The Most Dangerous Game, page 7
Corrigan sobbed and to add insult to injury, Botha spun him hard and pushed him and he spiralled around, coughing, and spluttering as he vomited and choked and gagged. Botha took out a Zippo lighter and lit the feather sticks. They caught quickly. South Africa was in its winter and the temperature fluctuated, but it was dry, and the wood caught quickly. The noughts and crosses stack was soon burning fiercely, and each time Corrigan completed a spiral, his head passed within mere inches of the flames. Botha disappeared and returned after fifteen minutes with a stack of thick branches. Soon, the fire was burning voraciously, and Corrigan was screaming not only from passing close and by now, through the flames, but the heat generated and radiated was so fierce that Botha had to stand back, far further than Corrigan at his farthest point from the fire. Botha sent the man on his way again, spinning him furiously and pushing him when he drew near. Corrigan’s screams were constant now, and he was slowly cooking both over and near the flames. Botha stood and watched for a few minutes, then picked up his rifle and walked away. When he reached the Land Rover, at least a mile from the fire, he could still hear the man’s screams.
“I love you, Andre,” he said quietly. “I never told you much, and I regret that…”
“Jesus Christ…” St. John-Smyth said quietly. He had looked away from the screens ages ago but had foolishly risked a glance and could see that the fat leaching from Corrigan’s carcass had fuelled the flames. There were hyenas, wild dogs and two cheetahs tentatively circling the fire. They wanted food, but they never braved fire. They would have to be patient and hope the lions did not get wind of the feast. “This is madness…”
Amber Byrne heard the man’s accent drop and could pick out traits of a London accent. She did not point it out, there seemed little point adding to the man’s humiliation. Carl Grainger had done a complete character assassination on the man, and besides, they were all humiliated at this point. She turned to Jon Black, who was lying on his side, staring blankly past her. “Penny for them…”
Black frowned. “What the hell do you think I’m thinking?” he answered sardonically.
She couldn’t argue with that, and in truth, she felt somewhat foolish. “Sorry, just trying to change the mood.”
Black shrugged and sat up. He looked at Kowalski, who was staring blankly at the screen and the first of the hyenas snapping at Corrigan’s hanging arms as they braved the dying flames of the fire. When he looked back at Amber, he whispered, “I might have a plan…”
“What?” she sat up and swung her legs off the bed. “What is it?”
Black shook his head. “I need to see one more person driven out there,” he whispered. “If it’s me, then I’m probably fucked. But if it’s one of you lot… Sorry, I meant someone else, then I might stand a chance…”
“You’ve got to tell me what it is!” she said, a little too loudly. She could see that Black now regretted saying anything, as he was looking at the camera above them. He laid back down on his bed and she said in a hushed tone, “Please! Tell me what you’ve seen!” but her heart sank as she realised that Black wasn’t going to risk being overheard. “Damn it!” she said to herself and seeing only St. John-Smyth staring at her.
“This is gold,” Carl Grainger announced.
Pierre Dupont nodded. “Solid gold. Have you seen the viewing figures?” He paused. “And the bids for another kill have gone stratospheric. One of our Saudi friends has pledged ten million US for the woman in a machete scenario. It is quite staggering…”
Grainger laughed. “I’m thinking a season two scenario will be a certain hit.” He paused, watching the split screen of Corrigan’s now torn and swinging body, the hyenas and cheetahs vying for possession. The footage would stream continuously from that camera until there was nothing left to see. For huge bids, the scene of the Australian’s brutal death could be watched on a loop. Bids were now coming in for who would be next with prompts in what scenario. “We can’t overplay this, Dupont. After the hunt, we take down the footage and wait until we have more suitable players.” He paused. “We already have a new location and financial backers, so we can take our time with this, perhaps return here in a year or two for another event.”
“Of course, Mr Grainger,” Dupont replied. “But I doubt that Botha will want to be involved.”
