Some Wild Things: Is It Coincidence........Or Part of the Master Plan?

By Bill Jones

Some Wild Things is a fictional fast-moving humorous adult story based on the premise that there is no such thing as coincidencewhatever happens in life is ultimately meant to be. It addresses dramatic events, at times horrific, that take place when cross sections of people from different walks of life become entwined in a net of circumstance and chaos beyond their control. This culminates in a web of intrigue played out against an expeditious backdrop of romance, violence, incest, and murder.
The protagonists are a sordid, interbred trailer park family that ruthlessly blazes a trail of cold-blooded havoc across an arid and hostile mineral-rich desert region that is plagued by incessant sandstorms and is home to a population of lethal Egyptian cobras. It is a story of double-dealing mining corruption, where an opposing mining conglomerate is on a ruthless mission to control and, if necessary, destroy their opposition. This leads to a terrifying web of bizarre ongoing pandemonium that involves assassination, gold bullion heists, and international drug syndicates under the guise of touring magicians. This lethal, somewhat humorous family spearheads the high-speed action and never-ending mayhem throughout the story, concluding with a double-dealing rip-off by entrepreneurial Somali pirates raising finance for their cause.
Some Wild Things is dramatic, fast, and funny, with a sprinkling of brutal insanity that endorses once again the premise that there is no such thing as coincidence.
Think Pulp Fiction, Kill Bill, and Two Smoking Barrels and youve got Some Wild Things.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: May 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781466988439

Bill Jones

Bill Jones is a renowned, Michelin-trained chef based on Deerholme Farm in the Cowichan Valley, British Columbia. He is the author of twelve cookbooks and winner of two world cookbook awards. His writing has appeared in numerous publications, including the New York Times, Gourmet, Bon Appetit, and Saveur. An acknowledged expert on wild foods and foraging, Bill has a keen respect for local First Nations ethnobotany and culture. He is an accomplished cooking instructor and a passionate supporter of local food communities. His consulting company, Magnetic North Cuisine, is active in all areas of local food production, marketing, and development.

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© Copyright 2013 BILL JONES.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

isbn: 978-1-4669-8842-2 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-8844-6 (hc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-8843-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013905805

Trafford rev. 04/24/2013

7-Copyright-Trafford_Logo.ai

www.trafford.com

North America & international

toll-free: 1 888 232 4444 (USA & Canada)

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

CHAPTER ONE

A naked Victoria Barlow-White opened the front door of her desert mountain cabin in the far north of Watoomba at 7.00 am to be greeted by a smiling Priest, in a white clerical collar and long black cassock. A dog barked frantically from a room in the cabin.

‘Good morning, can I help you Father?’ Victoria asked trying to cover her body with a flimsy robe, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

‘Good morning to you my child, I am so sorry to disturb you at this hour but I was wondering if you would fit into this body bag.’

Victoria stared in amazement at the question, as the Priest produced a .357 Magnum from under his cassock and shot her in the head killing her instantly.

He stepped back and admired her nakedness that had collapsed at his feet.

He was jarred back to reality by realising he had overlooked the possibility of there being someone else in the house. He hovered, listening intently for any sound of movement, there was none, so he moved fast and stealthfully through the cabin, pausing quietly, gently opening doors with the barrel of the Magnum checking every room.

He felt relieved that she lived alone, apart from an incensed barking dog somewhere in the cabin.

He moved diligently down the corridor back to the kitchen. It was a small three bedroom cabin resting against a sheer rock face in the most isolated part of Watoomba. A large front lounge window stretched from end to end and looked out onto a breathtaking 10 metre drop into a dry and sandy desert outcrop. He took the time to admire the beautiful view.

He was hungry after his overnight journey to Watoomba and opened the refrigerator door, carefully selecting none fatty bacon strips, mushrooms and eggs, with a slice of bread that he would toast. It was breakfast time.

Switching on the kettle he monitored the cooking over a steaming cup of coffee.

The toaster ejected a slice of toast which he buttered while throwing two dishcloths over Victoria’s bleeding torso, the sight disturbed his appetite.

‘Good God my child you are a bleeder, I think we should get you into the body bag before you mess up the entire entrance hall—my goodness you are a messy little thing aren’t you just?’ He spoke to her as would, to a tiny kitten.

The Priest zipped Victoria into the bag and served a sizzling breakfast onto a plate.

