Nosferatu

18

Serrin tottered off the plane at Nkandla feeling very groggy. Mistakenly, he'd thought the luxurious coach had arrived at the Imperial to take them to the Umfolozi reserve, but all it did was deposit them back at the airport. The plane, which made the 777 they'd flown in earlier seem like the height of luxury and safety, wasn't any make Serrin recognized, and had little better than bucket seats inside. The flight was less than sixty miles, but it might have been to Mars for how long it seemed. Serrin had never heard of clear air turbulence before, and suspected it was an invention to disguise the fact that the plane was in the process of falling apart. He only barely managed to retain the contents of his stomach during the trip. Michael had told them they were going to one of the less popular, more out-of-the-way campsites, but he hadn't expected the transport to be quite so awful.

Michael was appallingly unflappable, resplendent in khaki shorts, shirt, walking boots, and a pith helmet. With his thin white legs and knobby knees, he looked the perfect English tourist. The zinc cream smeared over his nose and lips, added to a generous dosing of lighter sun block over every inch of exposed flesh, looked more than faintly ridiculous. He was clearly loving every minute of it.

"If you haven't sprayed yourself with repellent, now's the time to do it," he said cheerfully, squinting through his shades along the red-brown dirt strip that passed for Nkandla's runway. "And don't forget to spray that talc inside your underwear. Sweat chafing can take off a layer of skin in hours out here, even in dry heat. And Tom,

even though you're a troll, in this climate you need sun block. Really. Trust me."

Tom grunted and hurriedly attempted to extract some of the cream from his plastic bottle as the jeeps roared into sight in a great cloud of dust. He managed to deposit roughly three-quarters of its contents into his huge hands and began busily smearing himself. The heat of the brilliant yellow sun was intense enough for him to feel even through a skin thicker than anyone else's around, black or white.

Serrin looked around at the handful of other people along for the safari. Most of them, he was pleased to see, looked as absurd in shorts as he might have if he hadn't opted for long khaki pants instead. Two Americans, a trio of dumpling-shaped Germans, and a pair of Japanese; the standard mix. Only Kristen looked as if she was at home here, neither uncomfortable nor out of place. The half-dozen touf guides pointedly avoided speaking to her, though they were short on conversation anyway. Ruanmi, the leader of the group, was the one who'd done almost all the talking, but most of what he had to say consisted of the standard warnings and reminders to sign the usual disclaimer forms.

After piling into two of the jeeps and roaring off northward into the heart of the reserve, the group had to hang on for dear life. The seatbelts in the jeeps certainly weren't there to provide safety in the event of a crash; their main function was to stop passengers from being hurled out as the vehicle raced across the bumpy plains.

"Shaman lions east," Ruanmi yelled to the convoy. "Single male with two, three females. One of the females has young, a pair of cubs. Twins, I think." He dumped himself back into his seat after delivering that announcement. Serrin, meanwhile, couldn't figure out how the man succeeded in standing up in the wobbling jeep. The idiot attempting it with his fabulously over-priced camera in the vehicle directly behind them had been lucky to fall backward into the vehicle rather than onto the rock-hard surface they were traversing.

"They create illusions?" Serrin asked anxiously to Ruanmi. He didn't know what the Awakened lions were

capable of, though he seemed to remember that detail. Ruanmi grinned and fingered the collar of teeth around his neck.

"They will not harm us," he said. Serrin had already sensed power in the man, and concentrating now, he could sense that the spell focus was powerful. Intulo, the other shaman, was always silent, and from his apparel Serrin guessed that his totem was Crocodile. He didn't want to think about that too much. He was much more comfortable with Ruanmi, whose mane of hair proclaimed him as a Lion shaman as strongly as his proud walk and the freak golden speckling in his brown eyes. The shaman seemed not to dislike Serrin, which was a relief to the elf. Maybe he knows I love cats, Serrin thought with an inward chuckle.

Despite suffering from the effects of the endless bumping, Serrin still had enough wits about him to be impressed once they reached the razorwire perimeter of their campsite. The elephants, wildebeest, and flocks of birds scattered across the plains and waterholes were a dramatic sight, not least for their sheer numbers. The blood kites had alarmed him, but, again, the shamans protected them from any harm posed by the dangerous creatures. He was irked, though, to find that he needed the help of the African man to get out of the jeep, his bad leg completely drained of any strength. Kristen had just leapt out behind him, and he felt like an elderly invalid as he struggled to get his boots down onto the dust-dry earth.

Tents had already been pitched for them, the site men surrounding the camp with their LMGs glad to see the relief column. They shook hands with their replacements, speaking animatedly in the Zulu tongue. Though Kristen could not understand every word, she bristled with barely disguised anger at what they said about her.

Ruanmi gathered them together in the center of the camp for a repeat of the standard warnings. The razorwire already spoke of the injunction not to leave the camp unaccompanied, but the guide was savoring the task of lovingly describing all the venomous insects and small reptiles of the area and which antidotes to use against the poison of each and every species.

"We know there are two nagas in Unlanga River just east of here, maybe one-quarter hour away," he said. "We make a blind nearby so we can take their pictures at dusk. Four of you only can make this trip; others interested can try again tomorrow. No guarantee nagas will be active, but we see adults more often now that young have left the territory to go out on own. And nagas not so fierce now there is no need to protect their young."

