Off in the distance, the Nkomo brothers prepped a tourist group for an evening safari, going over safety procedures. Christopher and Matthew were the only ones allowed guns in this corner of the game park. The trip was a photo hunt only. The brothers continually guarded these lands against poachers—and any competing tour outfits.
Tucker had invested in Luxury Safari Tours several years ago, making him a co-owner with the brothers. Since then, he had only returned to the park a handful of times, leaving the business and lands to the two men. Whenever Tucker sat anywhere for too long, he grew anxious, got antsy to move on. Still, he had enjoyed the idea of the place, a home where he was always welcome.
As he rocked in the chair, he felt a flicker of that wanderlust even now.
Not that he could travel anytime soon.
He had come to Spitskop to recuperate. His ankle remained in a boot splint, but he had removed the hundreds of stitches from his many wounds himself two weeks ago. The brothers had helped. Still, it had taken a painstaking hour. Most of the shrapnel was gone, but he suspected a few slivers remained. The hole in his cheek had left a puckered scar.
It was why he had waited until the late afternoon before commandeering the porch, like he did every day, when he could have the place to himself.
Don’t want to frighten the guests.
While he enjoyed the sunset, he watched a cloud of dust working down the dirt road that led to this parcel. It moved slowly, drawing ever closer. He guessed it was a latecomer to the night’s safari. That road led nowhere else but here.
He took a swig from the beer, then settled the bottle.
He waited.
A newer model Toyota Land Cruiser revealed itself, so dusty it was hard to determine the color. It passed by the turnoff that led to the Nkomo brothers and their open-air trucks. The SUV trundled over the cattle guard and crossed down the curve of the crushed granite driveway. It came to a stop at the foot of the porch.
Tucker considered going back inside.
But then the door popped open, and a familiar figure climbed out.
Frank lifted an arm toward him.
Tucker stopped his rocking, climbed to his feet, and thumped with his boot-splint to the porch rail. “Frank, what are you doing here? Why didn’t you call?”
“Because you would’ve told me not to come.” Frank circled to the rear of the Land Cruiser and popped the tailgate.
The door blocked Tucker’s view. Frank vanished for a few breaths, then stepped back into sight. He kneed the tailgate closed and turned. In both arms, he hauled a plastic transport crate. He carried it toward the steps.
Tucker felt a surge of trepidation.
No . . .
Frank brought the crate up to the porch and lowered it to the whitewashed planks. As he bumped it down, a sharp, furious growl echoed out.
“I’m not ready,” Tucker said. “I told you that.”
Frank ignored him, bent down, and opened the crate door. “They removed him from a puppy mill in Missouri,” he explained. “A real horror show. He was found curled next to his dead mother, the only one of his litter to survive.”
Tucker shook his head, still refusing, but he couldn’t stop himself from dropping to a knee. He stared into the shadowy crate. The three-month-old pup crouched at the back, haunches high, head low. Small dark eyes shone with fury. Hackles shivered with warning. He was clearly a Belgian Malinois, with tawny fur and a black saddle over his back.
“Lackland tested him for their war dog program,” Frank explained. “He failed. Judged him to be too feral, too savage, unredeemable.”
The pup lunged and snapped at him, proving this point, then retreated again.
“I can see why,” Tucker muttered.
Frank put his hands on his hips. “If anyone can tame him, teach him—”
Tucker stood and backed away. The pup slinked to the open crate door, looking ready to bolt, still growling at the world.
“You can train him,” Frank insisted. “I know you can.”
Tucker shook his head. “Not me.”
Behind him, a nose pushed the screen door open.
Tucker pointed back. “He will.”
Kane came thumping out, his front left leg still in its 3D-printed cast.
Frank had saved the dog’s life back on the island, rushing Kane to the medical ward, using the meager supplies still there, doing mouth to mouth. Then the FARDC military had arrived, bringing in a med team. Kane was given the best care. The doctors even managed to salvage his leg.
Still, it remained unknown if Kane would ever fully recover.
If either of them would.
“You need this,” Frank said. “You both do.”
The pup growled, warning them to keep away.
Kane thumped closer, rumbled deeply back, thunder behind his ribs. He stood tall, ears high, glaring sternly.
The pup retreated a step, then slowly lowered flat, driven down by that growl. He dropped his tiny muzzle on the planks, bowing before the true master here.
Kane glanced to Tucker.
He shrugged. “What do you think, buddy? You up to the challenge?”
Kane wagged his tail.
Tucker smiled.
Me, too.
After
Molimbo stands at the edge of the stone ridge under a starlit night. A crescent moon hangs high. Bala keeps beside him, her fur cool, her eyes bright.
Behind him, the mass of the jungle croaks and twitters, hums and chirps. It breathes, as timeless as ever. Ahead of him, the dark valley is ash and blasted rock. Small fires light his former home, marking the encampments of those who came to pick and sift at the bones.
Ten hunters maintain this last vigil alongside Molimbo, five on each side, shadowed by their own companions.
The rest of the tribe waits in the forest. She had protected his people to the very end, casting a warning in the wind, that only their ears could hear. By now, the hunters had finished their songs, a chorus of grief and gratitude.
It took all night, and dawn beckoned.
It is time.
She is gone, but the tribe abides.
For one last purpose.
Molimbo grips the sewn leather satchel. The other ten hunters carry the same, draped from cords around their necks. Molimbo fingers open his sacred pouch.
The night is dark, but the pocket glows—where a large black seed rests at the bottom, entwined in a nest of shining silver fibers.
He draws it closed and hangs the satchel around his neck.
Without a word spoke, the ten hunters move silently into the forest and vanish with their aardwolves, heading in ten different directions.
Molimbo casts one last look across the ruins of the valley, then turns his back on it forever and goes another way. Bala follows, ever his shadow.
He is confident as he runs. It grows stronger with each step, like a sprig pushing toward the sun.
She is gone—but She will come again.
Author’s Note to Readers: Truth or Fiction
With the world spared another plague, let’s lift up the hood and take a peek at the engine behind this story, to discern how much of this tale is based on steely facts and how much is gaseous fiction. This novel has delved into theories of viruses and evolution and looked into the future of the natural world—and our place in it. But before we venture into scientific explorations of what’s to come, let’s first look to the past, where often much of the future is written.
HISTORY OF THE CONGO
In the notes at the start of the story, I elaborated on the atrocities committed upon the Congolese people throughout the waves of colonialism. I also mentioned one of the true heroes of that time: the Reverend William Sheppard, who was instrumental at shining a light on those brutalities, armed with little more than a Kodak box camera and his sheer determination. He was indeed one of the first people to engage with the Kuba tribe (who are also referred to as Bakuba, which means “people of the throwing knife”). Though he had a difficult time converting any of them, they still revered him. Likewise, as depicted in this book, Sheppard protected the tribe against the Zappo Zap cannibals.
If you’d like to learn more about this time, about the Reverend Sheppard, I encourage you to check out these two books, which served as my two historical bibles for this story:
The Troubled Heart of Africa: A History of the Congo, by Robert Edgerton
Congo: The Epic History of a People, by David Van Reybrouck