The Devil's Lions - Part 3
Part 3 - Reign of Blood
Tsavo became a nightmare. The lions attacked wherever and whenever they felt like. On the edges of camp mostly, occasionally near the bridge site, sometimes by the depot. They attacked and killed in the day, in the twilight, at the dead of night. Sometimes they attacked for several days in a row; one time they didn’t come near camp for nearly a week, but then killed two men in the middle of the day. They worked together, but they also worked separately, without fear of man, gun or fire, with no pattern or reason beyond bloodlust. There was nothing Sam could do to stop it.
The lions outmaneuvered him, and he could only be in so many places at once. The few armed guards that were in camp to help keep the worker riots to a minimum were not brave enough to hunt the lions either. Rumors began to fly about what the lions were, because it was clear they were no ordinary animals. Man-eaters were always loners. They did not hunt together. There had to be some other reasoning. And they were no longer just the lions. They were The Ghost and The Darkness.
The men repeated the theories back and forth to each other, building their own fear and the lion’s terror with every word.
They are spirits of dead medicine men, returning to earth to spread madness.
They are the devil. They have come to stop the white man from ruling the world.
The latter were closer than they knew to the truth. The lions were demons. Animals possessed by demons. It was something Sam had never heard of. Demons possessed people, that much he knew. They could be halted by salt, harmed by iron and holy water, expelled with exorcisms. You could trap them with carefully drawn sigils known as devil’s traps. Demons had been the last thing he had hunted with his family before he had left. And it had not been a good experience.
But he could not let the men see any of that. Their superstitions were strong enough to cause a panic that only added to the real terror of the man-eating lions, supernatural or not. If Sam was seen to cave to those superstitions, or similar ones, he would lose what little rational control he had over the camp. Nevertheless, he found himself painting out a devil’s trap near the door of his tent, hidden under the scrap of carpet he kept there as a welcome matt. He mixed rock salt in with the lead pellets of his shotgun shells, and kept a flask of holy water on his belt, next to his usual canteen. But he continued to reassure the men that the man-eaters were just lions. Bloodthirsty and mad, but just animals.
“What do you think they are, Samuel?” he asked one night as they sat inside Sam’s tent, listening for the sound of lion attacks.
Samuel was silent for a long moment, hands tightening around the grip of the rifle, shoulders hunched. “I know this,” he said after a moment. “They are evil. And what better place for evil to walk the earth than Tsavo?”
“What do you mean?”
“I said Tsavo is the worst place on earth. But this is what the word tsavo means: a place of slaughter.”
*
Sam couldn’t do anything directly against the lions, at least not by himself. He tried, but the damn things seemed to mock him. If he was in the area when they made a kill, at least one of the pair would stop, look at him, and flash either the yellow or black eyes, as if to remind him of his inability to stop them without returning to his hunter roots. And the attacks were too irregular for him to focus on hunting them as well as maintaining control over the camp and building a bridge. Thirty men had been killed in addition to Angus and Mahina. So he sent off several telegraphs to Beaumont, requesting troops with firepower; the men had rallied behind the decision. He explained how it was nearly impossible to get the men to work at a decent rate if they were not only terrified but also being slaughtered by the lions. If the bridge was going to be finished on schedule, he needed the troops.
The answer he received didn’t do anything to put his mind at ease. Beaumont, clearly frustrated by the sudden lack of progress and believing that the lions were an excuse for Sam’s failings, said he would not send troops.
I hired you under the assumption that you were competent. We are losing this race every day that you do not complete the bridge. Do you expect me to explain to the world that the British Empire failed because of a few minor difficulties with the local wildlife? If you cannot handle shooting a few overgrown cats, I will find a professional hunter who can. I have my sights on several, the topmost being Remington. Expect the help if I do not receive word that you’ve killed the lions and are back on schedule. If you can do neither, expect that I will use all of my considerable power to ruin your reputation as an engineer.
I told you you’d hate me.
Sam crumpled the missive and threw it across the tent. He slumped in his chair and scrubbed a hand over his face, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. Shaving had fallen by the wayside the last few days; watching men under his charge and protection getting ripped apart did that. His gaze flicked to his writing desk, suddenly wanting to reach out to Jess, even just through a letter.
But he snorted. What would he tell her? That he was plagued nightly by nightmares of men being killed by lions with demonic eyes? That more often than not he woke to see the ground soaked in blood? That the deaths were his fault? No, that was a burden he could not put on her.
