The Lion King: King of the Jungle

La Morte

—

Tall swaying grass, dry from a lack of rain. The dung of passing herds and those who followed them. The almost herbal sting of the ointment he'd put on a cut on his arm.

It was an occupational hazard. The world of men was soft and protected, but the world of nature was wild, untamed. He hadn't the slightest idea where he'd gotten the injury from. Nor did he care.

This was his country. Perhaps not the land of his ancestors, but the land of his forefathers, where the swaying grasses of the Savannah met the cloudless blue sky, silhouetted by jungles near and mountains far. Majestic, beautiful, and deadly if you didn't respect it like it deserved.

From his perch, a dozen feet up a leafless tree, he sighted on his surroundings through the scope of his rifle. The lions were active here—this was one of their hunting grounds—and they were close.

Perhaps they were in the jungles some kilometers to the north. Perhaps they were skulking through the grasses, preparing to ambush the next herd that passed through. Or perhaps they were creeping toward him, unblinking green eyes fixed on their next meal.

Paranoia demanded that he look behind him. Paranoia or good sense. There was nothing—good. His nerves calmed, he disembarked from the tree and began to move. They weren't hunting him, he reminded himself. He was hunting them.

The wind was on his side, too. He strode east, away from the setting sun, toward a far off area where grasses were short and trees were sparse by well-built. The perfect place for a pride to recline in the shade while maintaining their situational awareness. If they weren't hunting, that's where they would be. And if they were hunting, then he'd likely find them on the way.

The grasses between him and his destination were knee-high, no more. Plenty to hide a lion. There was no choice but to circumvent them and take the long way. If the pride was there, waiting for him, he'd never know it until he was meters away. Too close to snap up his gun and take out more than one of them, and lions always hunted in packs.

Close to the trees. Close enough that his motion would be masked by the nexus of shade and sun. Quick enough to cover ground but not so quick that he would tire or make noise. And there—

There. There in the ground in front of him. A pawprint.

He knelt and took note of its size. No lioness had paws like this, this was the pawprint of their leader. And—he touched the soil within—it was fresh. Hours old, if that.

And… the wind had changed.

Without changing his posture, he looked around. Clear left, right, and front, that only left the back. He turned and shouldered his weapon—

Nothing. Good. But not for long.

Back to the trees? No, then he'd be a sitting duck. Into the grasses? No, that was even worse. So the only thing to do was to keep going, and to keep going faster, quieter, and more mysteriously than ever before. The lions… if they weren't stalking him actively, they knew where he was.

Back into the line of forests adjacent to the grasslands. Interweave yourself in the vines of the jungle and dart from tree to tree, then hold—then move again. All the while, watch, and listen, and prepare to fight for your life. Now—down. Down on your face.

A lioness. Not a hundred meters away, she sat on her haunches in an almost dog-like manner, head quirking this way and that. Clearly she felt no threat, no concern even. And she was alone.

He shouldered his rifle and drew a bead on her body. At that range, with that caliber, he could end her—but why? Giving away his position for one lioness? For all he knew, she could be a decoy, bait set out to lure him into making a mistake. So he held his fire. And his breath.

A rock dug into his knee. The setting sun scorched his exposed neck. He had to piss so he pissed his pants. And the whole while, the lioness simply sat there, looking around, occasionally fidgeting, more rarely pacing, but never leaving.

Sweat trickled down the side of his face. Sweat and a chain of ants who had come to drink it and sting at his cheek. Irrelevant, immaterial. Non-existent in his world.

Then an impact, not ten meters away. As slowly as he dared, he turned and all but locked eyes with the lion king.

Red maned, powerfully built, he was as regal as his bloodline and position suggested. Hard times had stripped the last ounce of fat from him, so every muscle lining his frame rippled when he walked.

A look left. A look right. An errant flick of his tail and he strode toward the lioness. Then they left together.

Wait. Wait, god damn it, rise now and they'll see you. Okay, now you can stand. Now you can sight on them and watch them lope off to the cry of another lioness, a distant lioness.

No. Too quick. Run. But be careful. The only thing that could make lions run like that was danger, or food.

Damn—there they went, through a thicket of woods. The only way to follow them was to follow them in, so in he went with his rifle at the ready. Up and over the next rise was the congregation of them, gorging on a… on an elephant? That large, dark, smoking carcass—was it a hippo?

No. No—up the tree. Up the tree and sight with your rifle and—no. Not an elephant, not a hippo, not a carcass at all. It was a Jeep. And the lions' meal was…

He shut his eyes—no. Open them up, coward, and look at it. Watch them tear free limbs, crack open ribcages, fight over offal, lick up bloodstains. That was why the villagers had called him, to stop that, to prevent that. And that was the result of dawdling around and wasting time.

His face blank, he watched as the last eyeball was popped for nutritious thick fluid, the last shoelace slurped down. Movement under the Jeep—was a cub hiding?

His eyes widened the slightest fraction. Yes. Yes a cub was hiding, but it wasn't a lion cub. And when the lions noticed it, they ate it alive, while it stretched an arm out toward him.

—

(The next chapter is in progress. I appeal to you, readers, to convince me to prioritize its completion. Watch, favorite, and review is necessary, and let us see what happens in the forthcoming night.)