He had overcooked the bacon and the eggs were not ‘easy over’ as he liked them. Showing signs of irritation, he pushed the food around the plate and did not enjoy the meal. The barking dog became more ferocious and desperate.

He watched the desert sun rise over the top of his steaming coffee mug which promised the releasing of the oppressive Akabi desert heat across the valley.

His attention was drawn to a cluster of family photographs, one in particular caught his fancy, and it was a framed photograph of two women hugging a beautiful Rottweiler on a long tropical beach. They were identical twins. He opened the cupboard removing the photograph, studying it for a while. At the back of the photograph was a hand written scrawl that he read slowly whispering to himself.

‘Victoria, Caprice and Suggs, l December… ?’

The date was smudged and he couldn’t make out the year.

He placed the body bag over his shoulder and was making his way out to the car when he heard the unexpected sound of breaking glass.

He increased his pace under the weight of her body but felt uneasy and out of breath when he reached his vehicle; his nerve ends tingled across every part of his body as he placed her into the boot, closing the lid.

In a sudden and startling move he heard the rustling of grass on the fringe of the driveway about 6 metres behind him, he knew he was not alone.

Without looking back he slid his hand into his cassock and froze as he touched an empty holster, suddenly realising he’d left his .357 Magnum on the kitchen table. He was too terrified to look over his shoulder as the rustling of grass became more intense with a terrifying low pitched growl, now almost directly behind him.

‘This is no way to treat a man of the cloth, I have contacts with the boss upstairs little doggie,’ he said nervously, without turning to look. The dog growled menacingly gnashing its teeth.

‘OK, sorry big doggie’ he said as he turned to face a large bleeding Rottweiler with bared teeth in mid flight, heading straight for him. He could not believe the size of the dog and felt completely powerless. He was suddenly battling to breathe, with the realisation that he could not allow the frenzied dog to get hold of him—as it would tear him to shreds.

Without warning the beast bounded in huge strides towards him with saliva spraying from its mouth—with all the will power he could muster, he stood firm and dead still against the trunk of the car, bracing himself for the horrendous pain he was about to endure.

In a split second he had the insane urge to take a chance at outrunning the injured animal, but knew he would be dead in minutes if he chose that route. It all happened very quickly. The Rottweiler lunged in slow motion, like a wounded mountain bear and the hyper ventilating priest had no idea where he got the energy to move as quickly as he did. In a nanosecond, he stepped aside giving way to the flying animal. The dog did not anticipate the priest’s agile side step and hit the boot of the car landing painfully on its ribcage and underbelly; it was hurt and began howling in agony and surprise.

The priest knew his luck had changed, and with the speed and weight of the dog, on impact, fortunately popped the trunk lid revealing the body bag containing his mistress. The confused and distracted Rottweiler bought the priest even more time.

He remembered that he carried an old baseball bat from his college days in the trunk, and moved quickly to retrieve it from under the body bag. The subdued Rottweiler limped backwards away from the car, licking his wounds and growling menacingly without taking his eyes off the priest.

Baseball bat in hand he cautiously backed away from the vehicle allowing the dog the space to do what he really wanted to do, jump into the boot on top of the body bag.

It did just that, and started sniffing and barking trying to rip the bag open.

The priest cautiously made his way back to the kitchen to retrieve his firearm. His life had been spared but he now had another problem.

He entered the cabin, closing and locking the door behind him. Because of its unique construction the front door was the only point of entry into the cabin and although conservative in floor space, the architecture was stylish and visually astounding. It was designed to take full advantage of the jagged ‘moon surface’ terrain and the entire structure consisted of eight concrete stilts that towered over the valley like the tentacles of a giant Octopus enhanced by formidable and inaccessible gullies that dropped away onto intimidating rock outcrops.

He felt relaxed in the thought that the only way anyone could get to him was through the front door.

He walked to the back of the cabin onto an enclosed glass porch where a large dog kennel stood with the name SUGGS hanging from a silver chain above the entrance, half full bowls of food and water were scattered around.

The large window that the Rottweiler crashed through in its frenzy lay shattered, leaving shards of broken glass covering most of the wooden deck.

He ripped open a large bag of dog biscuits and filled a metal bucket with fresh water; before leaving he placed a small wooden table at the front door keeping it ajar and allowing access to the dog.

When he finally reached his vehicle, Suggs was sitting on the grass fringe licking his wounds. He watched the priest with a low growl and a distrustful eye as he cautiously walked to his vehicle closing the trunk lid. He slid into the driver’s seat and hastily closed the door as the angry salivating face of Suggs crashed against the glass growling and barking hysterically.

