His boots press softly and firmly into the bed of dead leaves and sodden soil. The end of the barrel parts the fronds and down its length he sees his quarry. A small group of six, barging their way through the dense underbrush with worn machetes. Foreign prospectors. Armed guards at their flanks.
Beads of sweat run down his face. The stifling jungle air is thick with moisture. His breaths come slow and heavy. He raises the rifle, takes a half-breath, holds, and squeezes the trigger.
Waking from this memory, the moonlight spilling in dappled slices from the canopy above, his chest rises and falls with his panicked panting. Sweat salts his eyes. He binks its back and wipes his face with his forearm, then sits up. He’s far above the forest floor in his suspended shack of bamboo and vine.
There’s a nasty gash in his side, the bandage sodden by sweat, blood, and jungle dew. It is going to get infected, if it isn’t already. Near impossible to stop it without the right plant lore, which he doesn’t know, or modern sterilisers, which he can’t get. He’ll have to ride out the fevers, like all the other times. Hope they don’t kill him. Not much else he can do.
There’s blood under his fingernails. Not all his.
They’ll keep coming, he knows. As long as there are people out there, they will want to come in here and take. Take and take. The threat he poses won’t be enough. No one fears death until the moment it’s upon them. No one can conceive of it, not fully. Perhaps this is why he does what he does. Because he doesn’t understand death. Just pain. He understands that well enough. Which is why he speaks to their violence with a greater violence. One they can’t ignore.
How long can his body hold out for? Not long enough to make much of a difference. But maybe someone, out there, will raise an eyebrow when they see all these missing, greedy creatures. Maybe they’ll start to wonder why. Wonder what could make a man choose all this violence. Maybe it’ll make them seek the right kind of answers. Then maybe, one day, they’ll all see what he sees now.
A final paradise in its final days. And every second is twice as precious as every drop of blood he gives to it.
In the morning he will clean his rifle, reset his traps, and restock the bloody effigies that surround this place. Then he’ll smile at the sun and give thanks for another day of life.
Paddy Dobson
22nd March 2022