Rumbles..

Dust swirls in the particles of the air like sparks of brown static, shaking the trees, twisting them in dances of chaos. The tarred road lies dry in the wake of the storm’s eye, as if preparing to soak in the life giving liquids after a century of drought. Begging, I thought for the water of life. Gusts of wind throw the scenery left then right in zombified silhouettes. Strange bodies these natural things are, so complicated yet so easy to move in unison.

Rusty siderails on the road stood their lonely vigil. It was reaching evening time, around evening time and the sun was setting into the west.  Living in a place like this made you become more of an animal than human. It was primeval being here. Every day was a battle but the strength was building in me with every day. Ten years so far. Ten years more I say.

It’s been ten years since the last bomb fell. Since then the world changed, but in many ways stayed the same. The clique nature of human settlements stayed the same, the same segregation, the same guns and the same war over and over again. But there was more to it, people weren’t as much people any more. They changed physically and mentally.

Some had appeared with harder skin, smaller eyes and sharper teeth. Others had stayed the same but were monsters inside. Some say it was the radiation that changed them, but it was the poverty, the greed and then it was the need for survival. Survival of the fittest, and most mentally infirm.

They say that all you have to do is pay attention, lessons arrive when you are ready. And the next move becomes easier to see.  I wish they’d  have seen that when signs of the violence began a decade ago. But it’s late for regrets like that. It’s too early for too much hope either.

Soft foot pads shift impatiently in the grass long since cut by blades. A light snarl menacingly hides behind a film of grey grass. A young buck recently separated from its mother light munches on some old shrubs wearily. Its head cocks up in a burst of awareness fuelled by instinct and fear. A twig unnaturally snaps in the growth. It runs.

 

Four hooves galloping at blinding speed across a stretch of tar and asphalt. Gadoof, Gadoof, Gadoof.

 

A roar is heard in the distance and then and a gust of air is displaced followed by another. Large canines are bared and muscles are tensed, stretched and worked. Heavier steps thrust body into air, bursting with energy stored from catnaps.  Heartrates soar, instinct and reflex take over as the drumbeat of chase echoes through the war deadened landscape.

 

The buck bolts like an Olympian over an open field of sand, never pausing, cutting through the wind like a blade. Grass is jumped over, broken walls soared over quicker than any man could run. The cat runs faster, its burnt orange and black stripes a contrast in the urban jungle. Growls of frustration and hunger burst into the air, making is disperse as if avoiding the juggernaut breaking through it. Then the playing field changes and becomes far more technical, no long straights to catch its prey. Walls become lower but more unpredictable and the low energy levels coming from the cat’s strong legs drastically decrease.

 

The panting becomes ever more intense, dried parched throat becomes more and more daunting till it stops and the young buck disappears into the distance.

 

The resentment in the heart of the beast settles once more and is stored for a time of easier meals, and less energy expense. Mole Rats are becoming less and less appealing. It rests once more, then it catches a sense of something far more appealing then any buck. Man. It has been a long time since it has enjoyed a meal like that. Renewed energy fuelled by hunger and greed takes the scent in and it stalks ever so further toward that scent of deliciousness. Soft growls go unheard satisfactorily to none other than their owner.

 

Then there’s a bang. The cat stops cautiously as if in knowing what happened. It steps away slowly. There is no predator like man and his gun. It decides Mole Rats aren’t such bad prey after all. The scent of gunpowder is alluring but all too risky.

The buck falls hard, dying instantly.

There is a time and place for this it says. I will have my prey.

 

Meanwhile, a man called Cassius reloads a .44 rifle and wills the filling of his stomach. It has been a while since he has eaten. He looks around listening for danger and instinctively follows through to the corpse now bleeding.

 

“Ten years is a bloody long time to live with this kak.” He then radios into the base three kilometres away to his wife. “I’ve got some food. Start a braai. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” . His wife replies “You didn’t call me for the whole day, I was worried. Please hurry back. I’m worried.”

 

He lifts the buck with all his strength and follows his way to town. His family must eat first. They need to survive these hard times. His stomach rumbles at the thought of that meat. Tired, hungry and determined, he steps a little further toward living another day.