[Garrett Storm 01.0] Choice of Weapon

by C Marten-Zerf

  Once again the bishop was to take the high ground, this time using his rifle to fire into the middle of the camp, or as close to the middle as he could estimate through the mist.

  Bongani, Cowboy and Jabu would circle around the camp and attack from the rear, getting in as close as possible in order to be able to see their targets. This was the part of the plan that worried Garrett. The mist had now gotten so thick that the Zulus would have to be within ten to twelve feet of their adversaries. Almost hand to hand combat. He and Petrus would then strike from the front. Quick in and out. After two minutes they would all pull back.

  As Mandoluto’s first shot echoed around the hills the three Zulus started forward. Using the mist as cover they ran crouched over, heading towards the camp. But as it came into view they were surprised by a sudden accurate fusillade of sustained fire. They immediately went to ground.

  ‘Hey,’ shouted Bongani. ‘What the fuck? Are these the same idiots we attacked yesterday, how come they can shoot now?’

  ‘They’ve been taking lessons,’ replied Jabu. ‘Cowboy? Hey, Cowboy.’ Bongani crawled over to their friend. He lay flat on his face in as pool of blood. One of the AK rounds had hit him in the throat, tearing out his jugular. Bongani swore, then he took Cowboy’s magazine off his rifle and slid it into his own pocket. All around him the air was alive with the spiteful buzz of hypersonic rounds. A hundred bullwhips cleaving the air. He raised himself up onto one elbow, sighted carefully at the muzzle flashes in the mist and started firing. On his left, Jabu joined in.

  Mandoluto crouched behind a small rock while all around him the air crackled with fire. Someone had organized the gangsters. The moment that he had started firing he had drawn return fire directed at his muzzle flash. After his fourth shot he had been forced to take cover. He sank to the ground and, carrying his long gun in the crooks of his arms, he leopard crawled away from the rock for around twenty feet. Then he got up onto one knee, brought the rifle to his shoulder and started to fire again, moving after every two shots.

  Garrett leant in close to Petrus. ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

  ‘What? Gunfire?’

  ‘Gunfire is fine. It’s their volleys of controlled gunfire that I don’t like. These guys aren’t just firing blindly like before; they seem to be picking their targets. I’ve underestimated the situation. Someone has organized this rabble into a cohesive force.’

  ‘So, who cares? They’ll die just the same.’

  ‘True, let’s go.’

  The two men continued forward. Unlike the three Zulus they did not attract any fire as they ghosted unseen through the mist. Garrett went left, Petrus right. Wraiths. Moving undetected until they were within touching distance of the foe. And to the defenders it was as if the mist had suddenly become solid and attacked them. Garrett moved fast, downing the first man with his swinging machete. Cleaving his neck and clavicle. He snatched the Skorpion from the man as he fell and fired one handed at the next visible defenders. Three quick bursts took out two men and then the weapon ran dry. As Garrett moved on to connect with the fourth gangster he felt the strikes. High up on his left hand side. Like someone had taken a run up and hit him in the shoulder with a baseball bat. Twice. He turned fast. Right behind him a man holding a Tokarev. The pistol had jammed, the offending round sticking up out of the breach like a smoke stack. Garrett leapt forward swinging upwards as he did so. The shooter staggered back clutching at his stomach as his intestines seemed to boil out of him. Blue and purple and gray.

  More shots from behind him. Fire flicked at Garrett’s hip, spinning him around and driving him to the ground. The pain from his multiple wounds crashed through him, momentarily blacking out his vision. When his sight cleared he saw an AK lying on the grass next to him. He grabbed it, jammed the butt into the soil and used it as a crutch to pull himself upright. As soon as he was steady he brought the rifle to his shoulder and started firing at two more shapes in the mist. Saw them go down. Someone reared up out of the gloom. He turned to fire.

  ‘Hey, Isosha. It’s me. Let’s get the fuck out of here.’

  The two of them loped out of the camp. Petrus slowed down once to pick up an AK and an extra magazine and two grenades from a dead body then they ran again. Fast disappearing into the mist.

  Bongani had been hit three times. The first bullet had struck him in the arm, the next had taken out his left eye the final shot had shattered his hip. The pain was indescribable. But still he continued firing back, killing and killing again.