There was a rustle and a thump as Samuel approached the tent and knocked his staff against the ground. “Bwana? What is the word?"
"We are on our own. Unless he finds a big game hunter." Sam sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, messing it up even more. "I have a plan, though."
"Yes?"
"Yes. Can you have an empty boxcar taken to the northern side of camp, near the edge? Most of the attacks have been taking place there."
“Your plan needs a boxcar?”
“It’s a good plan,” Sam said defensively. “I used it before on a tiger in India.”
Samuel’s shoulders relaxed a little. “Ah. It worked there?”
“Um… actually, it didn’t. But the theory is sound.”
After a long moment, Samuel said, “I will have the boxcar moved.”
It was a simple plan, which upheld Sam’s belief that it would work. With the materials easily at hand, it took less than a day to set up. The boxcar was transformed into a trap. It was surrounded by a sort of funnel of the thorn fences, which encouraged the animal to an opening opposite the car. One end was blocked off by sturdy bars that were sunk into the floor of the car and bolted to the ceiling. The other end was open, but would be sealed off by a falling door made of the same heavy bars and chains. A tripwire would trigger the door when the lion entered. Then, with the animal in the confined space and a shooter safe behind the bars, it could be shot.
At least that was the theory. The first time he had tried it, the tiger simply had refused to be lured inside, despite all efforts to do so. It had been a man-eater, but a rather wary one. These lions, who scorned every sort of rule about when and where to attack, seemed far more likely to enter the trap. Yet, they were not ordinary lions. So after the workers had left, he painted a devil’s trap on the ceiling in dark paint, so it would not attract attention. And he put a line of salt down around the base of the bars. He reloaded bullets with iron rounds and doused them in holy water. His one shotgun was kept near and the shells filled with rock salt.
All that was needed was bait. Sam was certain the lions were in fact coming after him. It made sense. The yellow eyed demon that had killed his mother, the fact that the attacks didn’t start until he arrived… and even if they weren’t specifically targeting him, he had the duty to protect the men. He was the only one who knew the true nature of the lions. He had to be the one who was bait. So night after night, he stayed in the boxcar.
The attacks stopped. There were no lion sightings. And Sam was once again dangerously sleep deprived. But he was convinced that the trap would work. It was believable enough that an ordinary lion would enter, and once inside, the devil’s trap would keep the demon from fleeing. Shooting the lion wouldn’t stop the demon, but it would put it out of commission and keep it trapped until Sam could exorcise it and burn the body for good measure. So he kept the trap baited.
Surprisingly, finding volunteers wasn’t as hard as he thought. Three men from the Indian side of camp actually approached him. They were two brothers and a cousin, who, along with thieving and possibly murdering in their youth, had also hunted tigers successfully for the British railway on occasion. Their rifles were in good shape, and their aim steady. So Sam let them spend their nights in the boxcar, and lightened their duties during the day so they would stay fresh.
His own nights were not much better than they had been. Nightmares and strange dreams resurfaced. Flashes of demonic eyes slipped in an out of his peripheral vision as he walked across the night time grassland, rifle in hand, struggling to find his way to somewhere. Other times all he saw was blood. Blood would pool wherever his hands touched, and the screams of dying men filled the air. And always the stench of sulfur mixed with the wild stink of the big cats fill his nostrils. He would wake in a cold sweat, exhausted. And the trap remained empty of anything besides the three hunters.
Then, one night, his dreams shifted form again. He recognized it. It was the same feeling that had overcome him when Mahina had been killed. But it was different, as well. He saw from all angles. He was the lion as it swept across the camp, following the line of the thorn fence. He could see the three men, dozing behind the bars of the trap. And despite his awareness of the situation, he could not force himself awake.
He watched as the lion stalked up to the trap, felt the coiled strength of its muscles, saw the hunters still sleeping. The lion’s paw brushed across the tripwire, and the door slammed down. With wild gasps, the men sprang to their feet. There were several heartbeats of silence as men and lion regarded each other. Then, with a roar, the lion sprang forward.
The scene became a confusion of movement and sound and terror. Sam saw everything at once, the impressions and images overwhelming him, but he managed to snatch at details. The lion slammed, not into the bars, but just short, stopped by the line of the devil’s trap. But the reverberation of power hit the men, and they started firing. Bullets snapped and sang around the trap. Roars continued to shake the air, and the men screamed in return. A wild shot sent a bullet towards the roof. It cut a chunk of wood out, and broke the devil’s trap.
