‘Don’t be stupid. Why?’
Fumba shrugged. ‘Aliens? Time travelers?’
‘So you think that he’s lying?’
Fumba gave the question serious consideration. After all, it was a life-ending question for the corporal. He shook his head.
‘No. He was telling the truth. Exaggerating, maybe. But essentially the truth.’
‘I need to make some calls,’ said Zuzani as he walked towards his BMW. ‘Go and tell Ganda to keep this to himself.’
***
Power Pulani was the man that Mister Clean had put in charge of the third group that was sent out earlier to attack the Zulu hostel. Power did not know that his was the last surviving group to have made it across the township.
He and his ten men crouched in the shadows behind a row of shacks next to the West side of the hostel. He looked at his watch. The other groups should be in position by now. Five more minutes and it would be time to launch the attack. Timing was important because, with all three groups attacking at the same time, the firepower from the hostel would be split. Diffused.
The second hand counted down.
Power stood up.
‘Let’s go,’ he shouted.
The man next to him lit a Molotov and threw it. The firebomb fell short, exploding harmlessly on the concrete apron that surrounded the building.
The two other groups did not charge on account of all being dead.
As a result every gun in the hostel was turned onto the single group of eleven men. The overwhelming quantity of firepower cut them to shreds before they had covered eight yards.
Two minutes later someone walked out of the front door with a fire extinguisher. They calmly put out the pool of burning petrol and went back inside.
Convinced that this was some sort of strategic distraction the Fat Man ordered his people to stay vigilant.
Chapter 32
Bart and Misty sat huddled in a gap between two shacks. Misty was reading a leaflet using a tiny key ring led flashlight.
‘Look,’ she said to Bart. Thrusting the piece of paper at him. ‘This is what that helicopter was dropping this morning. There’s hundreds of them scattered around here.’
Bart read the reward notice through. ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ he said. ‘Who is Petrus Dlamini?’
‘I am,’ said Petrus.
Bart dropped the paper in shock and Misty squeaked like a trodden on hamster.
Standing in front of them were two men. A black man holding an assegai and a white man holding a machete. Both of the weapons were dull with dried blood.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ said the white man as he squatted down in front of them. ‘My name is Garrett.’ He held out his hand. Bart shook it first and then Misty. His hand felt strange. Like warm stone. Hard but somehow tactile. Misty didn’t want to let go. It made her feel safe.
‘We’ve been following you since you gate-crashed the party. Wondered what the hell you were doing here.’
‘It’s a long story,’ said Misty.
‘Make it short,’ countered Garrett.
‘We’re reporters. TV. This afternoon we interviewed a colonel Zuzani about what was going on in Alex regarding the helicopter, the leaflets and the roadblocks. He was in the process of denying that anything was happening and spinning a story about a training exercise when a huge explosion and a bunch of automatic gunfire came from the middle of the township. Long story short, he kicked us out. So, we came back early evening to snoop around. We hadn’t been in the township for more than ten minutes when we got involved in a firefight between two groups. Got it all on film.’
‘Tell him about the white guys,’ interjected Bart.
‘Oh yes,’ said Misty. ‘One of the groups in the fight were white guys. They had blackened faces but when we ran the tape we could see that they were white.’
Petrus and Garrett glanced at each other. The Zulu raised an eyebrow.
‘Anyhow,’ continued Misty. ‘We went back to our hotel, edited the tape. Made Zuzani look a bit of a fool, I tell you. Sent the footage to head office and everyone went mental. It’s being shown on every major and minor network in the world. So, obviously this pissed someone off because next thing we’re being chased by the men in black, shooting at us and trying to kill us. We figured that the only place where the cops wouldn’t come to get us was here. So – here we are.’
Garrett glanced at his watch. ‘Look, it’s just past two in the morning. You had better come with us, there’s no way that the two of you would make it until daybreak. This place is full of uglies. Come on,’ he helped Misty up. ‘Follow. Tread softly, stick to the shadows.’
