[Garrett Storm 01.0] Choice of Weapon

by C Marten-Zerf

  Dragonflies dipped at the brown water, their overlarge iridescent heads reflecting for brief moments as they kissed the surface. The swirl of fish and the ripple of wind. The smell of fire and charcoal cooked meat. The susurration of insects and the low croak of bullfrogs. The Highveld sun, high overhead, bleaching all primary colors from the vista as it washed over it. Garrett knew that this was one of those perfect moments that make a human life so precious. And he sat back and sipped his wine and let the feeling embrace him.

  On the way back they stopped at a small dairy that specialized in making artisan cheeses. They were served by a large, bluff Afrikaner who showed great pride in his wares. Aggressive in his love of the art. Blessed are the cheesmakers. Garrett stocked up on belligerent blues and runny goats cheeses, choosing more by depth of smell than by taste. Each cheese an open challenge to the next.

  On the final leg, Manon leant against him in the car, her eyes closed. Not asleep, merely at rest. Her breath warm against his shoulder. The fragrance of her hair filling the car. And Garrett concentrated on the black ribbon unreeling in front of him, dragging him back to reality. Back to the orphanage, and later, to bed.

  ***

  Garrett couldn’t breathe. A dark figure loomed above him, hand over his nose and mouth. Powerful. But before he could react. ‘Isosha,’ barely a whisper. ‘There are men outside.’

  Garrett nodded. He was once again sleeping in Petrus’ room. He felt next to his sleeping mat. Picked up the machete. Stood up. There was enough light to see. But not well. Mere black on deep gray. The secret was to clear the mind. Let the other senses do the work. He cocked his head to one side. Listened. He could hear feet shuffling outside. The tiniest sound of a whisper. Sibilant. And then the unmistakable metallic snick of a safety catch being flicked off. Petrus held a hand in front Garrett’s face. Four fingers. Garrett gave a thumb up in agreement. Put his mouth up against Petrus’ ear.

  ‘I’ll go through the door. Keep low. Count to two and then you come. Dive, don’t run.’

  Petrus nodded.

  Garrett took a deep, silent breath, went down on one knee and then sprung forward. He struck the door hard, tearing it from its hinges. As he hit the ground he rolled and then swept hard with the machete. The blade swung in an arc a mere six inches high. Struck. A man screamed. Fell. A dark shape next to him. Garrett swung again, slashing into the shape. Once, twice.

  And then Petrus came out. Flying through the air. Landing, cat-like on his feet. The assegai already moving, cutting, slicing. Gunshots. Obscenely loud. Bright muzzle flashes. The wet sound of a blade being withdrawn from reluctant flesh. Running feet. Garrett sprang up and gave chase. Overhauling the running man. The blade lifted high. Down. Over. Deep breathes. So deep that the chest hurts. Euphoria.

  ‘Petrus. You alright?’

  ‘Yebo, Isosha. And you?’

  ‘Hundred percent.’

  Upstairs lights were being switched on. Children’s voices rose loud. Garrett shouted out to Manon.

  ‘No worries, sister. Get the children back to bed. I’ll come talk to you soon.’

  Garrett heard her walking down the steps to the dormitories. And then her voice, soft and reassuring. But this was Africa and midnight gunshots were not an uncommon occurrence so Garrett knew that, within minutes, the children would all be back asleep.

  ‘Petrus.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What now? Do we call the police?’

  Petrus walked up to Garrett, offered a cigarette. They lit up before the Zulu answered.

  ‘No way. Unnecessary trouble. Let’s just load the bodies into the Jeep, drive down towards the Letamo Township. Dump them in the veld. Give us a hand. Let’s do it.’

  It took less than ten minutes to load the bodies. Petrus spread black bin liners over the seats first to stop the blood soaking them. Then he searched the bodies.

  ‘What you looking for?’ Asked Garrett.

  ‘Car keys. They must have driven here. Their car will be down the road somewhere. We got to get rid of that as well. Ah, here.’ He pulled out a set of keys. A BMW key chain. ‘Right. You drive the Jeep. Wait for me to find the car first then follow me. I’ll ditch it a few miles down the road. Leave it on the side with the keys in the ignition. Won’t last twenty minutes.’

