Run Through the Jungle by Fictionwriter
Written for: the ci5_boxoftricks big bang challenge
Title: Run Through The Jungle
Author: Fictionwriter margaret_r
Artist name: togsos
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Wordcount: 24,018
Warnings: None
Summary: Cowley assigns Bodie and Doyle to watch a South African journalist in London. What should have been a routine job turns into a dangerously explosive situation with international implications. Unexpected surprises follow the lads as they try to untangle the web of intrigue, and their own evolving feelings for each other
Notes: Thank you to togsos for the fantastic art and to moth2fic for her impeccable beta work and unfailing encouragement and support. Thanks also to the wonderful mods for putting together Box of Tricks BigBang
Although this is a work of fiction, details of the activities of the South African Department of Information, uncovered by Rand Daily Mail journalists, are based on fact.
To see all togsos 's beautiful artwork click here
Link to E-reader: E-reader files
PROLOGUE
Whoa, thought it was a nightmare,
Lo, it's all so true,
They told me, "Don't go walkin' slow
'Cause the Devil's on the loose. "
Better run through the jungle,
Better run through the jungle,
Better run through the jungle,
Woa, don't look back to see.
The bakkie - old, dented, its colour partly obscured by a heavy coating of dust - skidded to a halt on the dirt track, stirring up even more dust to settle over the bodywork.
The vehicle remained as it was for several minutes. Then the passenger door of the cab opened and a man stepped out, his dark skin showing the dust that would have permeated the inside of the vehicle as well as the outside. Seconds later the driver’s door also opened but this time the figure was a woman, dressed in jeans and a khaki shirt, her pale features burnished to a tan by constant exposure to the sun.
“Beitbridge is about 10k’s. This is as far as I can take you without us being seen by the border guards,” she told him.
“Yes, I know.”
The woman walked around to where the man was standing by the door of the bakkie. Tentatively she reached out to touch his arm.
“Are you sure this is the only answer?” she asked yet again, not wanting to hear the answer but hoping, somehow, for a reprieve.
“You know it is,” the man told her, reaching up to draw a finger down her brow. “I have to go, now.”
She nodded and whispered her farewell, the tears running down her face. “Hamba kahle.”
“Sala kahle,” he returned, brushing softly at the wetness. Then he was gone, heading towards the swiftly flowing river barely visible between the distant fever trees gathered along its bank.
She watched until the heat waves made his image blur and shimmer, distorting it. Then she returned to the bakkie and drove back the way she had come.
==============
Arms ploughing rhythmically, the swimmer cut through the slow moving water as quickly as he could, fear of the monsters lurking in the shadows of the river driving him on as much as the fear of discovery from the riverbank. The moon, playing hide and seek behind drifting clouds, sent silvery glints of light flashing then fading over the water, giving out tantalising glimpses of the far side. Not far now, not far. Keep going, keep quiet.
Finally the promise was real and the bank was there. Under cover of the hanging vegetation he drifted slowly, catching his breath and waiting for the moonlight to evade the clouds long enough to show him a safe landing place. It would be too ironic for him to have come this far, only to stumble over a sleeping croc or stray border guard. Eventually he found the place he wanted, a relatively open patch of muddy riverbank, and dragged himself from the water to lie in the chill air. Standing for a moment in the still night he gazed back over the grey-green greasy river to the land he had left. Finally he turned and headed north.
By the time the sun was rising he had reached his destination. Herd boys were moving cattle from the kraal and out through the mielie fields into the dawn light, the women already preparing food over their fires and cook pots. Perched between Mopani trees, the round thatched huts stretching in a circle looked old and well used. Chickens scratched at the hard earth as babies rolled in the dirt next to them.
His sudden appearance drew their attention and they all stopped to stare, the women reflexively retrieving their babies from the ground and balancing them on their hips. But he ignored them and made his way to the largest hut in the centre of the village.
Stopping in front of the blanket-covered doorway, he waited. The man who emerged was old, grey haired, his face and body covered in scars, but for all that he held a power about him, wrapped as close as the leopard skin cape draped around his shoulders.
He bowed slightly to the old man, his hands held in front of him palms upward, right hand on top of left.
“Sawubona.”
Ngikhona,” the old man responded, then his face light up in a smile and he clasped the man’s hands. “Johnny, you made it!”
“Yes, I made it.
“Good. Come eat. Rest. The comrades will be here tomorrow. They will take you north with them.”
“It is good.”
Johnny paused as he was about to enter the hut and, as he had done at the river, looked back in the direction he had come, the home he was leaving and the people he loved, who loved him. Then he entered.
Part One