“He will,” Grainger assured him. “He drove Dwight Carlotta to his death, and Corrigan was personal, but he will take our money and aid our venture, he’s in too deep now.” He paused and brought up the feed of his guests in their sleeping quarters. “Botha has no life. His son was murdered, his wife died, and his daughter has moved to the other side of the world to start afresh. Hans Botha will continue to play the game.”
“And what game will that be next?” the portly little Belgian-Congolese asked.
“Most want to see the American who wounds animals up against the king of the jungle.”
“That will take some organising,” he replied.
“When Botha returns have him come and see me. I think we can improve on the man’s salary and keep him in the hunt. It will take a great deal of skill to make sure the lions are where we want them tomorrow.”
Chapter Thirteen
Hans Botha stood in the middle of the room with the pig stick. He arced it every few seconds as two workers beat dustbin lids with hammers. The lights flicked on, and Botha could see that it had had the desired effect. Everyone was in a state of shock and confusion. Everyone except for Jon Black, who when the lights flicked on, had been sitting wide awake on his bed and now stared directly at Botha.
“Up and at ‘em!” Botha shouted. He waited while the two workers tossed the hammers and bin lids out through the doorway and remerged with their retractable batons. “Breakfast. Some of you will need it more than others…”
They were marched out through the house and into the dining room. There were bread rolls, cheese, and baskets of fruit on the table, along with coffee, tea, and bottled water. Amber sat down and poured herself coffee. It could have been far worse. Grainger could have tossed them bread and water onto the floor of their cell. At least this was half civilised, given that another person would die today, possibly two.
Carl Grainger paced into the room and smiled at them in turn. “We have a tie,” he said proudly. “The game has been such a success, more than I could have ever hoped for. But it would appear that both John Smith… sorry, William St. John-Smyth… has tied with Mr Kowalski for this morning’s entertainment.”
“Fuck you,” Kowalski said without looking up from his coffee and bread roll. “Just get it over with…”
“Who goes next will be determined by a simple game of capture the flag. But obviously with a slight difference. You will essentially race each other. The winner gets a pass; the loser plays the next game.”
“Game?” Amber retorted. “You really are a sick bastard! I was right to write what I did about you! This is just the sort of evil thing someone who grew rich from canned hunts would do. You really have no morality, no decency in you!”
“Your time will come, my dear. Have no doubt about that. People are favouring you hacked limb from limb with a machete, so that will give you something to ponder on.” Grainger paused. “I could probably double my fortune if I introduced some kind of sexual slant on it. Food for thought, I suppose. Perhaps that’s for another time. There’s enough deadly game out there to provide some entertainment. Although, facing them naked will be good for our ratings…”
Amber screamed and threw her coffee cup at him, splashing him with some of the hot liquid. Botha walked calmly forward and jabbed her in the side with the pig stick. She arched her back, fell sideways and silently onto the floor, a silent scream on her lips as she juddered and writhed in agony.
“Well, I think breakfast service has closed,” Grainger said somewhat acidly, brushing at the coffee on his shirt.
Chapter Fourteen
Dawn broke at five-am. A golden hue of sunlight captivated the low sky to the east, while high above it was still completely dark with stars visible to the west. With every few minutes that passed, the sky grew brighter and with it, the sound of animals on the chill air. St. John-Smyth and Kowalski sat opposite one another on the bench seats in the rear of the Land Rover. Kowalski looked to the floor, while St. John-Smyth eyed his opponent constantly.
“Why did you lie about your name?” the American eventually asked. “And put on the whole pompous butler act?”
“You are an American, I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“Try me.”
