‘What?’ Screamed Texas.
‘I don’t know, boss. Maybe Daniel went by himself. Maybe he ran away.
‘Don’t be fucking stupid. He would have gone out of the front of the tent, not through a hole in the back.’ He swung another kick at the man but missed, lost his footing and fell to the ground. The men around him kept their faces carefully expressionless. No hint of a smile. To laugh was to die. The gang lord sprang to his feet and started around him belligerently. Satisfied that he had not made a fool of himself he turned on Dubula.
‘Why didn’t your watchmen see something? Am I surrounded by idiots and blind people?’ He shook his head. ‘Strike camp. Double time. We catch these people today. Move it.’
Around him everyone burst into frantic effort, each man keen to show his dedication to the master.
Dubula went to the missing man’s tent and spent a while studying it and its surroundings in minute detail, going down on one knee to check for spoor. By the time that the men were ready to go he had pieced together what had happened and the sheer effrontery of the deed brought a smile of respect from him. Whoever had done this had balls of steel and a mind as cold as ice. The scary thing, he thought to himself, was that any one of the three men that they were seeking was capable of doing such a deed. The foreigner, the mad Zulu or the bishop. Dubula’s smile broadened. It was good to have such powerful enemies. It showed that you were a man of note. With a spring in his step, he joined the train.
They did not catch up with anybody that day. In fact, by the time that they formed camp again that night, they had found no discernable trace of any human life, let alone that of their intended quarry. And, although he did not say anything, Dubula was staring to question the wisdom of his master’s plan. To himself he thought that it would be best to pick a smaller team of the very best men, led by him, to seek out the enemy. But the boss wanted a show of strength and so they blundered along like a huge unwieldy multi-limbed animal. All strength and no subtlety.
The next morning when the camp awoke there was another man missing. This one from a tent only two away from the master’s. And this time there was no shouting and screaming. No pointing of fingers. Texas appointed a group of three men to retrace their steps of the last two days and see if they could find either of the bodies. In the back of his mind he was hoping that they would find evidence that the men had simply run away, although it seemed unlikely. They jogged off without packs, traveling light and making good time.
***
The six men lay still in the long grass as they had been for the last four hours since sun up. Petrus was not convinced but Garrett was running the show at the moment and he had promised them that this was the correct time and place to set an ambush. Personally Petrus wondered why any men would be coming this way, in the opposite direction to the rest of the gangsters. But when he had questioned Garrett the soldier had simply smiled and told him to have faith. And after what he had done over the last two nights, killing and abducting two men from under the very noses of the enemy, Petrus was more than happy to take the soldier’s word. At least for a while.
Slowly, without disturbing any of the surrounding knee-high grass, he crawled over to Garrett. He placed his mouth right next to his ear before he talked in the faintest of whispers.
‘Hey, Isosha. I’m bored. This is not how a Zulu makes war, hiding in the grass like a frightened herd boy. How much longer?’
Garrett simply raised a finger to his lips and then pointed. Petrus saw them, coming around the crown of the hill. Three men running in single file. All carried AKs. Every now and then they would stop and take a cursory look at their surroundings before the jogging continued.
Petrus felt adrenalin surge through his system. The plan was simple. They had laid an ambush on each side of the track as it ran into a steep dip. The loose scree and mud would force the assailants to slow down and, most likely, bunch up. It was imperative that they killed them all before they got off a shot. Garrett was very explicit about that. No noise. Although he had posted Mandoluto on a nearby hillock to provide sniper cover if anything went wrong.
It worked perfectly. The runners slowed to a walk as they crested the rise and started down n the hill, slipping and sliding up against each other. Leaning on one another for support. Garrett and the five Zulus rose up as one, their blades stabbing, withdrawing and stabbing again. Fast balanced movements. Silent but for grunts of exertion and the wet tearing sounds of blades rending flesh. Within seconds the three men lay dead. And now Garrett and his friends had three AKs, six Chinese stick grenades, a Tokarev pistol and over three hundred rounds of ammunition.
Petrus looked up at Garrett with a grin.
‘Well-done, Isosha. With these weapons I think that the enemy will now find themselves outnumbered.’
The other Zulus laughed their appreciation.
***
Texas had no idea what to do next. The three men that he had sent on a recce had not returned. Had they fallen to some misfortune? Had they simply gone awol? Or had the foreigner and his friends waylaid them? Whatever, he could not show any vacillation in front of the men. In a position such as his, implied strength was everything. So he struck camp and pushed on, keeping the pace high enough to keep the men concentrating on going forward. Keeping their minds off their slowly dwindling numbers and their boss’ seeming inability to do anything about it.
That evening the camp looked more like a festival than a military post. Half the men had declined to pitch their tents, preferring to sit back to back in order to stay safe. Every man had his torch switched on and they all swept the darkness like children playing at hide and seek. A carnival of lights. Texas did nothing to stop them knowing that a nervous man is usually an alert man.
And the night passed with infinite slowness as the men watched and waited and wondered who would be next.
