swelling in the area, the inevitability of it all, the feeling of helplessness.

After the sixth sting he lost count. Perhaps he had been stung twelve times, perhaps twenty. Not many more, but he couldn’t take it much longer. He had used up all his resources – gritting his teeth, biting his lips, flaring his nostrils wide enough for a truck to enter? At some point, feeling desperate, he had even risked twisting his wrists in the handcuffs.

The worst thing was not knowing when the next sting would come. Up to that point he had been lucky, since most of the ants had gone half a dozen feet to his left and only a couple of hundred covered the ground beneath him. But he knew that at the slightest movement they would attack.

He needed to concentrate on something other than the pain, or he would go against his better judgement and start trying to crush the insects with his boots. Maybe he’d even manage to kill a few, but it was clear that they had the numerical advantage and in the end he would lose.

A new sting was the last straw. The pain ran up his legs and exploded in his genitals. He was on the verge of losing his mind.

Strangely, it was Torres who saved him.

‘Padre, your sins are attacking you. One by one, just like they eat away the soul.’

Fowler looked up. The Colombian was standing almost thirty feet away, watching him with an amused expression on his face.

‘I got tired of being up there, you know, so I came back to see you in your own private Hell. Look, this way we won’t be disturbed,’ he said, turning off the walkie-talkie with his left hand. In the right hand, he was holding a rock about the size of a tennis ball. ‘Now, where were we?’

The priest was grateful that Torres was there. It gave him someone to focus his hatred on. Which in turn would buy him a few more minutes of remaining still, a few more minutes of life.

‘Oh, yes,’ Torres went on. ‘We were trying to work out if you were going to make the first move or if I was going to make it for you.’

He threw the rock and hit Fowler on the shoulder. The stone tumbled over to where most of the ants were massing, once more the pulsating lethal swarm that was ready to attack whatever it was that threatened their home.

Fowler closed his eyes and attempted to control the pain. The rock had hit him in the same place a psychopathic killer had shot him sixteen months before. The whole area still hurt at night, and now he felt as if he were reliving the whole ordeal. He tried to concentrate on the pain in his shoulder to block out the ache in his legs, using a trick that an instructor had taught him what seemed a million years ago: the brain can only handle one sharp pain at a time.

When Fowler opened his eyes again and saw what was happening behind Torres, he had to make an even bigger effort to control his emotions. If he betrayed himself for one moment, he was finished. Andrea Otero’s head had appeared from behind the dune that lay just past the exit to the canyon where he was being held prisoner by Torres. The reporter was very close, and without doubt in a few moments she would see them, if she hadn’t already done so.

Fowler understood that he had to make absolutely sure that Torres didn’t turn around to look for another rock. He decided to give the Colombian what the soldier least expected.

‘Please, Torres. Please, I beg you.’

The expression on the Colombian’s face changed completely. Like all killers, few things excited him more than the control he thought he had over his victims when they began to beg.

‘What are you begging for, Padre?’

The priest had to force himself to concentrate and find the right words. Everything depended on making sure that Torres didn’t turn around. Andrea had seen them, and Fowler was sure that she was close, although he’d lost sight of her because Torres’s body was blocking the way.

‘I’m begging for my life. My miserable life. You’re a soldier, a real man. Compared to you I’m nothing.’

The mercenary was smiling broadly, revealing his yellowish teeth. ‘Well said, Padre. And now-’

Torres never got a chance to finish his sentence. He didn’t even feel the blow.

Andrea, who had had a chance to take in the scene as she drew near, had decided not to use the pistol. Remembering what a bad shot she had been with Alryk, the most she could hope for was that a stray bullet wouldn’t find Fowler’s head the same way one had hit the tyre of the Hummer earlier. Instead, she pulled the windscreen wipers out of her makeshift umbrella. Holding the steel pipe like a baseball bat, she crept forward slowly.

The pipe wasn’t too heavy, so she had to choose her line of attack carefully. Only a few steps behind him, she decided to aim for the side of his head. She could feel the sweat on the palm of her hands, and prayed that she wouldn’t screw this up. If Torres turned around she was fucked.

He didn’t. Andrea planted her feet firmly on the ground, swung her weapon and hit Torres with all her strength on the side of his head near the temple.

‘Take that, you bastard!’

The Colombian dropped into the sand like a stone. The mass of red ants must have felt the vibration because immediately they turned and headed for his fallen body. Unaware of what had happened, he started to get up. Still semi-conscious from the blow to his temple, he staggered and fell again as the first ants reached his body. When he felt the first stings, Torres brought his hands to his eyes in absolute terror. He tried to get up on to his knees but this provoked the ants even more and they swarmed over him in greater numbers. It was as if they were passing on a message to each other through their pheromones.

Enemy.

Kill.

‘Run, Andrea!’ Fowler yelled. ‘Get away from them.’

The young reporter took several steps back, but very few ants turned to follow the vibrations. They were more concerned with the Colombian, who was covered in them from head to toe, howling in agony, every fibre of his body under attack from the sharp jaws and needle-like stings. Torres managed to stand up again and take a few steps, the ants covering him like a strange skin.

He took one more step, then fell, and didn’t get up again.

Andrea, in the meantime, had retreated to the place where she had dropped the wipers and the shirt. She wrapped the wipers in the cloth. Then, making a wide detour around the ants, she approached Fowler and lit the shirt with her lighter. When the shirt was burning she traced a circle with it on the ground around the priest. The few ants that hadn’t joined the attack on Torres scurried away from the heat.

Using the steel pipe, she pried Fowler’s handcuffs and the spike that held them away from the rock.

‘Thank you,’ said the priest, his legs shaking.

When they had gone about a hundred feet away from the ants and Fowler considered they were safe, they collapsed on the ground, exhausted. The priest rolled up his trousers to check on his legs. Other than the small reddish sting marks, the swelling, and the continuous but dull pain, the twenty-odd bites hadn’t inflicted too much damage.

‘Now that I’ve saved your life, I suppose your duty to me has been repaid?’ Andrea said sarcastically.

‘Did Doc tell you about that?’

‘That, and a lot of other things I want to ask you about.’

‘Where is she?’ the priest asked, but he already knew the answer.

The young woman shook her head and began to sob. Fowler held her gently.

‘I’m so sorry, Ms Otero.’

‘I loved her,’ she said, burying her face in the priest’s chest. As she sobbed, Andrea realised that Fowler had suddenly gone tense and was holding his breath.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

In answer to her question, Fowler pointed at the horizon, where Andrea saw a deadly wall of sand heading towards them as inevitably as night.