The Pilgrim

Standing on the edge of the white cascading surf, mentally and physically exhausted by weeks of pursuit, it occurred to Pieter that peace is a very relative thing at its end. Just moments later, a heavy calibre bullet penetrated the meagre protective layer of bone between the swirling, atmospheric mist and the warm, soft haven of his cranial cavity, expending just a fraction of its energy before continuing out to sea via an already sightless eye socket. Such was the speed and balance of the round that the lifeless corpse sank quietly to the sand, almost as if reaching down to pat the loyal creature at his side. His constant companion was first alerted by the close-in noise of its passage. This was followed almost instantly by a balloon of red mist and then the dead weight of the man. The characteristic crack of the un-silenced weapon finally arriving from the other side of the river was almost superfluous, but it did drive the huge mastiff-ridgeback cross to action. Fight or flight was instinctively reconciled by the genetically preprogrammed response of its breeding. With catlike grace that belied strength and size, in a mere handful of accelerating bounds, it had crossed the rippled shallows and was into the far treeline. Now the hunter, all senses focused on the pursuit, its only advantage was surprise combined with overwhelming aggression. Through the first perimeter line of scrub, it froze, trained not to spoil the advantage of hypersensitive hearing by unnecessary movement or barking. Poised, washed by an eerie silence, the animal strove to untangle the complex patterns of jungle smells, the subtle changes in the wind currents. Nothing. Perfectly camouflaged by the shadows but reluctant to further disclose its position by any premature movement, it subtly shifted weight from pad to pad.