Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

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.

  ‘Isosha, why don’t you go. Run for it, maybe you get away.’

  ‘I might. Think I’ll stay though. See what happens.’

  Petrus grinned. ‘Thanks. Never wanted to die alone. Don’t know why. Dead is dead.’ He held out his hand. Garrett grasped it. They lay in stillness for a while.

  In the distance Garrett could hear rain coming. Hissing as it swept across the long grass. And with it a far away rumble of thunder, long and drawn out.

  ‘Great, now we’re going to die in the rain. How fucking Hemmingway can you get?’

  Petrus burst out laughing. Then coughing. Then laughing again.

  Garrett was puzzled. ‘Hey, it’s not that funny.’

  Petrus laughed again. ‘It’s fucking hilarious, Isosha. That’s not rain.’

  ‘Of course it is, I can tell a storm when I hear one.’

  ‘Yes, Isosha. There is a storm coming. But not the one you thought.’

  Again Garrett peeked over the rocks. And he saw, sweeping across the valley, their shields brushing through the grass and making a sound like rain, their feet thundering over the ground, at least two hundred Zulus in full battle array. And as he watched they took up their battle cry.

  ‘Jeee!’

  The sound echoed around the hills and set the hair on Garrett’s arms upright. It was an atavistic sound that went straight to your soul, a wolf’s howl. A lion’s roar. If fear had a sound, that was it.

  ‘Jeee!’

  The gangsters did not even try to fight, they simply turned and fled. But it was to no avail. Within seconds the impi was upon them. Assegais rose and fell, turning from polished steel to dull red flames of metal.

  Garrett could hear the cries of the Zulus as they struck.

  ‘Ngadla! I have eaten.’

  And then he too was laughing alongside his friend.

  Chapter 28

  The Sangoma put eight stitches into Garrett’s scalp. He also tightened his dressings and proclaimed him fit for service, albeit a little shop-soiled.

  He spent a while longer with Petrus, boiling up a poultice and cleansing his wounds. After swathing his torso in bandages he declared that he would live but would need at least a months bed rest.

  Garrett wandered the battlefield with chief Dlamini who explained to him that the Sangoma had come to him in the middle of the night and told him that he needed to ready his impi for battle. The Amadhlozi had come to him in a dream and told him that it was his duty to protect his son and the foreigner. And the words of the ancestors are as steel. He had gathered his warriors, they had appropriated two buses and a couple of cars and driven around the back of the mountain reserve, a mere two hours run away.

  It became obvious after twenty minutes of searching that neither Dubula nor Texas were amongst the fallen. Garrett grabbed the first living gangster that he came across, pulled him to his feet.

  ‘Where is Texas?’

  The gangster, who was bleeding from multiple stab wounds, felt under no obligation to resist questioning.

  ‘They went this morning, sir. Mister Zangwa called Dubula to him, they talked, they issued us instructions to continue on, then they left.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘When we got to the top of the one mountain this morning mister Zangwa got some cell phone signal. He had some messages. The messages said that his business was in trouble. The people in Joburg were burning mister Zangwa’s places down. He took Dubula to put a stop to it. He told us to phone him after we killed you.’

  ‘Where is his place? What’s the address?’

  The gangster blurted it out. Garrett made him repeat it twice more, and then he pushed him back to the ground. A wave of exhaustion washed over him causing him to stagger slightly. Chief Dlamini steadied him with a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Garrett nodded. ‘I thought that it was over. But it’s not. Not even close. Until Texas and his dog are no more then we have achieved nothing.’

  ‘Look around you, Isosha. You have achieved a great victory.’

  ‘Yes,’ Garrett agreed. ‘And I thank you for it. But this is simply one battle. We have yet to win the war.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘I have to go back to Joburg.’

  Chief Dlamini shook his head. ‘I will not send any of my men there. But I can give you weapons and a car. I am sorry, but that is all.’

  Garrett clasped the chief’s shoulder. ‘Thank you, chief Dlamini. That is more than generous.’

  The chief beckoned to one of his warriors who ran to his side. ‘What weapons do you want?’ He asked Garrett.

  ‘Skorpions. Two of them. Lots of ammo.’

  Dlamini flicked his fingers and the warrior ran off, searching amongst the bodies for Garrett’s request. He returned shortly. Two fully loaded Skorpion submachine guns and two more full magazines of extra ammo. He handed them to the soldier.

  Garrett shook the chief’s hand, the African way, reversing grip as he did so.

  ‘This man will show you the way back to the cars,’ said the chief. ‘Two, maybe three hours run. Be careful, Isosha. When Zangwa does not receive the call telling of your death he will know that you are coming for him. He will be ready and waiting.’

  Garrett nodded. ‘I’ll be careful.’ Then he walked over to Petrus who lay on a litter, waiting for the warriors to take him back to his father’s village.

  They shook hands.

  ‘Sorry I can’t go with you, Isosha. It appears that I am out of order.’

  Garrett smiled. ‘No worries, my friend. Anyway, there are only a few of them. Wouldn’t want to share at any rate.’

  ‘That’s the problem with you foreigners, selfish to the extreme.’

