Incorporated

Fat, Black Flies

      It was hot. 

A heavy, sweaty hot that made shirts stick to backs and skin glisten. The kind that seemed to spawn flies in countless numbers buzzed twice as loud in the silence of the afternoon. Fat flies. Fat, black flies, landing occasionally before shooting off again to lazily move through the air. The dry, yellow grass rustled in a breeze that only seemed to effect their tall, stiff stalks, a breeze that mysteriously disappeared before touching skin.  The earth was dusty, a mix of tiny stones and wind-tossed dirt. The sun sat burning, small and angry, in the blue afternoon sky. 

Sweat  collected on Blake's upper lip. It collected on his brow and in his palms. It stained his shirt, front and back. It prickled his skin and burned his eyes, and when he licked his lips, he tasted salt. A lot of salt. 

It felt like he had been laying their forever. Maybe the heat distorted time in the same way it distorted light, stretching and warping it. Up on the knoll, he could see a good, long stretch of flat dirt road.

Directly in front, and no more than 70 meters away, was the tin-roofed shack. Nothing hindered his sight. Wind wasn't a factor, either. All he had to do was wait. 

He looked into the scope again, and wiped off dust from the lens. The smooth wooden stock stuck to his cheek from the collected sweat. 

A new sound reached his ears. It was louder and steadier then the buzz of the flies. Faint, but definite. The low drone of an engine. His heart beat in excitement. He hoped the shack would prove to be the right bait. If not to bring them to a full stop for investigation, then at least it would get them to slow. He only needed an opening, a good shot. A good, clean shot. Range wasn't exactly his specialty, but in a pinch, he could focus. He would have to. His Sako AV could do it, no problem. 

The drone grew louder, until it was obvious that there was more than one vehicle. He estimated three or four. He could also hear another, higher engine sound, that unsteadily changed pitch. Most likely a motor bike, typical of convoys to be used to scout out the road ahead for possible dangers or places to rest safely on longer treks. 

All he needed to do was disrupt the convoy. "Send them a messsage; "Welcome to the Congo" ".

Maybe they will be more cautious when they know they are not safe, not in this place". That was what he was told. The orders were loose, but demanded blood. Not a slaughter, but a killing; The greatest weapon is fear. Every conflict is rooted in the mind. The pay would be good, including a pre-paid ticket out of the territory, reserved for a Mr. Blake Harvey. More than worth the trouble. 

To the right, a cloud of dust rose from the road and soon a dirtbike came into view. His heart thumped in his chest with anticipation; If the rider stopped, the convoy would stop. If the rider continued on, he had little to no hope of making a shot at all. 

The bike slowed as the sound of it's engine tapered down. Sweat dripped off his nose, but he remained completely still. His finger hovered on the trigger - if the rider wouldn't stop, then he would at least try to make the shot as he slowed down. 

The bike's engine stopped and the rider rolled it to a halt, a few meters away from the shack. Blake let out a breath of relief. 

The rider got off stiffly and drew a handgun from his hip. Blake could tell that this man was fairly experienced, and had served at least  some time along the backroads of central Africa. Survivors shoot first, because survivors are always ready. 

Within moments, three off-road worthy close-cabbed jeeps rolled up and parked in the road. He could tell that these drivers, on the other hand, were not so experienced. All three vehicles were lined up, in a row one behond the other, leaving only the first vehicle with a way to escape if something were to happen. 

And something was about to happen. 

Blake peered through the scope of his old Sako AV, and slowly, slowly scanned out each jeep. The drivers were getting out; The convoy was obviously not expecting any surprises. It was a critical mistake. Always, always have someone ready to drive at a split second's notice. 

He watched as the driver of the first jeep opened his door. The glass flashed in the bright sunlight. Blake was too fixated on his task to notice or care about the fat flies buzzing around his head and landing on the back of his neck, covered as it was by a hankerchief. 

He hovered his crosshairs on the bright white of the driver's undershirt. Not many white men out in the bush wore anything more, or they would risk overheating. Driving in the heat of the day must have been torturous. 

Blake held his breath, steadying the crosshairs on the driver's torso. Waiting time was over.

The driver's body slammed against the door at the crack of the rifle, and a red splotch bloomed like a flower near the middle of his chest, staining the undershirt a startling crimson. The stock kicked back hard into Blake's shoulder as he slid the bolt to feed in a new round. The sharp smell of cordite tinged the air. 

The biker burst from behind the shed, leapt on his bike and kick started it in one fluid motion, then

tore down the dirt road leaving nothing but a thick cloud of dust. The other men scrambled, in a panic, not sure of what was happening. 

Blake watched the mayhem through his scope, feeling safer behind the reticle, before deciding it was safe to leave. He crawled backward using his knees and elbows, rifle cradled in his arms, careful to keep the glass lens from shining in the sunlight and the dust from rising from his movement through the dry grass, slithering on his stomach like a snake. 

***

After two hours of bushwacking, he got back to his Jeep, which he had driven a few meters into the bush and camouflaged with vines, leaves, and other jungle detritus. In no time, he was driving back to Kinshasa via a forgotten logging road. The cab was hot and sweaty, but he didn't want to unroll the windows and let any dust in. Flies buzzed around his head, filling the Jeep with the rapid whir of their wings. The flies landed on the dashboard, just to zip away when Blake hit a pothole. He wondered how so many of them could have got in his cab so quickly.  

Fat, black flies.