Beasts of the Tropics (8)
BOOM! The roar of the .700 Nitro Express—god knows how long it'd been since I last fired one—thundered somewhere between a rifle crack and cannon blast. One of the steel plates hanging in a row fifty meters ahead erupted in a shower of sparks, swinging wildly back and forth. The chains binding it sprayed rust powder, on the verge of snapping.
This classic rifle, sans muzzle brake, flashed blindingly on firing and kicked like a mule. Such outdated flaws were embraced as aesthetic virtues by enthusiasts, of course. The recoil from this elephant gun matched the momentum of a sack of rice dropped from a meter high. An average shooter might drop it or tumble backward; even pros had to reset their stance after every shot. The untrained wound up with bruises at the shoulder pocket after a few rounds.
None of that applied to me, naturally.
BOOM! I fired the last round from the chamber, broke open the barrel, and a pair of smoke-wreathed brass casings sprang out on their springs. In one fluid motion, I reloaded two fresh rounds and reset the top lever. This time, I attempted a double tap.
BOOM-BOOM! The shots blended into one another, fast as lightning. As the two targets swung like playground seats in a gale, I gauged the gap between my aim point and the actual bullet strikes. Despite mechanical sights being absent—meaning the shooter adapted to the rifle, not vice versa—each round punched exactly where my eyes had locked.
"Impressive," Kandra Kirana marveled.
"Even after awakening, I couldn't manage rapid fire with an 18-pounder. Yet you strike the center without missing a beat, even at speed. Your skill far exceeds my expectations, my friend."
The 18 pounds referred to the rifle's weight. Double-barreled elephant guns chambered in .700 Nitro Express standardized at that heft across makers.
"Just a bit of technique."
"Heh. Your 'bit' is the 'bit' of the privileged. Beyond the reach of the have-nots—a boon to those who serve you as master."
With that, Kandra Kirana shouldered her own rifle beside me, clearly fired up by my display. Bang! Flame spat from her muzzle, the bullet slamming home with a piercing ziiing of metal on metal.
True to her refined circuits, her slender frame handled the recoil admirably. She fired her last round, then stood lingering with evident dissatisfaction before breaking the action. She caught the ejected casing mid-air, brought it to her nose, and inhaled deeply—sniiiif.
A smile finally graced the Sultana's lips.
"Ah, indeed. The thicker the caliber, the richer the bouquet. There's something in the powder smoke that uplifts the spirit. Unlike cigarettes, it never palls, no matter how much you savor it."
Great, picking the worst habits for lung health. The Sultana, using her empty rifle like a walking stick barrel-down, nodded toward me.
"Satisfied with the trial?"
"It's been ages since I handled one like this—needed a moment to adjust. Fine gun, fine ammo. What's not to like?"
"Of course. How could it not satisfy?"
In that moment, she was every inch the proud collector. The "fine ammo" meant the box brimmed with genuine Holland & Holland Nitro Express rounds—discontinued originals. A hundred bucks a pop, but performance-wise, nothing special. Purely sentimental indulgence. I'd merely stroked her enthusiast's soul.
"So, we can consider it settled?"
"Yes."
"Excellent. We might even return before sunset prayers. A feast from the beasts we've bagged would add exotic delight."
"……?"
I wondered if this chain-smoker was hallucinating. Less than five hours remained till evening prayer—and another prayer slotted in between shrank usable time to around four.
Drive around in a jeep scanning the savanna like British royals and nobles? Sure. But tracking and killing beasts in tropical rainforest took far longer. Especially a hunt personally led by the Sultana.
One who styled herself monarch couldn't return empty-handed; the trophy had to match her station. Not quite that man-eater she'd mentioned earlier, but at minimum, some dangerous Awakened beast capable of threatening humans. With subordinates watching, no faking it with unawakened game.
So I had to ask.
"Isn't time too tight? I figured it'd drag into the small hours."
The Sultana chuckled softly.
"Fear not. This hunt began before your arrival. My hired Ali shikaris have been herding game meticulously for three days straight. Our role is merely to close the final escape gap in the encirclement."
Ah, so that's it.
The Sultana slung her rifle over her shoulder.
"Did I not say? A fine sovereign must be an excellent hunter. Today, I shall avenge Hasan Yusrwandari and claim a monarch's renown."
The afternoon hunt thus commenced.
This mass beat with hordes of beaters was pure sport—just shoot the flushed game. A contest of who spotted first, who fired first. Literal recreation. So when the Sultana had suggested enjoying some beforehand, she'd spoken plain truth.
I raised my rifle. BOOM!
