The Hunt

The slapping sound made by the Phai Tong, a local species of bamboo, being pushed aside carried through the still jungle air.  Whoever was approaching either didn't care about the noise they were making, or they were more concerned with speed than stealth.  Armstrong raised his head above the fallen tree he had crept up to, his profile barely visible thanks to the camouflage paint he wore and the dirty green scarf tied on his head.  Having calculated where the intruder would appear, he crouched behind the log and waited.

The first thing he saw was a pair of worn hiking boots and tattered khaki pants.  They stopped, turned, started off in a new direction but only traveled several yards before stopping again.  A new sound broke the quiet, the sound of crying.

Armstrong crept forward, shotgun at his side although he didn't think he would need it now.  When he pushed aside the last leaf and stepped out, he stood before the dirtiest woman he'd seen in a long time.

"Don't be afraid, I won't hurt you."

The woman gasped and scrambled backwards on all fours.  Her curly brown hair was full of bits of leaves and dirt.  The scrapes and red marks on her face were a testament to the way she must have been going through the jungle, and judging by the ripped knees on her pants she had taken a number of falls in her flight.

"Please, don't let them catch me."

Armstrong didn't need any more information to decide what to do next.  He pulled the woman to her feet.

"Come this way," he said over his shoulder and moved off to where he'd left Hamston.

Hamston watched the leaves move and part at Armstrong's return but he wasn't ready for the sight of the bedraggled woman who followed him.

Warily she stopped behind Armstrong and looked over at the second man emerging from his hiding place under the leafy bush.  She was even more surprised when she recognized who he was.

"Aren't you George Hamston?"

"Yes, I am, and who might you be and what are you doing wandering around in the jungle alone?"

She looked back and forth between the two men, hoping they would be her saviours.  They couldn’t have looked more different.  Hamston with his sandy hair and piercing blue eyes stood in direct contrast to Armstrong’s chiseled features and shoulder-length black hair that proclaimed his Native American heritage.  They appeared trustworthy and she certainly knew of George Hamston's reputation as one of the premier wildlife photographers in the world.  She decided on telling a portion of the truth. She couldn't risk telling all.  The echo of Alan's screams still rang in her ears and protecting his legacy was the most important thing. 

"My name is Kate Barstow.  And I'm lost and Alan's dead and ..."

That was all she could say before the tears came rushing back.  She didn't want to cry in front of these strangers, but it was all becoming too much for her.  She slumped to the ground and drew her legs to her chest, fighting back the hot tears that ran down her face, pushing their way through the dirt on her cheeks, and leaving clear trails behind them.