“Well, for a start, you think I act like a butler because you have a limited appreciation of both class and society. I put on a gentlemanly act. When I met my wife, I was nothing. A bit of rough for her after a stodgy marriage, little physical attention, and her husband’s unexpected death. But she grew to love me, and I loved her. Social standing was everything, so we crafted a persona. She doctored an education for me, I studied hard to live up to it, and I learned all about country and city fashion, food and wine, country pursuits, and investing. After her death, it all went sour. I wasn’t good at investments and started to lose the bloody lot.” He paused. “I had done some pheasant shooting and a bit of deer stalking, and I suppose in a somewhat self-destructive mode, travelled to Africa and had a go at big game…”
“And you loved it…”
“Indeed.” St. John-Smyth shrugged. “So, what’s with your niche? Why do you wound and track animals on the internet?”
The American looked up at him, tears in his eyes, then started to laugh. “Because I’m a real shitty shot…”
St. John-Smyth laughed, a desperate ring to it, as if it helped break the tension and the desperation of the situation. “You’re kidding…?”
“Nope. Never could hit a thing. I just got going with the bow because my friends always made me feel crap about using a rifle. And don’t get me onto handguns… can’t hit a barn door with ‘em…” He shook his head, half laughing, half sobbing. “How about that?”
“That is pretty special, considering where you’re from,” St. John-Smyth said lightly. “The only country with more guns than people. But you’re an expert at tracking?”
“I am. No question about it.”
The vehicle slowed, pulled a tight circle, and stopped, rocking both men perched on the bench seats. The dawn had fully broken, but it was still a gloriously golden light and as the rear door opened, the chill was noticeable.
Botha pulled the men out of the Land Rover and the two black workers stood with batons at the ready. Neither man looked like he was about to try anything as Botha unshackled them and tossed two bundles of olive coloured safari clothes on the ground.
“Get changed, gentlemen. Time is of the essence.” St. John-Smyth changed unhurriedly, eyeing the South African belligerently, while Kowalski struggled with the sizing of the trousers. When he stood back his waistline looked like sausage links and he struggled to breathe. Botha merely grinned and said as he pointed, “A hundred metres that way is the remains of an animal carcass. That’s the flag. You will take it a mile to your goal. Kowalski, yours is due east. John Smith… yours is due west.”
“It’s William St. John-Smyth…” the Englishman replied testily.
“Whatever you say,” Botha sneered.
“And let me guess, you’ll barbecue the loser?” Kowalski shrugged. “So, what’s the point?”
“I won’t be killing anybody,” Botha replied. “My kill yesterday was personal.” He paused, ignoring the comment any further. “But the point is, the winner gets a free pass to the final. The loser gets to play the next round. So, you’d better get moving.”
Both men looked at each other tentatively, then St. John-Smyth turned and sprinted in the direction of the bushes. Kowalski put on a good turn of speed but started to run out of steam quickly and settled into a jog, and then a walk as St. John-Smyth disappeared into the brush.
“Did you see it?” Amber asked Jon Black quietly, his eyes locked on the screen.
“No,” he replied irritably. “It was a different scenario than before.”
“Shit…” She paused, now seeing St. John-Smyth walking into a clearing on another two camera angles. “What was it? I have to know…”
Black hesitated, then shrugged. “It was nothing. I was wrong…”
“Jesus! Why won’t you just trust me?”
“I don’t trust anyone.”
“It could help me survive!”
Black got off her bed where they had been sitting together whispering, and walked back to his own, turning his back to her as he watched the screen. “Because we could be against each other like those two blokes,” he said coldly. “And it could help me survive…”
The ‘flag’ was a greater kudu’s head. A large bull that would have weighed in excess of five hundred pounds and would have stood over five-feet high at the shoulder. One of the largest species of antelope, the kudu had huge, twisted horns and a striped coat and lived in woodlands and thick brush. St. John-Smyth looked at the pole on which the head had been skewered. The body of the beast lay sixty metres away, and hyenas and wild dogs were battling for possession. The pole was eight feet high and atop the head, two large vultures were perched and pecking at the eyes. St. John-Smyth turned as Kowalski stumbled through the brush and the dogs and hyenas leapt away from their feast, only to pay him no more attention as they returned to snapping at the meat, and each other.