He recoiled from the window in sheer terror.

‘Jesus Christ, my nerves!’ He shouted clutching his chest. He paused for a second glancing at the heavens.

‘Please don’t tell him I called’ he muttered, starting the vehicle.

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A cold shiver spread over Jim Maddocks as he watched the late afternoon light change, as it did in the desert at this time of the year. The temperature had suddenly dropped a few degrees over the last hour and the uneasiness and apprehension had even the smallest insect scattering to take cover, unable to cope with the complexities of their desert existence. A Gecko rolled its eyes at a piece of dry tumbleweed as it careered haphazardly across the sand, also desperately seeking somewhere to take cover, from the impending storm.

Rainfall was rare across the massive and arid desert region and red devil dust storms, fanned by strong dry winds were capable of blowing millions of tons of dust particles high into the atmosphere, with debilitating consequences. These particles were the scourge of the Akabi Plateau as they carried dangerous oxides and fungi that could, once settled in the bronchial tract, cause chronic respiratory problems and lung failure, potentially effecting 200 000 poor and mainly nomadic inhabitants. A red devil dust storm accompanied by prolonged periods of torrential rain could last for several days and always resulted in devastating damage to the ecology with causalities being high, not unlike a major cyclone.

Jim watched the colour of the horizon change, and he smiled as if to greet an old friend. The notorious Akabi ‘Red Devil’ slowly enveloped the savanna and the desert, like the casting of a huge duvet, reducing visibility to a minimum.

Gathering his clothing and equipment along the way, he hurriedly headed towards his Toyota laboratory camper to take shelter, ensuring that he secured and locked down protective window screens and air conditioners against the force of the storm.

His main objective was to seal the main door to protect his priceless scientific equipment, as over the years he had learnt the hard lesson that fine sand particles did not bode well for computers and sensitive equipment.

With many geological years of prospecting in the Akabi Desert to his credit, Jim estimated that the storm would not last longer than three hours and soon the vivid red late evening sun would fight its way through the dust to make a final breathtaking setting on the western horizon, at the end of the day.

He was wrong.

In less than an hour, the velocity of the storm and its gale force winds had reached a peak and was buffeting the camper, for what seemed like an eternity. Jim popped a can of draught beer; it was ice cold, exactly as he liked it, his first gulp was a big one. He leaned forward hitting a switch on the desk consol, it buzzed and flickered and abruptly sprang into life, revealing a scroll down menu of technical data.

Apart from a small desk lamp, the camper was in darkness and the reflection of the information on the screens cast a soft sheen on his face, like the reflection off the rapids of a mountain stream.

‘Shit, you are serious about this visit, aren’t you?’ Jim whispered to himself.

Almost twenty minutes lapsed in silence in the dimly lit interior as he processed technical data; he pushed a lever and flicked another switch as he heard a muffled grinding sound from outside. The sand that had piled up against the side and roof of the camper was reluctantly giving way to the electronic mechanism of automated cameras, presenting a 360 degree view of the exterior.

He watched with interest as images appeared on his television screens, revealing a panoramic view of the storm.

‘Come on babe, give me a better picture—shit!’ he muttered, sipping his beer as more soft images appeared.

Jim chuckled softly; he was doing what he loved most—exploring nature and its attitude.

‘Visibility, a maximum 2 metres’ he whispered, tapping out a parradiddle on his keyboard.

‘120 kilometres south easterly, and a midnight temperature of minus 3 with a wind factor minus 10 degrees, shit, its fucking cold out there.’ Jim said aloud, shivering at the thought.

With the continuous buffeting of the storm the camper creaked and swayed from side to side—he found himself resigned to the fact that the red devil had beaten him and he was hostage to the elements. He was starting to feel the cold, so he lay back on his bunk bed pulling a blanket over his legs.

He watched in amusement as his empty beer can moved across the control desk like a nervous dancer at an audition. The can tottered on the edge of the desk in the final throes of the ballet, and with the final nudge from a gust of wind, clattered helplessly to the floor, rolling under the bunk and into oblivion, its ballet career in tatters.

‘Life sucks’ Jim Maddocks mumbled to the beer can as he drifted into sleep.

