After a stunned second of silence all of Elvis’ men opened up at once, firing until their weapons were empty. But there was no one to shoot at. All they succeeded in doing was putting the crippled dog out of its pain.
Now the men were all huddled together. There was no logical explanation for what had just happened. It must be the Tokoloshe, a demon, hunting them.
Once again they edged slowly down the street. All thought of their mission gone from their minds. Now, only survival.
Garrett and Petrus watched them from the shadows.
Then they followed.
Chapter 29
Mason Parker was an old fashioned newsman. He had started in the dailies and worked his way into television over a period of twenty-five years.
And he didn’t abide people that considered the news to be simply an alternative form of entertainment. Another type of reality television. He believed that news should be hard-hitting, truthful and up to date. He also believed that anyone who changed their God given name to something as dire as Misty Malone would never be able to produce the sort of news that he considered to be, “the right stuff.”
But Mason Parker was also old fashioned enough to admit when he was wrong. And boy was he wrong.
Before Bartholomew had downloaded the material and emailed it to head office, Misty had dropped in a voice over and then he had patched in a couple of talking heads close ups of her explaining where they were and exactly what was going on. The close ups were shot in amongst the pot plants in the hotel parking lot, but they were shot tight enough to disguise this fact.
Misty looked spectacular. Brave and sexy and serious. An action girl for the thinking man. And the action footage was like something out of a Rambo movie. Machine guns and hand grenades and firebombs.
Bartholomew had cleverly edited the rush with clips of colonel Zuzani denying that anything was happening and grainy shots of an armed man escorting Misty forcibly to her car. It was brilliant.
Within two hours it was being shown on every major network from CNN to BBC.
Chapter 30
Two more of his men were dead. One moment they were shuffling along with the rest of the group and the next moment they were bleeding out on the road.
Truly, thought Elvis, we are being killed by spirits. He could hear one of his men’s teeth chattering together in terror. It was one thing to die in battle but another thing entirely to have your life taken away by an evil spirit. Your ancestors would never accept you into the afterlife. You would be bereft, wandering the nether-lands for all eternity. Alone in the valley of shades.
The remaining five men were no longer heading in any specific direction. They were simply moving in the vain hope that movement would provide protection.
And then the smoke parted and the darkness came alive.
There was the whistle and flute of steel cleaving through the air. The wet thud of razor sharp metal severing flesh and bone and sinew.
Two of the men managed to spray a few rounds into the air before they were cut down. Elvis stood frozen in terror as his men died all around him.
One of the demons coalesced into the figure of a man. A black man. He smiled.
Struck.
Elvis died.
***
Colonel Zuzani was worried. He had expected that, by now, someone would have brought him the Zulu, Petrus Dlamini. After all, the reward offered was spectacularly high.
Instead, however, it seemed as though Alexandra was fast becoming a war zone. If it escalated any more then he might be forced to send some of his men in. And that was something that he did not want to do. The losses would be unacceptably high.
He called sergeant Fumba over.
‘Sergeant. Select five good men. I want them in plain clothes and well armed. Send them into the township to do a bit of reconnaissance. I need to know what the fuck is going on in there.’
‘I’ll lead them myself,’ said Fumba.
Zuzani shook his head. ‘No. I need you here. Put corporal Ganda in charge.’
Fumba trotted off to do as told.
Within minutes the five man squad was ready. They were dressed in their own home clothes. Non-descript jeans, cheap shirts and trainers. They each carried an R1 assault rifle. The South African made copy of the Belgian FN. A heavy, reliable weapon that packed a 7.62mm round.
At Fumba’s instruction they walked off into the smoke and shadows, quickly disappearing into the bowels of the township.
Zuzani lit a cigar and lounged against the side of the armored car. He did not bother to speculate on what was happening in the township. He did not have enough information to do so. He would wait for the intel and then decide how to react.
Sergeant Fumba walked up and offered Zuzani a mug of coffee. He accepted with a nod. It was good. Hot, sweet and strong. It reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since the morning and hunger struck him like a physical blow.
‘Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Send one of the men to get me something to eat. Make it quick.’
Zuzani didn’t have to wait long. One of the enlisted men brought over a take away carton of walkie-talkies, peri-peri gravy and pap. The dish got its name from the ingredients. Stewed chicken heads and feet – hence; walkie and talkie. The stiff boiled maize meal was used to soak up the fiery peri-peri. All in all a good, traditional, lip smacking meal.
Zuzani finished the food and wiped his hands on the seat of his pants. Just then his cell phone rang.
It was Manhattan Dengana.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Manhattan screamed down the phone.
‘Calm down, Dengana,’ retorted Zuzani.
‘Calm down yourself, you moron. Have you seen the news?’
‘No,’ replied Zuzani. ‘How could I have? I’m sitting next to an armored car outside Alexandra trying to sort out your fuck ups.’
‘Well you should take a look, because you’re on it.’
‘What channel?’ Asked Zuzani.
‘All of them,’ replied Dengana. ‘And I mean all. Local, African, CNN, NBC, BBC. You’re a world famous fucking idiot.’
