The Hunt

It's hot. So damn hot. How long has it been? How long has he been running? His mind lost track long ago when his nervous system shut down under the constant wailing of his muscles. This is insanity. How can people survive like this? Is it really physically possible? The strain is too great for a human. No one can do this. Step after step after never ending step through hell. This is it. This is enough. He can't do it. No more. Stop.
It's hot.
So hot.

…

Rain curls across his cheek.
Mud cakes his bare flesh.
There is a pounding from the back of his head. Metal restraints bite at his wrists. Boots stomp before his eyes. A heavy burden weighs on his back pinning him on his stomach.
“Welcome, gentlemen, to SERE!” The boots stomp closer, splattering mud in his face. “For the next two months we will destroy you. Break you down until you are nothing. Your name will be what we te-l- ...”

He can't breathe. The torrent is too great. He blindly flails against the water, seeking precious air. This is it. He's going to die here. Drown in some shitty camp in the middle of a god forsaken jungle. He always thought he'd be more than this or at least he'd die for something worth a damn. Fate is cruel. Destiny is a bitch...

Not yet. He's not dead yet. Why the hell couldn't he be dead already? Then it would be over. The pain, the suffering, the torture would all go away and all would be good. Instead he hangs here, dull metal wringing the life from his wrists, skin laid bare. Before his eyes electricity arcs between two cables in the hands of a masked man.
There are voices around him. Strange voices he does not understand. The words are familiar, but distant and dull. He knows them, but they refuse to structure themselves in his mind. It's a question that they yell at him, he can tell that much. They want to know something. If he could just remember the damn words.
Time is up and their patience is lost. His body convulses involuntarily and in his mind he relives the past several hours all over again. Then it stops and the voices are back. He doesn't care what they want anymore. Soon he will die and they will get nothing.
“Hee mae mang,” he says and is returned with silent stares. Once more his body is sent into erratic convulsions.


Concrete passes beneath his suspended body. His shadow slides across the floor and he wonders for a moment in that near catatonic state if this is what it feels like to fly. His ears tremble with the creak of old hinges and he discovers a new sensation of flight as his body is hurled through the open doorway. Wet flesh skids across the floor stopping with a soft thud against the far wall.
Bloodied lips stretch into a smile and from that lifeless form, prone in a shadowed room, glare two eyes that reflect a hint of light. “See,” his voice is forced and uneven, “you in the mornin', cupcake.”
The solitary block of luminescence is squeezed out of existence by the wailing hinges.

Rain thunders through the canopy, blotting the sky from sight. Mud pulls at his feet and betrays any sense of traction, but this is a good thing. These difficulties that he must endure, they must also endure. This rain is a gift that hides his trail through thick foliage, dampens his smell to the canines whose howls are muted by the rain, and opens the gates of freedom. He will vanish in this jungle as a ghost and never will they find him hidden amongst the trees slathered in the mud. The days of torture are over. He is alive. Des Mielle is alive and he will be damned if anything changes that.

Muscles scream for relief, but he does not heed their pleas and pushes onward. It is almost over. At last he has come to the end. A gloved hand drenched in sweat pulls the spear from the sling across his back and makes ready for the final moment. The pace shifts to a slow creep through the dense, reedy shrubbery.
His prey falters a few scant metes away. The exhaustion has built to a point that is no longer endurable for the large creature and the spiraling horns of nearly a meter in length force the muscles into submission. It falls to the ground, too fatigued to rise once more and flee from him. It looks straight at him with a pair of large eyes highlighted by white stripes across the otherwise gray coat.
They remain like this. Staring at one another. Each knowing the end is here. A long struggle spanning hours has come to an end and at last it is over. The spear tip plunges into the side of the kudu and strikes the oxygen deprived lungs attempting to fuel the large cloven creature. Seconds later the eyes glaze over and the beast lays slain.
Des sinks to his knees and gasps for air. He did it. Across the Kalahari he tracked his prey in a chase that lasted hours on end. He outlasted the larger, faster creature with persistence and an unwillingness to give in to the cries of his body. Much of it he can no longer recall, but here he is looking at his dispatched victim.
He gives thanks to N/adima as the Tyua he hunts with would do. He gives thanks to his fallen adversary. Last, he gives thanks to the spirits that guided him this day and warded off //Gamammaa.
Shaky fingers pull free the recorder mounted over his right eye. The entire hunt was captured by that small device that Des would later edit and narrate. Right now there is a feeling that he can't record reverberating through his body. It could be the resultant mixture of endorphins and adrenaline overloading his body or it could simply be that this was a moment of truly being alive. Either way the energy is uncontrollable and Des punishes his worn lungs once more with a victorious yell.