Predators I Have Known - Alan Dean Foster [44]
How to find out.
I turned to Ron. “Watch the lions.”
He looked back at me. “I am watching the lions.”
“No,” I corrected him, “I mean keep an eye on them. I’m going to check the tire.”
He stared. “O-o-o-o-h . . . k-a-a-a-y,” he said finally.
The road offered a certain amount of open space. At least, out on the pavement, nothing could sneak up on me. The remnants of the pride were a good thirty yards away and busily occupied. I tried to tell myself they would stay that way. Opening the door as quietly as I could, I gingerly put first one foot on the asphalt, then the other, careful to make no noise. Emerging from the car and straightening, my eyes were in constant motion as I tried to inspect the front end while simultaneously keeping watch on the tall grass on the other side of the vehicle. Needless to say, my inspection was a quick one.
Sliding as quickly as possible back into the car, I looked at Ron.
“Well?” he asked me.
“You never saw such a flat tire.”
“Then we’re still stuck.”
My reply was uncharitable. “Unless you want to get out and change the tire,” I said helpfully. “I’m sure there’s a spare and a jack in the back.”
He had turned back in the direction of the feeding pride. “Umm . . . no, I don’t think so.”
Another hour passed without any sign of an approaching vehicle, much less a tow truck or repair van. We were alone. The sun continued to rise. By my casual estimation, it was now at least 150 degrees outside the car and 200 or 300 within. The road in front of us stayed empty, as did the road behind us. How long would it take for our fellow travelers to reach Satara, inform someone in a position of responsibility of our predicament, have someone in authority authorize a tow truck or other service vehicle to start our way, and actually get here? Assuming any of that transpired, of course, and that the other travelers had not forgotten about us completely.
I pictured our erstwhile saviors sitting in the café at Satara discussing their day’s adventures and sipping cold drinks. I pictured the little streams of condensation running down the sides of their ice-cold bottles of beer or soda. I pictured . . .
Ron was suddenly sitting forward and gesturing excitedly. “The lion, the lion!”
What lion? I thought. Oh, he must mean the one that’s walking straight toward us. That lion.
Expressive of mane, mouth open, tongue lolling, and weighing between 400 and 500 pounds, the pride’s dominant male had come out of the grass and was ambling coolly across the road toward our stranded vehicle. I hastily recalled everything I had ever read about lions regarding people inside cars as being part of the car. I strove mightily to generate around myself a dense air of inedibility. I also remembered that my window was completely rolled down. Our rental had power windows.
I stared at the oncoming big cat the way one does at other awe-inspiring natural phenomena like tornados or tidal waves: momentarily too paralyzed by the overwhelming sight to move. Beside me, Ron was hissing tersely.
“Get the picture. Get the picture!”
That moved me to action. “Get the picture? The hell with the picture! You get the picture!” The lion was very close now. Much too close, approaching the front bumper on my side of the car. As I reached for the button to raise my window, I remembered that the engine was off. The window stayed down. Frantically, I began fumbling with the key in the ignition. I couldn’t find the position on the rented car’s steering column that would allow me to activate its accessories. I pushed the key hard over. The engine refused to start.
I began to panic. I was part of the car, I told myself. There was nothing to worry about. Unless this particular lion was unaware of that bit of information. Spread wide, his paw would be large enough to cover my entire face. Or remove it. I struggled with the key, trying