The lion sprang again, and slammed its massive bulk into the bars. They rocked and shook in their sockets. The demon’s eyes twisted to black as it hit the line of salt. It couldn’t cross, and slammed its body against the bars again. They jiggled and broke the salt line. The lion’s massive paws reached through the gaps, reaching for the men. One man dropped his rifle and scrambled to the back of the trap, trying to get out. Another jumped back and knocked over the lantern in the corner. The burning oil set flame to the straw scattered across the floor. Fire filled the trap in seconds.
One man still had his rifle and fired a few more shots. They whizzed past the lion and hit the chain on the door, breaking the link. A gap was made, and the lion spun and leapt out into the first grey hints of dawn.
Sam woke with a gasp, soaked with sweat and terrified. From across the camp, he heard the terrified screams of the three men as they worked their way out of the now burning boxcar. But as proof as to how much the lions had terrorized the camp, there was no reaction. Everyone stayed in their tents and stayed quiet, hoping the lions would not come for them next. Sam slumped back and threw an arm over his eyes. True dawn would arrive soon enough.
*
Despite the fact that he had “seen” the whole incident, and the men were properly shamed and eager to correct their mistakes, Sam’s temper flared. Standing in the rather charred and still smoky interior of the trap, his voice snapped like gunshots in the small area.
“Of course it was moving! Did you expect it to sit down and pose for you?” He glanced towards the ceiling and saw the notch in the wood that had broken the devil’s trap and swore. “This worked, the plan worked. He came in, got trapped,” his voice rose, “and was less than fifteen feet away from the three of you, and you couldn’t even wound it!” He turned and stomped out of the boxcar. “I should have given you slings and rock salt, not rifles.”
Samuel met him around the corner of the trap. “There is not a trace of blood, just tracks.”
“How could all of them missed every one of those shots?”
“It does not matter!” Abdullah appeared from the rear of the trap. “The devil has come to Tsavo!”
Sam repressed the urge to roll his eyes. It was a demon here, not the devil, nothing more. And Abdullah had been increasing the unease in camp rather than settling it. Sam had had enough of him.
“You don’t believe that, and you know it. They are just lions.” He strode past him.
“Now you are telling me my beliefs?” Abdullah rushed to keep up with Sam’s long strides. “I don’t think so!”
“I wasn’t and you know it, so don’t force it!” Sam snapped before taking a deep breath and continuing after the line of lion spoor in the red dirt to where it disappeared towards the tall grass. “You’re right. We do have a problem in Tsavo…” It was only then that he realized what had been rumbling on the edge of his hearing.
A crowd of men surged into the space between the thorn fence funnel and the grass. Samuel stepped to his side, but even the presence of the camp liaison wasn’t enough to slow the crowd.
“Finally, we agree!” Abdullah crowed. “We do! You are the problem in Tsavo!” The men roared in agreement and surged up behind their leader.
Sam’s temper flared at the display of rebellion and overall stupidity. But a tide of fear swept over him as well. He had barely maintained the respect of the men over the last few weeks, and if he lost what little he had now, there would be no turning back. Even if he managed to kill the lions and get rid of the demons, getting the bridge built on time seemed more and more unlikely. He couldn’t back down now.
He felt his chest puff out, his spine straighten, and he glared down at Abdullah. “Be careful-”
But Abdullah refused to be cowed. “You don’t tell me ‘careful’, you don’t tell me anything!” The mob shuffled forward; work tools were hefted like weapons. “We are sick and tired of your lies!”
“What lies?” Sam demanded.
“You say that these are just lions, but you paint wards around your tent! You painted a ward on your trap. There is salt and iron among your bullets! There is a stink of sulfur wherever the animals go! And it did not start until you came, Lion Man! These are not lions, they are devils! And you brought them!”
Abdullah’s knowledge rocked Sam for a heartbeat. Civilians were never supposed to know about the monsters in the dark, it was one of the rules of hunting. Leave the bystanders as innocent as possible. But worse than that was the added fear and superstition, which would only fuel the insanity of the men. Already a chant of Lion Man, Simba Mtu, Lion Man, rippled through the crowd.
“Listen to me,” Sam started.
“No! You listen while I talk, now!” Abdullah shouted as he stepped up into Sam’s space, the mob surging forward.
Before Sam could react, a long barreled pistol appeared and pressed against the side of Abdullah’s head.