As it happened Garrett found that the surfeit of light actually worked to his advantage. Instead of using quiet stealth he simply blacked his face with mud, walked calmly into the camp, trusting that his attitude would convince people that he belonged. He approached one of the men sitting alone near the outskirts of the camp and, with one swift stroke of the skinning knife, slit his throat. He left the body where it lay and walked away from the camp into the darkness.
Chapter 25
Thousands of people had lined the streets for the entire three-miles from the church to the cemetery. In fact, such were the crowds that the funeral cortège traveled at a slower than walking pace.
And all along the route people threw, not flowers, but sweets. Fruit sparkles, jelly bears, ice mints and wine gums. The sun caught the translucent confectionaries and refracted through them like a sunrise through a million miniature stained glass windows. And all along the way the children called out his name.
Sweets. Sweets. He is gone, they cried. The Sweetie man is gone.
The men growled amongst each other. He was a man, they said. He took a stand for what he believed in. And he paid the ultimate price.
Sweets. Sweets. The Sweetie man is gone.
And the hearse’s tires crunched slowly over the strewn sugar jewels. Crushing them into mere white powder. The crowd picked up the chant. Building. Gaining a life of its own.
Sweets. Sweets. The Sweetie man is gone.
The cortège reached the end of Louis Botha Avenue and turned towards Alexandra, passing by a large drinking hall that was owned by Texas Zangwa and associates. The crowd surged into the building, smashing the windows, destroying furniture. The manager was hauled out into the street and beaten by the chanting crowd.
Sweets. Sweets. The Sweetie man is gone.
Someone put a match to the curtains and the flames licked hungrily upwards. Within minutes the building was fully ablaze. The crowd surged forth, seeking out other premises that belonged to Texas Zangwa.
Sweets. Sweets. The Sweetie man is gone.
Chapter 26
Garrett had told them the plan. It was relatively simple
. Cut off any means of escape, put the enemy into a position where they were nervous to rest at night, obtain some weapons from them and then, place Mandoluto on a hill a half a mile or so away and tell him to start killing. When they came to look for the bishop, ambush them.
But this morning had brought with it a new enemy. An enemy that Garrett had not even known the existence of before now. Impenetrable and gray. A mist as thick as a Swiss duvet had settled over the mountains.
‘Shit. How long is this going to last?’ Garrett asked Petrus.
The Zulu shrugged. ‘Not sure. This time of year, maybe a week. Ten days. Not longer.’
‘Maybe shorter?’
Petrus shook his head. ‘A week.’
Mandoluto lit up a cheroot.
‘I don’t think that we should smoke,’ said Garrett.
‘Don’t worry;’ answered the bishop. ‘The mist will kill the smoke. It won’t travel. Even if it does, they know that we’re out here. Anyway, I’d rather get shot than spend another day without a smoke.’
‘Well then offer.’
The bishop laughed. ‘Smoke your own. These things don’t come cheap and I’ve only got five left.’
‘Fair enough,’ conceded Garrett who pulled out his pack of Gauloise and offered them around. All of the Zulus accepted. The men all stood quietly in a circle for a while. The reverential silence of the true smoker who has abstained for a few days.
Petrus was the first to speak. ‘Well, Isosha, this mist has fucked your plan up good and proper.’
Garrett nodded agreement.
‘So,’ continued Petrus. ‘What now?’
Garrett looked at the guard. ‘Now, my friend, we become the monsters in the mist. But first, let’s eat.’
Petrus delegated the breakfast to Cowboy who boiled up another pot of the ubiquitous pap with sugar and the men sat and ate with their fingers.
‘Bishop, what’re your close combat skills like?’ asked Garrett.
‘They call me the long gun, not close-combat-man. Does that answer your question?’
‘Yep, as good as. Do you know how to use those Chinese stick grenades?’
‘I’m familiar with them.’
‘Good. This is what we’ll do. Three groups. Bishop, group one, you guys group two, and Petrus and I group three. Now give all six grenades to Mandoluto.’
***
Texas peered into the gray but couldn’t make out anything. Men standing more than ten feet away became simple dark blobs. Beyond that they weren’t visible at all. The mist brought a spectral quality to the surroundings that did not sit well with the men’s current state of mind. The fact that one of the enemy had simply walked into their camp the night before and slaughtered one of them like a beast for table had unsettled even the most hardy of them. All except for Dubula who seemed to look on all that was happening with a sort of wry humor.
Against Dubula’s advice the gang lord had sent another detachment of five men back down the trail to see if they could find any hint of what had happened to the first lot. Texas was sure that the cover of the mist would give them the protection that they needed. Fear had given the men wings and they had covered the two days march in a little less than four hours. And they had returned with disturbing news.
‘What do you mean, the trail has been destroyed?’ Shouted Texas.
‘I’m sorry, boss. But the trail, it’s gone. There’s just a big area of rocks and mud and shit. No trail.’
‘So how the hell do we get home when all this is finished?’
The gangster shrugged. ‘Don’t know, boss. You could probably climb around it. Maybe. Would be dangerous though.’
Texas took a deep breath. ‘You’re a moron.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘A useless fucking moron.’
‘Yes, boss. Sorry, boss.’
‘Fuck off.’
The man scurried away, thankful that he had gotten off so lightly.
