The Last Hunt
A work of fiction by Tsao Alexander
Waterton Publishing Company
No part of this book was created using Artificial Intelligence (AI).
This is a work of fiction. The events described are imaginary and the settings and characters are fictitious and not intended to represent actual places, companies, or persons.
Copyright © 2026 by Waterton Publishing Company. All Rights Reserved.
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THE LAST HUNT
CHAPTER 14
“Mr. Roberts died from a gunshot wound.” Clarence was addressing the searchers. “He did not drown and a buffalo did not kill him. It looks like a person with a nine-millimeter handgun killed him.” The group was quiet. They all knew that all Hunter’s Paradise guests were armed with nine-millimeter handguns when at a safari camp.
Kamau spoke up: “So, that lets us off the hook, right, we didn’t do anything wrong.” It was a question in the form of a statement.
Clarence responded: “Maybe. Maybe not. We do not yet know who killed him. Or why.”
“Is the search over?” Vince asked.
“No,” answered Clarence, “will, yes, for us, it is over, at least for now. This is now a criminal investigation, so the police services will take over. I offered to help, get a tracker involved, but the Lieutenant has not said whether that would be something that he wants.”
Clarence continued by saying that “the main suspect is the wife, and she could be anywhere by now, she could be out of the country, so for now let’s pack up and head back to base.” He then placed a call to the Stevens team and connected with Jane. “No need to come here now; I’ll see you back at the lodge.”
“One thing you should know,” Jane told Clarence, “Shammi told Gab that the woman, Mrs. Roberts, was in a very dangerous situation.”
Clarence started to ask how Shammi knew that, but instead said, “Let’s talk about it back at the lodge. I’ll see you there.”
Thomas was meantime busy searching around the camp for a map of the area. He had walked about a hundred meters from the cabin when he realized how easy it would be to get lost. So he turned around. Being lost would almost certainly prove fatal. After a while he gave up trying to find a map, compass, or GPS receiver in the cabin.
Then he thought about meat. Raw meat. The camp did not have a refrigerator or freezer. As such, Tom went about looking for coarse salt, bags of which he did find in a large cupboard in a storeroom. ‘Now if I only knew the best way to store meat with salt.’
First thing was first, Thomas needed to kill something and then he could decide whether to cook all the meat or try to store some. “It’s only a week. I’ll just cook everything,” Tom said to himself. He figured one warthog or impala would be enough for more than a week.
He checked all the cabin windows to make sure they were latched and then went outside. And then back inside. He rummaged through his clothes and picked out the pajamas. He tore them into strips and stuffed them into a small daypack with a water bottle.
Tom walked a short distance before stopping to tie a strip of pajama to the top of a shrub. A little farther along he did the same thing. Then he came to a trail, probably used by animals, and tied a pajama strip to a branch before heading down the trail.
“I really need to find a watering hole,” he mumbled. That was where he could expect to find animals in the middle of the day. His stomach growled loudly and Tom started to panic thinking about starvation. After a kilometer or so the trail ended in an area of low brush beyond which lie a large expanse of rolling grassland.
Tom was pondering his predicament when a large bird ran out of the brush and down the trail behind him. Tom yanked the pistol out of its holster, aimed it at the fleeing raptor, and fired twice. To no avail. The bird was gone; flying off in the distance.
Tom was beside himself: the shot was careless. The product of stress. He knew nothing about the bird but there certainly would have been some meat. He had to stay calm.
The midday sun was relentless and sweat dripped off Thomas’s face. There was very little shade anywhere to be found. Perhaps, Tom thought, the bird was coming from a waterhole or stream. He began to push his way through the brush but soon realized it was a thorny, almost impossible task and backed out. With ankles and calves stinging and bleeding Tom made the decision to go back to the cabin, wash up, and strike out again when it was cooler.
It would soon be a full day since Tom had something to eat and he realized that the weaker he was the less his chances of stalking and killing an animal. Back at the cabin, despite his reservations, Tom opened the book again and studied some of the plant pictures and accompanying descriptions. Then he went outside and collected leaves, grasses, berries, and flowers.
Thomas spread his collection on the dining table and started comparing what he had collected to pictures in the book. He saw some similarity between a picture and one of his leaves. He read the description. Sour Fig. Succulent leaves. He examined the leaves closely. He studied the pictures. His stomach made noises. He chewed on a leaf and then spit it out. The taste was bitter, but not awful. He waited a few minutes to see what would happen.
Tom knew better than to eat very many strange plants at one time. His body was not accustomed to this kind of diet, and the leaves could still be poisonous. But after a little while he ate all three of the Sour Fig leaves and waited another few minutes. And a few more minutes.
Tom smiled. He had not smiled for what seemed like a very long time.
He was surviving.