Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  Pete kicked the door to the nearest shack open and barreled in. His three men sprinted across the lane and followed. A bullet kicked up dust behind them as another round was fired at them.

  Four people huddled in the corner. The whites of their eyes showing in wide eyed terror. Pete raised his foot to his chest and simply booted out the back wall. They all ran through into the adjoining shack. Two occupants who took one look at the weapons and simply lay on the floor. Inert.. Pete ignored them, kicked their sidewall out and kept going.

  Four shacks and less than a minute later they were out of the killing zone. Blocked off from the snipers position. Pete called for a rest.

  ***

  The Fat Man moved like the behemoth that he was. A slow and implacable force of nature.

  And his people loved him. He knew all by name and asked after family members and friends. He patted people on the back or playfully punched shoulders. But at all times he radiated an aura of leadership. He was friendly but not a friend. He was their leader.

  He had sent two snipers onto the roof, then he had put two gunmen in each ground floor room. One in each of the rooms on the second floor. Women and children had been relegated to the third floor. His men were armed with a selection of AKs, hunting rifles, shotguns and sidearms. There seemed to be plenty of ammunition.

  The lost boys had congregated in the lobby, their reinforcement mission amongst the locals completed successfully. Garrett had a chance to look at them again and he took back his initial thought that they were a bunch of clowns. Now that action was in the offing he could see past their bling and their bullshit. There was no nervousness. No false bravado. Their eyes were cold and calculating. They were at ease. Ready to fight. He could see why they were Fat Man’s chosen disciples.

  Garrett took Petrus aside. ‘Is this for real?’ He asked. ‘I mean, are we seriously talking a war here?’

  Petrus nodded. ‘Things have been on the verge of sparking off for a while now. This has just provided the excuse that everyone was looking for.’

  ‘But won’t the cops come in? Or the army?’

  Petrus laughed. Genuine amusement. ‘No way, man. The cops would get slaughtered and no one wants to send the army in. Too much like the old apartheid days. Wouldn’t make political sense. No, they’ll just let us fight it out. It’s happened before and it’ll happen again.’

  Garrett nodded and went outside. Stood in front of the doors to the hostel. Looked across the shacks. The sun had risen. Groups of people were walking to work. Children played in the streets and the filth. A lot of people simply sat in the doorways to their rudimentary shelters. Listless. No jobs. No life. Nothing.

  A mere two miles away was one of the most expensive suburbs on the African continent. A suburb where one had to be a multimillionaire simply to buy the cheapest house let alone live the extravagant lifestyle that such an address demanded.

  Garrett had fought wars in Eritrea where he had seen innocent villages napalmed back to the Stone Age. He had fought in Rwanda where ethnic cleansing had taken place on both sides. Burundi. Uganda. Somalia. Djibouti. But he had never before seen such dire third world poverty living unchecked right next to such extravagant first world luxury.

  He lit a cigarette, leaning his assault rifle against the wall as he did so. In the distance he heard a rifle shot. A few seconds later a second one. Large caliber. There was no return fire. Sniper at work.

  One of the lost boys came out of the building and stood next to him. Garrett took his pack out and offered. He accepted. Lit himself, his Zippo appearing in his hand as if by magic. One handed. A move that had taken a lot of practice.

  ‘They will come tonight,’ he said. ‘Never in the day.’

  ‘How many?’ Asked Garrett.

  The lost boy shrugged. ‘Not many. They will test. Maybe some grenades. Petrol bombs. The next night there will be more.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It is always such.’

  ‘Why don’t we attack them?’

  The lost boy shook his head. ‘Fat Man doesn’t attack. He believes that we should all live in peace. If they attack, we fight back. Seldom do we have retaliatory raids.’

  ‘Do you agree with Fat Man?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘But if you had a choice,’ Garrett continued.

  ‘If I had a choice,’ the lost boy ground his cigarette out beneath his sneaker. ‘If I had a choice I would burn this whole fucking township to the ground.’ He turned and walked back into the hostel.