  Petrus set off down the road at a fast lope. Within minutes Garrett saw car lights. Petrus pulled up in a five series BMW. Red. The window purred down.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Garrett fired up the Jeep and followed.

  They left the car in a few miles down the road. Door slightly ajar and continued towards a more rural area to dispose of the dead.

  Petrus whistled tunelessly while they drove. Three or four disconnected notes repeated in sequence. Like Morse code.

  ‘This reminds me of the bad old days.’

  ‘When was that,’ asked Garrett.

  ‘Back in the days of the apartheid regime. Late eighties, early nineties. Lots of fighting back then. Every day it seems.’

  ‘Who? White security forces?’

  ‘Sometimes. But mainly ANC.’

  ‘I thought that they were on your side.’

  ‘Fuck that. Why? Just because we’re both black?’

  ‘There are Zulus in the ANC.’

  ‘Yes. But not real ones. Anyway, I wasn’t that much into politics. I was younger and angry and I liked to fight. So I fought. Good times.’

  Garrett knew exactly what Petrus was talking about. The heady thrill of combat was a drug that was very hard to kick. The false rush that extreme sports gave one was like a non-alcoholic equivalent. Thrill-lite. Jumping off a building with a giant elastic band tied to your feet could never give one the same rush as being involved in a fire fight, where half the people involved died or were horribly maimed and disfigured. The higher the odds, the higher the rush. The relief that you had survived and the atavistic joy at seeing your enemy slain. It was a primal thing. But unlike Petrus who looked at it all through the misty glasses of nostalgia, Garrett feared what it had made him into. Because he had been caught in that whirlwind of destruction so many times it had scoured away parts of his humanity and left behind the black scorched soul of the beast.

  Good times were walking the Highlands after a snow. The view of a hill covered in purple heather. A warm fire. A faithful dog. Not the mortal terror of combat. He noticed that Petrus was watching him as he drove. His expression one of slight amusement.

  ‘You think too much, Isosha. Life is not so serious.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The Zulu merely laughed. ‘Pull in here,’ he pointed at a barely visible track veering off the main road. Garrett followed it. After less than a mile Petrus waved to stop. They pulled the bodies from the Jeep and simply left them there. Twisted and broken.

  ‘Well,’ said Garrett. ‘We know one thing for sure. Valentine Tsogo wasn’t the chief honcho. Someone else put that hit out on us tonight so it’s obvious that there’s some living dude out there who still wants us dead.’

  Petrus grunted his agreement. ‘No need to sound so happy about it.’

  ‘Why not? Gives you more people to fight.’

  ‘That was when I was younger. Now I’ll settle for a few gallons of beer and a nice fat woman. Leave the fighting for the twenty year olds.’

  ‘By the way, what did you do with the guns?’

  ‘Left them with the bodies. We’ve already got weapons.’

  Garrett had neither the strength nor the inclination to argue. And anyway, Petrus was more deadly with his stabbing assegai than most men are with an arsenal of weapons.

  Speaking for himself he would prefer a 45. The machete was too personal. There was no way of remaining detached when you could feel the person dying at the end of your arm, jerking like a live fish on a rod. Better bang and drop. Extermination as opposed to killing. Better neither but he was too far down the road to go back. Unless they found the kingpin and put him down, then these atrocities against the childre
n would continue. To go forward was only way that you could end up somewhere else.

  And the halogen lights cut through the night. Blue-white beams creating a tunnel in the dark that they traveled down. Going someplace else.

  ***

  Breakfast was a solemn affair. Both Garrett and Petrus shoveled down porridge like automatons. Replacing the massive amount of calories expended through the nights nervous energy. But their minds wandered. Thoughtful. After they had eaten they went up to Manon’s room. Garrett sat on her bed next to her. Petrus on the wicker chair. They all smoked. Garrett spoke first.

  ‘We’re stuck. I have no idea what to do next. But I can tell you one thing for sure; more uglies are going crawl out of the night to stop our clocks. And they are going to keep coming until they get us. People, we are in big shit here. Suggestions, anyone?’

  ‘I can ask the bishop for help.’ Said Manon.