Petrus and he set off at a brisk walk and the reporters followed. Both Misty and Bart attempted to emulate the way that Garrett and Petrus moved. They flitted from shadow to shadow, often seeming to disappear completely even though they were directly in front of them. And their feet made no sound. It was like they walked above the earth and not on it. But it was impossible to imitate them. The reporters sounded like a herd of buffalo in comparison.
Bart was more impressed than Misty for he had worked with Special Forces operatives before, albeit on a peripheral basis. So he had seen the best. Or so he had thought. But these two were in a different class. He knew beyond doubt that the only reason that Misty and he could see them, was that they allowed it. If they had decided not to be seen then their disappearance would be instant and unexplainable. They would simply become part of the night. There but not there. Bart shivered with awe and gave a word of thanks to the powers that be that they were being friendly.
Suddenly Garrett stopped. He signaled for them to get down. The reporters dropped to the ground. Petrus went down on one knee, assegai held ready. Garrett took a step to the right and simply vanished.
Twenty seconds later he appeared again.
‘False alarm. Keep moving.’
‘Jesus,’ whispered Bart to Misty. ‘My heart’s going like a fucked clock. How you doing?’
‘Scared.’
‘Hang in there. We’ll be alright.’
After twelve more minutes they turned another interminable corner and were face to face with the hostel.
‘Home sweet home,’ said Petrus. ‘Follow us, don’t talk unless spoken to.’
As they approached the building Bart noticed that at least ten weapons were trained on them from the ground and second floor windows. A group of five men came out of the entrance and walked towards them. They were all dressed in full gangster-bling. One even had four watches on his left arm and two on his right. All Rolex’s. All fake.
The watch wearer appeared to be the leader. He walked in front and assumed more swagger than the others.
‘Hey,’ he greeted Petrus. ‘How is it hanging, my nigga?’
Petrus took a step forward and casually backhanded the speaker so hard that he literally did a back flip, landing heavily on the concrete apron.
Petrus stood over him and shook his head. ‘Boy, to you I am mister Dlamini. Or sir. I am no one’s nigga.’ He turned to face the other lost boys, his assegai held in front of him. ‘Take note. All of you.’
He walked inside followed by Garrett and the two reporters. They went down the corridor to Fat Man’s rooms.
‘What is this place?’ Whispered Misty to Bart.
‘It’s an old worker’s hostel,’ answered Petrus on Bart’s behalf. ‘In the days of apartheid the white government forced the black man to live in so called homelands. Separate states. But all of the work was in the white areas so the government set up a system of migrant labor. Male workers were forced to live in single sex hostels like this and go home to see their families during the holidays. Like prisoners on parole.’
‘That’s terrible,’ said Misty. ‘But what is this place now?’
Petrus grinned. There was no humor in the expression. ‘Now. It’s a single sex hostel run by a gangster and no one goes home during the holidays because this is their home.’
Petrus greeted th
e guards at Fat Man’s door. They opened it and the group filed into the rooms. As usual, he was sitting on his sofa eating. A mountain of meat pies were stacked in front of him. On the side, four bottles of the ubiquitous green pop. He was dunking each pie in a large bowl of ketchup and putting it in his mouth whole. Two chews. Gone. Repeat. He ate three more, licked his fingers and beckoned at Petrus.
‘Come, sit down. All of you.’ He pointed at the pies and pop. ‘Help yourselves. So, Petrus, what’s happening?’
‘Some weird shit going down, Fat Man. These are two reporters; they’re hiding from the cops. We ran into a group of eleven Xhosas coming this way. Garrett and I neutralized them. Heard at least three other fire fights while we were out there.’
‘One of those firefights was here,’ said Fat Man. ‘Ten Xhosas ran at us out of the shacks. Chucked a Molotov. We killed them. Very strange. Sort of a suicide attack. Expected them to start shouting “Banzai” at any moment.’
‘Was probably meant to coincide with an attack from the group we sorted. That would have made more sense.’
‘And the other fights?’ Asked The Fat Man.