  ‘Take care, my friend.’

  Petrus nodded. ‘You too, Isosha. You too.’

  Garrett turned and ran after the warrior who was leading him. He felt stiff and slow. He hoped that he would loosen up or the next three hours would be very uncomfortable.

  ***

  It had taken Garrett a little over two hours to run to the car. Although he had loosened up en route he had pulled the stitches on his hip and the wound was see
ping blood into his khakis. However he now had at least four hours of driving ahead of him and he trusted that it would staunch itself over that time.

  The car that the chief had instructed his warrior to give Garrett was an old three-liter Ford Capri. The engine smoked and rattled unhealthily but when he put his foot down it responded in a game fashion. An old horse still keen to run. The warrior had also given Garrett a denim jacket to cover his blood soaked shirt. The car had a full tank of gas but from its current consumption Garrett knew that he would have to make a pit stop before he got to his final destination.

  The soldier pulled into a service station just outside Joburg, filled up and then went to restrooms to wash the blood from his face before he paid. Making sure that the jacket covered his shirt and hip he purchased half as dozen cans of Red Bull, a bar of chocolate, a meat pie and paid for the gas. He ate as he drove, forcing himself to finish it all. He needed energy and energy needed fuel. His scalp stung, his shoulder throbbed and his hip hurt like hell. On a scale of one to ten, ten being the strongest, he was running on around three. And he was about to come up against Dubula, a man that seemed to have a default strength setting of around twenty. Garrett downed the last can of energy drink and tossed the empty onto the back seat.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ve been in worse situations than this.’ But when he tried to, he couldn’t actually think of one.

  The old Capri did not boast a satnav so Garrett got lost twice looking for Texas Zangwa’s mansion. Eventually he found the address that he had been given. A pair of ten-foot high iron gates attached to a similar height wall protected the entrance. The ubiquitous electric fencing that all Joburg houses consider to be de rigueur surrounded the entire property. The driveway curved to the left from the gate so the house was not visible from the road.

  After a moment’s thought Garrett decided on the direct route. He pulled the Capri up onto the opposite side of the road. Pointed it at the gates. Gunned the engine and dropped the clutch. The tires spun frantically, screaming and pouring out pungent gray smoke. The old car leapt forward, keen to impress. It was doing twenty and increasing as it hit the gates. The squealing tires blended with the tortured sound of grating metal as the two thousand pounds of car smashed through. The windscreen exploded into a million shards of glass and the bonnet tore off, hanging to the side on one crippled hinge. Steam shrieked from the mortally wounded engine but the old car kept accelerating. Garrett powered on up the driveway. Swept around the curve and slammed into a solid Rococo style stone water fountain that graced the middle of the circle at the end of the driveway.

  The three-liter engine revved freely for a few seconds and then died with an abrupt bang. Water poured over the front of the car cooling the overheated engine to the sound of gentle pinging.

  Garrett had to kick the door a couple of times to open it. He grabbed his two Skorpions and left, running up the stairs to the double height entrance door. He tried the door. Locked. Aimed a sub machine gun at the hinges. Pulled off two quick bursts. Ran at the door. Slammed his shoulder into it. The door fell inwards. Garrett felt something go in his shoulder wound. Warm blood flowed down his back. Then the air around him seemed to explode. He threw himself down and rolled. Bullets struck the floor all around him. Buzzing spitefully, close enough to pick at his clothes. He kept rolling until he came up against another door. He scuttled through. Poked one of the Skorpions around the doorjamb and squirted off a couple of rounds. Waited. Listened.

  No sound. He appeared to be in some sort of sitting room. Plush overstuffed sofas and ottomans. Dried flower arrangements. The odd coffee table. He scuttled over to the window, opened it and slid out into the garden.

  He was just in time. As he hit the ground the room behind him exploded. Grenade, he thought. No, two grenades. Texas obviously didn’t mind fucking his house up.

  Garrett replaced his one magazine with a fresh one and waited. Still. Twenty seconds. Thirty. He popped his head up and glanced through the window. Two men were sneaking into the room. Bent over in an attempt to conceal. Garrett stood up, Skorpion in each hand, pulled the triggers, firing through the window. One and a half seconds. Forty rounds. Most of them hit their intended targets, the little .32 mm rounds shredding flesh and clothing alike. The two dead bodies slumped to the floor. Garrett climbed back into the room, changed magazines. Crawled to the door. Head around to see. No one. He went back out into the corridor.

  The corridor ended in a set of oversized double doors. White with ornate brass trim, maybe gold plate. The doors were slightly ajar. On each side of the corridor were three more sets of single doors of the same design. Recessed lights in the double height ceiling. Like a home built for a giant. Fee Fi Fo Fum.

  Garrett glided down the corridor. Walking on the outsides of his boots. Rolling each step. Before each movement he would stop and listen. Endeavoring to feel someone’s presence. Using his battle honed sixth sense in an attempt to give himself that hundredth of a second advantage that was the difference between living and dying.