A wild boar's neck exploded mid-leap. This Awakened specimen, Immortal Cancer lumped on its flank like a wart, met its end from the heavy slug meant for elephants—throat shredded, spine shattered.
Inertia from its full-tilt charge carried the blood-spraying corpse tumbling downslope like a boulder, crashing through underbrush.
"Awas!"
Spearmen in the front line scattered in panic. The carcass, dodging spearpoints, proved more menacing than in life. Thud! It finally halted against a thick dead tree trunk.
As startled leaves fluttered down, the two legs nearest the cancer lump kicked wildly at the air, defying death.
"Cut it off."
At the Sultana's command, once the quaking tree settled, Laskar troops sliced away the mana tumor with fierce strokes. Left attached, it'd leech nutrients from the host corpse.
The pulsing mass severed, the frantic legs belatedly went limp, honoring the body's true role.
Even sans that massive growth, the boar carcass still harbored faint mana field sources—scattered Immortal Cancers within. Sensing them, the Laskars handed it to porters.
These porters, minor Awakened themselves, could detect mana fields despite limited abilities. They photographed the beast, measured size and weight, skinned it, and butchered deep to extract every hidden tumor.
Excised lumps, tagged, went into a basket. Left alone, they'd slowly fatten on mana alone—emergency rations, or sellable to shamans or Chinese apothecaries.
With fresh delivery feasible, removal wasn't strictly needed; attached Immortal Cancer served as 'certified authentic' proof. Evidence the prey had been Awakened in life.
Porters doubled as ammo bearers. Awakened shooters burned through rounds fast or carried few; ammo-laden porters greatly extended combat endurance.
Observing them, I remarked.
"Plenty of those porters look uncomfortable moving. Some sweat excessively."
I knew why. Immortal Cancer lodged in their bodies. But the affliction rate was abnormally high—barely one in ten unscathed.
The Sultana smiled.
"You notice? They're comporting themselves properly for my safety and my honored guest. Your eye is keen indeed."
"Cancers?"
"Precisely. A sort of welfare program. The mildly afflicted earn surgery funds to extend their lives; the severe cover painkillers while leaving more legacy for kin."
Immortal Cancer's spread ballooned medical costs even for advanced nations. Insurers dodged via policy loopholes, dumping the burden on states.
Indonesia ranked prime among those unequipped to cope. Solution? Neglect.
The Sultana's smile twisted as she continued.
"This land's healthcare is the rich man's preserve. Commoners dosed on painkillers and antipyretics till death was the norm. No special treatment for Immortal Cancer. Only community tradition remains to tend them—beautiful bonds of shared roots consoling the wretched ill."
It could've ended as noble benevolence theater. But she added superfluously.
"This is why elders like me urge cherishing the old ways, ancestors' traditions. City youth scorn elders' wisdom. If that foolish generation now grasps tradition's worth... Ah, but it's all social anomie from uncritically swallowing Western depravity, licentiousness, vulgarity, and Tionghoa (Chinese) mammonism—"
"……."
Truly an incessant boomer.
Yet her ramble held insight. In such backward climes, pressure mounted for communal traditions, regression to the past. When public order failed personal survival, folk reinforced blood, regional, school ties.
Easiest way for scattered individuals to boost survivability. Precisely the fertile ground promising prosperity for operators like me or the Sultana.
Blood from the boar carcass sprayed in all directions, veins rupturing.
Differing restraints from varied Awakened beasts at play.
"Hati-hati."
The lead spearman warned those behind, pointing at their feet. A bear trap gaped amid foliage, high-tensile steel jaws strong enough to snare even mid-sized Awakened.
As distant shouts of beaters entered audible range, game flushed from brush with rising frequency.
Frontline riflemen fingered triggers as distant foliage shook. BOOM!
Flame from the Sultana's muzzle. Another boar's neck burst.
Wild swine, prolific and hefty, dominated globally. Thus, pigs topped frequent prey here too.
Live capture best preserved value; neck shots next best. Awakened heads fetched premium from African, Latin American, Caribbean, Southeast Asian shamans. Body shots ruined guts, wasting meat.
Grulk, grrrlk! Blood foam at its jaws, the pig staggered up undying.
Instantly, BOOM! Second shot. It crumpled forward limply.
The Sultana broke her action leisurely, reloading.
"Splendid. At least three hundred kilos, easy."
Like anglers bragging low-end catches, hunters touted size and weight.
As underlings measured with tape and spring scale, a tiger's roar echoed from afar.
All paused, ears straining. The Sultana's smile deepened more than ever.