‘Same group as before. The guys with the 5.56mm weapons. Two separate attacks. There’s some sort of third force out there. The reporters claim that it’s a small group of white guys.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ said Fat Man.
I know,’ said Garrett. ‘But I’ve been hearing that a lot tonight. The fact is, they’re out there. They’re there for a reason, so, for someone it makes sense.’
‘There’s only one person that it would make sense to,’ said Petrus.
‘Who?’ Asked Garrett.
‘The Prophet. He’s here for me.’
Garrett thought for a while and then nodded. ‘I reckon that you’re right. He thinks that he can use you to get access to the arms cache.’
Misty put up her hand. A child in a classroom. ‘Excuse me, who is the Prophet? What arms cache? Why is Petrus on the flyers?’
‘The Prophet is bad dude,’ said Petrus. ‘Ex secret police from the old days. The arms cache doesn’t exist and he wants me because he doesn’t know that it doesn’t exist and he thinks that I can get it for him.’
‘So,’ said Misty. ‘Basically, it’s a war for no real reason.’
‘All wars are for no real reason,’ quipped Garrett.
Fat Man rammed down another brace of meat pies and then started speaking before he had quite finished them.
‘Not a very complete explanation. Especially regarding the Prophet. Calling him a bad dude is just a bit Ninja Turtle. He’s a seriously psychotic, dedicated right wing super-soldier. He’s been shot over twenty times and still lives. It is said that he is un-killable. It is said that he actually died once and came back to life but he no longer has a soul so you can’t kill him again.’
Petrus laughed. ‘You sound scared of him, Fat Man,’ he teased.
‘Damn right,’ agreed Fat Man. ‘Fucking terrified. Look, Petrus, I don’t want to be “that guy” but you are going to have to do something about this. I can’t afford to have the Prophet wandering around my patch with a bunch of armed apostles. It’s a serious health risk and not good for business.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Fat Man. Garrett and I will go out now and find him. Sort this thing out.’ He checked his watch. ‘We got a few hours of dark left. Let’s go. Fat Man, can you take care of these two?’
Fat Man nodded.
‘Aren’t you going to take any weapons?’ Asked Misty.
Garrett pointed his machete at Petrus’s assegai.
‘I mean rifles and stuff.’
Garrett merely shook his head and he and Petrus departed, closing the door as they did.
Fat Man chuckled. ‘Those are two seriously dangerous men.’
‘More dangerous than the Prophet?’ Asked Misty.
The Fat Man stared at her for a while before he answered. His eyes large and lugubrious. An old bulldog.
He shook his head. ‘No. I was being serious when I spoke about the Prophet. He cannot be killed. I love and respect Petrus but he and his friend will not be coming back. You cannot go up against the Prophet and live.’
‘What will happen then?’
‘Nothing,’ answered Fat Man. ‘The Prophet will have killed Garrett and either taken Petrus hostage or killed him too and then he will leave. We will not be harmed. After that, the police will find out and they will leave as well. Stay here a few days and then I will get some people to smuggle you out.’
‘Thank you. Mister Fat Man.’ Said Misty.
He chuckled. ‘Just, Fat Man, my dear. No mister.’
He shoveled in another meat pie.
Chapter 33
Colonel Zuzani had to make a decision.
He turned to sergeant Fumba. ‘Hey, Fumba. How much does a Lear jet cost?’
‘Not sure. Boss. Eight, maybe ten million dollars, second hand. Why?’
‘I want one,’ answered Zuzani. He was quiet for a while as he thought. He had phoned around, dug deep into his contacts and pulled a few favors. But no one knew who the detachment of white soldiers were or what they were doing in Alexandra.
There was only one way that he was going to be able to sort this mess out and get the Zulu to Dengana.
He was going to have to take his men into the township in force.
‘Sergeant, get our boys here. All of them. No outsiders. Get the outsiders to keep manning all of the roadblocks. Then issue our men with one hundred rounds of ammunition and two extra magazines for their R1s. Make sure that the machine gun in the Casspir has got at least one thousand rounds. We are going in at first light. We need to take the hostel in order to get Petrus Dlamini out.’
