But Manhattan was not perturbed, because, in only a few more days, he would be one of the wealthiest men on the African continent. And the one thing that he had learnt was; the big dog always eats first.
He stepped down off the stage and started his rounds. Meeting and greeting. Shaking hands. Patting backs. Ministerial. Magnanimous.
‘Congratulations, Dengana. Another medal. Soon you’ll look like Idi Amin or Gaddafi.’
Manhattan turned to face his congratulator. ‘Good evening colonel. I didn’t know that you had been invited.’
Zuzani smiled. ‘I wasn’t. But it would take a brave doorman to refuse entrance to the colonel. Anyway, I naturally assumed that my lack of invitation was due to forgetfulness on your part. Very remiss of you, Dengana. Very remiss. Perhaps you should have your new personal assistant disciplined. Perhaps she should be reminded that I am an important part of your life. Some might even say, an integral part.’ Zuzani shook his head. ‘You see, I would hate us to become bad friends, Dengana. That would break my heart. And yours too.’
Manhattan leaned towards Zuzani, his voice low. ‘Watch your tone of voice, colonel. Don’t forget who you are. You work for me.’
Zuzani laughed. Genuine amusement. ‘Oh, Manhattan, my good friend. I work with you, not for you. We are partners. Your good fortune is my good fortune. I am sure that you understand what I am saying.’
Manhattan took a deep breath. ‘Are you threatening me?’
Zuzani shrugged. Said nothing.
‘How dare you?’ Continued Manhattan as he poked Zuzani in the chest with his finger. ‘You gamble with your life. I know people. Bad people.’
Zuzani laughed again. ‘No, Manhattan. You don’t know bad people. You know me. I am your bad people. You are simply a fat, bloated, corrupt politician and if you ever jab me in the chest again I will come around to your house and cut your fingers off. But there is no need for all of this unpleasantness. We are friends. Partners. Trust me, I shall ensure that no harm comes to you. And, in return, you will ensure that my financial future remains both profitable and secure.’ Zuzani patted Manhattan on the shoulder. ‘Smile, Dengana. Life is good.’ Then he turned away and left.
There was nothing that Manhattan could do. He had inadvertently allowed Zuzani to become too powerful. However, in contrast to chairman Mao, Dengana knew that power does not always grow from the barrel of a gun. Dengana knew that true power came through wealth, because with wealth, one could buy as many trigger fingers as one needed.
With a visible shake of his head Manhattan Dengana plastered a smile on his face, stood tall and carried on cruising the room, meeting and greeting.
***
The two warriors had crawled to within fifty feet of the sentry dugout. Here they waited. Silent as the surrounding night. Before they had started their advance, Garrett had torn two strips of material from his shirt. They had tied these around their mouths so that, when the temperature dropped, there would be no visible condensation in the air.
After three hours or so they saw two men walking towards the dugout. They appeared unarmed. As they approached the two current sentries stood up and greeted them. Then they handed over two sidearms. Pistols. There was some muted conversation and the two new sentries climbed into the dugout. The relieved pair walked back towards the dormitory barn.
Garrett glanced at his watch. It was one-forty-two in the morning. That meant one of two things. The fact that the sentries had been changed at an odd time as opposed to on the hour or half hour meant that they were very slack or, that their commander was very good. Only amateurs changed sentries on the hour. It was too easy to predict. Too easy to plan around.
He leaned close to Petrus. ‘They don’t have enough arms to go around. That’s why they need the arms cache. Did you see, they transferred their weapons to the new sentries.’
Petrus nodded. The movement just recognizable in the moonlight. They waited another ten minutes. ‘Right,’ whispered Garrett. ‘Let’s do it.’
He drew his machete from its sheath and Petrus did the same with his assegai. The dull metal blades looked like black holes in the night. Apart from the sharpened edges which stood out as slivers of moonlight.
As slow as cancer the two warriors slid forward. Inch by measured inch.