  ‘I suppose so, but I reckon that if he knew anything else he would have told us. They’re as blind as we are at the moment,’

  Garrett stood up, bubbling with frustrated random energy.

  ‘I hate waiting for other people to react. You lose control in a situation like this and bad things happen.’

  He lit one cigarette off the final glow of the last. Stubbed out. Walked over to the window and gazed through. Opened the pane and sucked in some fresh air. He tried to clear his mind. Empty it of preconceived ideas and thoughts. Let it drift. Like a fishing line on a lake. Baited and waiting. He watched the children playing, their high-pitched voices chirping together.

  Mister Sweets had arrived and was receiving his normal joyous reception. He had finished handing out his jellybeans and fruit sparkles and was now pointing his cell phone at Vusi and Thandi. The kids all clamored to get his attention but he pushed them gently to one side so that he had a clear view of the brother and sister. Vusi stood facing the camera, arms folded, face stolid and unsmiling. Next to him his little sister was holding out her skirt, arms straight. Showing off the pretty yellow color. Gap toothed grin. Happy.

  Garrett smiled to himself. ‘Now he’s taking photos.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Asked Petrus.

  ‘Sweets. The kids love him.’

  The Zulu glanced out of the window. ‘Oh that. He always takes a photo of any new kids. That phone has a photo of just about every kid in the Sunshine Orphans group. The children love him to take photos. They’re always bugging him. Take me, take me.’

  Garrett had very few photos of his life. Somewhere, maybe, some school ones. Rows of boys in identical uniforms. Perhaps a school portrait. Short hair, ears and spots. As impersonal as a prison mug shot. A mere record of how he looked at that moment in time. Later, army identification photos, passport, drivers license. All variations of the same theme. Staring awkwardly at the camera. Unsmiling. Like Vusi. Photos to show other people who you were. No joy. He looked at the group again. Sweets had put his cell away. Thandi was still posing, as were some of the other girls. But photo time was over. The record had been struck.

  ‘Only once.’

  ‘What’s that, Isosha?’

  ‘Sweets. He took one photo. Only one. If you like taking photos of kids you take them. Lots of them. He only took one. One photo is a record. Like a mug shot or something. He’s not photographing the kids, he’s making a record of them.’

  Garrett pinched the bridge of his nose. Thinking.

  ‘Come on, I think I need a chat with the Sweetie man.’

  ***

  The Sweetie man sat on the small stool in Petrus’ room. Sweat ran down his face soaking his collar. Vinegary. An acrid odor. His face fixed in a nervous grin.

  ‘I have done nothing wrong,’ he said.

  Garrett patted him on the shoulder. Reassuring. ‘Don’t worry, Sweets. I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m your friend. I was just wondering why you take a photo of every child. Do you keep them for yourself?’

  ‘Yes. They are for me.’

  ‘Why, Sweets?’

  ‘Just to have them.’

  ‘And sometimes to show other people?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sweets, come on now. I thought that we were friends. Friends don’t lie to each other, do they?’

  Mister Sweets looked down. Garrett had shamed him. ‘No. Friends don’t lie, mister Garrett.’

  ‘So, sometimes to show other people?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  Garrett pulled out his pack of cigarettes, offered Sweets one. He declined. Garrett lit two, passed one to Petrus.

  ‘Okay, sometimes you show the pictures to…?’

  Seconds passed. Smoke dribbled from Garrett’s mouth, swirling lazily in the stillness of the room.

  ‘There is a man. He asks to see them.’

  ‘Okay, carry on.’

  ‘He says to me, Sweets, he says, when any new children come to the homes you take a photo and show me, okay. I do this for the man. There is nothing wrong with this.’

  ‘Who is this man, Sweets?’

  ‘I meet him at the Elephant Drinking Hall in Alex. He name is mister Dubula.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath from Petrus. Shock.

  ‘No, mister Petrus. Dubula is not a bad man. He just wants to see the children.’

  Garrett massaged his temples with the knuckles of his left hand.

  ‘Why? Why does he want to see the children?’

  Sweets shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  Petrus stepped forward. Grabbed the food vendor by his collar. ‘Fuck this. Tell me why you fucking monkey or I’ll smash your face in.’

