"There must be some kind of way outta here
Said the joker to the thief
There's too much confusion
I can't get no relief ..."
- All Along the Watchtower (lyrics) by Bob Dylan
Prologue
Leornard Basson tugged the upper buttons of his shirt open, dragging his wrist across the broad, red expanse of his forehead. He flicked the sweat away, grinning in victory. The heat of the day had been oppressive but was now more bearable as the shadows of the afternoon grew longer and animals made their way out to watering holes. Most people in the Compound would now be cloistered away, sipping iced drinks in their white-floored, high-ceilinged apartments. Leonard, however, considered himself tailored from a different fabric. This was where he came truly alive, out here with the sun beating down on the dry brush, the crack of brittle, sharp grass beneath his boots, the warm, sleek shape of the rifle in his hands, the heavy, metallic smell of blood in the air.
Something shifted beneath his foot. The antelope's dark, liquid eyes were wide and staring. They seemed to be fixed on a spot far on the horizon, as if watching the advent of its own mortality. He crouched lower, grinding his boot into the animal's shattered flank, watching in satisfaction as its eyes snapped back, mouth opening wide in noiseless agony. It had long since ceased making those desperate sounds. Beside him, the young hunting assistant shifted in intense discomfort. The boy was disciplined. He knew better than to ask for the final shot. Basson knew this and grinned wider. There was power in this too.
He raised the rifle, slowly, deliberately, and pressed its hard nose to a point just below the antelope's ear. Beside him, the assistant went very still. The echo of the blast was not loud, the wet rip of exploding tissue slightly masked. He lifted his foot off the animal's unresponsive body and tugged a soft cloth from his belt, humming slightly as he cleaned the front of the rifle. His quirk activated, dropping his awareness down, down, beneath the soil, running through it. There was nothing else nearby beside the small patter of a guinea fowl's feet and the padded rush of a scampering meerkat. Still humming, he tucked the fouled cloth back into his belt and headed back to the vehicle, the assistant trailing in his wake.
Basson's quirk was not a powerful one, by the standards of those who employed them in a highly flashy and physical sense. The industry and the family he had been born into, however, made it an invaluable one. He was able to harness groundwater as an extension of his senses, allowing him to detect the smallest vibrations from beneath the surface. His education and experience allowed him to adapt the knowledge that his quirk brought him even further, in ways the rest of society was certainly not ready to hear. In the mining industry alone, this type of ability was a godsend. Not that it was entirely coincidental, considering how painstaking the vetting and selection process had been in determining his parents' marriage.
Hunting, however, had always been what Leonard was most passionate about. His mother fretted about the danger, but that was exactly what drew in a man like Leonard. He was smiling to himself as they got into the large, open-sided four-by-four vehicle. The lanky young assistant, who's nametag read "Enoch" (Basson didn't recall the young man ever introducing himself, although he probably had) reversed onto the dusty track in jerky fashion. He had not spoken a word since the hunt had begun. Basson made a mental note to remind Jacques about the training the assistants received. This one was particularly bad at hiding his spineless nature.
He wasn't half bad behind the wheel, though. They navigated the lesser-known track, almost invisible in parts, with practiced ease. Enoch seemed fairly familiar with the trails in this part of the park. Basson started to recognise certain landmarks signifying their approach to the hunting facility, including the imposing stand of baobabs to the west. It was then that something brushed the edge of his finely honed senses. Something swift, something large. His quirk hadn't been consciously extended, but now it reached out, weaving his awareness down through the rapidly passing undergrowth. There it was, lighter than the initial impression he had received. Beside him, Enoch's hands had started to grip the wheel tighter, his glance flitting outward with increasing sharpness. The young man had not given away the nature of his quirk during their hunt, but it had obviously allowed him to sense it too. For the first time, he spoke.
"Boss, there's something – "
"I know. Keep going. Don't turn your head."
Slowly, deliberately, Basson grasped the stock of his rifle and brought it up. He knew that at this speed he was highly unlikely to hit a fast-moving target, but the report should be enough to scare off whatever was following them. What troubled him was his inability to determine quite what it was. He had hunted a variety of game over the decades and acquired a keen sense for their patterns of movement, their weight, their speed. This was … different. The lightness of the tread belied the size he perceived in his initial glance.
Something rammed the side of the vehicle, hard. Enoch shouted a curse, swerving to correct the dangerous tilt of the rover. Darkness roared past the canvas covered door, temporarily blocking out the dying light of the evening.
"What the -"
"Down!"
Basson lifted the rifle and fired in the general direction of whatever it was that had hit them. Enoch's eyes were wide, his breathing erratic. For a few heartbeats, they seemed in the clear. Basson saw it then, darkness gathering like a shadowy, wind-blown veil on the road ahead of them. They were heading directly for it. He gritted his teeth, raising the rifle again, steadier this time. Finger firm but relaxed on the trigger, breathing controlled – and Enoch swerved so hard he jerked sideways, shoulder ramming into the door.
"Fuckin' hell!" Basson sat up, spitting with rage. The youngster had taken them off the main track, through what seemed an overgrown side trail. "I could have blown both our heads off!"
"I'm sorry," Enoch was gasping. His eyes kept shooting to the rear-view mirror, something wild in his glance. The track they were on was not a smooth one. Basson's insides were jerking around ferociously as they flew over small ridges at an alarmingly high speed. He kept his rifle down, the safety on. They seemed to have temporarily lost the thing that was following them. His thoughts had already latched onto a possible explanation.
They were in park grounds, and not exactly on a legal basis. That had also been no animal. This was something Basson was sure of. His quirk had never led him astray before. That left . . . no. It couldn't be. That incident had happened just a week ago, though. He'd always been aware of the risks of his work, but this … His gaze wandered to the boy steering them. Was he - no, too young and too scared. Definitely worth investigating though, once they –
The canvas on the door on his side of the vehicle was ripped away, sailing over the trees to his right. He yelled out in pain and fury as something caught his arm, tearing at the skin and flesh over his bicep. Enoch was screaming something unintelligible. The ranger rocked dangerously, as if a gigantic hand had taken hold of the roof and had started to shake it about like a toy. It was on top of them. Basson groped for his rifle which had fallen to the floor, teeth gritted, warmth seeping down his right arm to the wrist.
Before he had a chance to take aim, something snagged his left arm, dragging it sideways. He yelled out as he was forced towards the open side of the vehicle. His left arm was cold, so cold, bathed in something darker than night. He could feel sharpness beneath, just breaking the skin as more pressure was applied. He was shouting to Enoch, hand outstretched, about to grab hold of the other, when it took him.
There was a moment of weightless incredulity, a moment when he could barely register what was happening to his own body. He felt an agonised scraping as he was pulled against the brush on the side of the track, then a hard, impossibly powerful tug upwards, tossing him into the air. He saw it, perched on the roof of the ranger, watching him with predatory detachment. A brief flash of a memory, the dead antelope, its ruined face staring outward at nothing, and then crushing pain and darkness.
