A small lantern near the two-story mansion casts a feeble beam, barely piercing the thick darkness by the entrance. The night, as if to spite them, offers no stars or moon. The autumn sky is shrouded in heavy clouds. Four eyes scan the yard intently from behind a tall, wrought-iron fence. Every muscle is taut. Adrenaline surges.
“Look, over there. See that little window? It’s not fully closed. Slip in through there, and then, like always, open the door for me,” a tall, athletic young man whispers to a seven-year-old boy.
The boy tries to focus, despite the November chill that makes his thin frame shiver. His flimsy jacket offers little warmth against the biting wind. His brown eyes dart across the sprawling yard, where danger seems to lurk behind every bush. And there are plenty of them—plants of all shapes and sizes.
“You sure there’s no one inside?” he asks timidly in a hushed voice, pointing at the house where not a single window glows with light.
“I’m sure. I checked everything. Stop shaking!” the man hisses irritably.
“What about dogs? Any around?” the boy ventures, just to be safe. Try as he might, he can’t make out anything in the darkness that would hint at a four-legged guard. But no sooner has he spoken than a heavy blow lands on the back of his head. A sharp pain shoots through him, his vision blurs. The boy clutches the cold metal bars with frozen hands to keep from falling.
“Shut up and climb, you little brat! No time for chit-chat! Or I’ll tear you apart myself, worse than any mutt you’re so scared of!” the burly man growls behind him.
The boy glances at the man, barely turning his dark-haired head. Tears well up in his eyes, his lips tremble, but he can’t cry—it’ll only make things worse. He’s learned that lesson the hard way, more than once.
Gritting his teeth, he lets out a heavy breath and nimbly starts climbing the intricate metalwork of the fence. In a moment, he drops down on the other side. The harsh voice urges him on. Crouching low, the boy slips quietly through some shrubs toward the large house. He approaches the tiny window, slightly ajar. Just as he’s about to squeeze inside, a menacing bark shatters the dead silence.
Out of nowhere, a massive dog—black as the cursed night and big as a bear—charges at the small intruder with such ferocious snarling that the boy nearly dies of fright on the spot.
He lets out a quiet yelp and bolts back the way he came. The dog gives chase. The boy sprints toward the fence as fast as he can, but four legs outpace two. The beast catches up just as the child tries to scramble up the barrier. In the next instant, the boy feels sharp claws rake across his legs. He glances back and...
A terrifying, toothy maw is inches away, barking furiously, saliva flying. It snaps at his skinny leg, clad only in a worn-out summer sneaker. The dog lunges again with its huge white fangs, the boy cries out, kicks at the guard dog, and tries to grip the bar tighter to pull himself up. But he loses his hold and tumbles down... straight into the jaws of the raging beast.
“Aaaah!” he screams in desperation, so loudly that the whole street must have heard it.
“No... Not again...” The young man jerks awake, sitting up in bed. He exhales heavily, running a hand through his dark brown hair. Cold sweat beads on his forehead.
“Damn it! That dream again.” Or is it a dream? A memory? He’s not even sure anymore. These “movies” play in his mind so often at night. Sometimes, in these dreams, someone is beating him; other times, he’s falling into an abyss. Once, he was tangled in sticky spiderwebs, unable to break free. Each time, it’s some horrifying “film,” so vivid, so chilling, that he wakes up screaming. Not every night, thankfully, but... God, he’s so tired of it. He can only hope he didn’t wake anyone through the wall this time.
He switches on a small, elegant sconce beside the massive bed. Looking around the beautiful, spacious bedroom, he tries to remember where he is. Ah, right. It clicks. He’s in a hotel. Back home, not in Africa. That’s something, at least.
Time to get up. Time to get to work—if you can call it that. He doesn’t want to, but a promise is a promise, and there’s no backing out now. He stands, turns on his favorite radio station, and shuffles to the bathroom to the tune of a Mark Knopfler song.
Man... It feels so good to be able to take a shower whenever he wants. Not like in the African bush, where water is worth its weight in gold—sometimes even more. Once, he spent three days in a parched savanna with nothing but a handful of fruit and a liter flask of river water, nearly boiling under the scorching sun. He would’ve given anything for a sip of cold, clean water back then. And some people were ready to take that last drop from him at any cost. It wasn’t easy...
As warm streams of water caress his strong, toned body, the young man mulls over how best to handle the task ahead.
But... what’s there to think about? It’s a small job. A piece of cake compared to some of the things he’s had to pull off.