Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Bart. ‘That’s all I need. Great. An evening in hell with an over ambitious weather girl.’

  ‘Bart.’

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Bart laughed.

  Chapter 27

  Manhattan threw up into the basin. It burned his throat. Hot and acidic. Like live coals. It had seemed so simple. The kidnapping had gone well. Keeping his identity and the true plan secret from Pete Vermulen had gone well. Raising the one hundred million dollars had been difficult, but not insurmountable.

  And now it was unraveling faster than a thrift store jersey. He was two days away from losing everything. His money, his estates. His standing in society. Everything. All because of Petrus Dlamini and his white pet. He heaved again, but his stomach was empty. A tiny string of bile dropped from his lips. His wiped it off with the back of his hand. Stood for a while.

  Then he washed his face and walked back out into the world.

  ***

  Garrett had sat outside all day and now he watched the sun sink below the horizon. The thick layers of pollution bent its rays into a collage of reds and purples as it slowly died its daily death.

  And the township started to change. From a bad dream to a nightmare.

  Small fires were being lit everywhere. For cooking, for warmth and for light. Wood, cardboard, plastic and rubber. Smoke boiled from the myriad of personal flames. Dark and choking it covered the land like a plague. Within half an hour it was as thick as an old London pea souper. Visibility cut to ten yards at most.

  People trudged through the haze, coming back from their long, underpaid jobs. Clutching small packets of food to their breasts. Children waited stoically, knowing that cries of hunger made no difference. Those who had little shared with those who had none.

  And all around the township, men with weapons made themselves ready. For tonight the killing would begin.

  In the hostel were Fat Man’s people. The snipers useless in the current miasma of smoke.

  In the center of the township, waiting, sat The Prophet and his three men.

  And in the Xhosa controlled area Mister Clean stood in front of thirty of his men. They were armed with a mix of AKs, shotguns, rifles, sidearms and hand grenades. They also all carried petrol bombs. Simple half gallon glass bottles filled with a mixture of gas and oil. In the neck a fuel soaked rag.

  His plan was simple. They would break into three groups of ten with him leading one of the groups. The one group would drive through the middle of the township and the others would advance on either flank. At ten o’clock they would fall on the Zulu hostel like a rain of fire, getting as close as possible and attempting to get as many of the Molotov Cocktails into the actual building as possible. They would then dispatch anyone running from the building. This was to be the end of Zulu supremacy in Alexandra.

  ***

  And sitting in a car in a suburb on the outskirts of Alexandra sat a South African cameraman and a reporter from America.

  ‘You look ridiculous,’ said Bart.

  ‘It’s camouflage,’ retorted Misty.

  ‘Bullshit. It’s what camouflage would look like if Barbie put it on. You’re meant to cover your whole face with camo. Not a few subtle streaks of green and black.’

  ‘Bart, stop being so dense, will you? It’s not meant to be real, it’s meant to look combat-chique. It’s for the camera.’

  ‘Oh, well then it looks good. Quite sexy. I like that black catsuit.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Misty. ‘Right then, let’s go.’

  The both got out of the car, locked it and began walking to Alexandra, keeping in the shadows. Hugging the hedges.

  As they got closer the smoke started to get heavier.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Misty. ‘What’s this? Is this normal?’

  ‘Smoke from their fires. Thousands of fires. There’s not much electricity so they rely on flame for cooking, warmth, seeing. Company.’

  ‘But why does it smell so rank?’

  ‘Not a lot of wood around,’ answered Bart. ‘So they tend to burn anything that’s flammable. A lot of plastic and industrial waste. Paint, old engine oil, shit like that.’

  ‘It burns your throat.’

  ‘Breath shallow,’ advised Bart. ‘It gets a lot worse.’

  They walked for a while longer. After ten minutes they were on the outskirts of Alex, hidden in the smoke.

