The Last Mountain Gorilla(2)

It’s then that I see what Armel is holding. A human arm. There is no clothing on the severed limb, just scorched skin and the bone sticking out from one end. Now my stomach threatens to heave up my breakfast. Armel is pointing to the road and it takes a moment for me to realize what he is saying. The road is mined.

“That is the real reason we were allowed to go,” Armel says. “It is easier to explain that we stepped on a mine, than we were victims of a random murder.”

My head swivels around in self-defense, not knowing what is out there.

“We are truly dead,” Armel repeats.

I have nothing to refute that.

Armel begins searching the jungle floor for something, then stops to pick up a football-sized rock. He pulls me to my feet and guides me along the forest beside the road like a parent steering their kid through the mall.

“There,” he says, pointing to a subtle lump in the road that could pass for a shallow grave for a cat. He motions me back and I move without asking questions. The rock leaves his hand with a high arch and before it ever hits the ground, both of us are already face down in the undergrowth.

The explosion pounds my ears the hardest. It feels as if giant hands have slapped both sides of my head simultaneously. The heat passes over us in a wave of anger, then embers float down and burn the back of my neck.

Before I can flick the pain away, Armel pulls me to my feet and grabs my hand.

“Run,” he yells.

I only know he’s yelling because of his exuberant expression. My ears have stopped working. I sprint in silence between saturated tree limbs and oversized bushes.

We run for almost ten minutes before my hearing gradually returns. Armel slows. He turns to look me over and the fear is still there on his face.

“They will send someone to be sure we are dead,” Armel says between breaths. “When he does not find us, he will track us down and kill us.”

“Then let’s keep going,” I say. But Armel doesn’t move. I notice his right pant leg is torn below the knee and he is bleeding. A result of the explosion. I bend down to examine the wound, but he pushes me away and says, “Come on.”

We go on for another ten minutes at a much slower pace, but Armel finally acquiesces and drops to the ground. This time he allows me a closer look at his leg and I’m surprised he can even walk. There is a concave lesion on his calf that reminds me of a turkey leg that had been chewed by a wild animal. I have nothing for the wound and after a few moments he appears prepared for his fate.

“Go on,” he says. “Go and tell your magazine what is happening here.”

I don’t even consider that option, but mostly because I wouldn’t survive one night alone in this jungle without my gear, even if a Hutu assassin wasn’t tracking me.

“No,” I say. “We go together or we don’t go.”

I have my story. The Hutus are certainly the ones who killed the mountain gorillas, but now I must survive long enough to tell the world.

“Listen,” Armel says, “the Congolese army has an outpost not two miles from here. You can make it. My cousin, Simon, he is a—”

A branch snaps thirty yards behind us and we freeze. It seems too soon, but we were traveling slowly for too long. A few moments later a soldier steps out into the open with a machine gun out front and a shovel strapped to his back. He scans the terrain around us and I wonder what he’s looking for until I zone in on the shovel. He wants the softest turf available to bury our corpses. He gestures with the muzzle of the machine gun toward an area to our left. We hesitate and he fires a burst of gunfire just over our heads. He points the gun again and this time we hop up and begin walking to our graves.

I want to beg, but I am paralyzed with fear. I consider running, but I don’t. Somehow living an extra twenty seconds seems so gratifying. He motions us to our knees and we don’t resist. What’s the point?

I shut my eyes and hear Armel murmuring words of despair next to me. We are both alone with our prayers as we await our fate. I think of my wife and two daughters. I realize how much I truly love them and how my damn curiosity has caused me to lose them forever. A moment passes, then two. I hear a strange thumping sound, like a violent pillow fight.

I open my eyes and see him for the first time. Kwendro. The Hutu is face down on the ground as the five-hundred pound silverback pummels him with both giant hands at once. The Hutu’s torso actually bounces up after each blow. Kwendro is grunting and hopping in a violent jungle rhythm, pounding his chest between blows. I am relieved and petrified all at once. I try to stand, but Armel pulls me back down.

“Do not move,” he whispers. “No matter what happens.”