Ashes of the Moon Chapter One (b)
Chapter One (b)
The Norton Atlas hummed along a road that had become almost immediately deserted. All those who were going to flee had done so. It was eerie, driving between block upon block of abandoned houses, empty fields. One thing about Kibilisa that had always fascinated Jensen was its ability to sprout people out in the middle of nowhere. Stop by the side of the road for a moment to take a leak against a tree, somewhere away from the nearest village out in the bush, and within a minute there’d be any number of interested spectators, commenting on the size of the stream and the hose that fed it. Now, the absence of any human movement but his own was surreal, more ominous in its upending of normalcy than the sound of gunfire echoing from the hills.
He reached Kaga’ill and found it just as deserted. Even the chickens that could be relied upon to scratch and wander in every village he’d ever visited were gone. It was a miserable little place, a handful of huts, some erythina bushes, clumps of kikuyu grass and a bus stop that was better built than anything else in the district and used for goats in the wet season because the bus service had decided not to pick up this route any more. Jensen eased his bike up against it, turned it off, took his pack and jacket off and let out a groan.
That fucker with the machete. He’d cut Jensen, but he couldn’t tell how deep. It was up against the lower of his ribs, and the pack had probably caught the brunt of it. It felt bad enough, but Jensen knew that if he’d taken the full blow he would never have gotten up again.
He tried to twist and see it, but he could only see a thoroughly bloodied shirt. Twisting hurt, and he swore fluently as he pulled the cloth away as best he could. He could just about feel the extent of it with his fingers - six inches long, and when he pried, gasping, he felt bone. Nothing to be done but patch it up and maybe see if Jim could stitch it when he got there. He turned back to his pack, rummaged until he brought the first aid kit out. It was well-stocked. You were a fool to be caught in the bush without decent supplies, and Jensen had been here for nine years now. Kibilisa had burnt the fool right out of him.
Nausea was building, and new sweat was popping on his forehead, but he shook his head and ignored both. He prepared a field dressing, complete with antiseptic, and slapped it on. It burned horribly, and he gritted his teeth.
“Doing you good, boy,” he muttered. He waited until the worst of the pain eased, and then began wrapping a bandage around his waist to hold it in place. As he did, he became aware of a strong smell of gasoline and hazily cast about for its source, trying not to think of the wound being squeezed under the dressing.
And then an icy moment of knowing hit him, even before he’d summoned the thought that would define it.
He hastily got off the bike, and crouched to inspect it. And there, in the spare fuel can, a third of the way from the bottom, was a gash in the metal through which fuel had poured.
“Son of a bitch!” The loss was so overwhelming he could only repeat the words, mindlessly. Oh, God, he was gloriously, righteously, consummately and ultimately fucked.
A full tank was not enough to get him to Jim’s. He’d be skipping along in the sunshine through Rebelville, with supplies enough in his pack for a week but water for two days with a minimum three day hike ahead. And if the rebels or thirst didn’t get him, the lions would probably love to chow down on his sorry, blood-soaked, dehydrated ass.
At that thought he gave a soft, tired chuckle. He’d owed God a death for at least three years here. There were enough ghosts in Kibilisa waiting to drag him down into the dust. Some nights, when he’d been upcountry and the sounds of the men had settled around him in the darkness, when he heard the gut-deep coughs of the lions or high and hard cries of the jackals, he could almost feel his body sinking into the rocks and the dust, spreading out into the velvety blackness with a kind of aimless awe and grief, being pulled out and down and in to the heart of the country by hands long dead under his own.
He stood up, pulled his pack onto his back, swung a leg over the Norton, and started her up. Time to head north, as far as he could go. Once the gas ran out, he’d just take it on foot. See what happened. Kubanda kyoweka. It’s all one under God.
