Ghosts of Kilimanjaro Prologue

I've had some requests for me to put my book up so people can read it. Here is the Prologue, let me know when you want me to post Chapter 1. - Edson

GHOSTS OF KILIMANJARO

This is a fictional novel. It is a bit graphic, scary and violent and is set in Kenya and Tanzania in modern times. Read at your own risk...

Prologue:

He hiked quickly, almost trotting. He muttered under his breath, swearing. As the light faded, cold crept into his flesh. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets. With thoughts wrapped in anger he descended. He failed to notice as he passed from the barren landscape at 13,000 feet into the scrub brush below. The trail became steeper as he left the Mawenzi tarn. Above him stars became visible. In the gathering darkness the man occasionally stumbled. Ill-prepared for his sudden departure, he was without food or water. At a turn in the trail he fell, muttering curses as he picked himself up. A gash in his left wrist dripped blood. Frantically he searched pockets for a flashlight, suddenly realizing he had left it behind at the camp. He felt cold, damp and alone. The stars now visible, shown with a cold emotionless intensity seen only in the African sky. He walked on, his lips constantly describing the justice he expected to rain down on the guides once he reported them to the authorities. He peered ahead, straining to see the trail ahead of him. 

Unaware he was no longer alone, he was noisy. His boots crunched in the dirt; pebbles rolled as he kicked along, talking to himself. After several hours he stopped for a moment’s rest. Wind whistled through the scrubby trees. A second emotion joined his anger: fear. He was utterly alone. It was becoming intensely dark. Below him, quickly approaching was mist. He realized the mist would obscure the starlight. Rising quickly, he hurried down the trail. By eight o’clock the darkness was palpable. The silence of the mist enhanced his sense of isolation. He fell frequently, cursing each lurch. He thought of stopping and trying to find a place to rest but it was too cold. Seconds ticked by, moments passed and he thought to himself how desperately he wanted revenge, how desperately he wanted to report to the park officers about his guide, Mangi, and the demands for money. In his head he replayed the scene repeatedly: the arrival at the camp, the guide’s sudden demand for money, the refusal to even set up a tent. It turned ugly and he started yelling at the guide when one of the porters casually pulled out a knife. It was at that point he realized he had no recourse but to return. He picked up his walking stick, put on his coat and began his descent.

He never saw the branch. He felt an explosion in his head as he fell. Rolling uncontrollably, his body fell down the steep slope into a gully 20 feet below. He lay dazed and confused. Warm blood dripped down his forehead. He tried to stand. He almost fell again. Resorting to crawling, he headed up the embankment slipping and sliding. In the dark he was unsure of the direction he had fallen. After 20 minutes he had not found the path. Had he passed it, he wondered vaguely to himself. His head ached. He was cold. As he searched for the trail, an element of fear entered his emotions. Foreboding overwhelmed reason. Half stumbling, half crawling he searched in desperation. With each slip and fall, fear took deeper hold. After 40 minutes, exhausted, he collapsed. “I must calm down and reason this out,” he thought to himself. 

A cackling dove suddenly disturbed, rose, shrieking from the darkness. Fear deepened and suddenly he sensed another presence. The hair on his neck stood on end. He froze, desperately trying to listen over the sound of his breathing. Wind whistled. Clothes rustled with each breath. Far off, the dove’s cry was suddenly silenced. His fear drove him up. Desperately again he searched for the path. Then he heard it.  A deep, guttural growl sounded almost in front of him. Terror gripped him. Turning, he ran, weaving. Madness gave him strength. 

He heard a second growl. As he turned, a scream rose uncontrollably. His scream was abruptly cut short as blood filled his larynx. Consciousness faded as fangs collapsed his trachea. Claws ripped, puncturing his lungs.

Biologists are unsure what causes a lion to become a man-eater but refer to the first attack on a human as the “first kill.” After the first kill, the lion’s lust for human flesh grows.