She didn't relinquish her glare, as the two heard rustling from outside.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Delani enter. "Ms. Singer?" the mercenary asked. "Is everything all right?"

"Tell your men to keep their hands to themselves," Nessa growled and stormed out of the hut.

"Is there a problem here?" Delani asked Ike. For several seconds, he waited but the Australian did not respond. "Is there going to be a problem?"

"I hate that b.i.t.c.h," Ike replied.

"Good," Delani answered, satisfied.

Eventually the rain died away and night fell. Ike lingered by himself, stopping to do a few idle ch.o.r.es. He clipped his nails, inspected his gun, and counted his money, all the while muttering to himself or silently fuming.

He missed Brisbane. His thoughts turned to that place a world away. Gla.s.s buildings stretched into the sky, the air void of insects. The pubs sprawled with lovely women. Australian culture, good music, and good food were on every street corner. People went about their business with no concept of horror. Ike had been there at one time. But no more. It was too late. Africa had changed him forever.

Delani insisted on an early night. They'd be up and out the next morning. Ike slipped into his bedroll, removing his trousers and over shirt. He placed his Desert Eagle amidst the leaves and branches that formed his mattress.

The sound of Delani snoring filled his ears. Alfred tossed and turned nearby, mumbling. Only Gilles slept quietly. Ike wondered if Nessa was behind her makeshift curtain. Maybe she had found another place to sleep to avoid future encounters with him.

The thought made his face hot. He pushed thoughts of her away and felt the slow haze of sleep overtake him.

A nearby movement startled him awake.

He froze, looking up in the darkness. He barely made out a silhouette hovering over him. The figure stood still and silent.

Ike slipped the fingers of one hand out of his bedroll. His hand brushed through the leaves and sticks until they touched the cold metal of his pistol. It was still there. He slid his hand farther toward where his pack and clothes rested. Remembering the way he had laid everything out exactly, he found his pants and in one of his pockets, a small penlight.

He flicked the light on. The flash blinded him temporarily. In the haze, he saw Nessa put her hands to her face. She whispered harshly for him to put it out and moved to cover it with her hands.

Instead, he rested the penlight on the floor. Leaves and branches blocked most of the light, providing dim illumination.

"Can I help you, luv?" he asked, propping himself up on his elbows.

"You can start by being quiet," she snapped.

"Right. Got it."

He thought he saw traces of a smile at the corners of her lips. She crawled forward until her face was over his. She closed her eyes and kissed him. Her ponytail hung over her shoulder tickling his neck. He felt her hands on his bedroll, tugging it open.

When she pulled her lips away to fumble with the covering, he grinned and shook his head at her. "So this is how it's going to be, is that right?"

She didn't say anything and a moment later her body lay snugly on top of his, her legs straddling his waist.

"Well then, if that's how it is," Ike's voice trailed.

He caught her eyes again and a flash of a smile. "Good," she whispered.

Katika Giza.

(In the Darkness).

"Do not call the forest that shelters you a jungle."

-African proverb.

13.

Tears in the ragged tent let rainwater through. The droplets drenched Mosi, making him quite miserable. The wetness sank into the cloths he used as a bedspread until they were saturated and heavy. Mosi cursed under his breath; he had gone through such lengths to get a tent.

The tent had been Jean's up until the night before. The first tear hadn't been enough to warrant the lieutenant pa.s.sing it on. But when Mosi secretly sliced two more tears in it with his machete, Jean had cried for another. And after all that risk, what did Mosi have to show for it? He was just as wet as his brothers.

Mosi slipped back in the tent, tucking his legs underneath him. He wrapped his wiry arms around his knees, doing his best to keep dry. The rain poured in front of him, not showing signs of abating.

The sound of footsteps made Mosi sit up straight. He pictured the landscape as if he were standing outside. The Army had set up camp in a thicket, chopped to pieces by footmen. Trees surrounded the thicket, but the gap above was wide enough to expose the stars. Three-dozen men slept out there-a few unlucky souls on watch. Among them slept General Zadu and his bodyguards, as well as some of his top lieutenants.

Mosi listened to the crunching footsteps as they circled his tent. The night outside with the clouds from the storm blotted everything in darkness. He heard footsteps over the pounding rain, but he could only make out a shadow through jagged holes in the fabric.

Who is that? For a moment, he imagined that the night watchmen had been overrun and invaders were slowly moving through the encampment, slitting throats. An image of a b.l.o.o.d.y machete flashed in his mind. His hand slid to his own machete, tucked under the folds of the soaked cloth. He gripped the hilt, pulling the rusted blade out. He set it on his lap, watching for more signs of movement.