Nine years in the country, and he knew the language, was beginning to know the people. He understood their pragmatism better than he understood the sophistries of Dallas. If he had to die here then it wouldn’t be through a lack of understanding, and it wouldn’t be with any kind of resentment. Kibilisa had taught him something about struggle and courage. It was also beginning to teach him acceptance. Chapter Two
The Norton Atlas hummed along a road that had become almost immediately deserted. All those who were going to flee had done so. It was eerie, driving between block upon block of abandoned houses, empty fields. One thing about Kibilisa that had always fascinated Jensen was its ability to sprout people out in the middle of nowhere. Stop by the side of the road for a moment to take a leak against a tree, somewhere away from the nearest village out in the bush, and within a minute there’d be any number of interested spectators, commenting on the size of the stream and the hose that fed it. Now, the absence of any human movement but his own was surreal, more ominous in its upending of normalcy than the sound of gunfire echoing from the hills.
He reached Kaga’ill and found it just as deserted. Even the chickens that could be relied upon to scratch and wander in every village he’d ever visited were gone. It was a miserable little place, a handful of huts, some erythina bushes, clumps of kikuyu grass and a bus stop that was better built than anything else in the district and used for goats in the wet season because the bus service had decided not to pick up this route any more. Jensen eased his bike up against it, turned it off, took his pack and jacket off and let out a groan.
That fucker with the machete. He’d cut Jensen, but he couldn’t tell how deep. It was up against the lower of his ribs, and the pack had probably caught the brunt of it. It felt bad enough, but Jensen knew that if he’d taken the full blow he would never have gotten up again.
He tried to twist and see it, but he could only see a thoroughly bloodied shirt. Twisting hurt, and he swore fluently as he pulled the cloth away as best he could. He could just about feel the extent of it with his fingers - six inches long, and when he pried, gasping, he felt bone. Nothing to be done but patch it up and maybe see if Jim could stitch it when he got there. He turned back to his pack, rummaged until he brought the first aid kit out. It was well-stocked. You were a fool to be caught in the bush without decent supplies, and Jensen had been here for nine years now. Kibilisa had burnt the fool right out of him.
Nausea was building, and new sweat was popping on his forehead, but he shook his head and ignored both. He prepared a field dressing, complete with antiseptic, and slapped it on. It burned horribly, and he gritted his teeth.
“Doing you good, boy,” he muttered. He waited until the worst of the pain eased, and then began wrapping a bandage around his waist to hold it in place. As he did, he became aware of a strong smell of gasoline and hazily cast about for its source, trying not to think of the wound being squeezed under the dressing.
And then an icy moment of knowing hit him, even before he’d summoned the thought that would define it.
He hastily got off the bike, and crouched to inspect it. And there, in the spare fuel can, a third of the way from the bottom, was a gash in the metal through which fuel had poured.
“Son of a bitch!” The loss was so overwhelming he could only repeat the words, mindlessly. Oh, God, he was gloriously, righteously, consummately and ultimately fucked.
A full tank was not enough to get him to Jim’s. He’d be skipping along in the sunshine through Rebelville, with supplies enough in his pack for a week but water for two days with a minimum three day hike ahead. And if the rebels or thirst didn’t get him, the lions would probably love to chow down on his sorry, blood-soaked, dehydrated ass.
At that thought he gave a soft, tired chuckle. He’d owed God a death for at least three years here. There were enough ghosts in Kibilisa waiting to drag him down into the dust. Some nights, when he’d been upcountry and the sounds of the men had settled around him in the darkness, when he heard the gut-deep coughs of the lions or high and hard cries of the jackals, he could almost feel his body sinking into the rocks and the dust, spreading out into the velvety blackness with a kind of aimless awe and grief, being pulled out and down and in to the heart of the country by hands long dead under his own.
He stood up, pulled his pack onto his back, swung a leg over the Norton, and started her up. Time to head north, as far as he could go. Once the gas ran out, he’d just take it on foot. See what happened. Kubanda kyoweka. It’s all one under God.
Nine years in the country, and he knew the language, was beginning to know the people. He understood their pragmatism better than he understood the sophistries of Dallas. If he had to die here then it wouldn’t be through a lack of understanding, and it wouldn’t be with any kind of resentment. Kibilisa had taught him something about struggle and courage. It was also beginning to teach him acceptance. Chapter Two