And then it was as if the night came alive. A brief flurry of movement. Two wet thuds. Quiet. Still again.
The sharpened edges of the blades no longer reflected the moon. Blood covered the light. Deep red and viscous as honey.
They continued their approach. This time running softly. Bent double to present as little target as possible. Petrus went right and then dropped to the ground, crawling the last thirty feet to the boarded up window.
Garrett went left and positioned himself on an angle between the front door of the farmhouse and the barn. That way he could cover both entrances. He lay prone, put the Protecta shotgun down in front of him, shouldered the assault rifle and waited.
Petrus crept along the wall until he was under the window. Then he paused. He was unsure whether to whisper for Freedom or simply lever off the boards. Both choices had their dangers. If someone else were in the room then they would hear him calling, and maybe shoot him through the board. But then, on the other hand, the same could happen if he simply pulled the boards off. He thought for a few seconds.
‘Fuck it,’ he whispered to himself as he pushed the blade of his assegai in between the board and the wall and started to pull. The wood squealed against the nails, cutting through the silence like a banshee. Petrus stopped. Waited. Started again…slowly, working at the tension with small tugs. Bouncing.
Garrett watched both doors.
It was no good. It would take Petrus all night, nibbling away at the fixings. So he threw caution to the wind, pushed the blade in deeper and, with one mighty pull, tore the board off. The nails screeched again and the board clattered to the ground. Petrus looked into the window.
‘Freedom?’
‘Uncle,’ replied Freedom. ‘I knew that you would come.’
‘Come on, nephew. Let’s go. Move.’
The young Zulu clambered through the open window, falling to the ground. Petrus picked him up and they ran, bent over, in the direction of the pick-up.
Garrett was about to follow when the barn door burst open and two men appeared, both carried handguns. At the same time the door to the farmhouse sprang open and a man barreled out, a rifle in his hands. Garrett took a quick snap shot at the man outside the farmhouse. Missed. The man dropped and rolled. Garrett swiveled back to the barn. Two quick shots. Center of body mass. Both down. Back to the man from the farmhouse. Gone. More men came pouring out of the barn. Six. Seven. Eight. Garrett lay down the assault rifle, picked up the Protecta and fired. Fast. Twelve rounds in four seconds. The men were all unarmed. They died. Garrett killed them. The beast threw back its head and howled. Reveling in its freedom. Colors grew more intense. The night welcomed him home. And all compassion and quarter ceased to exist.
He snatched up the assault rifle and fired into the barn quick double taps until the thirty round mag was empty. He dropped the mag. Replaced with a new one. Stood up and ran.
He heard rifle fire behind him. The bullet passed close enough to ruffle his hair. The next one clipped his bicep. Fire ran through his body. He jinked left, then right. Sprinting hard. Another round kicked up dust at his feet.
‘Fuck,’ he grunted. ‘This dude is good.’
He hit the ground. Rolled. Spun around. Fired five rounds. Got up and ran again. Her could see Petrus and Freedom in front of him. Freedom was struggling and Petrus was half carrying him as they ran. He could hear running feet behind him.
Something struck him in the thigh. A hammer blow. His leg flicked out from under him and he went down hard. He saw Petrus stop. Turn. He was coming back for him.
‘No,’ shouted Garrett. ‘Go. Just fucking go.’
All around him the night air was torn apart with the whip and slap of passing s
hot. Petrus came closer, arms pumping, silhouetted perfectly against the moon.
Blood sprayed high. Black against the moonlight sky. Petrus’ head snapped back. He stood still for almost a second and then fell to the floor. His legs twitched slightly and then he was still.
Garrett screamed wordlessly. An animal cry. Atavistic and primal. He rose up on one knee and shouldered the rifle. The first three shots took out the closest three pursuers.
‘Run,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Run, Freedom. The keys are in the pick-up. Run.’