Deadly invaders moved like shadows through the forest. Some of the others had noticed them earlier that day. They insisted to Zadu that they were being stalked. When asked by how many, some claimed only a couple. Some claimed tens-hundreds even. Talk of ghosts started. Spirits existed as one with the shadows and slipped out to crack open your skull and feast on your brain.

Zadu told everyone to stop talking about spirits. His warnings worked, because the soldiers were more afraid of Zadu than any ghosts.

Ghost.

The word rattled in Mosi's mind. Do ghosts make sounds when they walk?

He thought they wouldn't. Likely they would move by floating just off the ground like a pygmy, never really touching. If that was so, then the figure outside must be a man.

The footsteps lingered, circling Mosi's tent again. He found it hard to tell in the driving rain exactly where they fell. But they were close, he was sure of it. The figure outside clearly wanted something. Mosi felt its eyes peering through the tent. Measly fabric couldn't hide him.

The rain stopped suddenly, ominously. Mosi froze, daring not to breathe. For several long moments, he heard only silence. Then the footsteps began again.

"Who's there?" Mosi cried in Swahili.

"Mosi?"

Mosi?

The voice sounded strange in his mind. He recognized it as belonging to Imani, his closest friend among the Askari Nahuru. But something was off. A deep echo inside his brain told him that there was something else there.

"Mosi, are you okay?" The question sounded rehea.r.s.ed, the concern behind it fake.

"Go away," Mosi shouted. He flexed his fingers over the corded hilt of the machete. Sweat from his palms stuck to the fabric.

But Imani didn't relent. The tent flaps rustled as someone began to open them.

He's up to something. Don't trust him!

"Stay away!" Mosi cried more forcefully. He sprang from his crouched position, pushing through the flap. His body connected solidly with Imani and they stumbled out into the open air.

Imani staggered away from Mosi, only a silhouette in the blackness. But Mosi saw something else, like a soft light emanating from his friend's body. The whites of his eyes flashed in the darkness. Worms crawled through Mosi's belly, telling him that something evil was afoot.

He's one of them!

Mosi didn't know who exactly "they" were. Intruders, ghosts, it didn't seem to matter.

Imani lifted a hand toward him, staring at him with those softly glowing eyes. Two fingers outstretched and he began to speak- A curse! Don't let him!

Mosi didn't feel his arm move. He saw the flash of his own machete, as it sliced out defensively in front of him. He did feel the blade connect with something, chopping savagely into bone. Small objects flew through the air, pelting the ground like raindrops. Imani staggered back screaming.

Mosi closed. He stood over Imani, who sat crouched on the ground, gripping his left hand. He wailed terribly. The sound sent tremors down Mosi's spine, spurring him forward. His arm lifted up over his head and swung down in a vicious arc. The blade connected again and again.

Mosi felt droplets of blood on his forehead. He kept swinging until Imani-or whoever it was-stopped moving. Finally he stood over Imani's still form, his shoulders rising and falling quickly with his breaths. He watched as blood pooled around Imani's corpse. The blood looked inky black in the night.

Suddenly there was movement around him. Mosi looked up, glancing about the camp. He raised his machete in front of him. The action was defensive, but blood dripped wickedly from the blade. He spotted the first black shape lift itself off the ground. Others joined the silhouette and soon they were coming out from every corner of the camp. They moved quickly, closing around him.

Mosi heard them call his name. He heard them ask what was going on. But he ignored their words. In those dark shadows, he saw only malevolence. The figures towered high, their arms and fingers stretching to the ground. Their eyes burned at him as they repeated his name.

What have you done, Mosi?

Mosi was startled, unsure whether the words had been spoken aloud or in his head. As the shadows closed in, demons in the darkness, he lifted his machete and yelled. He meant to tell them to get away, but what came out was a guttural scream. Mosi spotted an opening; he turned and fled.

He ran barefoot over the sharp, twisted plants of the thicket. His ankles ripped through vines, thorns slicing his legs. Leaves thrashed his face, but still the voices behind him drove him on further. They were following him.

He crashed out of the thicket and soon was in the open s.p.a.ce under the jungle canopy. Plants still clawed at him, but the foliage was less dense. He reached a full out run, nearly crashing head first into a tree. The trunk rushed past him, invisible until he was right on it.

His toe stubbed fiercely on a root. He tripped, crashing hard onto the ground. His foot throbbed and his body curled tightly into a ball. He realized he had dropped his machete. He got up on all fours and crawled around in search of the lost weapon.

