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Headhunt |
| Written by DAVID TODD | |
| Thursday, 07 February 2008 | |
Situated beside the equator, New Guinea was way too humid for the likes of Kazinsky. Dripping with blood and sweat, he had to endure the anguish that his presence here was completely over-estimated. The mission was futile, and, in hindsight, always was. It was supposed to be a rescue mission, but the lone pilot of the downed fighter plane, even though safely ejected, had fallen prey to the jungle. Kazinsky was fully aware that once they'd caught him, the cannibals that they were, would've cut off his head and eaten the rest of him. Not to mention the headshrinking fettish for afters. It was no surprise, then, that Kazinsky found the headless corpse uncerominously discarded in the backyard of the Bajas's forboding village. No sooner had he said a silent prayer for his lost friend than the villagers' war cries berated his ears. He knew he only had minutes before the onslaught. Kazinsky hastilly retured to the sophistication of the relatively intact aircraft: the trees had somewhat subdued its erratic descent. The site was virtually where his journey on foot had begun, almost an hour earlier. The pilot should have perished in the crash, he'd thought more than once - it would've been a whole lot more dignified. However, his priority now was his own mortality. With this in mind, he vaulted over the damaged wing and clambered into the cavity left by the vacant ejector-seat. As he frantically scanned the controlls, the first wave of spears and poisoned darts clattered onto the wings and dug into the fusealge. Allowing that the plane was wedged between two trees and wasn't going anywhere, he ignited the engine. The jets soured out of the rear thrusters, engulfing the undergrowth behind. Many of the hunters were burnt alive, while others scurried from the resulting forest fire. Kazinsky, touching the smooth steel of his automatic rifle for last minute reassurance, dropped to the ground and sprinted towards the nearby riverbank. A canoe was waiting for him there, where he had left it what now seemed like hours ago. Two of the Bajas made it throught the flames. They pounced on Kazinsky as he pushed the red fibreglass vessel into the almost-brown water. Gripping the twin-bladed oar in the middle of its fibreglass shaft, Kazinsky jousted one of the enemy in the face. Another of his pursuers was imminently despatched with the opposite yellow blade, collapsing in a heap while clutching his throat as red liquid seeped through his bony fingers. Indifferent to his act of brutality, Kazinsky slid into the canoe, and hastily pushed off the bank with his trusty paddle. However, as the current pulled him along, two longboats pulled away from a nearby position further along the river's edge. Kazinsky paddled furiously; his incentive accellerated by the dart that deflected off his paddle. But, with the bonus of an outboard motor, the Bajas were quickly gaining on him. Unbeknown to the enemy, though, their assailant had one more trick up his sleeve. A short distance ahead, a wire stretched across the snaking river. But, unless you had binnoculars - and knew where to be looking - by the time you saw the high-tensile wire it would be too late. When the tip of his canoe was inches from the wire, Kazinsky performed an "Eskimo Roll"; the flimsy craft and its passenger slammed into the foul-scented water, completing a three-sixty revolution. Kazinsky's head broke the surface beyond the wire, expertly righting his canoe. The Bajas were mystified by their prey's antics. Equally unimpressed, though, the throttle-man on the first longboat opened the throttle as much as it would go. Unfortunately, his haste was rewarded by his untimely demise, and that of the rest of his crewmen. Somehow, though, to Kazinsky's utter chagrin, the second longboat emerged from the rising fountain of water and flying debris that resulted from his underwater grenade. As well as the piece of hollowed out treetrunk that previously passed as a boat. The current was speeding up. Kazinsky, nonetheless, wasn't perturbed by the fact that he was heading towards a two-hundred foot drop. In fact, it played right into his hands. Little did his pursuers know, but around the next bend an amphibian glider was conveniantly moored to the bank. Kazinsky dropped his oar in the drink and concentrated on the upcoming target. He had to sever the mooring line, which required an extremely precise shot, especially as it was fundamentally a moving target. With time of the essence, he squeezed off a couple of rounds. He cursed as he almost drew level with the bigger craft; he needed to hit the elusive rope before he overtook the glider, or he was dead for sure. It seemed like he'd expended an entire magazine but, in actuallity, he pared the line in only a few short bursts. The glider drifted alongside him, immediately maintaining his speed. As he threw himself out of an unstable canoe, Kazinsky caught a glimpse of the approaching precipise. Something else caught his attension, too, but, unfortunately, that was something he would have to dwell on when he was safely in the air. If he could reach the cock-pit in time. Landing on the nearest float of the glider had knocked the wind out of Kazinsky, but he ignored the discomfort and made his way along and up the outside of the aircraft. He had a hand on the door just as the nose of the glider felt the first spray of the defeaning waterfall. Seconds later the glider and the longboat plunged into the air. But while the longboat spilled out its passengers, Kazinsky wrestled with the aircrafts controls from behind the pilot's seat. He prayed he wasn't going to meet the same fate as the Bajas at the bottom of the rapidly approaching chasm - especially as he suddenly had even more to live for. It was one thing to be sent to his death by his employers, but to be betrayed by the man he'd risked everything to rescue... He could hardly concentrate on the job in hand as the revelation finally sunk in. He should have suspected foul play when he discovered the decapitated body: either his missing friend had lost six stone in the equatorian heat, or that wasn't his body in the notibly deflated flightsuit? However, there was no escaping what he saw on the second longboat. The figure sat a full head higher than his companions, and his skin was distinctly sunburned, compared to the dark-brown of the others - what Kazinsky could see of it: the seemingly immortal pilot was tattoed from head to toe. Kazinsky had heard about this anomally once before. He hadn't believed the documentary's spiel that an adventurer had survived a standoff with headhunters, and, to save his neck when an upcoming ceromony required his head on a stick, he underwent a life or death challenge to become a fully-fledged member of their tribe. A warrior. Now he believed! Kazinsky fought the controls with all his might. The chasm beckoned him. Somewhere, deep inside him, he refused the welcome. The young mercenary couldn't believe his eyes - when he finally opened them that was - that the instruments in front of him officially gave him the all clear: he was airbourne; travelling at a relatively safe altitude, high above the horrors of the jungle. Copyright 2008 DAVID TODD |
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