He worked from left to right and back again. Saw men going down. Ran dry. Reloaded. Fire. Fire. Traverse. Fire again. All around him bullets struck. So close that he could feel them. He was hit in his side, the round traveling through. In and out. Another round clipped his torso. Ricocheted off, smashing a rib as it did.
But the beast laughed and scorned such trivial wounds.
He reloaded again. Last magazine. Aim and fire. Aim and fire.
A bullet struck a rock in front of him, spun off and struck him in the chest. It didn’t penetrate the bone but it knocked the wind out of him.
His rifle clicked empty.
He was still screaming.
Men. All around.
He tried to stand.
A rifle butt hit him in the face.
And another.
Another.
Stars.
Lights.
Black.
Chapter 19
They buried Sifiso’s mama the next morning. Early. Just after sunrise. The surrounding gravestones were covered in dew. Tiny silver spheres that refracted the rising sun into myriads of miniature rainbows.
There was no priest but the staff had provided a simple wooden cross that marked the grave. If she had been buried in the pauper’s section she would not have been allowed a marker.
Sifiso asked Kobus to say something. But the big man was not religious. So he said the only words that he knew. The ones that the army chaplain always recited to them before battle.
‘Bow down your heavens, o Lord, and come down; touch the mountains, and they shall smoke. Flash forth lightning and scatter them; shoot your arrows and destroy them. Stretch out your hand and rescue me and deliver me from the hand of foreigners whose mouths speak lying words and whose right hand is falsehood. Amen.’
Sifiso had joined in with the amen. And smiled. Words had been said. This was good.
On the way back to the squatter camp Kobus had purchased a live goat with some of the money that had been left over from bribing the funeral officials.
The goat was as undernourished as the two of them. Skin, bone, ragged fur.
They slaughtered and dressed it in front of Kobus’ hut. Cooked it over open flames. Traditionally they were meant to burn all of mama’s possessions to go with her to the afterlife. But she had none. Not even a change of clothes. Instead they burnt the grass mat that had lain on the floor of their shack. Sifiso also cut off some of his hair and threw that into the fire to symbolize the fact that part of him had also died.
Then they had shared the goat meat with the surrounding squatters. Tiny, rank pieces of underdone flesh.
And so it was done. Propriety had been adhered to. Tradition had been observed.
Mama was gone.
***
Pitch black. Garrett squeezed his eyes shut until little blooms of color rippled across his vision. Then he opened them wide. Nothing.
He wondered if he had gone blind. Where was he? Memories staggered back into his consciousness. Shooting. Running. Blood, arcing through the night sky.
Petrus was dead.
He tried to move but couldn’t. He had been restrained completely. Sitting down. Probably tied to a chair. Or duct taped. Immobile.
Petrus was dead.
Pain throbbed through his body. Every heartbeat tolled out a wave of hurt. He felt his teeth with his tongue. Loose. Left hand incisor broken off. A ragged stump.
Petrus was dead.
Something small and urgent ran over him. Rat. Then another. Spiky claws dug into his chest. The feral smell filled his nostrils. It bit into his chest. He couldn’t move.
Petrus was dead.
He screamed at the rat. Voice hoarse from lack of water. The rodent chattered back at him and scurried off. Little pinpricks traveling down his body. Started gnawing on his boot.
An explosion of light. A door opening. The rats scuttled away. Someone walked into the room. Steps slow and steady.
The door shut behind him. Relief. He wasn’t blind.
A match lit up the darkness. A tiny supernova in a universe of black. A cigarette being dragged on
Each drag lit up the person’s face with a dull orange glow. A big man. Rough shaven. Scar that crawled down the side of his face. Eyes, deep set. Orbs of obsidian.
He said nothing. Merely stared. Garrett wasn’t sure how much the man could see by the light of his own cigarette. The man stepped forward, cigarette clenched in his teeth. Swung his fist.
Garrett’s world exploded in pain.
Darkness.
When he came to again it was still pitch black. The rat still gnawing on his boot. Tough English leather. Something was crawling around on his back, underneath his shirt. Spider? Beetle?