"Mosi! Mosi! Get back here!" The shouts rang through the forest, echoing in his mind. His fingers trembled in panic as they dug through the mud.

Finally they closed on the hilt of his machete. Relieved, Mosi lifted the weapon and tried to run. He limped for the first couple of meters, his adrenaline pushing away the pain from his smashed toe. He stepped high, hoping to miss exposed roots. As the voices faded in the distance, his heartbeat slowed.

The ground gave way underneath him. One step was on mud and the next step dropped a few feet. The decline threw him off balance and he tumbled forward.

His face struck rugged ground, fire exploding across his cheek and forehead. His neck twisted back painfully as he rolled on his shoulder. His backside hit again and he flipped, striking his arm on a root. Crippling pain shot to his shoulder. He rolled down the slope until he settled in a muddy puddle.

He lay groaning, trying to collect his senses. His arm throbbed, completely broken. He had landed on his back, staring up at the treetops, but even the shapes of the leaves were lost in the darkness. He could no longer hear the others behind him, calling his name.

He tried to sit up, but this only introduced fresh waves of pain into his body. He cried out sharply, his voice echoing in the forest.

Two shadows appeared. They glided over to him, their feet floating off the ground. They stood smaller than the others back at the camp and he could make out the shapes of long spears in their hands. How had they come up so fast? They hadn't made a single sound.

Mosi realized his earlier mistake. The shadows he saw before had been walking. Not like ghosts, but like men. The creatures in front of him now were not men. They floated, making no sound as they watched him struggle on the ground.

They want your brain, a voice warned. They will take your head and open your skull.

Mosi fought past the pain, strengthened by his terror. These shadows from the forest entered your mind like little demons. He gripped his machete with his good arm. He lifted the blade over his head, driving it down in a deadly arc. The machete never reached its target.

Instead the shadowy figure stepped back defensively, turning its pointed weapon toward Mosi. He felt the stone head break through the skin of his chest, wedging itself between his ribs. His whole chest exploded in pain, his lung collapsing. Mosi gasped uselessly, doubling over. The strength left his limbs.

The shadowy figure wrestled the spear free with a sickening rip and backed away. The two creatures whispered back and forth, as they retreated, floating into the darkness.

Mosi gasped, feeling the heat of his own blood. Every breath was agony. Every beat of his heart drove daggers into his chest. He heard voices in the distance, getting steadily closer. Finally shapes emerged from the jungle. They stared down at his weakening body. A few of them whispered.

Madness. Possessed. Cursed.

Mosi heard every word as the cold settled in and he drew his last breath.

Jean held the automatic Glock at his side. The muzzle pointed at the muddy ground. Bright pink morning light stretched to the forest floor, illuminating the gruesome scene. Mosi's face twisted in a visage of horror, his arm bent grotesquely to the side, blood dried on his shirt.

"Wapumavu," Lutalo cursed. Idiots. "They've trampled the whole area. There's no way to find any footprints."

Jean nodded in agreement. When the body had been discovered, freshly slain, the soldiers circled the campsite several times. They should have known there was no way to find any tracks. In the dark of night, they came back to Jean, shrieking about ghastly murders and madness.

Lutalo knelt over Mosi, slipping his knife from its sheath. He cut the fabric from the dead man's chest. The shirt stuck in places where the blood had dried to his skin. Lutalo pulled the shirt open, inspecting the chest wound with the tip of the knife.

"No bullet. A knife or a spear did this," Lutalo decided.

Jean winced as Lutalo lifted the skin further, desecrating the body. "You're sure?"

Lutalo nodded. "He fell first, breaking his arm. Then somebody set upon him while he was wounded and unable to fight back."

"But who?"

"Someone from the forest."

Jean looked around. A bird sang a rhythmic melody nearby. No wind blew the leaves and they hung green and peaceful all around. "Are you sure the wound isn't self-inflicted? They said he was behaving strangely."

"There is no way," Lutalo replied shaking his head. "He doesn't have a knife on him and the machete is too big to make such a wound."

"But the men didn't see anybody," Jean argued. "Someone was waiting for him at the bottom of the hill, stabbed him, and then just vanished?"

"So it would seem," Lutalo reasoned.

Jean considered that. If Lutalo was right, someone had to have been waiting right outside the camp. Maybe they knew exactly where and when Mosi would emerge. They had inflicted the madness on him, driving him out of the camp into their waiting spears. Whoever it was moved through the forest invisible.