The Extinct

CHAPTER

4





Blood coated Thomas’s hands.

He sat near the fire, watching the flames flicker in darkness; whiskey from a flask kept in his breast pocket. This far inland from the coast Andhra Pradesh had little light pollution; the sky blanketed in the sparkle of stars; moon a bright slit in the blackness over lush plains.

Thomas glanced at the other men around the fire; faces worn and tired, small droplets of black darkening their clothes as if it had rained blood. Robert Mason. Not a hunter. Scared and maybe a little dangerous because of his fear. James Holden sat poking a stick into the fire, watching the crimson embers dance in the flames.

The hunt had gone well. They’d followed a herd of elephants for more than four days before the bull separated himself from the rest and they could begin taking shots. The Andhra Pradeshn Park Authorities kept close tabs on all hunters, especially those with British and American passports. Not unwarranted considering the history of colonialism and abuse suffered at the hands of the crown. Rape and genocide and slavery. The people here had no trust for white men; even those that paid handsomely.

If they had killed a cow, or worse, a calf, they would have had to spend the rest of their funds bribing their way out of a prison sentence.

Mason spit in the fire and said, “I’m going to miss these nights. The grass has a sweet smell to it here I haven’t found anywhere else.”

“Like cow shit with sugar on it,” James Holden said. He looked out over a herd of Sambar deer, a dark roving mass in the pale light of the moon. “Good hunt though. Thought Thomas’d drop the rifle and run when that bull charged.”

“That’s the best time to shoot,” Thomas said. “Granted they’re more impervious to pain, but they face you squarely and you can have an excellent target if you know what to look for. Asian elephants here hold their necks at a forty five degree angle so it makes it harder. But an African elephant keeps it horizontal so when they charge, you have a direct shot into the brain. I remember—”

A noise echoed through the night. It seemed to come from the east and they turned toward it. Nothing they could see except tall grass and weeds.

Thomas was the expert of the group but also happened to be the drunkest right now and didn’t feel like chasing sounds in the dark. “There are tigers,” Thomas said, a hint of pleasure in his voice as he saw the looks of his companions. “I wouldn’t worry though; I’ve led tours through this region for thirty years and they haven’t killed a tourist in, oh, a good ten.”

More noises in the dark, closer this time. They seemingly came from the darkness itself as there was little else to hide behind.

“Sounds like laughing,” James said.

“There’s no people here,” Thomas said, putting down his flask and gulping coffee out of a tin cup before picking up his rifle. He slung it over his shoulder and began walking toward the noise, leaving his boots behind and opting to go barefoot.

The dirt and grass was warm under his feet; fire a warm glow in the distance behind him. Their kill lay like a boulder up ahead; the blood congealed in a thick gelatin around the carcass. Thomas kneeled and checked the rifle; chambered. He held it up in front of him, the shoulder rest tucked firmly against the crook between his chest and arm.

Except for the symphony of crickets that increased in volume as he came away from the fire, there was little noise. No laughing; hooves in the distance. Thomas strained to hear, exploring with his eyes like they could pick up subtle noises that his ears could not. As if his hearing needed to adjust to the darkness as much as his sight, he began to hear something. A slow, rhythmic breathing. Deep; a pant.

It was an animal.

From the depth of the breathing, large. Rifle up to firing position and looking down the sight, the barrel firmly aimed at the breathing. Coming from the carcass? Maybe the bull isn’t dead? But the moonlight illuminated the carcass enough that he could see the great belly of the elephant which would have been rising and falling if it were alive.

Light behind the carcass. Yellow orbs reflecting the moon with confident fierceness bred by constant struggle. Figure behind the orbs takes shape: thick head, robust body and short legs. A tigress.

Growling, preparing to defend her scavenged meal. Thomas takes aim, the barrel pointed squarely at her face, waiting for her to lunge. Wait until she moved; she might retreat. It’d be better if she retreated.

The beast turned its head west, toward the camp. Thomas could see the muscles bulge underneath her fur, even with the moon as his only candle. The tigress let out a soft whine and then turned away from the carcass, building to a slow gallop; disappearing into the night.

Thomas exhaled; he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath but now his lungs ached. Would he have been able to hit his target, a moving target, at night?

Thomas stood and wiped at the dirt on his knee. Fingers tingled as blood returned to them; wave of calm washed over him as he looked up to the moon, as if the light could warm his face like sunshine.

A roar.

Bassed so heavily Thomas felt it in his feet, rising from the ground. It was like the plains themselves had roared; the sound coming from all directions. It filled the air and echoed across the valley.

As he tried to reign in his thoughts, he realized there was another sound. They were screams.

Thomas sprinted through the grass toward the fire, the sounds of screams echoing in his head. Then silence. He stopped, panting. Heart pounding in his ears as adrenaline coursed through him like fire. He started running again until he was near the camp; no one there, a spilled flask of whiskey lying in the dirt, blood spattered across it. Their tents were torn to shreds; supplies smashed into the ground. Logs had been knocked out of the fire and the smoldering wood was cooling in the night air.

Thomas crept past the fire, not breeching the limit of illumination less than a few meters away. Couldn’t see anything aside from the tall grass though his senses were more attuned from fear. The fire dying. Taking a few paces back to stand next to it. Listening to his own breath as sweat rolled down his forehead.

There were eyes in the darkness. Not the circular yellow of the tigress; pinpoints of red. Small flames hanging above the ground. The eyes were affixed on him and he couldn’t move. His muscles were heavy and tight; a conscious effort to relax them.

Another roar ripped through the night followed by what sounded like laughter. He could hear the deep pant of the beast’s breathing and the slow thumping of an immense heart. Few paces back and the red eyes grow tighter, small slits nearly invisible in the night; a low growl.

Thomas knew he had two options: shoot or run. He was too close to get off more than one shot. One shot in the dark at a quick moving animal. He thought about standing still; not giving ground as sometimes worked with the big cats. Although predators could smell the sweat of fear and hear the increased beating of their prey’s heart, nothing triggered their savage instincts more than fleeing prey. They were meant to chase rather than just be fed.

His mind was blank, no thoughts able to penetrate the cloud of anxiety and fear. A bare instinct of survival bubbled up in his gut, and he ran.

The wind was against his face as he focused on keeping his balance on the uneven ground. Periphery of his vision blurred until he could only see what was in front him; a vague impression that he didn’t have a clear run ahead. He didn’t need to look behind him; he felt the enormous animal’s paws hitting the ground; sound of heavy breathing closing in on him. Thomas sprinted for the elephant carcass as he felt hot breath against the skin of his neck. He bounded over the bull’s carcass, hoping to lure the predator to the stink of meat and blood and away from him. His foot caught on the rough hide and then a white flash, his jaw absorbing most of the impact as he hit the ground.

Dazed and on his back, the blood begins to seep out of his mouth. The animal behind him slows.

A shot crackled through the air and Thomas looked toward the fire. James stood with a rifle in one arm, his clothes torn and stained black. His other arm was nearly severed at the shoulder; pouring blood into dry earth. He tossed the rifle to the ground and pulled a .45 caliber Desert Eagle handgun from his waist.

The animal turned and ran for him. As Thomas lost consciousness the last things that reached his ears were gunshots and screams, and the wet sounds of an animal feeding.