Serrin was only too happy to let the enthusiastic Americans and Japanese take Ruanmi up on the offer. It would have been a pity not to let such expensive cameras fulfill their function in life, after all. Michael sidled up to him, and to his astonishment he saw that the Englishman was carrying an HK227 submachinegun in his right hand like some veteran soldier of fortune.

"Told you we'd be better off out here with something that can't be taken for a hunting weapon," Michael said, smiling. "And you don't need a license for one of these things on an accredited safari trip. I thought Tom might feel more comfortable with it. He tells me he has an Uzi back home, but I've always thought the H amp;K a better weapon myself. Besides which, Ruanmi couldn't get us an Uzi in the time we had."

By coincidence, a couple of sharp reports not far away made Serrin jerk his head away in surprise.

"That'll be dinner," Michael said, picking at a fingernail. "They offered to take us along to go deer shooting, but I'm rather squeamish myself and you don't look in any condition for hunting right now. Tom didn't seem all that interested either."

He reached into one of the saddlebag-sized pockets in his long khaki jacket and pulled out a pistol, handing it to the elf.

"Do you have an entire armory in there?" Serrin asked.

"Not quite, old boy. But you should give that to Kristen. She's probably never used a gun, so let's hope she can at least point it in the right direction if necessary. Just tell her the most important thing might be to hold it and look like she's done it before."

"Do you think we're going to need them?" Serrin said anxiously. "I mean, this place looks pretty safe to me."

"I was rather thinking about when we leave it," Michael said without even blinking.

Serrin looked down at the pack that had replaced his habitual suitcase. Somewhere beneath the bottled water, which he carried in case the camp supply became contaminated, medicines and sprays to augment Michael's cache, tinned food for emergencies, and the other clutter he'd been forced to bring along, lurked his clothing and clean-up kit. Then he looked longingly at the improvised shower rigged up near the trees. The shade cover looked as good as the prospect of washing up felt.

"Which is my tent?" he asked, glancing around.

"We're sharing. I suppose I'd better go with Tom, even if he does snore. Crikey, what with roaring and growling animals all night it probably won't make any difference," Michael laughed.

Serrin fought his way through the tent's netting-covered flap and found Kristen inside, having already dismembered her pack over the groundsheet.

"Do you mind sharing with me?" he asked. "I could sleep outside if you want privacy."

She laughed at him, "Sure, and get eaten by mosquitoes. Don't be silly." She scooped her things into one half of the tent, leaving the rest of the area clear for Serrin. He struggled to extract his towel from the bag, then made for the shower. He passed two Zulus lugging what he took to be a small antelope through the camp gates, and saw that a fire for the roasting had already been started inside old rusted steel drums. His stomach told him antelope charred on the outside and bloody in the middle wasn't what he wanted right now or at any later time, and he turned away, grateful he could at least look forward to a shower.

Michael had to wriggle under the tent flap to wake them, since the cloth was fastened from the inside and he didn't want to make any noise. In the low light of his torch, he saw them lying together, her arm around his chest. They looked extraordinarily peaceful. He felt almost guilty having to shake the elf's shoulder.

"Huh? What?" Serrin half-yelled. Michael motioned him to be quiet, then spoke urgently.

"We're going. Ruanmi has made a contact. Shakala will see us. Ruanmi says the word is he's a very temperamental fellow. If he says yes now, you go now, because tomorrow he might feel different. Get your stuff together. As quietly as you can."

Serrin rubbed his face and was glad that he'd repacked most of his bag. "What time is it?"

"Just after four. It won't be light for a while. It's apparently about eight miles from here. Just out of Babanango. Come on, let's move it."

Kristen grumbled at being awakened and simply turned over to go back to sleep. Serrin had to shake her vigorously before she grudgingly opened her eyes. It was ten minutes before they were out into the surprising chill of the African winter's night. Tom and Michael were already piling into the jeep.

"I cannot go with you," Ruanmi told Serrin. "I must stay in camp all the time. Nholo will take you to Shakala. He comes right back, though. You must find own way back, except he go back for you same time tomorrow. If not we tell the others you got eaten by the king," and he made an extremely realistic, throaty lion's growl, then chuckled quietly to himself.

"Thanks, chummer," Serrin said drily and belted himself into the back seat. With Tom hogging the front seat, he had to squeeze into the back with Kristen and Michael. The jeep's headlights lit up, revealing a miasma of huge-winged moths and buzzing insects. Serrin fumbled for the repellent spray in his bag, but he had no time to get it before the jeep started off on its bone-crunching journey. After that, getting anything out of anywhere was virtually impossible. The elf only hoped that they'd be moving too fast for anything to bite him.

Martin knew the signs of Luther's growing fury all too well; the tension was palpable. The work was so exacting, so precise, so inevitably strewn with tiny mistakes ruining the perfection Luther craved. The molecular probes simply didn't have the precision, not with the techniques available. A dogged scientist would simply have scatter-gunned every possibility and weeded out the

failures, but then such a person would never have been able to make the discoveries Luther had. He knew exactly what he wanted, and Nature's stubborn refusal to give it up enraged him far beyond the bounds of reason.

Martin hadn't been at the monastery during the Rage of '42, when Luther had slain every single living person in the place. Martin's job had been to cover that up, fabricating the fire that had destroyed much of the old building. He didn't think he could get away with such a trick again. Time was short now, Luther was very close, and he had to take the risk Luther himself had refused because of the proximity of the victim. Luther was oblivious now, not needing food, drink, or sleep, only dimly aware of anything happening outside his laboratories. Martin would not be missed. If Luther went berserk, one last crazed feeding might just return him to his senses.