The pothole gobbled up the front wheel, then spat it out again, a horrible metal and rubber mess. It was the second wheel they’d lost in three hours time and with the sun setting on the African jungle, panic was slowly setting in.
There was no spare left in the trunk and the nearest village was half a day’s journey on foot. They were alone in the heart of the darkest part of the continent, surrounded by predators who would not hesitate to pounce once the golden ball in the sky had been replaced by a silver one.
They retreated into the car and lamented the fact they had made the journey in the first place. They could have spent three weeks on the beaches of Torremolinos. But they chose adventure. Now it seemed they would pay for it.
As the sun set, the sounds of the African night pummelled the car in force. Mysterious sounds of unknown creatures, whose eyes popped up one at a time from behind the leaves that lined the road. Even in the relative safety of the car, they could feel their presence, as the animals slowly gained on their pray, until the car shook and bent under their weight.
Holding each other, they prayed death would be swift and painless. They prayed and waited. Prayed and waited. Waited. Waited.
The truck driver reluctantly stepped out of his vehicle, holding a handkerchief against his disgusted mouth, as he witnessed their mangled bodies, gobbled up and spat out again, a horrible flesh and bone mess.
Then he stripped their car of the three remaining tyres, hauled them in his truck and left.
Africa was no place for accidental adventurers.
Only survivors thrived here.
If they wanted a proper burial, they should have gone to Torremolinos.
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