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Nothing was urgent in Jim’s life and nothing that could deter him from reaching any goal that he set his sights on. By nature he had acquired everything that he wanted from life, regardless of the consequences and the price that had to be paid. Vigor, undaunted confidence, was the key to his success, by the same token his demise.

Jim was a determined and rugged looking geologist who clambered to the top of his career in no time at all. A dedicated and conscientious scholar he gained international awareness, early in his career, by becoming an authority on tracking down the world’s most precious commodity—water.

Soon he was recognised as a dedicated specialist in his field of expertise, he met with overwhelming success in some of the most remote areas of the globe. Jim’s only setback was his withdrawn and reclusive personality which few people knew about.

‘You’re one helluva geologist Jim.’ He remembered one of his employers saying at an exit interview.

‘But you have a really shitty attitude, your people skills leave a lot to be desired, I sadly do believe you will eventually find yourself isolated and alone’.

Jim was well aware of all his failings, with the most noticeable being his dislike of the human race. With two disastrous and expensive marriages as well as sequestrations to his credit, these were all contributing factors to his already lengthy run of hard and catastrophic backhanders from life. This prolonged sadness eventually led him to barricade himself in his very own ‘green zone’ away from the world and everything it had to offer.

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It all began when he fell madly in love with Katie Cremone, a young attractive social sciences lecturer at Brooks Hill University, during his graduation year. Jim was in love for the first time, an experience that, although quite stimulating he knew nothing about having emanated from a loveless dysfunctional family. Henry Maddocks, Jim’s father now in his late 80’s was a product of Woodstock, and to this day still believed he was a flower child from that era. He sired a variety of siblings during his drug induced life and was a regular to rehabs across the country. Young Jim Maddocks was 18 when he got a school sweetheart pregnant, and with Murtle his mother being totally inaccessible to matters of the heart, or anything that went up and down, went to confide in his father about the untimely mishap.

It was 7.30 am in the morning and Henry offered his son a cold Budweiser while he rolled his second joint. It was a ‘pip crackling twelve blader’ resembling a body rolled up in a dirty mattress.

‘I’ve got a girl in trouble Dad.’

‘What’s her name son?’ he asked quite coherently as his joint exploded like a Chinese New Year.

Jim’s reaction was one of joy and he was genuinely surprised that his father even comprehended what he had said.

‘Dylan Dad,’ he whispered, warily looking over his shoulder, in case someone was eaves dropping.

Henry began to rant quietly to himself, to begin with, and then it rose to a crescendo. Jim stared in amazement at his father.

‘Dylan is an arsehole son, Hendrix dude.’ He said inhaling a lung full of Ganja.

‘Jimi Hendrix is my man, yes siree, Hendrix, what a fucking player dude, fuck Dylan my son.’ He giggled like a child.

Murtle Maddocks was the ‘A’ typical mother who was committed to the work of the Catholic Church in her community and with her good attributes and fine values, she was, however, the product of a violent, drug induced home, with four decades of abuse behind her she also detached herself from all environment that did not involve the church or the worshipping of God. Unfortunately, with her dysfunctional background Murtle was incapable of showing any love or affection towards her young son Jim—something he craved so desperately.

Jim married Cremone a year later. It was a small conservative garden wedding with guests comprised of mainly family members from both sides. An unplanned baby son named Delon arrived later that year, compounding the sinking of the floundering marriage. Finally, one rare lucid night they decided to call it a day. Katie won the divorce hands down, gaining the home and a car as well as custody of Delon, leaving Jim depressed and almost destitute.

Could it get worse, he often wondered—yes it could.

Two years to the day Jim married Anastasia Deago the daughter of a Spanish Diplomat, a marriage that followed an almost identical pattern to his first marriage, the only difference being—Jim was madly in love with Anastasia. He was overwhelmed with joy at the news of being a father for the second time.

He was besotted with his beautiful baby daughter Magdalena, but alas his joy was not shared by the Deago family, in particular Augustino, Anastasia’s father.

Augustino was a retired Spanish General and an anal pious Catholic, with far too much time on his hands; he was in office as the Spanish foreign diplomat to the Middle East and was outraged by the thought of an out of wedlock daughter.

Even with the constant threat of disinheritance, a year later Jim and Anastasia were married, but unfortunately it only lasted for three years, when one exquisite spring morning after an early morning swim and champagne breakfast, Jim received a message from her stating she was leaving him for a wealthy industrialist she’d been seeing and demanded custody of their daughter Magdalena.