  ‘Now listen, Misty,’ said Bart. ‘Follow me. Do what I do. I’m being serious now. This is going to be scary; you haven’t had any combat reporting experience so prepare yourself. No screaming if you get a fright, it’ll give away our position. Also, if we get caught by someone, let me do the talking, okay?’

  Misty flicked her hair. ‘Don’t be so paranoid, Bart. We’re members of the press, they won’t harm us.’

  Bart stopped walking. ‘Misty, just stop. These guys don’t give a shit about the press. They’re not some bunch of MTV teenagers looking to be on TV. These guys have been brought up in a war zone. They are the most unpredictable mother-fuckers you will ever meet. They might ignore you, they might talk to you. They might shoot you, rape you. Cut you up. Please, if you don’t agree to listen to me then I am out of here.’

  Misty stared at Bart for a while. ‘You scared?’

  Bart nodded. ‘Petrified.’

  Mist was taken aback. Bart was fearless. They had covered car accidents, muggings, robberies. They had been threatened by policemen and thugs and he had never even blinked. But now he had admitted to his own fear Misty’s heart had started hammering against her rib cage like a bird with a broken wing.

  She nodded, her face serious. ‘Okay, Bartholomew. I’ll listen.’

  ‘Good.’

  They entered Alex by climbing over a wooden fence into someone’s tiny patch of dirt they called a garden. Avoiding the police.

  ‘Okay, Bart,’ said Misty. ‘Do me.’

  Bart thumbed on his camera and adjusted the focus, centering Misty.

  She looked directly into the lens, her hair framing her camo-chique face perfectly. A modern day Joan of Arc.

  ‘After this afternoon’s aborted interview with colonel Zuzani of the South African Police Force I decided to delve further into what is happening in the Alexandra Township, outside Gauteng, South Africa. Why has the entire township been shut down by the police? Why were they dropping leaflets to the township dwellers? What were the explosions and the gunfire that we heard earlier on today? Even in an area as violent as this, this type of behavior is highly unusual. So, I have sneaked in, under cover of darkness, to get to the bottom of this mystery and, regardless of the danger that I might find myself in, I will get to the truth. This is Misty Malone for CBT Cable.’

  Bart gave a thumbs up and switched off.

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘What now?’

  Misty shrugged. ‘Not sure. I suppose that we simply sneak around and see what we can pick up.’

  ‘Okay,’ agreed Bart. ‘Works for me. Let’s sneak.’

  They edged around the side of the shack and proceeded to slink down the lane, disappearing into the acrid smoke.

  ***

  Pete gestured to his three men and ducked outside the shack. They followed him in single file. He squinted through the smoke. He could see people through the open sides of their shacks. Eating. Sitting. Talking in low voices. As if fearful that someone would overhear them.

  In the 1980s during the apartheid era, Pete had spent a lot of time in townships. But never in Alex, always in SOWETO or one of the bigger, well lit townships. This was totally different. After he had taken two or three turns he was completely lost. There were no discernable landmarks. Passageways ended in dead ends or circled back on themselves. Some of the roads were blocked with barricades of broken cars, rusting steel bed frames and burnt out forty-gallon drums.

  Pete stopped, holding up his hand so that his men followed his example. He waved at them and they went down on one knee, rifles at their shoulders ready to fi
re. He scanned the vista around him. He couldn’t get a bearing on the stars due to the smoke. The lights from Sandton were similarly diffuse for the same reasons. He peered through a gap between two of the shacks. It looked like there was a tarred road through there.

  He crooked a finger at his men, squeezed through the gap and they followed.

  They came out onto a narrow, potholed road. No pavement. Shacks built right up to the tarmac. There were some random fires on the road. A burning tire. A pile of smoldering rags.

  And jogging down the center of the road, a group of ten armed men in double file.

  Mister Clean took one look at the small group of men in front of him and reacted immediately, whipping up his AK and depressing the trigger.

  Modern combat is won in microseconds. It is broken down into tiny increments of movement that, each one, decide on life or death. A sword swings at a speed of approximately sixty feet per second and has a reach of three feet or so. A modern rifle round travels at two thousand feet per second and has a reach of over one mile.

