Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  The jackal, seeing him struggle, started to growl. Low and deep. He inched forward, lips peeled back.

  And the right leg broke off the chair. Garrett kicked back and forth until he had torn his leg free then he pulled it up to his chest and booted the jackal as hard as he could in the snout. The animal struck the wall and bounced back, straight into a savage cross kick that landed just behind its head. The sound of its neck breaking was audible above the thump of the kick. The dead body slid down the wall to the floor. Garrett struggled to get his breath. Lights pin wheeled across his vision and his heart hammered in his chest like a trapped animal.

  He glanced across at the dead jackal. Already five or six rats were feeding on it. Heads bobbing up and down as they tore at the still warm flesh. Chattering with excitement.

  The effort proved too much for Garrett in his weakened state and he passed out again.

  Chapter 20

  That morning someone came into the room and fed Garrett two cups of water. However, because he was still lying on the floor, most of it simply spilled down his face. The person didn’t speak. Nor did he move the body of the jackal and, as the day wore on, the carcass started to rot. The stench filled the small airless room like a miasma.

  Much later, after the sun had gone down for another night, The Prophet appeared at the door with a younger man. They entered the room and stared at Garrett. Pete spoke first.

  ‘It appears that your friends don’t give a shit about you. I texted them and told them it was your life or the arms cache. I have given them two days and they haven’t bothered to answer.’

  Garrett craned his neck to look at The Prophet. He said nothing. There was no point.

  ‘So,’ Pete continued. ‘This here is Cornelius. Three days ago you killed his younger brother whilst rescuing the kaffir. His brother’s name was Bismarck. He was nineteen. I am going to leave you with Cornelius so that you can learn the error of your ways.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ said Garrett. His voice almost a whisper. ‘Fuck you very much, you psychopathic nutcase.’

  The Prophet went down on one knee before Garrett. With his two hands he took his face and turned it towards him. His eyes burned into Garrett’s like a spiritual fire. An almost unearthly charisma. ‘And for your lifeblood I will require a reckoning: from every beast I will require it, and from man. From his fellow man I will require a reckoning for the life of man. Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed, for God made man in his own image. Genesis, chapter nine, versus five and six.’

  He stood up and walked out.

  Cornelius stepped over and kicked Garrett in the face. Not too hard. Hard enough to hurt like hell, but not hard enough to knock him out. Then he lit a cigarette. Smoked it down to the filter. Leant over and stubbed it out in Garrett’s ear. The red-hot tip sizzled and spat as it burned into the tender flesh. Garrett clenched his jaw to prevent himself crying out in pain.

  Then the young Afrikaner pulled out a knife from his belt. It was a simple blade. A workingman’s knife. Perhaps six inches long. An inch wide sloping to a point. A leather bound handle. He stood over Garrett.

  ‘This was my brother’s knife. He always carried it with him. It was like part of him. An extension almost. I am going to remove your eyes with this knife. His knife. And then I am going to place them, on your chest. Then I shall leave you here. In this room, with the rats. First they will eat your eyes. Pulling them from your chest like a pair of meatballs. Then they will start on your eye sockets. Tearing at them with their little teeth. Pushing their heads inside. Feasting on your face. Your eyelids. Your brain. You will die in absolute agony. Absolute. And it will have been my brother’s knife that did it. Remember that when you are dying. Remember my brother.’

  He took a step forward. There was a thud. Like the sound of someone hitting a heavy punch bag. Cornelius frowned. Looked down at his chest. Two foot of dull red, razor sharp assegai stuck out of it. There was a sucking sound as it withdrew and the young Afrikaner fell to the floor.

  And behind him, picked out by the meager light coming in through the open door, stood a man with a bloody bandage around his head. He raised the assegai again and brought it down, swiftly slashing the tape that held Garrett captive. Then he bent down and helped him to his feet.

  ‘Petrus?’

  ‘The very man himself,’ answered the Zulu.

  ‘I knew that you were alive.’

  Petrus chuckled. ‘No you didn’t. Come on. Quick, let’s blow this joint.’

