He maneuvered the truck off-road, the vehicle swaying violently over the uneven, sun-baked terrain. As he broke into the clearing, the sight stopped him cold. A rhino calf was frozen in place, its body stiff as a board. It wasn’t grazing or wandering; it was locked in a rigid, statue-like posture. It was staring fixedly at a patch of tall, golden elephant grass about fifty yards away.
Elias didn’t rush; he killed the engine and stepped out, the silence of the bush pressing against his eardrums. The stillness here was absolute—no birds, no wind, not even the rustle of insects in the scrub. He moved with agonizing deliberation, his hand hovering near his belt. He tried his radio one more time: “Base, I’ve got a potential incident. Do you copy?”
He was met with nothing but a rhythmic, pulsing hum that seemed to vibrate in his very teeth. He realized then that the silence wasn’t just an absence of sound—it was a heavy, suffocating pressure, as if the landscape was holding its breath.