Читать книгу Attack on the Black Cat Track - Max Carmichael - Страница 7

Prologue

Rain cascaded onto the fabric of the one-man tent. Within the dubious comfort of its folds, Zoltan Maklary wriggled contentedly into a more comfortable position on his sleeping mat, and reflected on the achievements of the day. He, with seven other trekkers, their tour leader and nineteen porters, had just completed the first day of a six-day trek along Papua New Guinea’s notorious Black Cat Track. The trek was an adventure Zoltan knew would take him well outside of his comfort zone. He freely admitted to a certain amount of self-doubt as to his ability to cope with the tough conditions for which the track was famed. However, the worst thing he had encountered so far had been the leeches. He gave an involuntary shudder as he recalled ridding himself of those many primeval creatures that had, vampire-like, attached themselves to his body. Yet in spite of these and various other discomforts, he had come through the first day’s trek pretty well, and felt a great sense of achievement.

This was not to suggest that the trek had not been physically demanding, particularly once they had entered the jungle. It had indeed been tough but nothing, he was pleased to note — neither rain, a river crossing, the steep slopes, or the distance — had been beyond his ability to cope. He reflected briefly on the strengths and skills of the porters, who had carried most of the equipment and supplies required for the trek, and pondered for a moment if he would have done quite so well had he carried a similar load. He was also acutely aware that some seventy years earlier, young Australian and Japanese soldiers not only carried heavy loads across this same terrain, but were engaged in a bloody battle to the death. It was, he concluded, a privilege to live in a time of peace and be able to employ others to carry the load so that he was free to enjoy himself.

In fact, the whole trekking group were buoyed up by their progress that day, and there had even been talk of pushing further along the Track while the light held. However, their guide had assured them that the next day would be much tougher and that they should rest. So while some of the trekkers chose to take refuge from the rain and drink coffee under the porters’ shelter, Zoltan had retired to his tent early.

He could hear occasional bursts of laughter from the others, and the clash of pots and pans as the porters prepared the evening meal. It seemed sleep in the short-term was going to be difficult to achieve. Zoltan reached into his backpack, drew out his iPod, and set its earphones in place. A little bit of technology in the jungle. He lay back on his bed, and the noise beyond his tent receded into the background as he lost himself in music.

Coldplay’s soothing and inviting words of ‘Death and All His Friends’ eased their way through the earphones, the song taking him to another place. He began to relax.

All winter we got carried

Away over on the roof tops, let’s get married

All summer we just hurried1

The rain eased, but Zoltan hardly noticed and remained engrossed in the song.

So come over, just be patient and don’t worry

So come over, just be patient and don’t worry

So come over, just be patient and don’t worry

And don’t worry2

The sound of yelling, half heard, penetrated the place to where he had drifted, arousing his slight interest, but he only assumed the porters were playing football.

No I don’t want a battle from beginning to end

I don’t want a cycle of recycled revenge

I don’t want to follow death and all of his friends

No I don’t want a battle from beginning to end

I don’t want a cycle of recycled revenge

I don’t want to follow death and all of his friends3

The shouting became louder and more urgent. Zoltan’s interest in the music waned and he wondered if perhaps he was missing out on something, perhaps in the way of entertainment.

He sat up, removed his headphones and searched around the tent for his boots. Before he could reach his footwear, a large rent suddenly appeared in the tent wall near its entrance. He stared at the hole, unable to comprehend how it got there. In a single flash, the whole wall on that side of the tent vanished. There, standing over him, was a nightmarish figure of a man.

The man was dressed in black clothing, with a black hood covering his head. In his right hand he held a long bush knife, the kind the porters used to clear away the jungle. Clearly, this man had slashed the tent open, and for a long moment the two men regarded each other in silence. Zoltan felt numb, incapable of any reaction to the sudden confrontation, while the man seemed both surprised and angry to see Zoltan. The hood masked the man’s facial features, but Zoltan could see his eyes, huge and saucer-like, staring down at him from within the shadow of his cowl. Finally, the man shouted some kind of demand that Zoltan couldn’t understand. With a scream of utter fury the man sprang forward, and with the flat of the bush knife blade began to rain heavy, body-numbing blows upon the prostrated Zoltan.

Zoltan tried to stand up, but heavy blows and more screaming drove him back onto the ground, where he curled up and tried to protect his head with his arms. The blows hurt, really hurt, and amid the pain he asked himself frantic questions. Why was this happening to him? What had happened to his friends? Who was this man? What did he want?

Zoltan thought that unless something was done, this man was going to beat him to death. He began to scream back at his attacker, pleading with him to stop, promising he would do whatever he wanted. But Zoltan’s shouts only served to further infuriate his attacker, who began to hit harder, and harder.

_________

1 Coldplay, ‘Death and All His Friends’, Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends, EMI/Parlophone/Capitol, 2008.

2 ibid.

3 ibid.