A deep, whiskey-rough voice said, “Change of plans, Chuckles.” Then his voice snapped out over the crowd. “Get back! Get them all back!”
Samuel and Abdullah both shouted in a tangle of three different languages, and the crowd shifted away, stunned and unsure. Sam stood rooted in place.
Everyone’s attention shifted from Sam and Abdullah to the stranger. Tall, though not as tall as Sam, he towered over the rabble-rouser and most of the mob. The pistol wasn’t his only weapon he wore openly; a rifle was over one shoulder and a strange shaped knife hung from his belt. His clothes showed signs of hard wear but were of good quality. His face was strong jawed and weathered by the elements, but his eyes were sharp and hard as he glanced around to ensure the mob had backed off.
“Now,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “you listen while I talk. Cuz you got a question that needs answering. Will I pull this trigger?”
“You don’t know what has happened here!” Abdullah began, voice wavering.
Samuel said sharply, “He will pull the trigger, Abdullah!”
“The devil has come to Tsavo!”
The stranger smirked, but the curl of his lip resembled a snarl. “You’re right. The devil has come to Tsavo. But you know what’s worse? Me.” The pistol pressed a little harder into Abdullah's turban. “I’m the thing that gives devils nightmares.”
There was a long moment before Abdullah said, “I’m a man of peace.”
The smirking snarl twisted into an ironic grin as the stranger swept a slow glance around at the now silent mob. “You sound like a man who wants to live.”
“Most certainly. Absolutely. Yes!”
The pistol clicked as the man uncocked it and then slipped it into a holster. “Good choice. Abdullah, right?” After getting a nod of affirmation he said, “I’m sure we’ll meet again. The camp isn’t that big.”
“I think it’s been a pleasure.”
The stranger smirked again and turned. “Hey ya, Sammy,” he said.
“Dean?” Sam breathed, still frozen in place.
“You have any other big brothers?”
Sam couldn’t believe it. Tsavo was the last place he’d expected to see his brother. Or his brother was the last person he expected to see in Tsavo. But it was Dean. Older, harder-edged and apparently more dangerous and just as much of a protective older brother than Sam remembered, but still Dean.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. It came out harsher than he expected.
There was a flicker of annoyance and pain across Dean’s face. “I’m doing the job, Sammy, which is more than you can say.”
Sam huffed out a pained laugh. “The job?”
“Saving people, hunting things, the family business. Or did you forget?”
“I didn’t forget, Dean; I just wanted a normal life! Are we seriously going to have this argument again? After all these years?”
“Nope. Cuz I’m not arguing. And we have things to do. Or at least I do, if you’re not into the hunting thing anymore. He glanced at the crowd. “Though from what they were saying, you haven’t forgotten everything I’ve taught you.” Then his gaze turned to the grassland border, and he said, “Hang on.”
He whistled sharply, and with a wild war whoop, a dozen Maasai warriors sprang into sight. Sam stared with the rest of the crowd as the red-dyed warriors chanted and stomped their feet and leapt into the air in a strange dance. The Maasai were renowned for their lion-hunting skills; they hunted the big cats with spears and shields and pure athleticism to prove their manhood. The long, leaf-bladed spears glinted in the sun as the shafts thumped against rawhide shields. Dean waved at them, and the display ended.
Dean turned to Samuel and held out a hand, and then pulled the other man into a back thumping hug. “Good to see you again, Samuel.”
“And you,” Samuel agreed with a broad smile.
With a gesture at the Maasai, Dean said, “You know I’d rather do the job alone, but at this point I figured I needed the help. I wasn’t sure if it was actually just lions or demons until I got here. They want ten head of cattle for their services.”
“Very well.”
Sam looked between the two of them in shock, unable to speak.
“I need to finish sorting my gear, but I’ll see you both later,” Dean said, but he looked at Sam the whole time. He grinned and said, “It’s good to see you again, Sammy,” and then strode off into the dispersing crowd.
It took a few moments, but Sam finally managed to speak. He turned sharply to Samuel. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew him? When did you meet him?”
“You did not ask. And as you did not speak happily of your family and your past, it was not my place to bring up the topic. And I did not know that Dean would come here. You never said which hunter Beaumont was sending.”
“He just said that he was looking for Remington… oh damn it,” Sam trailed off, looking in the direction Dean had disappeared. “I’ll be back. I have to talk to my brother.”