Texas turned to Dubula. ‘Well, what do you make of that?’
‘I’d say that they collapsed the trail.’
‘Why?’
‘To trap us here.’
Texas laughed. A short bark that lacked the confidence of true amusement. ‘How can they trap us, that’s the job of the hunter? And the fact is that we are the ones doing the hunting, not them.’
‘Maybe,’ said Dubula. ‘But has anyone actually bothered to explain the fact to them?’
Before Texas could reply the world was rent apart with a series of explosions. Shrapnel buzzed through the air like a swarm of wasps and the pillow of mist was ripped aside by three massive concussions. Dubula jumped forward and threw himself onto Texas, covering his body with his own. A human flack jacket. But there were no more explosions. Instead they heard the crackle of automatic gunfire coming from the rear side of the camp.
Dubula jumped to his feet and ran in the direction of the gunfire, rallying the men as he ran.
‘Come on, face the rear. Return fire. Move, move.’
Metal-jacketed slugs whipped and cracked through the air around him as he ran, one bullet coming close enough to pluck at his coat. A desperate street vendor trying to attract attention. He couldn’t see his assailants for the mist but he could see the muzzle flashes from the rifles. He drew his Desert Eagle and started to fire back.
‘Fire at the muzzle flash,’ he shouted.
The gangsters had finally got their act together and were returning fire in withering sheets. Skorpions burning off twenty round magazines in sharp jagged bites of sound, AKs hammering away like an insane blacksmith at an anvil underplayed by the light pock of handguns and the massive boom of Dubula’s hand-cannon. Every now and then someone would throw a grenade, the explosion a torso compressing crump of sound followed by a wave of hot air.
And at the other end of the camp two figures ghosted through the mist. Silent. And where they went, men died. Sharp metal slashing through reluctant flesh. Assegai and machete. The Zulu and the beast in tandem. And then exactly two minutes after the first attack another three explosions ripped through the camp. At the same time the attacking rifle fire stopped and the assailants retreated behind the mist. As did the machete and assegai wielders.
The gangsters continued firing for a while until, under Dubula’s shouted instructions, the battle hiccupped to an end.
‘Stop firing. Check around you for the wounded and take them to the front of the camp.’
Texas came staggering out of the mist. ‘There are more bodies over here.’
‘What?’
‘Here, at the front of the camp. While you were all busy shooting the shit out of something out there, something else was in the camp killing people.’
Dubula strode past his master to see what he was talking about. As he walked the charnel sights loomed out of the mist. A badly written horror movie. Too much gore. Too much blood. Dismembered limbs. Intestines. No one wounded. Only dead. Five bodies. Three more at the other end of the camp. Two more felled by the grenades. Four wounded. In the last three days they had lost sixteen men.
They had yet to even see the enemy.
***
Garrett pushed down hard on Winston’s chest in an attempt to stanch the flow of blood but he knew that it would be to no avail. One of Dubula’s .50 cal rounds had hit him high up on the left hand side and barreled through leaving a massive wound channel.
‘Eish, that was a good fight,’ Winston whispered.
Petrus took his hand and squeezed. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘A good fight.’
‘You know, we don’t get to fight as much as we used to. Times are not as good any more; it’s all politics and talk. I miss the old days.’
Petrus smiled. ‘Yes, those days were good. Much fighting.’
Winston coughed weakly. ‘Man, I’m tired. Must be this mountain air. It’s too thin. I think I must rest a while. Wake me before the next fight, okay?’
Petrus nodded.
Winston closed his eyes.
And died.
Garrett stood up and took a couple of steps into the mist. A gray curtain to hide emotion.
Petrus stayed next to the body, stroking his head. ‘Hamba gashle, go in peace, my friend.’
The other Zulus filed past, touching him once on the face and saying their farewells.
‘We will sacrifice an ox for you, Winston. When this is done you will be buried with honor.’ Petrus said to his dead friend.
Finally, the long gun knelt down next to the fallen warrior. From his pocket he took out a small glass vial of olive oil with which he anointed Winston. The Zulus looked on with approval. Although they did not believe they still had great respect for the power of the church and figured that it could do no harm.
‘Through this holy anointing may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.’
There was a chorus of Amen. Petrus covered him with his canvas ground sheet and weighed the ends down with small rocks.
Then they all squatted in a circle and lit up cigarettes. The Zulus talked of Winston for a while. Little stories that spoke of the man. They meant nothing to Garrett or Mandoluto who did not know him, but they were the type of stories that would encapsulate any young man’s life bar differences for culture and time. When he had come close to burning down his grandmother’s hut as a little boy. His first girlfriend. When his father had beaten him for letting the cow with the crooked horn stray into the road. His initiation ceremony. His first kill. But after a while they stopped, for a man’s life contains both too much to talk about in one sitting as well as too little. He was different. He was the same. He is dead. Silence.
Petrus spoke first ‘Isosha, what now?’
‘We don’t actually have many options but my granny did once say to me, “If it ain’t broke don’t fix it.”’
‘So,’ said Petrus. ‘More of the same?’
Garrett nodded. ‘More of the same. But let’s wait until just before nightfall.’
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 22
