by Frank Lamour
He waited.
A noise that sounded something like an epic size bell clanging caused Don to snap out of the semi-doze he’d fallen into. Moments later gunfire.
Chapter 68
Don’s ears rang (the appendages really not seeming to be having a good time of it today). The best he could describe it had been maybe something like being stuck in a tin shack through a reasonably brutal golf ball size hailstone hailstorm.
The gunfight (Don assumed, going mainly on the noise and the couple of bullet size holes that had punched into the boot) was still going on but at least had moved off to some other location, the lead no longer pelting the car. He was still alive, but how, he had no idea.
When the shooting had started Don had flattened himself down as much as possible and had tried covering his ears as best as possible, pushing one down into the boot carpet, trying to block up the other with his shoulder.
It had sounded at one point like the car was being ripped to pieces but only a handful of rounds (one dropping hot to his arm) punching through into the boot—and all almost a straight line up toward the boot lid, somehow, miraculously none passing lower than a certain point.
The holes now allowed a little light to spill into the boot; sporadic gunfire still coming from a distance, Don struggled up, raising his head up enough to look out through one of them.
As he did, managing only to catch a brief glimpse of a black 4x4 riddled with holes, something buffeted the car. It was followed by the sound of metal crunching, glass blowing out. And an earth shattering, deafening boom. Don’s guts suddenly felt as though they were up in his throat, like he was in a rapidly plummeting elevator. A feeling of heat. His ears popped and he fell forward cutting his eyelid on a burr around the bullet hole. Then somehow shoulder slamming hard into the boot lid as it crumpled in to meet him. He was tossed roughly around in the semi-dark before finally thumping down hard back on the carpeted floor.
Don lay still, his heart hammering. There was pain in his right eye where he’d caught it on the burr, maybe blood obscuring his vision. He felt pain in his wrists where the cable ties had cut in deeper. What the hell?
All now seemed incredibly still. Don realised the gunplay had now ceased and began to anxiously worry if he’d gone deaf.
“Hello?” Although it did sound echoey, he could at least hear his voice.
More light was now spilling into the car. Don turned to see the edge of the boot lid bent and lifted a bit, revealing daylight.
Don pushed at the metal with his foot, and saw it give a bit.
Encouraged, he shifted into a better position on his back and kicked at the lid. It seemed to want to give. Both legs together, manoeuvring himself for greater leverage, he kicked again.
Again, this time putting everything he had into it, worn out but his adrenals still firing, squirting out what last vestiges they could manage, he heard and felt something in his left foot crack as the boot lid popped open.
Don shuffled to the lip of the boot, swung his legs out and rolled out of the car. His left foot immediately buckled, and he fell on his side on the gravel.
Don took a breath and his lungs filled with dust. He coughed and gagged. Recovering, taking a moment, he pushed again to his feet, taking the weight on his right.
Standing bare legged, in his hemp shirt, underpants and sneakers, Don stared through the thick, stinging, swirling black cloud of dust and smoke, taking in what was left of the House of the Vegetable.
Where the large old building had stood were maybe left a couple of walls, but otherwise it the house had pretty much been flattened. Around where the kitchen had been, fire still burned, giving off a thick acrid smoke. Across the lawn, there were huge chunks of blackened rubble. The net structures he’d helped to fix were nowhere to be seen, vegetable furrows denuded, and now littered with bricks and embers. The garage was the only structure (mostly) standing.
Down the driveway, two black 4x4’s had been tossed like toys. One was on its back, one on its side on the grass. Behind them by the gate a white sedan, which despite having all of its windows blown out, seemed still in relatively good condition, having perhaps been screened somewhat from the brunt of the blast by the two big cars.
Don saw bodies too, fragments of bodies, limbs, torsos strewn across the debris. Men in ski masks were lying on the grass and in the driveway.
Don choked and coughed as another cloud of dust-thick air hit his lungs. He tried tucking his face into the front of his shirt but couldn’t manage it. He needed to get his hands free. He looked around for a suitable jagged edge on which to cut the bonds. There were many to choose from.
The Volvo now looked a wreck. The top was crunched in and windows all busted. Hundreds of bullet holes, but mostly clustered up toward the front of the car.