*
He found Dean halfway across camp, unpacking a bag onto a cot. A cot he had dragged into Sam’s tent and shoved in the one empty spot. Sam stopped by the entrance and took a deep breath.
“Dean, what are you doing?”
“You’re supposed to be the college boy, here, Sammy. Did they drill all the common sense outta you there?”
Sam didn’t rise to the bait and decided to be as direct as possible. “Beaumont said he was going to get Remington.”
“Oh, yeah,” Dean broke a sawed off shotgun open at the breech and glanced down the barrel before turning a grin back at Sam. “I figured we’ve got the same last name as one gun company, why not use another one? Beaumont didn’t do his research as well as he thought he did. He wanted a hunter with the name Remington. He got one.”
“Where’s Dad? If we are really hunting the yellow-eyed demon here, where is he?”
Dean actually blanched. “I lost track of him. We were on separate hunts. I was finishing off a wendigo in Colorado, and he said he had to follow a lead with the yellow-eyed demon. He thought it was going to London. By the time I got out of the mountains, I couldn’t get into contact with him. Even Bobby can’t find him.”
“Dad can stay lost if he wants too, he’s done it before,” Sam replied sharply, “I’m just surprised he wanted to stay lost from you.” Then Dean’s other statement hit him. “London? Oh, God, Jess!” He turned to the entrance of the tent before he realized what he was doing, visions of black eyes and the stink of sulfur closing around Jess.
“Whoa, hold your horses!” Dean reached out and grabbed Sam by the arm, stopping him and spinning him around. “She’s fine.”
“And how do you know?” He fought to get loose.
“Cuz I checked on her before I left, and had a couple hunters - Tamara and Isaac - set up to keep an eye on her.”
“What? Why? Why would you do that?”
“Cuz she’s your wife. And there were demon rumors flying around. Better safe than sorry.”
“But…” Sam felt his brow pinch in confusion. “How did you know where she was? I haven’t kept in touch with you or Dad for these past years. Dad said if I left, I should stay gone, and I did.”
Dean took a careful breath. “Sammy, you know Dad. He gets mad as hell and can stay that way for a long time. But when you left, and then went to college, and got married… he was damn proud of you. Still mad at you, but proud. We kept tabs on you, with help from Bobby.”
There was a long stretch of silence as Sam tried to come to grips with the fact that the family he thought had left behind hadn’t stayed that way. He blinked a few times and then said. “Thanks. For keeping an eye on Jess. But I’m still going to send a telegram to her, now.”
“If it makes you feel better,” Dean allowed. “But we have to deal with these lions of yours.”
“I don’t need your help here,” Sam said automatically.
“Listen, Sammy. I don’t want to steal your thunder. I don’t want to have anything to do with the bridge. Hell, I don't even care about any recognition for killing the man-eaters. But you’ve got a camp full of twitchy, way too superstitious and observant natives, a real issue with lions, and probably a real demon problem. I’ll do the job like I always have, and be outta your hair.” Dean eyebrows lifted suddenly, “Which should get cut, really. They were calling you Lion Man because of it, weren’t they?”
“You’re an asshole, you know that, right?” Sam said, but a faint smile tugged at his lips.
“It’s only cuz you’re my oversized little brother. So, what do you say we go and kill some demons?”
“We can’t kill demons, Dean. Even you should know that. We can kill the lions and exorcise the demons.”
“We can kill them,” Dean argued. “With this.” He lifted the long barreled pistol that he had threatened Abdullah with.
Sam stared for a moment and then gasped. “Is that...?”
“Samuel Colt’s pistol? Yep.”
Sam held out a tentative hand and Dean handed the gun over. It was heavy, but well balanced; the octagonal barrel decorated with twisting vines and a Latin inscription Non Timebo Mala.
Sam whispered, "I thought it was a legend."
"And we thought vampires were extinct," Dean said, and added at Sam's shocked expression, "Hey, if you're out of the game for as long as you were, you’re gonna miss stuff.” He shrugged. “But this gun will kill anything.” He narrowed his eyes. “Wait a minute. Backtrack. You said that we’re hunting Yellow Eyes. I said it was in London. Why would you think it’s here?”
“I saw it,” Sam said after a moment. “One lion showed up, killed a man, and then the second came, killed my friend Angus. One had black eyes like any demon, and one had yellow eyes.”
“Son of a bitch. It really is here,” Dean breathed. Then he lifted the Colt again. “This’ll kill the yellow-eyed demon. He won’t be back when we’re done with him.”