  Jabu crawled over. ‘Hey, Bongani. Let’s go, man.’

  Bongani didn’t answer. He simply drew another careful bead and squeezed the trigger. The target dropped to the ground. He looked up at Vusi. ‘Hey, brother. My hip’s fucked. No more dancing for Bongani.’ He grinned, face a mask of blood, the side a gory mess. ‘Eyesight’s a bit screwed up as well.’

  ‘Come one. I’ll help you. We can fix you up.’

  ‘No way. I’m having too much fun. You go. I’ll just stay here. Shoot a few more of these fuckers. Seriously, I’m fine.’

  Jabu grabbed his hand. ‘Shlala gashle, my friend. Stay in peace.’

  ‘Hamba gashle, go in peace.’

  Jabu crawled away. Behind him Bongani continued to fire. His shots aimed and unhurried.

  Mandoluto crouched down and ran. Things were getting far too hot and it was time to bug out. Anyhow, he figured, a sniper firing blindly into the mist wasn’t the best usage of firepower. In fact all that he seemed to be doing was giving a bunch of gangsters something to shoot at. Every time he took a shot they were onto his muzzle flash like moths to a flame. Even as he ran he could feel the nudge and buffet of shot as it cracked close past him.

  And then he stumbled and fell. He hit the ground hard and rolled, cursing his clumsiness. But when he tried to get up he couldn’t. His legs were numb. He glanced down and saw that his pants were soaked in blood. He took out his knife and cut a slice down his pants leg. Saw the wound. Laughed out loud.

  The slug had entered the back of his thigh and exited at the front completely severing the femoral arteries. Blood was being pumped out at a rate of around five liters per minute. Mandoluto figured that he had about a minute left. Killed by a stray bullet fired blindly into the mist on the top of a mountain in KwaZulu.

  The bishop pulled his cheroots from his shirt pocket, opened the case and lit up. His hand did not shake. In fact he felt quite good. Warm. Relaxed. He was not unhappy. He had done his best. He laughed again. It was a good feeling; it had been a long time since he last laughed. Felt good. He tried to take another drag of his cheroot but couldn’t lift his arm. Strange that, he never knew that a little tube of tobacco could become so heavy. Then he saw a bright light come towards him. Envelope him.

  He smiled.

  The light smiled back.

  Chapter 27

  The children were lined up at the feet of their beds. On their knees. It was a nightly pre-sleep ritual that Vusi was still getting used to. He had never prayed before. It was not that he was a non-believer, he had simply never been told about the Christian God. When his mother was still alive she had told him stories of the Creator, Unkulunkulu, but she had told him that He was above interacting with people on a day-to-day basis. Common requests were to be directed to the Amadhlozi, or Ancestor spirits. But they were capricious and should really only be approached through a Sangoma or witchdoctor.

  This Christian God was different. Sister Manon had told Vusi that he could be approached at any time. And you could ask him for anything. Obviously, as with all things in life, there did seem to be rules, although they were implied rather than explicit. One shouldn’t be selfish and one should always give thanks for all. Simple rules that Vusi had not found at all onerous.

  And so he knelt at the end of his bed and prayed.

  ‘Dear God. Hello. It’s Vusi here. I used to live in Alex but now I live here. But it’s the same Vusi. My sister Thandi is also here. Thanks for us being here. It is very war
m and safe and there is lots of food. I don’t need my yellow screwdriver any more. That is nice. Thank you for Thandi’s new dress. And for the colored crayons that we draw with. Especially the green one. I like it a lot.’

  Vusi paused for a while, thinking. After a short time he figured that he had got the thanking done so he could now get down to the meat of his actual request.

  ‘Dear God. It’s still me, Vusi here. Please, God. Take care of Isosha. Watch over him and make sure that the bad ones don’t kill him. Thanks. Oh yes, can you also make us peas for dinner tomorrow. I like peas. Thank you, God. This is Vusi saying goodbye.’

  ***

  Garrett grunted as Petrus pulled the stitching tight on the wound in his hip. They had cleaned the two gunshot wounds on his shoulder and then packed them with mud and bound them. Both Petrus and Jabu were unharmed. Jabu had just returned from a recce at Garrett’s request and squatted down next to the soldier.

