Free The Devil's Breath by David Gilman Page B

jinked to the left as his feet hit the ground.
    The driver was on the far side of the Land Rover, near the right-hand headlight. He would have to come all the way back to reach Max, who had reached the aerial and had both hands pressing down on its base. He twisted it free from its locked position and held what was now athree-meter-long metal whip. The man lunged, but he was a couple of meters away. Max slashed at him and the stinging metal cut across the top of his neck and shoulder. He cried out, but then snarled and spat even more, like a tormented scrapyard dog. If he ducked beneath Max’s swinging arc he would gut him like a fish.
    Max was well balanced—a slight bend in his knees, his feet edging up onto his toes, waiting for the rush of his opponent. His fists were clenched around the aerial’s base as a warrior would hold a double-edged sword. The driver waited, Max watched his eyes; the man stabbed forward, but that was a feint—he intended to swing his arm back and plunge the razor-sharp blade into Max’s stomach. Max yelled, giving himself a surge of energy, ridding himself of the last vestige of fear, and whipped the aerial across his body—left and right and back again. Welts of blood suddenly appeared on the driver’s arms, chest and face. An almost surgical cut suddenly ran from above his left ear, down across his face and onto his neck. He was blinded. Max stepped back, nausea welling inside. He had caused the man serious injury, it felt terrible, and his feeling of guilt almost made him lower his guard. A voice shouted from his own mind— He was going to kill you! Max recovered and tightened his grip, but there would be no further attack—the man was defeated. He fell, picked himself up and went down the hill at a stumbling run, blinded by blood.
    Max’s efforts on the back of the Land Rover had rocked it free, and it had slid off the flat-topped rock. He threw the aerial into the back. They needed help and the radio was their only means of contacting anyone. Kallie. He wouldradio Kallie. She would send the police, or the army, anyone. Max felt the icy fear of being completely out of his depth.
    But as the physical exertion of coaxing the Land Rover diagonally down the reverse slope of the ridge focused Max’s panic, his doubts swept away like the dust behind him. He would radio for help, but he was not going to stop. He would find his father. The bouncing Land Rover jolted !Koga. Max was steering with one hand and holding the Bushman’s shoulder with the other, keeping the boy’s head from banging against the dashboard. By the time they reached the flat road !Koga’s eyes had opened.
    “What happened?” he asked.
    “We won!” Max shouted. He laughed, though the steering wheel had a life of its own and demanded less celebration and more concentration as they lumbered across the uneven ground. !Koga smiled and said something Max took to be the Bushman equivalent of “Let’s get out of here while the going’s good.”
    They were on the cooler, moister side of the hills, which offered more vegetation, the reason why animals trekked here. The boulders gave way to gentler ground with the hills to one side; they were now in a valley, heading towards the guardian mountains. As the ground leveled, Max let the tension ease out of his hands—he had been gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. With a backwards glance and the thought that it would take their attackers at least an hour, probably longer, before they contacted the other group, he allowed himself a sigh of relief. Fear had dried his mouth and he was parched, but he made a dealwith himself to stop and drink only when they were in the lee of the mountains, which had already lost the sun and which would offer them safety and shelter. A good vantage point, a safe haven for the night, was all he wanted now. And that drink.
    As they drove towards the mountains, now purple in the evening light, he gazed in wonder at the