Sam felt some of the tension ease out of his shoulders. Dean was here, and as much as it had upset him, he instinctively fell into the old patterns of working with his brother. And the addition of the Colt… for the first time in a long time, since coming to Africa, he felt balanced again. “So, when do we start?”
Dean grinned. “That’s my boy.” He holstered the pistol and picked up his sawed off shotgun. “I gotta go talk to the Maasai. Go tell Samuel that we’re hunting lions in the morning.” But even as Sam sighed and turned, he said, “Hang on a second, I changed my mind. We’re going to the hospital.”
“Why?”
“I have a hunch.”
At the hospital, Dean walked straight in, but stopped with a cough and hand over his nose and mouth. “Yup, just as bad as I thought.” He glanced back at Sam as if to make sure he was still there, he said, “Alright! I want a new hospital put together, and done by tomorrow night.”
Hawthorne appeared from the rows of mosquito netting. “What? That’s a terrible idea, moving everyone, moving all the equipment.”
“You’re the doctor, right?” At Hawthorne’s nod, he continued waspishly, “Oh, I get it, you must know best.”
“And who the hell are you?” Hawthorne demanded.
“I’m here to get rid of your lion problem. But since you’re so smart, I won’t bother telling you that this place reeks of flesh and blood, and what that might do for a man-eater. Or the fact that there are tracks right outside, which means they’re probably thinking that this place is overdue for a hit.” Dean got up into Hawthorne’s space and stayed there, face still and blank.
Still by the door, Sam tensed. Dean looked passive, but still and silent was one of his more dangerous modes.
Several long heartbeats later, Hawthorne blinked and looked down. Dean didn’t shift, but he raised his voice to the entire room, “If anyone thinks I’m an idiot, speak now or forever hold your peace!”
With a sigh of defeat, Hawthorne glanced back up, but still didn’t meet Dean’s eyes or say a word.
“Good.” Dean turned and strode back out of the hospital.
Sam followed and found himself instinctively matching his strides to Dean’s. “What was that all about?” he asked when they were out of earshot of the hospital.
“The place is a mess, Sam. Even you can see that.” Dean didn’t slow or look at him.
“Yeah, but why do you care? It’s not exactly like you to be humanitarian.”
“That tin shed is on the edge of camp. If we move a big chunk of everyone more towards the center of camp, it’ll give us space to lay down devil’s traps and get the lions in range of the Colt.”
“Then why are the Maasai here?”
“They’re gonna help drive the lions into range out away from camp, like we would normal lions. If we can’t get them there, we’ll get them here in camp.”
Sam stopped. “You have two plans? Two? Who are you and what did you do to my brother?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean stopped and turned, getting well into Sam’s space.
Sam didn’t back down. “Dean, you were not the guy planning any of our hunts. You were content to run out and shoot the first monster you saw.”
“What, just cuz I didn’t go to college means I’m an idiot?” He snorted. “I’ve been hunting on my own for a while now, Sam. A guy learns a thing or two.” He walked away without a backward glance.
For a few long moments, Sam just stood there, blinking. Dean had changed. But so had he. He had gone to college, traveled halfway across the globe, got married and started a family. Hunters didn’t do that. Hunters also didn’t stay alive long if they didn’t learn how to adapt and gain new skills. That was what Dean had done. When it had been the three of them hunting together, it had made sense that they all had their roles - Dad leading and finding hunts, Sam researching, Dean focusing on the actual hunt. Sam began to see what his departure had done to that unit. That fracture had forced Dean and Dad to shift and redevelop their skills.
It was just a strange feeling, to see his brother changed. So many things had felt natural as soon as Dean had shown up. But the change in both of them was undeniable. Sam took a careful breath and followed his brother’s path, back towards the center of camp.
*
The rest of the day flew by, and as darkness fell, the Maasai built up a massive bonfire, leading one of the ten cattle into the circle of light. Deep throated chants broken by high pitched yips rose into the air with the sparks of the fire and the lean bodies of the warriors as they jumped in rhythm.
Weapons and gear ready for the next day, Sam found himself wandering down to the Maasai’s little camp. Everyone else was tucked into their tents, having been equally cowed by the display that morning. He didn’t get too close to the ceremony, not wanting to disturb it. But the movement and sound, sketched out against the backdrop of flame was mesmerizing. The chanting beat a puse that didn’t quite match his own, but wove with it. The unknown words and careful rhythm infecting him with a strange impulse to move, to hunt.