  He dropped to the floor as the door to his right burst open and someone started firing at him. AK on full auto. Steel jacketed rounds ricocheted around the enclosed space. Something burnt into his torso. No pain just the sensation of heat. He fired back. Both machine guns yammering insanely, bucking in his hands. His assailant spun in a full circle and dropped to the floor. The Skorpion sub machine gun is a truly magnificent weapon for close quarter combat, with only one major flaw. It uses up ammunitions at a prodigious rate. Garrett was out. He dropped the guns to the floor and stood up. Checked his assailant’s weapon. Also empty. The burn in his side had become a painful throb and when he looked down he could see that he had been hit. A ricochet had torn through the flesh on the left side of his torso, the wound ragged and untidy. Bits of fabric and flesh dangled from the gash and blood flowed freely. Garrett decided that there was nothing that he could do so he simply ignored it. Continued towards the twin doors at the end of the corridor. Limping. Unsteady.

  Just before he got to the end of the corridor the doors swung open. Dubula. One hand by his side, the other pointing his Desert Eagle at Garrett. Behind him stood Texas, his head swathed in a bandage, a full glass of whisky in his hand.

  ‘Please, foreigner, come in,’ he raised his glass. ‘Royal Salute. Fifty year old. An affectation really, personally I can’t taste the difference between the twenty and the fifty. I only buy it because it costs over twenty five thousand dollars a bottle and I can. Would you like some?’

  Garrett nodded.

  ‘Dubula, if you could.’

  The bodyguard holstered his cannon, strode over to the liquor table and poured Garrett a stiff three thousand dollar dram. He walked back to the soldier and handed it over. Garrett took a sip. It was fantastic. Earth and peat and apples and raisins.

  ‘So what do you think?’

  Garrett raised an eyebrow. ‘I think that it’s the best whisky that I have ever tasted.’

  Texas looked genuinely pleased. ‘Good, good. Please, savor it. Don’t rush it as it’s the last thing that you will ever drink.’ He raised his glass in a salute. ‘Dubula, when he finishes, kill him.’ Dubula drew his pistol. ‘No, no,’ said Texas. ‘The knife. That firearm of your is so inelegant.’

  Dubula replaced his pistol and drew a nine inch long Bowie knife from a shoulder holster.

  Garrett dropped his glass and pulled his machete out from his belt.

  Texas shook his head. ‘What a waste of good whisky.’

  Garrett and Dubula stood facing each other. Neither moved.

  In the movies, knife fights are fast moving affairs. The two antagonists circle each other, dancing and weaving, slashing away with gay abandon. Steel on steel. Flashy and well choreographed. In reality nothing is further from the truth. When two experienced combatants with blades in their hands face each other the fight will usually last for one or two strokes. As a result there is very little movement. A real knife fight is more like chess
than dancing.

  Garrett kept his breathing level. Calm. His shoulder wound was tight, his hip and torso both bled. He was exhausted. He knew Dubula was too strong for him. Microseconds became seconds. Seconds stretched out into infinity.

  And Garrett threw his machete up towards the ceiling. Dubula’s eyes followed the blade for perhaps a fraction of a second. No more. But that was enough time for Garrett to draw Vusi’s screwdriver from his boot and plunge it full length into Dubula’s chest. The big man dropped his knife as his arms went slack. He looked down at the bright yellow handle sticking out of his chest. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He looked back up at Garrett and a small smile flickered on his lips. Respect. Slowly, like a falling tree, the big man fell sideways and lay on the ground. The yellow handle stopped moving as his heart stilled.

  Garrett bent down and picked up his machete. Turned to face Texas Zangwa.

  The gang lord held his hands up. ‘Wait. This is the part where I offer you money. Women. Anything you want.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Garrett. ‘And this is the part where I refuse.’

  Texas laughed. ‘No, foreigner. This time you’ve got it wrong. This is actually the part where I shoot you dead and piss on your corpse.’

  Texas brought his right hand down, at the same time flicking a small two shot .25 acp, sleeve-holstered derringer pistol into his hand. He pointed and fired. Both shots hit Garrett in the chest, the small rounds shattering ribs and driving him to his knees.

  Zangwa took a step forward and kicked Garrett in the face, flicking his head back and knocking him to the floor. Garrett heard his nose break. A sound like a footstep on gravel. Before he could drag himself to his feet Texas kicked him again. And again. Garrett rolled across the floor, bumping into Dubula’s dead body. Texas was screaming as he laid into the soldier. The same phrase over and over.

  ‘Fuck. You. Fuck. You.’

  Each syllable punctuated by another boot.

  Garrett’s body was fast shutting down. He could no longer feel the kicks and his eyesight was reduced to a small dark tunnel. Somewhere far away he thought that he could hear children singing. He tried to move but couldn’t. He was stuck. Pushing up against Dubula’s corpse like a puppy suckling its mother. Darkness descended. He gave it one last try but to no avail. His head bumped up against something hard. Metal. The kicking continued. Somewhere the children’s singing got louder. Slowly he moved his hand towards the metal object. Like a crushed insect it crawled over Dubula’s chest. A life of its own. And his fingers closed around it. He drew it out of its holster and rolled onto his back. The look of surprise on Texas’ face was almost comical.