Page 10 of Bastard
“What? You’re lying.”
I wink. “Then I told him all the large-sized ones were being saved for you.”
Donovan beams.Mierda. He thinks I’m flirting with him.
“Better pack for tomorrow’s hike.” I rush by him, following the same path Tight-Lipped left moments ago. “See you in the morning.”
I curse beneath my breath as I enter my hut, then promise myself to be more careful.
For a long time, I lay in bed, staring up at the thatched roof overhead. Refusing to dwell on the past and on the plans I’ve made for tomorrow. Wondering, as I drift off to sleep, what the future has in store for me.
2
Early the next morning, my future is about to turn belly up.
“Luciana, Donovan, trucks are coming,” a young local screeches, racing into the village circle and interrupting our meal preparations. “Run. Hide yourselves.”
Villagers, arms waving, are running in our direction. My pulse pumps into overdrive. Trucks?
Shaking off my shocked surprise, I sprint toward my hut. With carefully planned movements, I retrieve my filled daypack from where I leave it hanging from a nail on the wall and make sure my laptop and my personal belongings are tucked away within the hiding space I’ve created between the hut’s thin interior and exterior walls. Thankfully, hiding my possessions has become part of my daily routine and nothing is astray. My brother would be proud of me.
I exit and hurry toward Donovan who stands just outside Mustafa’s hut. He takes my hand and tries to lead me around the side. But the roar of engines tells me our time’s up. I pull him inside seconds before the shouting begins.
“Head for the window,” I holler needlessly, as I’ve already dragged him halfway across the small space. The huts will be the first place they’ll search. Fortunately, Mustafa has one with a window located over her bed. I usher Donovan up onto the mattress. To my relief, he easily pries it open. “Climb through and crawl toward our meeting place. There’s enough room beneath the brush for us to hide.”
Donovan looks at me, panicked. “How can you be so calm?”
“If they catch us, you’re going to see a whole different side of me. But that’s not going to happen. Go.”
He hauls himself through the opening as I hear the sound of breaks squealing over the ruckus.
I jump onto the mattress and spring through it headfirst, tucking my head in my arms and my body into a ball as I fall and roll, coming to end facedown on the ground. Without pausing, I begin to army crawl away from the hut to the brush looming ahead. The long, bowed branches, thick with a dusty-colored foliage should offer enough camouflage to hide us both. Something I’ve thought about before, yet deep down never truly anticipated we’d have to follow through on.
I turn and wiggle myself backward beneath the brush, using my arms to erase the trail we’ve made. My chest hurts. My arms and legs are scraped. My pulse is pounding, not just with fear, but excitement as well.
Dios mío, not again. What a fool I am.
I stiffen as four men appear between the huts, one carrying a laptop, covered in a large computer skin with the name Donovan printed in bold letters on it.
“Shit,” Donovan murmurs.
“Where is the Westerner?” he asks.
The villagers don’t say a word as they assemble around the men.
Mustafa pushes her way forward. “Fishing. He has gone to Lake Malawi to bring back fish for foufou.” If I weren’t so worried how she’s drawn attention onto herself, I’d smile. Mustafa loves this dish of mashed plantains, roots and kampango, a fish similar to catfish. Leave it to her to work it into a lie.
“Any other foreigners living here?”
Mustafa shakes her head no.
I hold my breath, studying the men and wondering what they’re about. Three of them talk among themselves, I pick up their thick English accents. I flew into South Africa and spent a few days there waiting for my connecting flight into Lilongwe. I’ve been around the world enough to have an ear for accents—these three are South Africans. The fourth, another white man with tall blond hair, a sharp nose and thick jaw that could crack nuts, stands slightly apart from them.
These aren’t the militants we’ve been warned about. Yet they’re far too curious about the Westerners living in Nmimpi to be written off as harmless.
“We need tires for a Ford 500. Fucking dirt roads even blew out the spares.”
“There will be hell to pay if our vehicles aren’t operable,” another man adds. “One of you is going to strip the tires off his truck and give them to us or that Westerner you’re hiding is going to have problems.”
