Hyena Dawn by Christopher Sherlock Page A

her hair again, yanking her back onto his chest and then clamping the rifle barrel across her throat so she could hardly breathe. Now she was hanging from his chest, held up from the neck by the rifle barrel and swinging like a puppet. His left hand came up and fastened round her throat and he dropped the rifle. Then his right hand tore her bush pants down, along with her panties.
    The other men came up now and, terrified, she saw the excitement on their faces. He ripped her shirt and bra off and dropped her naked to the ground. With the pants round her ankles, she awkwardly tried to run, but he kicked her legs from under her so that she fell heavily.
    Then they were on her. Two of the men grabbed her arms and she was dragged onto the dirt, face up. They pulled her arms in opposite directions, each man pushing a boot in below her armpit to brace himself. Her legs still thrashed wildly as the one who had hit her unfastened his jeans. Then he pulled her legs savagely apart and knelt on them so that she was completely pinioned. His hands worked their way over her breasts and she screamed again and tried to bite him. A leather belt was fastened around her mouth, forcing it wide open and splitting her lips. Mustering all her courage, Sam stared at the man in front of her defiantly.
     
    Comrade Sithole thought that he would die. The pain shot through him so hard that he could hardly breathe. He had felt the tip of the boot as it connected with the bone area of his groin and caught his balls in its path.
    He was knocked to the ground again as a rifle butt impacted into his skull. ‘You scum, Comrade Sithole. You disgrace your mother. Get up and face me.’
    Mnangagwa was mad. They had defied him, disobeyed his orders. They had become a rabble. This was what he had to fight most against; there had to be discipline; without it they were nothing. Sithole was staring at him, defiant - and he could sense that the other men were behind Sithole. He would change that, quickly.
    Sithole staggered to his feet and looked angrily at Mnangagwa. ‘I want the white whore, Comrade. She is mine. She deserves this. Her men have raped our women and taken our children to work on their farms. It is time for revenge.’
    Mnangagwa realised he would have to set an example. Sithole was talking as if he commanded the men. He gestured for Comrade Dagger to come forward. Dagger was at his side immediately. Then Mnangagwa dragged Sithole to the tree where the naked white woman lay writhing on the ground, the leather belt still tight across her mouth. She tried to cover her naked breasts with her hands.
    Sithole became erect again. Mnangagwa was pleased; this would teach the others a good lesson. He ordered Comrade Dagger to tie Sithole’s hands behind his back, turning him to face the other men, naked from the waist down, his proud erection visible to them all. The white woman was lying at his feet.
    Mnangagwa pulled out his Makarov pistol. He spoke quietly to the men. ‘Disobey me again, any one of you, and you will die. Comrade Sithole will live, but only to serve as an example to you. As members of ZANLA we obey the rules - the rules of behaviour. Number eight states that we should not take liberty with women, number nine that we should not ill-treat captives.’
    He swung round to face Sithole and neatly shot off both his testicles.
     
    The security forces had come to the farm that morning and discovered the dead body of the farmer. They were surprised that all the booty from the farmhouse had been unceremoniously dropped outside the back door, and came to the conclusion that the terrorists must have been surprised by something.
    They found Samantha Elliot’s car and started to search for her body, moving out from the farmhouse in wider and wider circles. By dusk they had still found no trace of her. They knew how easy it was for the terrs to vanish into thin air after an attack of this nature. Either Miss Elliot was lying dead further out in the