HEARTWELL - GOD'S CASTAWAY
then the body.
“Henry,” one of them called, “what should we do with the body?”
Henry halted and turned to face the two men, asking, “Does he have a family?”
“Yes.”
“Then let them bury him,” he replied, walking away as he did so. There was no time to waste; the Congo would soon be dark and Henry had no clue where the creature was. He did not want to be surprised.
In a desperate attempt to flee the stifling Congo heat, patrons packed the small Matabi bar that sat on the barren road from Angola, sacrificing wages hard earned at the harbor for the temporary relief of a cold, filthy beer. One man seemed to contrast with the animated populace of the bar, as he sat at the counter, coolly sipping a drink. The calm demeanor of this man, Samson, made him an instant target for the scanning eyes of the individual entering the small shack.
“Hey there,” the stranger spoke, “I have a question for you.”
The accent was instantly recognizable. Strong, proud, arrogant: American. Samson turned, and gazed at the man, his lips uttering nothing.
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