Jim took the news badly, as it placed him in a vulnerable financial situation once again, plagued by a string of delayed and aborted geological contracts, he was in trouble again, struggling to meet his commitments. Jim put up the best possible fight, to save his marriage and the daughter he adored so deeply. But it was not to be.

The marriage dragged through the courts for months until he lost his battle to keep his wife Anastasia, and lost the love of his life Magdalena.

History had repeated itself.

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It had begun to rain heavily again as Amanda Elliott, a United Nations field worker and AIDS tactical researcher, peered through the erratic and uneven windscreen wipers of her ageing United Nations Land Rover. She was tired as a result of battling against the storm for most of the day. The brief, but torrential rain in the Akabi Desert always seemed to take her back a decade or so, for some odd, possibly subconscious reason, that always reminded her of a very difficult and traumatic period that she unwillingly endured during her first marriage. An event that changed her life forever.

Gus Carson, her husband at the time, skillfully engineered a warm, loving, idealic relationship with her parents Jack and Leigh, who because of his constant and undivided attention that he bestowed upon them, won their hearts and they adored him.

This intimate, almost ‘closed court’ relationship went a long way towards the demise of Amanda’s transparency and honesty with her parents, who did not hear their daughter’s plea for help.

Jack and Leigh her parents had organized a trip to the spectacular skiing resort of Grindelwald, in the Swiss Alps to celebrate her 25th birthday. The resort was situated on the breathtaking north face of the Eiger Range and was only one hour’s flying time from Berne International airport.

Her father Jack Elliott an experienced and highly respected pilot with South African Airways and Swiss Air was well familiar with his almost daily flights from Johannesburg to Zurich and Berne, and was planning a surprise for their beautiful daughter on her big day.

‘Your Father is so excited about the surprise he’s arranging for you my darling,’ said a thrilled Leigh Elliott on a call to her daughter from Madrid.

‘A surprise, Mom please chill, I hate surprises, don’t me get wrong I love you guys but I’m up to my arse in gold crucifixes flying around on my rear view mirror and St Christopher’s that only fall off the chain when you’re cleaning the toilet bowl, hey, please don’t get me wrong’ Amanda said, just out the shower.

‘No, no, no, my darling you haven’t seen Daddy for a couple of years, he’s changed a lot, he’s got less involved with the church after being taken for a considerable amount of money by one of those, aah, for the life of me I can’t think, aah, oh yes, recycled Christians.’

‘Reborn Christians Mum.’

‘Yes indeed one of those’ Leigh confirmed indignantly.

Bless you Mum, but I’ve also got loads of French underwear that you bought me that I never wear, It’s a waste of money I don’t wear panties ever, mother!’

‘My God my child, are you telling me that you never wear panties?’

‘You brought me up to believe that a girl must always keep a breeze blowing across the Arid Plains of her Vagina or was it Virginia?’ she muttered drying her body with a face towel in desperation.

‘My God Mandy my darling, what if paramedics have to rush you to hospital?’

‘They’d be suitably impressed, even you would be proud of your daughter’s cookie Mum.’ She said proudly.

‘I’m sure I would be darling, I’ve always been proud of your computer skills my sweetie, almost every time we speak you tell me to gobble it.’

‘Google it Mum.’

The conversation progressed into innumerable directions until Amanda’s surprise, that what was supposed to be kept a secret, was revealed in graphic detail by her overzealous mother, who since birth, had never been able to keep a secret.

She smiled at the sound of her mother’s endless chatter on the other end of the phone, with a warm feeling creeping over her, her eyes welled with tears unexpectedly and her heart ached with reality and sadness. It was a sadness that she could not expose to her mother.

The marriage to Gus had ground to a halt way before her birthday, and the relationship had deteriorated to constant emotional blackmail, with recurrent outbursts of verbal abuse. Amanda’s parent’s whom she loved so dearly were unaware of their daughter’s toxic relationship, they both adored their son in law Gus, and Amanda did not have the stomach to tell them that all was not well. She had warned Gus, that one day she would find the courage to make the call to her parents, making public the lie they were both living. This enraged Gus because if she did, it would jeopardize everything that he had worked so hard at engineering, a weapon that she used regularly as the preverbal ‘match to the powder keg’.