  Sweets gibbered in terror. Froth formed at the corners of his mouth and he shook uncontrollably. Petrus slapped him. Hard. ‘Tell me. Tell me or die.’

  Garrett jumped between the two men. Pushing Petrus back. ‘Slow down, Petrus. He can’t take it.’

  Petrus let go and Sweets sank to the ground. Boneless. Shivering in fear. Garrett knelt next to him. Put his arm around his shoulders.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  Sweets sniffed. Tears streamed down his face and he flinched when Petrus moved.

  ‘Please, mister Garrett. Don’t let the Zulu kill me.’

  ‘It’s all right, Sweets. We’re friends. Petrus got a little excited, that’s all. He’s sorry,’ Garrett looked at Petrus. ‘You’re sorry, aren’t you, Petrus. Tell Sweets that you’re sorry.’

  ‘Fuck that,’ retorted Petrus. ‘Fucking animal’s lucky I don’t gut him right now.’

  Sweets went into another paroxysm of fear, blubbering like a child.

  ‘Come on Petrus, apologize.’

  ‘Fine then. I’m sorry, Sweets. Okay. I won’t kill you yet.’

  ‘Petrus!’

  ‘Alright, I won’t kill you. We’re friends. Now speak to mister Garrett so that we can all remain friends.’

  ‘That mister Dubula. He says to Sweets, show me the photos and tell me where they are. I show him. And then he downloads some from my phone, not all.’

  Sweets wiped his nose with the palm of his hand and sniffed wetly.

  ‘Carry on, Sweets.’ Said Garrett.

  ‘Then he shows the photos to other people.’

  ‘What other people?’

  ‘I don’t know. Rich people. Not bad people. Just people who want children. And then, if they like the photo then mister Dubula he takes the child. Then he sells the child to the rich people. If they are happy then he gives me some money, one thousand Rands. You see? I have done nothing wrong. The children all go to rich families. Families that cannot have their own children. Mister Sweets loves the children. He would never hurt them. Please, sir. Please.’ He looked sideways at Petrus. ‘Don’t let him kill Sweets.’

  Garrett held his head in his hands. He could hear the blood pumping through his veins. A deep, dull thudding that seemed to shake his whole body.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  This time Garrett grabbed the small man, his hand easily circling his thro
at. ‘Think, how many times have they paid you?’

  Sweets’ eyes bulged from their sockets. A rope of thick spit hung from his open mouth.

  ‘I think, about ten thousand,’ he croaked. ‘Maybe twelve.’

  Garrett let him go. Patted his shoulder. ‘Go, Sweets,’ his voice was barely above a whisper. ‘Go now. Quickly before Petrus kills you.’

  The Sweetie man lunged for the door and ran, fumbling for his truck keys as he did so.

  Chapter 21

  The old man woke even earlier than usual. He lay in the near-dark and analyzed what he was feeling. It had been so long that he had almost forgotten it. The tightness in the chest. The roiling stomach. Quickness of breath. Muck sweat. Yes, for the first time in many, many years he was feeling fear.

  He rolled onto his side and then pushed himself up onto one knee. And then he stood. Ancient joints popped as he came fully upright. The old man was not sure how old he actually was, he definitely remembered the last world war. He claimed to remember the Great One as well. But, in all honesty, he was not sure if he could. There were memories, but when one got as old as he was one could never be sure whose memories they were. His? His fathers? Maybe even his ancestors.

  Working more by touch than sight, so familiar were his surroundings, he packed and lit a pipe. The mix was slightly damp and he had to pull hard to get a good glow going. Using a calloused thumb to tamp down the burning plug. The pungent smell of marijuana filled the air.

  Outside the pyramid shape of the false dawn arrived fooling the local cockerels into a premature vocalization of territorial defense. Crying out to all rivals. Warning them to keep their distance.

  The old man sat at a rough wooden table. On a western style dining chair. When he was younger he would never have done such a thing. He would have scorned any who did. But now his joints and ligaments were as old rusted iron. Pitted and scarred with age. So he could no longer squat in the traditional way and had succumbed to the soft pleasure of western seating.