‘Hold on, Dengana. What do you mean?’
‘What do I mean? There’s a third world war going on right next to you and all that you can do is deny that it’s happening on international television. Listen to me, Zuzani, find Petrus Dlamini and find him fast. Do this for me and I promise you that I shall make you a wealthy man.’
Zuzani snorted. ‘I am already a wealthy man.’
‘I’m not talking BMW wealthy, Zuzani,’ replied Dengana. ‘I’m talking Lear jet wealthy. Now find that fucking Zulu and bring him to me.’
Manhattan broke the connection and sat back in his chair. His world was going to shit in a handbag and he was relying on a corrupt colonel and a right wing nutcase to put it right for him.
He was less than confident.
But there was one thing that he could sort out with very little difficulty. He picked up the phone and dialed a private line at Doberman Security.
‘Sampson,’ he said. ‘It’s Manhattan here. How would you like to make a large pile of money? Good, I want you to send some men down to the Holiday Inn Plaza. There is a lady staying there, goes by the name of Misty Malone. She’s a reporter. Find her and bring her to me. Thank you, my friend. See you soon.’
Manhattan hung up. He knew that what he was doing was not strictly expedient to his plans but sometimes you simply had to do something because you were pissed off with someone and wanted a bit of payback.
He smiled and lit himself a cigarette.
***
Bartholomew stood at the window and looked out at the car park. He breathed out and let his thoughts drift around like the cigarette smoke that he was exhaling.
It had been a good evening. The report had been a massive success and it looked as though there may even be awards in the offing. Misty was over the moon and the two of them had made a good dent in the bottle of Jack. Although it was late, neither of them wanted to sleep and so he
had ordered room service. Steak, eggs, fries. A bottle of red.
Misty had taken a shower and was dressing in the bathroom while he stood and mused.
He hadn’t always been a cameraman. In fact, he had been conscripted into the South African army in the mid 1980s and had signed on for long service, spending another five years in the force.
He had never risen above the rank of sergeant nor had he ever wanted to. During his combined seven years of service he had fought in Angola, South West Africa, Mozambique and even Zambia.
He had been a good soldier. Not a great soldier. But the mere fact that he was still alive after seven years at the sharp end was proof of his quality. And the service had left its mark on him. The thousand-yard stare. The ability to react quickly and efficiently to aggression. And a sixth sense. A small danger-receptor in the back of his brain that had kept him alive during those incredibly violent years. A guardian angel.
It was this sense that started to buzz when he saw a SUV pull into the car park and four armed men dressed in black combat uniforms get out.
‘Misty,’ he called.
She walked out of the bathroom. Dressed in jeans, a green casual shirt and cowboy boots. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she had the barest minimum of makeup on.
‘What’s up?’
‘Listen, I think that we’re in trouble.’
‘Why?’
‘Some men just arrived downstairs. Armed and in a rush. I don’t know why but I just have a bad feeling. I think that we should get out of here ASAP.’
Misty looked as though she was about to argue but then she could see that Bart was being deadly serious.
‘Okay,’ she said as she grabbed her handbag. ‘Bring your camera. Let’s go.’
They left the room at a run, pulling the door closed behind them. They took the stairs instead of the elevator, leaving via the fire exit and into the car park.
As they got close to Bart’s car someone shouted at them to stop.
‘Sod that,’ said Bart. ‘Keep going.’
The man shouted again. His voice aggressive. Commanding.
They kept walking.
The night air was rent by the sound of a rifle shot. The bullet ricocheted off the concrete next to Bart’s feet.
Misty squealed.
‘Run,’ shouted Bart. They sprinted the last few yards to the car. Bart pulled out his car keys and fumbled at the remote. The central locking opened and they both jumped in. Bart throwing his camera onto the back seat. There was another shot. This one took out the back passenger window.
Bart started the car, jammed it into gear and put his foot flat. With a screaming of tires and a plume of burning rubber the car leapt over the flowerbeds and straight into the road.
‘Who the hell are they?’ Shouted Misty.
‘No idea,’ replied Bart. ‘Cops maybe. Looked more like private security. Whatever, we are in some serious shit.’
‘Can we go to the police?’
Bart shook his head. ‘No ways. Those guys came in heavy. The cops must already know about this. The first cops that we see will run us straight in. It’s my fault. I should have known that this would happen. We should have sent the report and then fucked off to somewhere safe. A hotel under a false name. Something.’
‘So what are we going to do?’
Bart kept his foot down. Driving fast. ‘Don’t know. Let me think.’
There was the sound of a siren behind them. A police car approached at speed. Bart rammed his foot down even harder, urging a couple more MPH out of the old tired engine.
One of the policemen lent out of the passenger window and started firing at them.
‘Not good,’ said Bart through clenched teeth. He dragged the car around a tight bend, barely sticking to the road. A bullet went through the driver side window.
‘Great,’ said Bart. ‘A matching pair.’
‘Do something,’ shouted Misty unnecessarily.
The next shot smashed the back windscreen and lodged in the passenger seat.