  It takes, perhaps, one eighteenth of a second to pull a trigger.

  Mister Clean was quick. Very quick.

  But Pete was The Prophet. A legend of war created by the one of the most ruthless armies on the African continent if not the world. And he pulled the trigger one eighteenth of a second before Mister Clean.

  Pete hit Mister Clean with a full one second burst from his CR-21. Ten high velocity rounds that simply tore the Xhosa leader in half. Perhaps a second and a half later Pete’s three men opened fire. Short controlled burst of three or five rounds. Aimed.

  One burst hit a case of Molotov Cocktails that Mister Clean’s men were carrying, smashing them and igniting them at the same time. The mixture of burning oil and gas exploded in a massive fireball. Burning men ran screaming into the side of the wooden shacks which caught alight in turn.

  Some of Mister Clean’s men returned fire. AKs on full automatic. Hundreds of rounds tearing into the surroundings.

  The collateral damage was huge. Innocent squatters ran from burning dwellings. Some already on fire. Others were cut down by the fusillade of indiscriminate automatic fire.

  And at the other end of the street, crouched a girl in combat-chique makeup and a cameraman, filming the entire episode.

  Chapter 28

  Bartholomew sat in the only chair in the hotel room and listened to Misty throwing up in the bathroom. It was a non-smoking room but, quite frankly, he didn’t give a shit so he pulled out his pack of cigarettes and lit up. His hands shook. But he was alright. In the background he could hear Misty brushing her teeth. Rinsing. Splashing water on her face.

  He went to the minibar, took out the entire compliment of little bottles of alcohol and threw them onto the bed.

  ‘Misty,’ he called.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When you finished up-chucking do you want a drink?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Anything.’

  Bart chuckled. ‘That’s what I thought.’

  He grabbed two glasses and then distributed the liquor fairly between the two of them. Misty got a blend of Cognac, vodka and rum. He got Gin, whisky and tequila. He threw some ice in.

  ‘Here,’ he held out the one glass to Misty as she came out of the bathroom. She took a sip.

  ‘Jesus, what the hell is this?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  He lit a cigarette for her and she accepted it gratefully. Drawing hard. Using the nicotine to calm herself.

  ‘We’re going to need more booze,’ she said.

  Bart nodded his agreement. Picked up the telephone, dialed room service and ordered a bottle of Jack Daniels.

  While they were waiting for the drink to arrive, Bart pulled the television out of the cabinet and connected his camera to it. He rolled the tape back.

  There was a knock at the door. Room service. He cracked it open. Accepted the bottle. Signed and handed over a tip in cash.

  He filled their glasses, lit up another brace of cancer sticks and they sat together on the edge of the bed and watched the tape.

  Then they re-wound it and watched again.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Bart in an awed voice. ‘Those guys were white.’

  Misty nodded. ‘But they were disguised as black men.’

  Bart shook his head. ‘There is something really fucked up going on here. We have got to get this feed to head office pronto. I think we got ourselves a story.’

  ***

  Fat Man stood in the doorway to the hostel and looked out across the night-cloaked township. A pillar of flame lit up the smoky sky. An orange glow, like the aftereffects of an attack from some mythical creature.

  ‘So,’ he said to Garrett. ‘You say it’s the same guys that you heard this afternoon?’

  ‘Garrett nodded. ‘Same weapons. Same structure. Same combat skills. One group of undisciplined dudes with AKs and another group, highly trained, with 5.56mm weapons.’

  ‘So who are they?’

  Garrett shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Cops?’

  ‘No,’ denied Fat Man. ‘Cops still use the R1 assault rifle. 7.62mmm. Very different sound.’

  ‘Army?’ Suggested Garrett.

  The Fat Man shuddered. Mounds of adipose tissue wobbled in sympathy. ‘I hope not. The last time that the army came into Alex was in the early nineties. The government sent in 32 battalion. Scariest mother fuckers I ever laid eyes on. I tell you. When they were here you could leave a bag of money on the streets and no one would touch it. But they came with their own set of problems. Bad for business, you know. Hard to make a buck when the devil’s sitting in your passenger seat. Petrus, what do you think?’