“Well, that’s a pickle,” said Kowalski.
“Indeed…”
It was evident that getting the head down would be a two-man job, and the head itself would weigh close to a hundred pounds. Kowalski went to the pole and kicked it hard. The pole did not budge. He kicked it again and again, but it held fast. “Can we dig it out?”
“Might be the only way.”
Kowalski looked around him, then settled on a branch. He snapped the small twigs off it, then set about using it to dig with. St. John-Smyth found a similarly useful piece of wood, but he did not intend to dig. He stood to the side of Kowalski, looking as if he was waiting to take over when the man tired. The American dug down a foot or so, and St. John-Smyth readied himself for the mother of all swings. The back of the man’s neck should do it.
“God damn it!” Kowalski cursed. “It’s solid cement underneath!”
St. John-Smyth inspected the hole and concurred. The pole had been set in concrete. He dropped the branch and sighed. “You’ll have to help me up…”
“Why me?”
“Because, my dear man, you’re at least three-hundred pounds, and I’m around half of that!” He paused. “You’re the brawn for this task, and I’m the agile athlete.”
“OK,” Kowalski replied dubiously.
Neither man trusted each other, but there was little they could do about it until the prize became accessible. Kowalski tried giving St. John-Smyth a hoist up, but he wasn’t as strong as his stature would suggest and he struggled to hold him in place long enough for him to unhook the grizzly prize. Next, the American tried lifting him in a bear hug, but St. John-Smyth protested that he could not breathe, and nor was he high enough to tackle the task. The American then crouched on all fours while St. John-Smyth stood on his back. He had enough height, and the American provided a stable platform. The pole had been sharpened and the head impaled, and it required a tremendous effort on both men’s part because as the weight of the head came off the pole, Kowalski had more weight to bear. St. John-Smyth struggled not to vomit as blood and brain matter ran down the pole, the stench of the kill getting into his nostrils and to the back of his throat, and flies overwhelming him. When he finally got it clear, he wobbled and upended it so that the large, twisted horns bore down on the man beneath him. He leapt aside, bringing the head down hard, but Kowalski rolled away, and the horns dug into the hard ground. Kowalski kicked St. John-Smyth’s legs from under him and the Englishman fell. The American scrambled to his feet, charged towards his opponent, but St. John-Smyth still had the head in his clasp and turned the horns towards the charging Kowalski. One of the horns impaled him through the stomach and he froze, looking down at the horn and the missing six inches of the tip.
“Shit…” he groaned.
“I am sorry…” St. John-Smyth said quietly. He pulled the horn clear and the American fell onto his back.
“Please, don’t leave me,” he said, eyeing the hyenas and patterned dogs tearing at the kudu carcass. “I can’t die like that…”
“I really am very sorry…” St. John-Smyth heaved the head onto his shoulder, then looking at the rising sun, headed away from it and across the clearing.
“He’s killed him…” Amber Byrne said disbelievingly. “He’s just left him to die!”
“What do you expect?” Jon Black replied flippantly.
“And you’d do the same?” she asked, then added, “Forget it, I already know the bloody answer.”
Black shrugged. “What else do you expect? Sacrifice is for families and loved ones. Everything else is survival.”
She nodded; aware that he was quite correct. “Would you ever sacrifice yourself for someone?”
“No.”
“Would you have sacrificed yourself for your wife?” She paused. “Sorry, it’s just Grainger said that she died in Crete…”
“I did,” he replied quietly. “Only I was injured, and she drowned.”
“Oh…”
“A couple of dickheads on jet skis,” he continued. “Just teenagers messing about, but they were in the swim zone. I pushed her underneath the surface and turned my back to protect her. The impact broke my shoulder and collarbone. But she took a mouthful of water, and…” he trailed off.
“Grainger made it sound as if you had something to hide…”
