Danse’s vision pulsed as his eyes darted around, his peripherals hyper-aware to threats and movement.  His breath came ragged as his heart pounded in his chest, verging on cardiac arrest.  Against the evening backdrop he noticed something shifting in the shrubbery, and with a swiftness that indicated second-nature he trained his firearm on the perceived threat.  Even though the weather had cooled dramatically from the african day temperature, sweat beaded down the Corporal’s temple.

A blank-faced south-african man stumbled out of the bush.  Danse recognized the close-cropped hair, the young face (though devoid of the enthusiasm it once carried), and the slight build of Private Bekkers.  All things considered he was a newbie, who just graduated basic training. The Corporal lowered the sights of his pistol, and considered for only a moment the disappointment of finding such hopes for a promising new recruit dashed by cowardice.

That moment was far too long.

Bekkers took two drunken steps forward, the first revealing his ruined left leg, the second revealing the charred and missing sections of his back where the uniform burned away. Then something leaped over his shoulders with a snarl, pouncing the distance like a hunting lion out of savannah grass.  Danse’s shoulder jerked as he rattled off two shots, the first of which was wide, wild, and fled into the bush.  For the second shot his combat enhancers and sensory focusers kicked in, and with a form that indicated a maneuver that was second-nature to him, delivered a round into the shoulder of the creature formerly known as Arentino Swain.  It wasn’t enough, and Danse quickly became the sundered gazelle, as the creature jammed his fingers into the soldiers stomach, lifted him off his feet, and tore him apart.

The creature, a pale-skinned emaciated humanoid, crept away from Danse’s corpse in its preferred posture of toes and palms.  Each arm feeling out ahead of the main body like the willowy limbs of a spider.  Through ragged breaths and patchy hair that strung down his face, the creature formerly known Arentino glared at the distant firefight.  He squinted his eyes, to view the plume of smoke in the distance, and scampered towards it. 

Supernatural bound telepathy comforted the creature with ancient Khoisan click-consonants beckoning him forth.  [i]”The story of the columns is close.“[/i]

Creeping forward, the escorting ATVs to the caravan lay in a disheveled wreck, strewn about blasted cape figs and shattered african junipers.  The acrid smell of oxidized oil amalgamated with the smoky scent of burning wood.  The creature kept low, and snuck about, making his way to the first of the vans: a hunk of metal that had been corkscrewed by some unseen force.  He silently made his way to the unhinged rear doors and could see the upper half of one of the security details that had been sheared in two in the confrontation.  

He hunched over the corpse, glancing over his shoulder before dabbing his thumb in the pool of blood and anointed the bisected body. With his thumb, his brush, and his nails, his scarifiers, he created his sigilry on the carcass’s forehead and imparted what little magic the bokor had at his disposal.  “The body of flesh is empty. Where is my treasure?” He hissed through rotted, black teeth.  A moment passed before the remains gasped, as if it had been drowning only a moment earlier.  The corpse looked at him with frosted eyes and its jaw worked as if it had not been used in years. 

“The first vehicle, fifty meters west,” it gurgled, “center console.”

Growing more and more suspicious of his surroundings the creature snuck forward to the foremost vehicle and, surprisingly, among the least damaged of the vehicles, even though its wheels popped off and its windows were all shattered. It was not merely mangled enough to not be recognized as the armored vehicle that it used to be.  Its insides glowed a faint orange, but fire was never one to keep him from his prize.  Swain snuck forwards clambering up the passenger side door and felt inside for the glove compartment.