  Garrett staggered along next to Petrus who held his elbow in one hand, steadying him. The moon was bright enough to see by, blue highlights and black shadows. The door to the farmhouse opened and a man stepped out. Not The Prophet. Someone younger. He stood just outside the open door, the interior light spilled over him covering him in a gentle yellow glow.

  Garrett and Petrus froze. There wasn’t time to go to ground so they simply stood still. A shadow amongst many other shadows. The man delved into his trouser pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He shook one loose, replaced the pack and pulled out a Zippo. Flicked. Lit. At the same time he saw them. He dropped the Zippo and pulled a pistol from his belt.

  ‘Move!’ Shouted Petrus. They both started to run. But they were slow, even though Petrus was dragging Garrett by the arm their progress limited to the speed of Garrett’s loose-limbed stagger. The man started firing at them. Bullets buzzed past. Spiteful lead insects.

  Then there was the sharp crack of an assault rifle. The man spun around and dropped to the ground. Kobus stood up, appearing out of the dark, beckoning to them.

  ‘Come on, guys. Let’s keep moving.’

  He grabbed Garrett’s other arm and they kept running. A cripple with a home made wooden foot, a man with three bullet wounds and a Zulu prince with an assegai. It was only a matter of time before they were caught.

  More men ran out of the farmhouse. They were all armed and started firing at once. Dust kicked up around the running trio and the air around them was savagely torn apart from passing shot. A bullet clipped Garrett high up on his right shoulder, taking out a chunk of flesh and spraying the three of them with blood.

  ‘Ah, shit,’ said Garrett. ‘I’ve been shot again. I’m really getting sick of this.’

  Then, with a shout of surprise, Kobus fell over, hitting the ground hard.

  ‘What?’ Asked Petrus. ‘Have you been hit?’

  Kobus shook his head, he held up his wooden appendage. ‘Straps broke. Shit.’

  ‘Can you still walk?’ Asked Petrus.

  Kobus grinned. ‘Don’t be stupid. You mean hop away?’

  Petrus held out his hand. Come on, grab my hand and lean against me. We can make it.’

  Kobus shook his head. ‘No ways, man. We do that then we’re all screwed. Go. Quick, they’re getting closer. I’ll cover you guys.’

  Petrus shook his head. ‘No.’

  A bullet whined off a rock next to Kobus. Missed him by a matter of inches.

  ‘Just fuck off, Petrus. Please.’

  Petrus squeezed Kobus’ hand. ‘Stay in peace, my friend.’

  ‘One thing, take care of little Sifiso.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘Good, now go.’

  Petrus and Garrett turned and continued to move. Kobus lay down, checked his magazine was seated properly and started to lay down carefully gauged suppressive fire, causing their pursuers to go to ground.

  In 1939 when the Berbers fought the modern Italian army in Libya, the tribesmen, facing overwhelming odds, used to tie their legs together before the battle thus forcing them to keep firing their rifles until the enemy was on top of them. No chance to retreat.

  Basically, Kobus had done the same thing as he lay next to his broken wooden leg. He counted each round as he fired. Looking more to slow the advance down than to take life. Firing off to the sides to stop them flanking him. Waiting as long as he could between each shot
.

  Finally he counted that he had one shot left. Using the rifle as a crutch he dragged himself onto his one knee and placed the barrel under his chin.

  ‘Forgive me my sins, O Lord; forgive me the sins of my youth and the sins of mine age, the sins of my soul and the sins of my body, my secret and my whispering sins, the sins I have done to please myself and the sins I have done to please others. Forgive those sins that I know, and the sins that I know not; forgive them, O Lord, please forgive them all.’

  He pulled the trigger.

  Kobus’ sacrifice had allowed Garrett and Petrus time to get to the pick-up. Petrus bundled his wounded friend into the passenger seat, jumped behind the wheel and took off fast, the truck skidding from side to side as it gained traction.

  Neither of them said anything for a while. Silence while Petrus concentrated on driving hard and fast. Eventually they hit the blacktop road and things got easier.

  ‘Right,’ said Garrett. ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘Thanks, Petrus. Good to see you,’ said the Zulu.

