The Ares Decision

52

Peter Howell jumped over a rotting log and then slowed when a group of Bahame’s soldiers darted in front of him. None took a shot, instead scattering and disappearing in a chorus of panicked shouts.

Their deity-driven command structure had collapsed, and the forces attacking them weren’t the unarmed villagers they were used to. As near as he could tell, the entire Ugandan air force was overhead, unloading the country’s stockpile of rockets and machine-gun rounds. Behind him, the jungle was on fire, sending an impenetrable wall of flame nearly a hundred feet into the hazy, chemical-scented air.

Most of Bahame’s followers would be running east toward the river. It was the easiest terrain, and the water would act as a firebreak, but it was also a fatal error. They were clearly being flushed, and the Ugandans would have troops dug in on the far shore — something those terrified children wouldn’t discover until the water was over their heads.

Howell spotted a streak of blood on a leaf and angled left, picking up speed again. The wind was with him for now, but if it shifted he could find himself wandering aimlessly in a cloud of choking, opaque smoke. He was too close to let that happen.

The sound of helicopter rotors became audible behind him, and he ignored it until he could feel the thump of them in his chest. The people he’d seen a few moments ago were being targeted, and he was forced to throw himself to the ground as the nose gun opened up. Rounds arced over his head, bringing branches as thick as two inches down on top of him as the gunner refined his aim. The cries of children sounded for a moment and Howell found himself wishing them a quick death — not out of sympathy, but expedience. He didn’t have time to be pinned down here. Bahame was on the move.

His wish was answered, and he ignored a pang of guilt as the screams went silent and the helicopter moved off. The trail continued — Bahame was obviously bleeding badly from the cut he’d suffered when Smith shattered his window. Still, the farther he got from the firelight, the harder he would be to track. Howell knew that it would be only a matter of minutes before the trail disintegrated into the deepening gloom.

The ground rose on either side as he ran, funneling him into an inky canyon with vine-covered walls. Despite the obvious terrain trap, he continued, savoring the burning in his legs, the stench of the battlefield, the intermittent gleam of Bahame’s blood. Finally, he forced himself to stop. As much as he didn’t want the intoxicating sensation of hunting Bahame to end, he also didn’t want to be dead. Not yet.

Howell grabbed a sturdy vine and went hand over hand up the slope, turning to move parallel to the deep furrow when he reached the top. Progress was slower than he hoped, but finally he spotted movement.

Unfortunately, the unreliable light made it impossible to discern what was causing it. He got to his knees and crawled forward, trying to clear his mind of the possibility that he was creeping up on an aardvark while Bahame disappeared into a thousand miles of jungle. It didn’t work, though, and he found himself going too fast, the sound of leaves brushing past him carrying into the air.

The crack of the gunshot was quickly followed by a searing pain in his shoulder. He dove behind a tree, his training demanding a strategic retreat to assess Bahame’s position and check the severity of his wound.

Instead, he broke cover, sprinting full bore in the direction the shot had come from. Another sounded but went wide as the person firing tried to run and shoot at the same time. A moment later the outline of his attacker became visible. Not another child. A full-grown man in fatigues. Bahame.

Howell barely noticed the bullets hissing past, a dangerous illusion of invincibility overtaking him as everything else faded away — the jungle, the explosions, the helicopters. And when it was all gone and only Bahame remained, he did seem strangely godlike. The last thing on earth.

They collided near the edge of the shallow ravine and fell into it, locked together as they tumbled through the vines. Bahame swung a knife and Howell was forced to drop his machete in order to deflect the blow. He went for the African’s eyes with his thumbs, but they hit the ground hard and were thrown apart.

Caught up in the emotions of finally having Bahame so close, Howell hadn’t pushed the air from his lungs before the impact and was now completely unable to breathe. Bahame had fared better and managed to stagger to his feet, but instead of finishing off his opponent, he went to the vines and started trying to climb out.

Howell was grateful that the men who had trained him weren’t there to see this pathetic display — the dazed African repeatedly climbing a few feet before sliding back to the ground, and him lying there gulping at the air like a dying fish.

He was getting a little more oxygen in with every breath, though, and his head finally cleared enough for him to crawl to the machete he’d dropped.

“Too…late, Caleb.”

Bahame looked back, losing his grip and slipping to the ground again. He didn’t try to run, instead just standing there dumbfounded that this could be happening to him — to a living god.

He ripped open his camouflage shirt and used one of the bones hanging around his neck to put a gash across his chest. His eyes rolled back in his head, the whites gleaming in the flickering light as he chanted in his native language.

“Are you summoning demons to strike me down?” Howell said, feeling his balance and strength return. He tested his right shoulder by lifting the machete over his head. Fully functional. Bahame’s bullet had only grazed him.

“I think I’m a little old to be afraid of the dark, Caleb.”