The Timber Mafia’s Last Road - Some Sins Don’t Stay Buried — Especially In Forty Five Degrees.
A Mafia, A Dead Ranger, And A Heatwave That Remembers Everything
Story: S A Spencer
Author of Popular Fictions: The Pink Mutiny, The Black Waters, Dream In Shackles
Raghav slammed the car door harder than he meant to. The heat
outside was brutal, the kind that made your skin prickle before you even broke
a sweat. He checked his phone again — no signal. Not even a flicker. The road
stretched empty in both directions, shimmering like a mirage. Forty‑five
degrees, maybe more. A stupid day to travel. A stupid day to lie.
He thought of the morning, of his wife standing at the
doorway with her arms folded.
“You’re going to the district office on a Sunday?” she’d
asked.
“Urgent file,” he’d said, avoiding her eyes. “I’ll be back by
evening.”
“Take the driver.”
“He asked for the day off,” he lied smoothly. “Family
function.”
She’d nodded, but not convincingly. She always sensed when he
was lying. He hated that about her.
The moment he’d driven out of the gate, he’d called Tara.
“Leaving now,” he’d said, lowering his voice. “Two hours.
Wear something red.”
She laughed — young, careless, twenty years younger than him.
“You’re terrible, Raghu.”
“Only for you.”
The signal had dropped soon after, but he didn’t care then.
He cared now.
He tried the ignition again. The engine coughed, then died.
He hit the steering wheel. Sweat dripped down his temples. The air‑con had
given up long before the engine did. The car was turning into a furnace.
He stepped out again, shielding his eyes. A few palm trees
stood scattered across the barren land — thin, lonely things. He remembered
when this stretch had been thick with real trees. He remembered the day they
cleared it.
The memory rose like heat from the tar.
His men had been hacking through the undergrowth, axes
swinging, trucks waiting to be loaded. The forest ranger — lean, stubborn, with
a moustache that made him look older than he was — had marched straight up to
them.
“Stop the cutting!” the ranger shouted. “This area is
protected!”
Raghav had stepped out of his SUV, sunglasses on, smile lazy.
“Protected by whom?”
“By the law,” the ranger said, voice steady. “You can’t clear
this patch. It’s elephant corridor land.”
Raghav laughed. “Elephants don’t vote. Politicians do.”
The ranger didn’t back down. “You’re breaking the law.”
Raghav’s men snickered. One of them muttered, “This bloke’s
got guts.”
Raghav walked closer, lowering his voice. “Go home, mate.
Have a cup of tea. Forget you saw us.”
“No,” the ranger said. “I’m filing a report.”
Raghav sighed. “I was hoping you’d be smart.”
He nodded at one of his truck drivers. “Take care of it.”
The driver hesitated. “Boss—”
“Do it.”
The truck lurched forward. The ranger tried to jump aside,
but the bumper clipped him. He hit the ground hard, rolling across the dirt.
His leg twisted unnaturally. He groaned, trying to crawl.
Raghav’s men laughed nervously, unsure how to react.
The ranger looked up at Raghav, eyes full of pain and fury.
“The forest… will remember you.”
Raghav crouched beside him. “No one remembers anything out
here.”
The ranger’s breathing slowed. His eyes glazed. By the time
Raghav called the ambulance — pretending to be a passer‑by — the ranger was
gone.
“Unidentified vehicle hit him,” Raghav told the paramedics.
“I was just driving by.”
They believed him. Everyone always did.
Until now.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and tried sending a
message to Tara. Car broke down. No signal. Try calling roadside service.
The phone spun, then flashed Message failed. He lifted it higher,
desperate for a bar.
Nothing.
He tried calling his wife. The call connected for a second —
just long enough for her to say, “Where are you?” — before the signal vanished.
He cursed under his breath.
A rustle came from the dry grass. He spun around. Nothing
there. Just the heat playing tricks. He walked toward the nearest palm tree,
but the trunk was hot enough to burn his skin. He stepped back, panting.
He tried walking. Just a little. Just to see if the next rise
in the road offered better signal. After a few minutes, his vision blurred. The
road rippled. His breath came in short, sharp bursts. He turned back, expecting
to see the car far behind him.
It was barely twenty metres away.
He staggered back, legs trembling. He opened the door, then
slammed it shut again — the heat inside was worse than outside. He leaned
against the bonnet, feeling the metal burn through his shirt.
He typed another message. Please. Call service. Urgent.
He hit send.
Failed.
He lifted the phone again, desperate. A single bar flickered.
He held his breath. The bar vanished.
He swore loudly, the sound swallowed instantly by the empty
landscape.
A shape appeared on the horizon — a truck, moving slowly,
shimmering in the heat. Relief flooded him. He waved both arms, shouting. The
truck approached, slowed… then accelerated again, swerving wide to avoid him.
He stared after it, stunned.
Then he realised why.
The driver had recognised him.
Everyone in these parts knew who controlled the timber
routes. Who cut the trees. Who silenced the ranger. Who pocketed the money. No
one wanted to help a man like him.
He felt something cold settle in his stomach, despite the
heat.
He typed another message. His fingers shook. Help. Please.
He hit send.
Failed.
He looked up at the sky. A few black kites circled lazily
overhead, riding the hot air currents. Watching. Waiting. He swallowed hard. He
wasn’t dying. Not yet. But the heat was getting inside him, drying him from the
inside out.
He tried walking again, this time in the opposite direction.
His head throbbed. His tongue felt thick. The road stretched endlessly, mocking
him. He stopped, panting, and turned back.
The car looked even further away now.
He blinked. No — it wasn’t further. He was just losing depth
perception. The heat was bending the world.
He stumbled back, nearly falling. When he reached the car, he
collapsed beside it, chest heaving. He checked his phone again. Battery at 7%.
No signal.
He typed one last message. Please. Anyone. Help me. He
hit send.
The phone spun.
A single bar appeared.
The message sent.
He exhaled in relief — until he saw who it had gone to.
Not Tara.
His wife.
He stared at the screen, throat tightening. She would see the
location. She would know he’d lied. She would know everything.
The phone buzzed once.
Then the battery died.
He looked up at the horizon. A faint shape was approaching —
a vehicle, maybe. Or a mirage. He couldn’t tell. His vision swam. The heat
pressed down harder, as if the sky itself wanted him on his knees.
He tried to stand, but his legs buckled. He sank to the
ground, the hot tar burning through his trousers. The approaching shape
wavered, split, reformed. A jeep? A truck? A hallucination?
He blinked, trying to focus.
The shape kept coming.
Or maybe it wasn’t moving at all.
He couldn’t tell anymore.
The world shimmered, the sky pulsed, and the last thing he
felt was the heat closing around him like a fist.
Whether help arrived — or whether it was just the forest
remembering him — he never knew.
⭐ AUTHOR’S NOTE
★ Thank you for reading.
Some stories burn slowly — like a heatwave that doesn’t just scorch the land,
but the conscience. Raghav’s journey isn’t about the sun or the road. It’s
about the moment a man realises the world he exploited has finally turned
around to face him.
If this
story made you pause, reflect, or feel the weight of choices echoing back, I’d
love to hear your thoughts.
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