On this day, Jack in preparation for his daughter’s surprise, chartered a single engine six passenger Cessna 206 from an aero charter company at Berne Airport in Switzerland. He planned to fly his wife Leigh and his 17 year old son Gareth over Grindelwald ski resort as a fly-by tribute to his daughter’s 25th birthday, while Leigh and Gareth filmed them as lone figures on the slopes of the snowbound Eiger. It was a birthday DVD gift.

They had agreed to ski together, at first light, up to the desolate and dangerous fly-by point to rendezvous with the family.

But things didn’t go according to plan.

The night before the planned rendezvous, they were involved in a horrific argument that flared, for no particular reason, other than it had become the norm in their lives. The argument that continued well into the early hours of the morning, culminated in Gus telling her he was not accompanying her, she would have to ski alone, because ‘I don’t give a shit about you or your fucking birthday, you can ski off the fucking cliff for all I care.’

A distraught Amanda, without sleep and fuelled by immeasurable anger, skied at speed high onto the snowcapped north face en route to the rendezvous point.

As Amanda glided from crest to valley, with only the swishing of her skies under her feet, she marveled at how beautiful this day was, enhanced by powdery snow clouds and a promise of a clear blue sky.

As the sun rose gradually over the Alps, without warning it brought with it a strong wind that was not unusual for this time of year. Her ski’s echoed across the blinding white slope and she came to a twisting halt at the designated meeting point, with pride and a minute to spare. Amanda was tired after the long journey, and slightly out of breath from fatigue and lack of sleep. She breathed in deeply filling her lungs with the ice cold magic of the moment, the start of a perfect Alpine day she thought pushing her goggles up onto her forehead.

The sound of the approaching Cessna made her smile; as usual her Dad was on time. Her heart pounding in her chest, Amanda heard the roar of the approaching Cessna and waited in anticipation for it to appear. She moved cautiously forward to the edge of the cliff to get a better view as the aircraft came into sight—Amanda’s heart stood still—the starboard engine was on fire, bellowing smoke and flames into the pure Alpine air.

Dizziness overcame her, she was suddenly nauseous and thought she was about to pass out and topple over the edge of the precipice, she screamed in horror her voice rebounding off the glaciers.

‘Jesus Christ no, it can’t be,’ she cried, drawing blood as she bit into her knuckles in total despair. She saw her mother smile and wave at her through the aircraft porthole.

A second later, the Cessna disappeared from sight crashing in a plume of smoke and fire, into a derelict ski resort across the ice clad valley,

There were no survivors.

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Amanda awoke screaming aloud in the Land Rover,

‘Shit, fuck where am I?’ she was ice cold and shivering, her teeth chattered uncontrollably. She didn’t know where she was, but was struck with horror at the thought of her having fallen asleep behind the wheel.

The crimson sunrise was crawling over the horizon, its warm groping fingers lighting up the valley, but was not within her reach as yet. She lay shivering in a fetal position with both her hands between her legs trying desperately to stop herself from shaking. She was suddenly startled by the smiling face of an attractive woman standing at her window, holding a cup of steaming coffee. She struggled to sit up and roll the window down.

‘Mornin, you must be shitfaced cold, sleeping out her Missy, d’ya wanna coffee? She said handing Amanda a steaming mug.

‘My God that would be wonderful, thank you.’

‘I’m Odette Tappet, just who might you be?’

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Jim Maddocks opened an eye as the camper shuddered against the wind. He then cautiously opened the other eye to make sure he was alive. It was 8.00 am on the consol clock; and he’d been asleep for a long time, without being aware the storm had intensified. He had awoken to a panel debate on KBC television with some really whiskey bloated eccentric looking guests. He leaned across and turned the up the volume which cut into the middle of a sentence from the presenter of the show.

‘You must realise that child molesters walk amongst us—they can easily be your neighbour or a tenant at your home—or they could be renting your garden cottage, what do you think Father O Reilly?’ asked Evelyn Garland the middle aged television presenter wearing an outrageously bright pineapple shirt with a row of tropical palm trees behind a silver Cadillac, that bent around the contours of her enormous breasts.

Jim got out of the bunk, filling the kettle, and listening with one ear, glancing cynically at the television every now and then. He needed a hot mug of coffee quite desperately.

‘You are absolutely correct Miss Garland but what is concerning me the most, is the fact that the media accusations are slanted directly at the clergy the majority of the time—the public must be made aware that not all priests are paedophiles,’ replied a defensive Father Steven O Reilly, folding arms. He was uncomfortable and looked like he needed a drink.

‘Even the Pope has resigned.’ He concurred.