  Garrett lit another cigarette. He sensed more than heard Petrus walk up behind him.

  ‘You know, isosha,’ Petrus said. ‘A couple of years ago the people here decided that the reason that their lives were so shit was because the foreigners, Zimbabweans and such what, were taking their jobs. So they got together and killed about fifty of them. They killed them during the day. During the week. Nobody thought to ask, if these guys are taking our jobs then why are they sitting here in this shithole with us instead of being at work. A few months after that a car drove past a church gathering and opened fire on the congregation. Killed twenty people, mostly women and children. A reprisal from the foreigners. If someone who looks like they don’t belong walks to close to any of the hostels then a sniper takes them out. Officially there are around twenty or thirty reported deaths a day here. In reality it’s probably five times that.’

  Garrett dragged on his cigarette. ‘Yeah, I get it. It’s a shit place to live.’

  ‘No, my friend. The reason that I’m telling you this is because I know you well. I know the way that you think. You’re standing here, right now thinking; this upcoming war is our fault. If Petrus and I weren’t here then everything would be fine. Well, bullshit. Here, not here, doesn’t matter. These dudes kill each other all the time. It’s just what they do. Not our fault. Anyway, where would you go? There’s a countrywide APB out on you. You can’t go to any airports or cross the border. You move outside of Alex and they’ll get you. So, my friend, this is it.’

  The two stood together and watched the township live and breath. A huge misery-driven monster. A cancer on the face of humanity.

  Chapter 26

  Some people knew his real name. Others claimed to, but they were being less than liberal with the truth.

  But, whatever it was, everyone called him Mister Clean. And in the Xhosa controlled sector of Alexandra; Mister Clean was the law.

  If someone were asked to describe Mister Clean it would prove to be a task that was at once very easy and, at the same time, impossible to achieve with any semblance of accuracy. You see, Mister Clean was average. Five foot ten, not fat but not thin. Hair cut, shortish, by a mid-range gentleman’s barber. An adequately fitted suit brought off the peg from a middle of the market chain store.

  Average.

  Until you looked into his eyes. That was like staring into dark, shark infested waters. It was the abyss staring back at you.

  Unlike Fat Man’s disco-themed chrome and leather control room, Mister Clean favored a classroom environment. He sat at the front behind a moderately priced wooden desk and his eight lieutenants sat arrayed before him on lecture chairs with small writing desks attached. He didn’t go so far as to have a chalkboard on the wall but he did issue each lieutenant with a clipboard and a notebook. On each clipboard was one of the leaflets that sergeant Fumba had dropped that morning.

  Mister Clean held up a copy for all to see. ‘Two hundred thousand Rands, gentlemen. We want that money.’

  There was a chorus of agreement.

  ‘As well as the money, we would also love to see that Dlamini taken away, never to be seen again.’

  Another chorus of affirmation. This one even stronger than the first. Petrus was well known and well hated by the men sitting in Mister Cleans control room.

  Mister Clean pointed at one of the lieutenants. ‘Bambata, go to Jama’s room, he has the hand grenades. Get three from him. Then take two men with AK’s. I want you
to get as close as you can to the Zulu hostel. We always attack at night so this time we go in the afternoon, they wont expect it. There will be people hanging around outside the front door. Use the grenades. Try to get one into the lobby. Shoot anyone still standing and then get out. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Now go. The rest of you, take your men and form a perimeter, from 17th street to Selbourne avenue.’

  The men left to follow Mister Clean’s orders. He sat behind his desk for a while and thought. This was his chance. His chance to deal the Zulu contingent a savage blow and drive them from Alexandra. Send them back to KwaZulu where they came from. Mister Clean hated the Zulus. Not for some xenophobic reason couched in the rehashing of past sins. He hated them because of their arrogance and bloody mindedness. For the fact that they held themselves apart from the rest of South Africans with their own king and their own command structure. Mister Clean was convinced that the failure of the new South Africa to provide for its people was purely and simply the fault of the arrogant Zulu nation and he would not rest until they had been defeated. And now he had been provided with an excellent opportunity.

