Caly's Lion

Caly Anderson had two choices. One—get killed by the militants…or two—get eaten by a lion.

She figured neither would be any less horrible than the other, though the first choice might be a tad less painful than the second—that was—if the militants didn’t sexually assault her first. She was the only westerner in this refugee camp, and she stuck out like a sore thumb. She quickly closed the shack door—a place that had served as her home for the past couple of weeks, and dragged a half-filled drum of oil in front of it to block the way in.

The Janjaweed militants from Darfur were on a hunting spree. In her short time here, she’d learned that Ahmad Ibrahim, the head of the camp where she was assigned, had had no choice but to make a bargain with Omer Abuda—whose men had come in open vehicles and on horseback—not to harm the refugees. In exchange, Ibrahim had to give Abuda, leader of the militia, half of the aid he received. Though, being that she wasn’t a refugee, she supposed Abuda might not consider her to be included in that pact.

So, when Abuda had gotten wind that she, an American nurse, had been dispatched to the camp, she knew it would only be a matter of time before he’d come looking for her and take her hostage. And after just two weeks, that time seemed to be now. She also knew any stray American in this patch of desolate land was worth a lot of money to someone in Abuda’s position. That was, if the foundation she worked for, would even pay the captors’ ransom. And they wouldn’t, since they didn’t negotiate with terrorists. When she’d been hired to do this humanitarian job, she had to sign a waiver for such risks. No, if anything were to happen to her out here, she was on her own.

Caly had been taking care of a new mother and her baby when Mali, Ibrahim’s runner, had warned her Abuda and his men were about to storm the camp. The roar of their vehicles and thunderous sounds of galloping horses could be heard from miles away.

Caly had run—ever so quickly—to the shack that sat near a big, dead tree. She’d been living in the hollow underneath it since she’d arrived. Ibrahim had told her it was for her own safety, and now, if she hadn’t before, believed him.

The shack had a trapdoor to her nest, but she couldn’t get in there right now, because a huge male lion sat on top of it. If she stayed where she was, Abuda would certainly take her hostage. If she made a move for the trapdoor, this lion might have her for his snack. So for now, she stood as still as humanly possible.

Caly hadn’t heard of any lion sightings in this part of Africa, but now there it was, staring right at her. Her adrenaline pumping, she made a rash decision to take a chance with it. If it were hungry and wanted to eat her, at least, it would be a dignified death. Unlike the alternative. Abuda and his men were infamously known for their sadistic behavior. She hated to think about what they’d do to her, an American woman, in this war torn country.

She crouched next to the drum, making herself small. The lion had done nothing but stare at her. No growling, advancing, no nothing. He was a biggie too. His paws were enormous and looked every bit as deadly. She was certain he could sever his victim with just one swing. His body was heavily muscled and sinuous, and his tail was long, repeatedly whipping back and forth as she watched.

The lion’s mane lush and golden, the beast was actually quite beautiful, once she got past her freak-out-o-meter. His amber eyes were luminous, and she thought she saw intelligence behind them, more so than any wild animal she’d ever encountered.

Caly then noticed something else. Drops of blood. He was wounded. His right front paw appeared to well with it. He didn’t seem bothered by his injury, but Caly knew it couldn’t be good. If his wound wasn’t properly tended to, he’d likely get an infection. Besides, she knew losing a lot of blood spelled disaster for any hot-blooded mammal.

A strange maternal instinct surged through her. She wanted—no needed—to help him. Or maybe it was something else, like her being a nurse, and she couldn’t stand seeing any creature in pain, without trying to do something to help it. But she wasn’t a veterinarian. Plus, she didn’t see how she could tend to him without getting mauled first.

An idea sprung into her mind. On the wildlife shows on TV, she always saw the vet tranquilize the wild animals before getting close. Too bad for her, the emergency medical kit was tucked away in her hiding hole—exactly where she couldn’t get to right now.

Caly had been a combat medic for the U.S. Army for four years. She’d been dispatched to Iraq after having been honorably discharged three months ago. She’d treated a lot of injuries on the warfront. She only hoped helping a wounded animal wouldn’t be much different than the soldiers she’d tended to. Except her patient would likely growl, instead of moan and bitch. If she could somehow get into her hideaway, she could snatch the kit, then treat this injured lion.

Rather unlikely, though. The lion didn’t seem inclined to move anytime soon. He was still staring at her, appearing to size her up with his luminous, golden, predatory gaze.

Meanwhile, outside, she could hear Abuda’s men making cacophonous noises as they checked the shacks and tents, all while harassing the refugees. Shit. Caly had to get to her hiding hole. The militants would more than likely check the shack she was in because it was the biggest, used to store fuel and food.