  Garrett grinned, leaned over and grasped Petrus by the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. Thanks, my friend. I owe you.’

  ‘No problem. Petrus pulled a pack of cigarettes out. Drove one handed. Passed the pack to Garrett. ‘Light us up.’

  Garrett obliged. Lit two. Put one in Petrus’ mouth. Petrus cracked the window.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘After I got shot and you went down, Freedom dragged me to the pick-up. Basically carried me. He’s strong that one, I tell you. He thought that I was dying but it turns out that they just shot my ear off. Was hanging on by a few shreds of skin. Creased my skull. Knocked me out but good. Lots of blood.’

  ‘Must look like shit,’ said Garrett.

  ‘No way. They sewed it back on. It’s a bit crooked but I think that it gives me some character. You know. A slight flaw to attract attention to my otherwise flawless looks.’

  They were both talking lightly. Teasing. Neither wanted to talk about the obvious. Eventually Garrett brought it up.

  ‘Kobus died for us.’

  ‘For sure. When I asked for his help he didn’t even hesitate. He’s a good man. Was a good man.’

  Neither of them spoke for a while. An unsaid moment of silence for a man they barely knew. A wasted cripple of a man who lived alone and took care of a small child who was not his. A good man.

  Petrus flicked his cigarette stub out of the window. ‘I sent Freedom and his family to my father’s village in The Valley of a Thousand Hills. My father’s warriors will protect them all. Any of these fuckers try to take on the children of the sky they’ll all end up dead with an assegai up their ass.’

  ‘Good move,’ said Garrett. His voice was slurred and his head lolled back and forth from exhaustion.

  ‘Rest, my friend. We’ll be on the road for many hours now. Sleep.’

  Garrett slept.

  Chapter 21

  The man that had delivered the maps of the Parliamentary Union buildings to Pete Vermulen stood in front of Manhattan Dengana. He was a nobody. A mere deliverer of messages. A go between that Manhattan used to liaise with The Prophet. His only advantage was that he was white. Pete would never have dealt with a black man. He would have known that something was wrong. He would have known that he was being played. That he was a mere piece in a game far beyond his understanding. The game of thrones where money trumped all. Manhattan had used his white lackey to convince Pete that he had sympathetic backers for his cause. Right wing backers. White supremacists. It had not been easy; Manhattan had had to play Pete like a giant game fish. With both strength and patience. Because the Prophet was, by his very nature, a suspicious person. But Pete had wanted to believe. He had wanted to believe more than anything. And his natural paranoia had been washed aside by the waves of his need for a white homeland.

  But now none of that mattered. Unless Manhattan could do some serious damage control then there would be no arms cache. There would be no attempted coup.

  There would be no one billion dollar payout.

  ‘When did mister Vermulen contact you?’ Asked Manhattan.

  ‘Half an hour ago. I came straight here. He told me that they no longer had Freedom in custody and that he had been attacked on two separate occasions. He has suffered almost fifty percent casualties. Eighteen of his men dead or injured..

  Manhattan thought for a while. ‘We shall have to take the rest of the family. Freedom’s mother and father. I was trying to avoid that. It will complicate things because who will organize the collection of the arms caches?’

  Isaac said nothing.

  ‘You are dismissed,’ continued Manhattan. ‘I’ll call if I need you.’

  He was on the phone before Isaac had even left the room.

  ‘Colonel, how are you? I need a small job done. The customary rates will apply. Please could you send some of your men around to Sipho Mabena’s house and arrest him and any family members who happen to be there. Take them to the usual place, I’ll see you there.’

  ***

  Garrett grunted as the doctor pulled the final stitch tight. He had wrapped Garrett’s chest to support the broken rib, cleaned and stitched the wound in his thigh and packed the shoulder wound with a mixture of Betadine and sugar and stuck a pressure bandage on. Rudimentary care to say the very least but Garrett felt a thousand times better.

  Petrus had driven them to a lean-to house in the middle of the Alexandra Township. A mere two rooms, outside latrine. No running water. A single iron bed. A wooden chair.