  He stood up from his chair and went to see that his lieutenants were doing his bidding.

  ***

  Bartholomew had picked Misty up from outside the Holiday Inn and driven to the outskirts of Alexandra. They parked some distance from one of the major roadblocks, Misty checked her makeup, Bart powered up his camera and they stepped out of the car.

  Misty passed her eyes over the group of policemen. There were at least thirty of them. Most in full combat gear, R4 assault rifles, pistols, steel and Kevlar armor and helmets. But two stood apart, dressed in tailored combat fatigues. One had a pistol in a shoulder holster. The other appeared unarmed, on his shoulder epaulettes a subtle two stars and a castle. Misty had memorized her ranks. She approached him.

  ‘Excuse me, colonel, Misty Malone CBT Cable, may we talk?’

  The man walked up to Misty and held out his hand. Misty took it and they shook. His grip was firm but not overpowering. His skin cool and dry. But she could feel ridges and calluses, both on his palm and his knuckles. This was no desk jockey’s hand. This was the feel of a man who had used his hands for physical work. And violence.

  ‘Good day, Misty. I am colonel Gideon Zuzani. Please, call me Gideon,’ Zuzani smiled, his teeth were Hollywood perfect and when he grinned his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. As if he was sharing a private joke with you. The sheer strength of his charisma and sexuality almost took Misty’s breath away. He radiated a palpable aura of confidence and power and she felt herself blush, hating herself for it even as it was happening.

  But she was a professional and she rallied quickly. ‘Thank you, Gideon.’ She gestured to Bart who shouldered his camera. ‘So, Gideon, could you tell us exactly what is going on here today?’

  ‘Of course, Misty. It’s nothing to get excited about, simply a joint exercise involving several different departments of the police force. The army has their war games and we have this.’ He smiled.

  ‘And what about the helicopter dropping leaflets, Gideon. What was that all about?’

  ‘That was simply a notice to the residents of Alexandra telling them of the exercise and keeping them in the loop so that no one panicked. Misty, I am sorry that I couldn’t give you a more interesting story but, unfortunately, there’s nothing more to tell.’ Again the Hollywood smile.

  At the same time there was a rattle of automatic gunfire followed by a huge explosion in the middle of the township. This was followed by more gunfire. A pall of smoke rose into the still afternoon air.

  Misty raised an eyebrow. ‘Colonel, I think that perhaps we should start this interview again,’ she said.

  ***

  Bambata strode through the narrow passageway between the two rows of shacks. Behind him were two of his men. All three carried AK47s. Bambata was weighed down a little further as he had three hand grenades in his jacket pockets.

  They made no attempt at stealth as they were, as yet, still far from the Zulu controlled area and so they walked with attitude. This was their end of town and they demanded respect.

  At the end of the passageway they turned right, into another corrugated steel canyon of shacks. And standing there, facing them, were four men. The first thing that Bambata noticed was that they were holding some sort of new generation assault rifle that he hadn’t seen before. The second thing that he noticed was, although they appeared to have black skin - they were not black.

  Both groups looked at each other for almost a full second. Bambata reacted first, whipping up his AK and pulling the trigger. The weapon was set to full auto and, as a result, it kicked high and to the right, climbing above the other group’s heads.

  Three of the men in the other group dove for cover. But the leader stood firm, and fired a quick double-tap at Bambata. Both rounds hit him high on his left shoulder, spinning him to the ground. He rolled to the side, behind a forty-four gallon drum of water. Behind him his two men had gone to ground and were returning fire.

  But the leader of the opposite group calmly adjusted his aim and double-tapped both of them through the tops of their heads. Bambata was hyperventilating with fear. His lungs pumping surplus oxygen through his system much faster than he could use it. There was nothing left to do, he pulled a grenade from his pocket, ripped out the pin and threw it.