  ‘Can only be the army. I’d like to know who the hell they’re killing.’

  ‘Well then,’ said Fat Man. ‘Go and see, why don’t you.’

  Petrus nodded. ‘You coming?’ He asked Garrett.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Leave the rifle,’ said Petrus. ‘Bring your steel. We go in quiet and stay quiet. Come on.’

  Garrett handed his CR-21 to The Fat Man and followed Petrus out into the smoke.

  ‘We’ll break left,’ said Petrus. ‘Go around the outside of the township and then cut in later. Come in from the side and see what we find.’

  The two of them ghosted through the shacks. Garrett was amazed at how lifeless the place appeared. He knew for a fact that it was rammed full of people but he saw very few. They were huddled in their shacks, or seated in the shadows. Every person hidden away in his or her own private hell. Hoping that the violence would pass them by. Hoping that the flames wouldn’t consume their meager belongings. Hoping that they could continue to live their insufficient, inadequate lives for one more day.

  A dog ran out at Garrett, but before it started to bark it changed its mind and scuttled back into the darkness. Beaten before it had even begun.

  The smoke covered all like a shroud.

  A sixth sense raised the hair on the back of Garrett’s neck. He trusted those senses implicitly. They had kept him alive for many years while all around him many others had died. He grabbed Petrus’ shoulder and whispered urgently.

  ‘Down.’

  They dropped to the ground and rolled into the shadows.

  A group of ten men walking two abreast loomed out of the smog.

  Petrus waited until they had passed and then he lent close to Garrett. ‘Xhosas,’ he said. ‘They are heading to the hostel.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’ Asked Garrett.

  ‘There’s only ten of them,’ answered the Zulu.

  Garrett nodded and pulled his machete from its holster.

  Petrus drew his assegai.

  They blended into the night. For this was what they did. They were the nameless fear in the dark. They were the feelings of dread that emanated from the shadows.

  And as they moved on silent feet the Beast inside Garrett howled
in exultation.

  They struck.

  The almost imperceptible whisper of steel through air.

  The almost silent patter of blood dropping on dust.

  The thud of two corpses falling to the ground.

  The column turned around. Lying on the dirt were two of their comrades. Throats slit wide. Pools of blood. There was no one else to be seen. It was as if the very smoke itself had solidified, killed them and then once again sublimated into mere wisps of white.

  The leader of the group, a veteran of the struggle called Elvis, called all of the men to him.

  ‘Did anyone see anything?’

  There was a general denial.

  Elvis picked out three of them and pointed at the nearest shack. ‘You three, go in there. Ask the people what they know.’ He gestured to another three. ‘The hut next to that one. Ask. We shall wait.’

  The first three pushed open then door to the shack. It was too small for all three so only two went in. There was a family. Father, mother, three children. A brief conversation and they walked out. They looked at Elvis and shook their heads. Nobody had heard or seen anything.

  The next three had the same results.

  Not sure what else to do, Elvis got his men to strip the bodies of weapons, ammunition and valuables and they proceeded on their way. Eyes looking everywhere. Bunched up. Now more of a gaggle than a column of warriors.

  Something scuttled across the road in front of them. Elvis opened fire. A short burst from his AK. There was a whimper and a dog fell to the ground, its back legs reduced to tatters of flesh. It lay in the shadows and stared up at Elvis, its eyes full of disbelief. Man’s best friend.

  Elvis pulled a knife from his belt and handed it to the man next to him.

  ‘Joshua, take this. Put the dog out of its misery.’

  Joshua walked over to the mortally wounded canine. Bent down. There was a flash of light. A suggestion of movement in the dark.

  Joshua’s head fell from his torso. Severed cleanly with one cut. Blood sprayed high into the night. Deep red. A fountain of life.