Holding the torch before him, the young interloper entered the mouth of the cave and moved cautiously forward. Spotting something on the ground, he knelt to examine the dark, irregular splotches of congealed blood leading deeper into the darkness. Hesitating, he began at last to follow the trail. Step by step along the narrow rock shelf, he moved further from the entrance until, at last, he came upon his prey.
Propped up against the stonewall of the cave, the mortally wounded Neanderthal stared back at his executioner through hollow, dying eyes, his breath now shallow and labored. Collapsed in a pool of his own blood, he seemed resigned to the inevitability of death.
Still holding the flaming torch in his left hand, the Interloper stood above his victim and drew back the shaft in his right. Then with a decisive thrust, he drove it deep into the Neanderthal’s chest. Watching as his eyes lost their luster, the young hunter raised his head again and began to howl in primal ecstasy.
Outside the cave’s entrance, the others began to make low guttural sounds of approbation. Calling out for him to return, they waited. Yet none was willing to risk the journey into the darkness to join him.
Standing on the narrow ledge above his victim, the Cro-Magnon withdrew his spear. Running his finger along the shaft, he licked the blood and began his death chant. Exulting as he felt the rush of power coursing through his body, he sensed he was not alone. He turned to stare into the dark recesses of the cave but saw nothing.
Then without warning, a thick-bodied Neanderthal female lunged out of the darkness, swinging a cudgel with all her might. The blow landed just above his left ear, shattering his skull like a dry gourd. The Interloper dropped like a stone, his body collapsing upon his victim. Lying there together, two as one, their blood now conjoined in death as it never had been in life.
At the mouth of the cave, the Cro-Magnon hunters stood silent, uncertain what to make of the strange sounds emanating from within. Then they heard it: a high-pitched vibrato keening. A solitary otherworldly cry coming from somewhere deep within as the Neanderthal female began to mourn. As a primal fear took root, the hunters backed away. Stepping quickly to the fire, each took a flaming stick, as if attempting to drive back the night. Then banding together, they moved cautiously into the unknown in search of a sign.
*****
Illuminated by firelight, strange shadows danced across the rock walls of the cave as the small band of Neanderthals gathered, staring down at the two bodies now entwined in death. Holding a long hollow reed, a Shaman stepped forward, his body painted and pierced. Placing one end of the reed into the pool of blood, he put the other end to his lips and drew in the dark crimson liquid. Then placing his hand against the rock wall, he exhaled in a single breath, aspirating the blood into a fine mist, coating both the wall and his hand. Removing his hand at last, its silhouette remained, an ochre handprint indelibly fixed upon the rock by an outline in reddish umber. Forever.
About the Author
A graduate of Colgate University and Northwestern University’s Graduate School of Communication, Garner Simmons has worked in both Television and Motion Pictures as a writer, producer and director. His biography on the late filmmaker Sam Peckinpah (PECKINPAH: A Portrait in Montage – The Definitive Edition) is still in print. He has lectured both in the U.S. and abroad as well as contributed commentaries to the majority of Peckinpah’s feature films on DVD. He is a member of the Writers Guild of America, the Writers Guild of Canada, the Directors Guild of America, and the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences. Simmons and his wife, educator Sheila Simmons, live in Southern California. The Exfiltrator is Simmons’ first novel.
