Eranko

The damp stains on the bones matched the red dusk that gave way the black night. Two hundred bodies had turned the rivers bed in the past season. The medical officers compared the sharp talons found on the first bodies to the corpse. The polished edges and yellow powder were too complex for a hungry carnivore.

People were afraid to clock in the factories, the murders affected the bottom line. That meant the Colonial Police actually had to do their job. The Trading company that paid everyones salaries put on the illusion of action as more officers trained by the lowest bidders did door to door patrols and ruffled up local medicine men.

As fear spread like a red plague, neighbor turned on neighbor. The Officer could still hear the necks and the noose in the village square. The regional politicians didn't decide to get tough on crime until the locals turned away from the missions and back towards the ways of old. The witch hunts would return if the regional security forces failed to put a stop to the murders.

The blood of christ did not provide enough protection but the ritual blood of an animal might keep the Eranko away.

"Liquid rust permeated the air." Capt. William Patterson, formerly of Her Majesty's Government, noticed his senses heighten as he tightly gripped his bolt-action rifle. He had learned how to take care of it, just like a lover. He had never met a woman that compared.

He tracked the yellow powder to a local snake oil salesman. It was both sedative and mind-altering. Patterson found deep tissue lacerations across his body as blood from the wounds soak into the wooden floor. Puppets made of Iroko wood and dried grass adored the hut. Blackened animal bones splitered inside purple bowls. The Inspector ran his fingers across the manuscripts. The black ink described long-dead rites of long-dead ways.

The police force had questioned the trickster before but the man had his alibis.

It wasn't until they squeezed a shaman with a grudge, the colonial force was able to kick the door in. Patterson asked the Shaman who was leaving the bodies behind. He would only divulge that information around a ring of salt and candles. He feared the whispers would find the sect across the grass.

"They drink not from the river but from the veins of the living. The beings that possess these men are uncomfortable in human form. The flesh burns but the void is cold."

The livestock around the faux shamans' farm rattled against the moonless sky. Captain Patterson let his ears pick up on the roots of distress outside the home.

"You're scared, that's why your good eye is useless." The old soldier Touched the scar he received from suppressing rebellions around the world. He received medals for murder and for a time it was enough to justify the screams in his sleep.

The skirmishes were anything but gentlemanly warfare. Only white armies facing had the benefit of honorable combat. An amputated rifleman didn't see the difference when he looked in the mirror after the bottle was empty and the parades died down.

The ghosts of the province sent cold tides down his spine.

The terror in his mind filled his nerves more than any blades or bullets ever could. He could only imagine how people felt under the guns of the British Empire.

Prey.

The regional leaders spoke of legends of men who moved like humans yet wore like Leopards. He had taken it for local myth until bodies started appearing close to huts, markets, even the police headquarters. "Claws of Darkness." The individuals began calling them.

Smoke and mirrors were the tools of the killings. These bandits were essentially flesh and blood. Bandits, that is the kettle referring to the pot as black. "Where do you think that pension came from? What provides your family's-comfortable life back home as well?" He asked himself. The spoils of conquest.

The ghosts were unmistakably men, but mistakes were always made in the dying lands.

They didn't follow the patterns of men. They didn't shake the grass as they stalked the land. Their scent did not betray them to the birds in the night-sky. He watched two figures drop from their post.

A dull violet mist emitted from the throats of two officers. Patterson rushed towards the dark. The men on the floor were still wet behind the ears, the last thing they wanted to see before they died was a blue-eyed devil. The Captain applied ripped cloth as the fabric drank up the endless pool of blood on the puncture wound.

William's eye looked for what shouldn't belong.

The Inspector never got the opportunity to cock the hammer back on their firearms. A bolt made of corkwood and black feathers split the outer tissue and bones between Pattersons' shoulder blades.

In a deluge of frenzy, he expelled a shot from the rifle. The fire from the barrel broke the darkness.

Words like honor and virtue disappeared as the howls from the sect turned from echoes into chasms. They basked in his fear and followed the bloodletting.

The beast suddenly collapsed to the ground either from exhaustion or from massive blood lost.

The air became colder as his body started to come off its chemical cocktail. He began to notice something else more troubling than the Leopard Men themselves.

There were no bodies in the perimeter, either of the acolytes or the officers. It's as if the corpses had vanished in the night. Patterson couldn't rationalize what happened as much as he could explain the nature of humanity itself. The second arrow pierced the back of his leg. The poison in the tip overrode the senses. Patterson watched as six specters in yellow skin and black spots arrived from the grass. The river covered their scent and sound. Twelve hands dragged him into the shade.

the Leopard Men were real and it was time he reevaluated the term apex predator, because out here that term no longer applied to him.