‘I’ve got it,’ said Bart.
‘What?’
‘Where is the only place that the cops aren’t going tonight?’
‘No time for riddles, Bart. What are you going to do?’
‘Alex,’ he shouted. ‘I’m going to Alexandra.’
‘No way,’ argued Misty. ‘We’ll get killed.’
‘We’ll get killed out here as well. Trust me. It’s the only thing that we can do.’
Bart drove over the Sandton Bridge, cut right.
‘But all of the roads are blocked by the police,’ said Misty.
‘I’m not going to take a road,’ answered Bart.
He pulled into Arkwright Avenue, pulled hard left and then right and simply smashed through a wall and into a shack. The car steamed and spluttered to a halt. The two of them clambered out.
Two adults and a child sat staring at them. Around them the detritus of their tiny lives, smashed by the car. Misty opened her bag and pulled out a wad of cash. More than six months salary to the occupants, if they had been gainfully employed.
‘Sorry,’ she said as she threw the money at them. ‘Got to rush. Bye.’
The police car screeched to a halt. Stood still. Red and blue lights flashing. After a while it reversed and drove off.
Bart and Misty headed back into the middle of the township.
Chapter 31
Precious Ntuli was three years old. She lived in a dirt floor shack with two adults and three other children aged from four to seven. The adults were her mother and a man. It was not always the same man.
Unlike a standard western household there was no set bedtime. Nor set meal times. In fact, more often than not, there were no meals at all.
Precious did not know what time it was. She knew that it was dark hence it was nighttime. She knew it was late because everyone else in the shack was asleep.
She picked her way through the sleeping bodies, made her way out of the front opening into the alleyway, squatted down and urinated. After she had finished she stood up and walked a few more yards, stopping to survey the night.
Suddenly she froze. Out of the shadows came four men. They carried assault rifles. Their faces were black but they were not black men.
The leader walked up to her. Loomed over her. Silent. Terrifying.
Precious whimpered in fear.
The man held a finger to his lips. Then he put his hand in his shirt pocket, and pulled out a candy bar. He gave it to Precious, rubbed her head and melted back into the night.
The little girl scuttled back to her dwelling and squeezed in next to her mother. Eventually she fell asleep, but for the rest of her life she would remember the night that the Devil gave her a candy bar.
***
Corporal Ganda and his four men sat in the dark on a street corner. Ganda had no intention of wandering around the township at night. He had decided to go in, find a secluded spot, wait for a couple of hours and then go back and tell Fumba that there was nothing to report. His men heartily agreed with this plan.
It was a good plan, as far as survival goes. It only had two major flaws and, to be fair, neither of them were actually corporal Ganda’s fault.
Firstly, the corner that he had decided to wait on was a mere twenty yards away from Precious Ntuli’s house and, secondly, there was absolutely no chance that Pete would be giving him a bar of candy.
The Prophet appeared out of the smoke five yards from Ganda and his men. He saw their weapons and reacted instantly. His first double tap took out the man on Ganda’s right. The next slew the man on his left.
There was no thought in Ganda’s mind of retaliation. He simply dropped his rifle and ran. A volley of shots followed, killing the rest of his men and leaving the corporal alone.
Running.
Running harder than he had ever run in his life.
Eventually he came to a main road. In the distance he could see the Casspir armored vehicle. Lights. More policemen. He s
taggered onwards, finally coming to a halt a few yards from the roadblock.
Sergeant Fumba ran forward.
Corporal, what happened?’
Ganda sank to his knees in exhaustion. ‘We were attacked. They killed the men. An ambush.’
‘How many?’ Quizzed Fumba.
Ganda shook his head. ‘Not sure. Many. Maybe thirty. Maybe forty. We were totally outnumbered.’
‘Were they Zulus?’
Ganda shook his head and took a breath. ‘No, they were not Zulus. They were white men.’
Fumba did a double take and then went to tell the colonel the news.
Zuzani thought for a while. Then he said.
‘Impossible. He’s lying. Bring him here.’
Fumba called Ganda over. The corporal had recovered enough to stand to attention and snap out a salute.
‘Where is your rifle?’ Asked the colonel
‘Lost it, sir. After I ran for my life.’
‘How many assailants did you say?’
‘At least forty, sir. Maybe more. We were ambushed. They must have known that we were coming. I fought bravely but to no avail.’
‘And you maintain that they were white men?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ganda nodded vigorously. Like a child affirming a story.
‘Weapons?’
‘Looked like CR-21s, sir.’
‘Uniforms?’
Ganda hesitated. He knew that the men that attacked him were in civilian clothes. But he also knew that his story would appear more life threatening if they had been in uniform.
‘Full combat gear, sir. Urban camo. Webbing, grenades.’
Zuzani pinched the bridge of his nose as he thought. What the fuck was going down in his city? Who could this third force comprise of?
‘All right, Ganda. You did well. Go. Get some rest.’
The corporal saluted and left. Almost dizzy with relief that his story had been accepted.
‘What do you think, Fumba?’ Asked Zuzani.
‘I don’t know. Americans?’
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 39