Fumba nodded and trotted off to get the men together. Within minutes people were running everywhere. Loading spare magazines, checking the machine gun, pulling on body armor.
And, a few yards away, hidden behind a wall, two of Fat Man’s lost boys watched for a while. Then they stood up and sprinted back to the hostel, bursting through the front doors and running down the corridor to Fat Man’s rooms. The guards let them straight in.
They both stood, panting. Neither spoke. Even though their information was red hot, to speak before Fat Man would be disrespectful.
Fat Man waited until their breathing had calmed down.
‘Speak to me, boys. What’s happening?’
Sipho took the lead. ‘The cops are coming, Fat Man. They’re tooling up for an assault. Big time, about fifty of them.’
The Fat Man cursed. Every time Petrus Dlamini was involved in something it seemed to escalate into a full-blooded war of some sort. He was a man that thrived on battle. If Petrus was put into a cell by himself then, surely, thought The Fat Man, one of his hands would declare war on the other.
‘What road will they be coming down?’ Fat Man asked Sipho.
‘They are in Arkwright at the moment. So I think they will come down First Avenue.’
Fat Man pictured the layout of the township. The roads, alleyways, passages. The cul-de-sacs, dead ends. Lanes that looped back on themselves. A veritable maze. He imagined himself as a commander with fifty troops entering this maze. What would he do?
He wouldn’t want to split his forces too much. That would leave them exposed. But he wouldn’t want to attack only on one front. That would allow the enemy to concentrate their fire.
‘They will come down First Avenue and Third Avenue,’ he said. ‘The bulk of the force will come down First. Do they have armor?’ Sipho nodded. ‘The armor will come down First Avenue. The secondary force will go down Third Avenue and then cut left. The armored column will attack from the West side and the secondary column will attack our front. They’ll hit us hard and then stop to give us an opportunity to hand over Petrus to them. You two, get the lost boys here, quick. Move it.’
The two of them ran from the room, eager to do Fat Man’s bidding.
Three doors down from Fat Man’s rooms, Bart and
Misty could hear the commotion outside. Running footsteps. Shouted commands. Urgency.
‘Something’s going on,’ said Bart. He was sitting on a bed, back up against the wall. Misty was perched on the end of the same bed, her hands on her knees. The bed was the only piece of furniture in the room. And it smelled of old sweat and damp. There were no sheets, simply a faded gray blanket, cheap scratchy wool. Small areas of stiffness. Rank.
‘I think we should go and see what,’ said Misty. All too keen to get out of the fetid room.
Bart shook his head. ‘No way, Misty. Fat Man told us to stay in this room until Garrett and Petrus got back and I for one am going to listen to him.’
They sat together quietly and listened to the hubbub going on outside. Suddenly someone flung the door open. Both of the reporters jumped in surprise. It was one of the lost boys.
‘Come. Fat Man wants to see you.’
They followed him down the corridor to the rooms.
For once there wasn’t food on Fat Man’s table. This time it was covered with weapons. Two AKs, two Colt 45 pistols and loads of ammunition. Fat Man was thumbing rounds into spare magazines. Every now and then one of the shiny brass cartridges would drop from his hand, hit the table and roll to the floor as his massive fingers proved less than nimble for the task.
‘Sit,’ he commanded. They sat.
‘I want you to stay in my rooms from now on. Tomorrow morning, around first light, elements of the South Africa Police Force are going to attack this hostel. We shall attempt to repel them. As representatives of the international press I want you to know that we have done nothing illegal to deserve this. This attack is being perpetrated by corrupt members of the Police Force for their own personal gain. If we can win this I would appreciate it if you could let the world know.’ He held up one of the AKs. ‘Can you use this?’ He asked Bart. The cameraman nodded. The Fat Man threw the weapon at him and Bart caught it. ‘And you,’ The Fat Man asked Misty. ‘Can you use this?’ He held up one of the Colt pistols.
Misty nodded. ‘My dad’s from Texas.’
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 40