‘Well, one can’t blame him for resigning surely, if you we were given a job of that status and your boss never bothered to come into the office for five years, you’d also resign,’ said Professor Marlena Chantelleur the principal of the Catholic unmarried mothers guild of Nigeria.

Jim activated his camera and surveyed the sombre exterior of the camper, slowly panning down to examine the front door, which was almost covered in sand.

‘I don’t believe for one minute Father that all priests are paedophiles—there are so many priests spread amongst the numerous Diocese—and to be frank, I believe there are just not enough children to cater for that need, supply and demand—would you say?’ asked Professor Marlena Chantelleur.

‘Indeed.’ replied Father O Reilly.

‘I was appalled by a recent television commercial advertising a repellent for paedophiles in the clergy,’ he continued.

Evelyn Garland interjected. ‘That is correct, they advised parents to spray their children with PRIEST OFF before letting them come into contact with members of the cloth.

‘I saw that commercial and thought it was absolutely abhorrent,’ interrupted Professor Chantelleur. ‘PRIEST OFF to protect your child from the clergy indeed; it’s the work of the devil wouldn’t you say?’

Jim was in a close up shot of the camper door on the television screen, to his amazement, it was covered in 2 meters of red desert sand with both adjacent side windows buried as well. His laboratory had become a sand dune over the last four hours and there was no sign of the storm abating, confirming one important factor—the Red Devil was here to stay—for how long was anybody’s guess.

‘How does one recognise these predators, if as you say they walk amongst us?’ asked Professor Chantelleur.

‘I find the subject abhorrent; it’s been blown out of all proportion, a stool in a teacup as my late mother would have said.’ Father O Reilly.

‘Exactly.’ The professor added.

‘Well, I do believe it’s a teeny weenie problem.’

An irritated Jim leaned forward and was about to switch off when he saw an image weaving and twisting in the sand at his front door.

‘Hello Mr. Minkwater, it looks like you’re lost babe?’ Jim said pulling on his trench coat heading for the door.

He opened the front door to be hurled violently back into the camper by the magnitude of the howling wind. Jim landed spread eagled on his back as sand started piling up around him. He struggled to close the door with his feet fighting against the power of the wind; suddenly he was exhausted and needed to rest his sand filled eyes.

‘Where was Minkwater?’ he asked himself.

The inane bullshit was continuing on KBCTV.

‘Oh for Christ sake shut up—I don’t want to hear this fucking crap any longer,’ he screamed still lying flat on his back.

He felt a twitch in his groin and a sudden disturbing movement between his legs slightly left of his testicles. Jim looked between his legs and wanted to throw up.

A disorientated 2 metre Egyptian Cobra in striking position swayed from side to side, its angry tail flicking his penis.

Jim was well acquainted with Mr. Minkwater; he was an angry belligerent snake and he knew that he was positioning himself for a strike.

Jim didn’t know what to do except crap his pants in fear.

From where he was lying, he was unable to see what the cobra was doing, he who was prone to striking at anything that moved, and he was too terrified to take the chance of propping himself up on his elbows, because cobra ‘s were incredibly accurate when spitting over a short distance. So he decided to stay on his back and tried to talk him out of biting him.

‘Go ahead bite me, I don’t give a shit, if that’s what you call gratitude that’s okay by me, just remember I was the one who rescued you shithead, you were wondering around in the storm not knowing where the fuck you were heading. All you had was a ton of red sand up your arse, so what kind of venomous reptile are you hey? Your little grandsnakes wouldn’t be too proud of knowing that their hero granddad Minkwater spent the afternoon between the thighs of a geologist would they now? They’d think you were a real pussy wouldn’t they?’

‘What did you do in the storm Granddad? Well son I got lost and couldn’t find my way back home so I slid into the safety of a camper and hid under a geologist’s testicles—Goddam you’re really tough Granddad, you make us grandsnakes proud.’

Jim lay comatose, listening to the wind pounding his camper, unaware of what Minkwater was doing. He prayed he wouldn’t strike. As luck would have it, he didn’t have to do anything, with some relief he felt the cobra cross over his leg and slide up the side of his body towards his face. Jim lay still, his heart stopping as he looked directly into the cold black eyes of the snake, just inches away from his face. Abruptly, Minkwater slithered past his face without a sideward glance, heading towards the cover of the bunk bed. Moving faster than the snake, Jim with the aid of a pair of professional calipers had the cobra safely ensconced and comfortable in the Perspex container that was always at hand for unexpected guests, who regularly dropped in for a bite.