  ‘Isosha. The bishop is dead.’

  ‘Shit. How?’

  ‘Through the top of the leg, where it bleeds. He was smiling.’

  ‘Yeah, well. He had somewhere nice to go. Did you bring his rifle?’

  Jabu shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  Jabu shrugged. ‘He was holding it. It was part of him. It should stay.’

  Garrett nodded in agreement and then pulled himself upright, using the AK. ‘Listen, guys. I’m sorry but I’ve fucked this up. We’re in a no-win situation here. We did what we could. I want you to go.’

  The two Zulus stared at Garrett like he had spat on them. Eventually Petrus spoke.

  ‘I will forgive you for what you have just said. Obviously your wounds have affected your brain. Rest, and when your senses return we will speak again.’

  Jabu offered cigarettes. They accepted. He lit. ‘About thirty.’

  ‘What?’ asked Petrus.

  ‘We’ve killed about thirty of them. Give or take. Wounded a few more. That’s almost half. We’ve got three AKs. About twenty five rounds, two grenades and our real weapons.’ He looked at Garrett. ‘Rest tonight, Isosha. Tomorrow you can tell us of your plan to kill the rest of these animals.’

  Garrett pulled his canvas groundsheet around him and closed his eyes, wishing he had the confidence in himself that Jabu had.

  ***

  Texas had come within half an inch of death. During last night’s attack one of the shots coming from above the camp had taken off the top half of his left ear. Dubula had bandaged it with a turban style dressing that even now was soaked with blood. Also, it stung like all buggery.

  And with first light when they had taken a reliable body count he now saw that he had lost thirty-two men. Another three were too wounded to be of any use. And somewhere out there lurked the foreigner and the mad Zulu. Texas was less than happy. But the truth of the matter was, he had no idea what to do next. However, by the time the sun had fully risen it looked as if things may be turning in his favor. The mist had retreated, leaving behind only a few tattered remnants. Now it would be impossible to hide from his men. It was payback time for Texas and his boys.

  Dubula formed the men into five equal groups and strung them out on each side of the trail. They moved ahead slowly, two of the men in each group looking for tracks, the others keeping a watch. They were under instructions to give a shout as soon as they came across any tracks that might lead to the enemy.

  The first thing that they found, almost directly above the camp was the body of the bishop. He was sitting propped up against a rock, a burnt out cheroot in one hand and his precious rifle in the other. The men attempted to remove the rifle but it was as if the bishop’s hands had been permanently molded to it. Save breaking his fingers or perhaps even sawing his hand off, they could not remove the weapon. As well as this, the bishop was smiling. Not a deaths head grin or some unpleasant ricture. No, this was a genuine, gentle smile. A smile of joy. They left him where he lay and continued their search for spoor.

  Soon after they had left the bishop’s body Texas called Dubula over.

  ‘Dubula, we need to talk.’

  The bodyguard stood close to his master and listened.

  ***

  The three men sat in a sheltered rocky overhang. Almost, but not quite a cave. It was protected on three sides and had a small naturally formed wall of rock in the front, perhaps two feet high. Garrett stared across the valley at the searching men. It was only a matter of time before they cut spoor and started to track the soldier and his friends down.

  ‘Hey, Petrus. I thought that you said that the mist was here for a week at least.’

  ‘Yep, that’s what I said.’

  ‘Well, where’s it gone?’

  Petrus shrugged. ‘Not my fault. I tell you what; someone’s got a sense of humor. When we had a long gun we couldn’t see, now our long gun is gone we get thousand yard visibility.’

  ‘Whatever,’ replied Garrett. ‘We need a plan. You see that vlei there,’ he pointed out a boggy area of rushes and longer grass. Petrus nodded. ‘As they come across the valley they’ll bunch up there. The only way through is to the right of the vlei and to the left of the cliff. You see?’ The Zulu nodded again. ‘Do you reckon that you could get down there without anyone seeing you?’

  Petrus didn’t deign to answer such an unnecessary question. He merely sniffed theatrically and said nothing.

