He takes a step and checks himself. Some instinct, a voice in his head, whispers to him to stay put, to return to the flat ledge of rock concealed behind the bushes, to be patient. He crouches down, scrambles from boulder to bush, taking care to keep himself hidden. He reaches his refuge, digs out the binoculars from his backpack and lies down flat behind a thick bush. He watches the approach of the vehicle through his binoculars. As it reaches the crash site, it slows, weaving between the debris and scattering the regiments of pillaging vultures. The creatures are only momentarily put off and soon return to their feast. The vehicle pulls up about fifty metres from the tent. Through his binoculars he can see that it is some kind of pickup converted for military use, a heavy-calibre machine gun manned by a shaven-headed youth in khaki battle fatigues, the weapon welded to the vehicle’s bodywork. The driver, sporting a flat peaked cap, is dressed in a similar outfit.