The KBCTV interview had ended and a perspiring Maddocks finally got to switch the television off, as the anger of the storm increased. He rummaged through his desk drawers for a pack of Camels to calm his nerves, knowing full well that he’d quit a year ago—fuck!

With a last minute hiss from Minkwater, Jim decided to do the responsible thing—he liberated a six pack of cold beers, and settled down to wait out the storm, he didn’t give a shit how long it would take.

CHAPTER TWO

T he worst Akabi Desert Storm on record was at its peak as emergency calls poured in to State Police centres and hospitals. United Nations officials and field workers were on high alert assisting any way possible. Gale force winds reaching speeds in excess of 130 kilometers per hour had almost immobilized 300 square miles of barren badlands, covering all and sundry with the dangerous ‘red devil’ sand. Roads became impassible; power grids were down plunging huge areas into darkness, and dormant streams that had not flowed for decades, were suddenly raging torrents washing homes and marooned families downstream to their death.

Inadequately equipped emergency services and hospitals were in a state of chaos as the storm gained intensity, extending into its third day. With a visibility of 3 metres Amanda Elliott pushed the aging U N Land Rover to its limit, against a constant gale force wind. It groaned and creaked and eventually started to overheat, which was a concern to her as she was travelling alone on her way to Azeru, an isolated HIV research centre 150 kilometers from Purem. It was a precarious drive even in normal weather and particularly today, with extremely bad visibility where the locals came from out of nowhere running haphazardly across the road, seeking cover from the storm—oblivious of any danger. It was an exhausting stop-and-go maneuver with Amanda regularly grinding to a halt to calm or assist confused misplaced children who had nowhere to go.

Exhausted, she rested her head against the steering wheel and prayed aloud screaming in frustration at the storm and the futility of everything around her.

‘Jesus, Lord please let this be over,’ she yelled, a flow of muddy tears cascading down her cheeks.

Louella Le Rhone a United Nations associate, was transporting seven special needs children from the mission station at Humbara, back to Azeru in an official Hi Lux Kombi. The vehicle travelling at snail’s pace through the torrential downpour, suddenly stalled on the bank of the raging Beroma River. With no visibility whatsoever, Louella battled to judge how high the river had risen and she started to panic but without letting the children know.

‘Okay you guys we’re getting out of the vehicle for now, to wait for the level of the river to subside a bit. Okay?’ she hollered to be heard.

‘Aah no, we’re going to get wet Maam?’ they replied in unison.

‘Well, getting wet is all part of the fun of being in a big storm, so come along, let’s move quickly,’ said Louella, once more shouting above the rain pounding on the roof of the Kombi.

‘What was that Maam?’ the children asked nervously as the Kombi started to slip deeper into the mud, edging towards the river.

‘That’s not important now children, what is important is that as we get out of the bus immediately.’

‘But Maam it’s really wet out there, can’t I stay here?’ Lisa stated huddling in the corner of the seat.

‘I’m afraid that is not possible Lisa, you’re staying with the rest of us. Okay, what we are going to do is—as you guys jump out I want you to shout your full name as loud as you can and I will tick you off as you jump out of the bus into the water. I will be in the shallow part so you don’t have to worry how deep it is, all you have to do is join me and get out of the bus now. Okay?’

Louella felt the Toyota slip even further into the river as she, the first out, stepped into icy knee deep water.

‘Okay, let’s do it, jump out now and don’t forget to shout out your names.’ Louella prayed to God that it would work.

‘Lisa Du Pont’ was the first to shout and jump into the water.

‘Go Go Go!’ Louella screamed

‘Stay close to each other guys, hold hands if it’s possible.’

‘Troy Daniels’ jumped next.

‘Sinette De La Cruz’ jumped next.

‘Junior Mathews’ jumped next.

‘Chockie Ochse’

‘Leigh Farrell’

‘Tyrell Panter’ jumped last.

Louella screamed in delight as all the children joined her in the rising water.

‘You did it you see, well done guys we’re out safely, hold hands tightly and hang onto each other,’ she burst into tears of gratitude, hugging them in the dark.

She glanced back over her shoulder as the Hi Lux rolled gently onto its side and disappeared into the black abyss, without the children noticing.

‘Thank you Lord,’ she uttered under her breath.

Louella guided the children up to higher ground where they huddled