  Pete watched the grenade sail through the air towards him. His internal battle-clock started to count down. He had heard the spoon fly off the grenade. He could see that it was an old Portuguese M312. He did not panic because he knew that it had a burn time of 5 – 7 seconds. He caught it with one hand, flicked it back and dropped to the ground. It exploded about three feet above Bambata’s head, killing him instantly and throwing up a cloud of dust and smoke. This was clearly both seen and heard by Misty Malone who was busy interviewing colonel Zuzani.

  Pete motioned to his men and they set off at a sprint, taking whatever turn came to fancy. Losing themselves in the jigsaw of broken dwellings. After ten minutes they ducked into a shack. Amazingly, it was empty. Most probably the occupants had already fled from the gunfire.

  ‘Bakkies,’ said Pete to the one man. ‘Keep watch at the door. Is everyone alright?’

  There was a smattering of agreement.

  Pete sat down on the floor, pulled a pack from his shirt pocket and lit up. ‘Fuck me, this place is a mad house. Listen, boys. We’re going to hole up here until sundown. Go in under cover of night. Rest. Bakkies, first watch. Victor, an hour from now. Stephan, after that. Anything, and I mean anything worries you, wake me.’

  ***

  Mister Clean was upset. But he didn’t show it. That would be unseemly. Childish. But the fact that the Zulus had somehow outmaneuvered him hurt him to the quick. How had they known that he had sent his men out early? How had they known where they were? And how had they dispatched them so easily? He knew Bambata well and he was no pushover, but the fact of the matter is, Bambata and his men were dead. Taken out with ease and with no corresponding cost of life from the enemy.

  But then Petrus Dlamini was known to be a warrior of note. And the word on the street was that his white foreign friend was even better than Petrus himself. Mister Clean chastised himself. He had been overconfident. He had underestimated his foe. Well no more. He left his room to collect his lieutenants. This time he would do things properly. This time he would go himself.

  ***

  ‘Two groups,’ said Garrett. ‘One with AK’s, the other, M16s or some other 5.56mm weapon.’

  Petrus accepted his friends comment without question. ‘A skirmish, gang members perhaps?’ He asked.

  Garrett shook his head. ‘One of the groups is military. Well trained. Maybe even Special Forces. Three sets of double taps. Controlled. The other group simply fired on full auto. Amateurs.’

  ‘The explosion?’

  ‘Grenade,’ answered Garrett. ‘Old. Slow burn.
Deep thud as opposed to the crack of the new grenades.’

  ‘So,’ said Petrus. ‘Who?’

  Garrett shrugged. ‘How should I know? This is your patch, you tell me.’

  ‘Maybe we should go and take a look.’

  Garrett shook his head. ‘Not me. I don’t like it at all. Some random detachment of Special Forces dudes running around, other dudes with hand grenades. No way. Let’s stay here, see what else goes down. Maybe nighttime we go out. Maybe.’

  ***

  Colonel Zuzani stared at the plume of smoke for a while. When he turned to face Misty the smile had gone from his face. In its place was an expression carved from granite. Cold. Overbearing.

  ‘This interview is over,’ he said. ‘There is nothing of interest here.’

  ‘But colonel,’ insisted Misty. ‘What about…’

  Zuzani snapped his fingers and sergeant Fumba trotted over.

  ‘Sergeant, remove these people. Escort them to the end of the road. Take five men with you and ensure that no one else comes down. Especially no press members. If anyone causes any trouble, charge them with perverting the course of justice and take them to the Wynberg police cells. Go.’

  Fumba pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster. ‘Okay, people. Let’s move. Now.’ He used the firearm to gesture towards Bart’s car.

  Misty was about to argue but Bart grabbed her arm and shook his head. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he whispered. ‘Come, let’s go.’

  Bart opened the door for Misty, chucked his camera on the back seat, scuttled around to the driver’s side and got in. He cranked the engine to life and drove off.

  ‘The bastard,’ said Misty. ‘What the hell is going on there?’

  Bart shrugged.

  ‘Well whatever it is,’ said Misty. ‘We are going back tonight and we are going to find out.’