  Garrett grinned. ‘Sorry. Anyway, get your butt down there, take the two grenades, prime them and stretch a tripwire across the trail. That’ll take care of a few of them. As soon as they blow then we’ll pick the rest off from a distance. The ones that survive will die by the blade.’

  ‘Good plan,’ agreed Petrus.

  Jabu also nodded his agreement. None of them bothered to point out that the odds of the three of them killing over thirty well-armed men with only a couple of grenades and a handful of ammunition were slim to say the least.

  Petrus took an AK with ten rounds of ammo, the grenades and a ball of fishing line and ran down into the valley, disappearing into the long grass as he did so.

  Garrett and Jabu waited and watched. They could pick up no sign of Petrus as the gangsters drew ever nearer. As Garrett had predicted, the enemy started to bunch together as the marshy ground and the incline of the cliff herded them in. They had seen no sign of Petrus setting the tripwire and Garrett could only hope that he had done so.

  And then the group walked through the most compacted section of the trail. Nothing happened. Garrett cursed. But in his concern he had forgotten the four-second delay. The grenades exploded simultaneously, the sound at this distance a muted thud, felt rather than heard. And then Garrett saw Petrus rise up out of the grass at almost point blank range and open fire. He held the rifle to his shoulder, snapped off ten aimed rounds in under three seconds, dropped the empty weapon and ran. A fusillade of shots followed him as the gangsters burnt off hundreds of rounds in his direction. Garrett could see him bobbing and weaving through the grass and felt like cheering him on but held himself back. Instead he took a quick count of the fallen. Two had gone down to the grenades and a further four had been taken out by Petrus’ rapid fire. Six less to worry about. Over twenty left. He brought the AK to his shoulder and fired three carefully aimed shots. One man went down. Next to him Jabu fired twice. No hits. But the enemy had pinpointed them.

  The return fire was withering. Chips of rock buzzed around them like shrapnel and the whine and crack of passing shot filled the air. Garrett flattened himself against the ground. A sliver of stone hit him in the head slicing through to the bone. Warm blood caressed his face. He blinked hard to keep it out of his eyes.

  Jabu popped up and snapped of another couple of shots to no avail. Garrett heard a rustle in the long grass and Petrus burst out and threw himself to the floor of the shelter. His breathing ragged. At first glance Garrett thought that he must have run through waist high water. His pants were soaked, the khaki a dark brown. And then he realized. It was blood.

&nb
sp; Petrus lay down, flat on his back, chest heaving.

  ‘Fuck me, Isosha. I’m broken.’

  Garrett crawled over to inspect him. He pulled Petrus’ shirt open. There were two wounds. Both had entered low down on his torso. Entry wounds in the back, exit wounds in the front. Hit while he was making his escape. Both wounds were bleeding copiously. Garrett tore up one of the ground sheets and used them to bind the wounds, pulling tight in order to staunch the bleeding.

  Next to him Jabu pulled off another two shots. ‘Ha, got one. Take that you fuckers.’ He turned to Garrett. ‘Got one.’

  The bullet hit the rock wall and ricocheted up striking Jabu in the solar plexus. Blood frothed immediately from his mouth and he slid sideways onto the floor. Garrett crawled over and applied pressure to the wound but there was no point. It wasn’t bleeding. The blood was all internal. There was nothing that the soldier could do.

  Jabu craned his head and looked down at the wound. ‘Oh, shit,’ he said. ‘I’m dead.’

  He closed his eyes. His legs twitched twice and then there was no more movement.

  Garrett picked up his AK, sighted and squeezed off his last rounds. Two more down. They were out of ammunition. He lay down next to Petrus. Took out two cigarettes. Lit. Passed one. Dragged.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘This sucks.’

  ‘Marginally,’ agreed Petrus.

  ‘We got about forty of them.’

  ‘Good, less to kill now. Just as well because I’m fucked. Can’t actually feel my legs.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I reckon they’ll finish us with grenades. That’s what I’d do.’

  ‘Yeah, me too.’

  Garrett peered over the rocks. The gangsters were about four hundred meters away and advancing cautiously. Fanned out in a line. He lay back down. Lit another cigarette off the last one.