“Yeah, it’s catchy.” Dean’s voice cut through the spell the Maasai had woven.
Sam blinked rapidly. “What?”
“The ritual. They’re trying to convince each other that they’re still brave, basically.”
“So it’s nothing more than a massive pep talk?”
From the fringes of camp, one of the tiny herd of cattle was brought into the ring of dancers. It was a young bull from the looks of it.
“Yeah. I was worried the first time I saw it, because it involves blood, and really, I still don’t quite understand what they are chanting.”
“Blood?”
“Yeah.”
Even as Sam turned his attention back to the dancers, one of the warriors went up to the bull and jabbed at its neck with a long thin knife; a stream of blood followed, black in the firelight. The bull bellowed, but it was held firmly by its nose ring. The warrior lifted a wooden cup to the wound, and the other dancers stopped their chant to whoop and gather around. Then, as the cup was lifted and passed around, a new chant was started.
“Yeah, that would worry me a bit too.”
Dean grimaced. “They tried to convince me to join them, the first time I hunted a lion with them. But it was too much like a vampire for me to deal with.”
“Vampires drink human blood.”
“Apparently some rough it out on cattle blood.”
Sam blew out a breath. “You’re right. I have missed a lot.”
“I’ll get you caught up,” Dean said with a grin. “Can’t have the guy watching my back be slow on the uptake.”
“Dean,” Sam started slowly, “You do know that after this hunt is over, nothing’s going to change right?”
“What? Of course it will change. I need your help tracking down Dad.”
“And why are we tracking down Dad? If he wants to stay lost, he’ll stay lost.”
“That’s the thing, Sammy, I don’t think he’s purposefully staying lost. He was tracking Yellow Eyes. Hell, I expected him to beat me here. The fact that he’s not…It’s not like him to stay gone this long without saying anything.”
Sam sighed. “Look, let’s just deal with the lions. I need to get the bridge built. Then I need to get home to Jess and our baby. And then, if for some strange reason Dad still hasn’t turned up, I’ll consider helping you look for him.”
Dean didn’t say anything, and turned to look out back towards the fire. “Then let’s kill the bastards tomorrow.”
The Maasai ceremony promised to last well into the night, so Sam left Dean and went back to the tent to catch what little sleep he could. He was almost there when Hawthorne appeared.
“Can I help you, Doctor?” he asked, trying to keep the weariness out of his voice.
Hawthorne held out a slip of paper. “A telegram came in for you. And I wanted to offer you this.” He held out a rifle. “It’s more powerful than yours. I thought you might need it tomorrow. I can’t come on the hunt, with setting up the new hospital.”
“I didn’t take you for a hunter.”
“I’m not, but I do like a well-made gun, and collect them. I have several rifles and a few revolvers to rival the one your brother has. And I want those damn lions dead just as much as you. There are too many people getting ripped apart. As a doctor, I take offense to that.”
Sam took the telegram, stuffed it into his pocket and accepted the rifle. It was a good looking gun, but it felt strange in his hands. He preferred his own weapon. Besides which, all of his ammunition had been prepared for demons as well as lions. “Thank you, but I can’t. I know my guns, and besides, you probably should keep a weapon here as back up.”
Hawthorne frowned, but took the rifle back. “I have back up. But if you see it that way… Good luck tomorrow. I hope you kill the bastards.”
“That’s the plan,” Sam replied, and walked away.
Finally in the tent, he remembered the telegram. He barely managed to let the lamp catch and flare to life before trying to read it.
Darling Sam STOP I love your concern but ask you to not worry STOP I am healthy STOP Our son is fine though not here yet STOP We will still visit you in Africa STOP I even have found possible traveling companions STOP Tamara and her husband Isaac have been keeping me company and also wish to see Africa STOP Take care of yourself and I love you STOP Your Jess STOP.
It wasn’t the same as seeing her handwriting, but he clearly heard her voice as he read. The decision to not tell her about the lion trouble bothered him now. If things did not go as planned tomorrow and it took longer to kill the lions, how could he tell her not to come?
“We just have to kill the bastards, then,” he muttered and blew out the lamp.
Back to Part 2 // Onward to Part 4
Notes: In my research, the word Tsavo showed to mean, not as Samuel puts it here, "a place of slaughter", but rather "river". (So the Tsavo River is a bit redundant). But the effect in the film and in the fic couldn't be ignored, so it stayed, as erronous as it may be.