  The doctor gave Garrett a handful of painkillers and he washed them down with water.

  ‘So,’ said Garrett. ‘It’s done. What now?’

  ‘Now, you wait here, you need to heal up a bit. There’s no chance of you flying with all of those holes in you. Rest. I’m going to find this Sifiso kid and get him to my father’s village. They’ll take care of him there.’

  Garrett lay back on the bed, closed his eyes and almost immediately fell asleep.

  Petrus left the room.

  The doctor sat down in the wooden chair, took a battered Agatha Christie novel out of his case and started to read.

  Chapter 22

  Colonel Zuzani lounged in the wingback chair, his legs thrust out in front of him, his body slouched down. A picture of insouciance. In his hand an unlit cigar.

  ‘What do you mean, there is no one there?’ Asked Manhattan.

  The colonel studied his unlit cigar for a while. ‘Why don’t they pre-cut these things? I mean, really, would it take them that much longer? The fucking things cost me over one hundred American dollars each and I’ve got to cut the end off myself.’ He took a small silver cigar cutter out of his jacket pocket and snipped the cap off his Behika, letting the off-cut fall to the floor. He replaced the cutter, took out a gold Dunhill and warmed the foot of the cigar, turning as he did so. Finally he put it in his mouth and drew it to flame. Then he studied the burning tip, a look of satisfaction on his face. A job well done.

  ‘Where are they?’ Continued Manhattan.

  ‘Gone,’ said the colonel. ‘I already told you.’

  Manhattan controlled himself with visible strain. ‘Gone where, colonel?’

  Zuzani rolled the cigar smoke around in his mouth. Exhaled. ‘I can’t be sure, but if I had to guess, and I believe that you would like me to, I would guess that they have gone to Chief Dlamini’s village.’

  ‘So? Go and get them.’

  Zuzani laughed. ‘What? Are you insane? It would be suicide.’

  ‘Why? You have fifty men, an armored car. A fucking helicopter.’

  ‘Yes, and chief Dlamini has access to over ten thousand shields. I wouldn’t pit my men against one thousand amadota let alone ten thousand. Face it, Dengana, you’re going to have to find another way to make your plan work.’

  Manhattan thought for a while. Let his mind roam. The cigar smoke twisted and turned its way around the room. A mystical snake of gray and blue and white.

&nb
sp; ‘We have to find Petrus Dlamini,’ he said. ‘If we can capture him, then we can use him as leverage to get the arms cache.’

  The colonel nodded. ‘True.’

  ‘So,’ continued Manhattan. ‘Go and get him.’

  Zuzani stared at Dengana for a while. His eyes hooded. Unreadable.

  ‘Please,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Say please.’

  Manhattan took a deep breath. ‘Please.’

  Zuzani stood up. ‘There, see. Good manners cost nothing.’

  He strode from the room, trailing smoke like a warship.

  Manhattan gritted his teeth. The colonel was starting to become a liability. His arrogance was beginning to outweigh his usefulness. However, he was Manhattan’s strong arm. So, as such, Manhattan had no one that he could use to take out Zuzani. And the colonel knew this so, it was only a matter of time before he used his military strength to usurp Manhattan’s place in the hierarchy.

  Manhattan picked up the phone and dialed Doberman security.

  ‘Sampson Sabelo. It’s Manhattan here. Manhattan Dengana. How would you like to get back at Petrus Dlamini and his friend?’

  ***

  Garrett woke to find a small child standing next to the bed staring at him. His eyes were wide. He was drinking from a can of Fanta with a straw.

  ‘Hello, man,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, boy.’

  ‘You were asleep.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Garrett. ‘I was.’ He climbed off the bed, stood up. Ran his fingers through his dark hair, pulling out the knots, letting it tumble in loose waves to his shoulders. He stretched. Winced as his injuries pulled up tight. The dull light threw his musculature into stark relief. Twisted cords of muscle. Abs like packed concrete. Scars that crisscrossed his torso like a child’s scribbling. A body courtesy of Mars, the god of war. As opposed to Abercrombie and Fitch, the gods of metrosexuality.