His tongue was swollen from lack of moisture. He wondered how long he had been there. A day? Week? Perhaps. Probably not.
‘Hello?’ His voice rasped, producing a croak. Not an intelligible word. He tried again. ‘Water. Anyone.’
The pain had become more localized. He could feel individual areas. His thigh. His side. His breastbone. His bicep. His face…all of it.
The door creaked open. This time a little light came in. Nighttime outside. Or maybe early morning. The same big man walked in. He had a tin mug of water. Walked over to Garrett, held it to his lips and tilted. Garrett sucked on it, bolting it down in fear that it might be pulled away. But it wasn’t.
Its effect was instant. Relative strength flowed through him. The minimal light from the door also brought with it hope.
The big man lit himself a cigarette. ‘You killed some of my boys,’ he said. His voice was deep. His accent guttural. And he emanated a palpable feeling of power. A life force that seemed to surround him like a nimbus. Garrett knew instantly who he was.
‘The Prophet.’
The man raised an eyebrow. ‘You know me?’
‘I know of you,’ Garrett croaked. ‘I know what people say.’
‘And what do people say?’
‘That you are insane.’
The man shrugged. ‘They may be right. I do sometimes wonder myself.’ He took out another cigarette, lit it and placed it between Garrett’s broken lips. Garrett inhaled hard. Thankful for the nicotine.
‘And who are you, soldier boy?’ The man asked.
Garrett said nothing. Inhaled. Let the smoke trickle out through his nostrils.
‘Are you a friend of the kaffir that we shot? Or are you professional help?’
Still Garrett remained silent. Dust motes danced in the cigarette smoke, spot lit by the light coming in from the door. Fairy lights.
‘Freedom got away,’ said the man.
Garrett allowed himself a tiny smile. A mere twitch of the lips.
‘So, now I need to know, are you a family friend or not?’
Garrett knew why. They needed a new hostage. If he was simply professional help then he was of no use to them. If, however, he was a friend of the family then he might be worth something as a bargaining chip. Whatever, the best thing to do was to keep quiet. Even though he knew that it would cost him.
The man leaned closer. ‘So, not feeling talkative? Don’t worry, soon you will.’ He backhanded Garrett across the face. A solid blow that knocked him and his chair over sideways. He lay on the floor. Immobile.
The man left the room, not bothering to close the door behind him.
Garrett could see that it was darkening outside. So he knew that it was early evening. He tried moving b
ut was taped too tightly to the chair. He could still hear the rats scuttling around in the corners of the room. But for the moment they had been scared away. When night fell he knew that they would be back.
After an hour or so he drifted off to sleep, his exhaustion winning over his fear of the rats.
***
Garrett awoke with a start. It was dark. Not pitch black but still very dark
Something had woken him up. A sound. He strained his ears. Then he heard it and his heart dropped. An abrupt yelp followed by a succession of shorter yelps. Close. Very close. Mere yards from the open door.
A sound that he had last heard when he had been fighting in Somalia in the late nineties. It was the sound of a black-backed jackal. A small fox-like animal. Brazen scavengers and hunters, they were known to be carriers of diseases like rabies and distemper.
He shivered with dread. He had seen people die of rabies before. Far from medical help. Before they died the virus drove them insane. Delusions and paranoia, hallucinations, mind numbing terror and acute hydrophobia. Even the mention of water would send them into paroxysms of fear and fury. And even if the animal was not diseased it was no mere rat. It could chew his face off without any problem at all. While all that he could do was lie on the floor, strapped to a chair.
The jackal yelped again and then he could hear it snuffling. Getting closer and closer to the open door. There was a flicker in the moonlight and it was in the room with him. He could see it silhouetted against the open door. It skulked towards him, head held low.
Garrett threw everything he had into breaking free. He flicked his head back and forth, strained at his bonds and tried, desperately, to kick his legs free.
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 33