Don selected a piece of metal peeled up from one of the doors. He limped over to it and leaned back, getting the ties on the sharp edge. The plastic gave away easily and then Don’s wrists were free. Cut and bloody, but free.
Don still had his right eye shut, still stinging. He touched it tentatively; brought away blood. The cut felt only on the eyelid though. He tried to open it and could at least, blinking, see a bit through a red haze.
Every part of his body pretty much felt in agony. He didn’t know if he could get out of here, but while he could he was damn well going to try. He would have time to take stock and work out just what the heck had happened later. Keep moving. Keep pushing.
He wouldn’t be able to make it out of here on foot. His best bet was the white sedan, which as Don limped down towards it he now identified as an older model Toyota Corolla. It did look familiar. Lesley’s?
It had only been like a week since he’d last seen it in Lesley’s garage. When he’d arrived for his fateful meeting.
Pushing on to toward the car, Don passed—standing on a corner that was crunched into the driveway—a seriously battered safe, about the size of a bar fridge. Don was about to continue on past but a familiar colour combo of blood on white, just visible through a gap in the buckled door, made him stop.
Don now thought he heard a brief distant wail of a siren. Perhaps only imagined. Perhaps not.
Moving more hurriedly now, keeping the weight on his right leg, Don bent over the safe and pulled at its door.
The door swung open easily and he lifted out the maize bag. Don stuffed it under his arm and continued on down to the car.
The Toyota looked in reasonably good nick. A few dents here and there, mainly just missing all its windows.
Don peered in through the driver’s side. No keys.
Don cast around. What to do now.
In the grass, not too far off from the Toyota, he spied, despite being masked in a brown, what looked like homemade, ski-mask, a figure still easily identifiable as L Lam.
Don hobbled over. He knelt at his former boss’s side and patted the pockets of the man’s chinos. A clink. Don stuffed his hand in the dead man’s pocket and removed the bunch of keys.
Don took a second more to slide the Rolex off the fat man’s wrist and slip it on his own. It hung loose, but he could adjust that later. He got up and limped hurriedly over to the driver’s side of the Toyota.
Definitely a siren. Maybe more than one.
About to get climb in the car, through the still swirling dust and smoke, back toward the House, Don saw movement.
Picking through rubble came Sativa and Indica. Had they gone to hide round the back of the garage or something scared by all the noise? For some reason Don had the sudden image of them as something like Egyptian Jackals. Very similar looking actually, he thought. Seeing him they stopped and met his gaze briefly before returning to continue nosing through the aftermath.
Don swung into the Toyota, fumbling with the heavy bunch of keys. The sirens were drawing nearer. Stay cool. He still had time. Deep breath. Check carefully.
Don found the relevant key, inserted it then pushed in the clutch. Pain spiked up through his foot.
/> He would have to fight through it at least till he was safely away. Once the car was going anyway he could shift without the clutch. Don closed his eyes, pushed in the clutch again, put the car into neutral and turned the ignition.
The engine fired up.
Relieved, but not wanting to count his blessings just yet (reminded of the Aston), Don knocked the vehicle into reverse, and pushed out into the street.
So far so good.
Then into first, up the hill then first left. Ignore the pain. Next right. The same route he’d taken last night on foot. The next left.
Damn.
Ahead about half a kilometre down the hill, Don saw the flashing lights of a small convoy of police cars.
What now? There was a turn just ahead, but would that look suspicious. Just keep driving.
All the windows blasted out, him in blood-stained shirt and threadbare underpants, but just keep driving.
He kept on at an even fifty-five as the lights drew closer. Eyes ahead, Don thought, don’t look at them.
And then they were past. Don could hardly believe it.
But what now? With Pinchas most likely amongst the rubble back there what would now be the fate of Ricky and Beppe? The gangly thug was still there. Don thought maybe he could stop at a payphone, maybe the one at the Spar, and make an anonymous call to the cops.
Then what? Get out of town? With Lesley dead, did he even have to? Maybe he was no longer employed, with the owner of the shop not up to much, but then surely he had enough to keep him going, at least for a while.
Don looked over at the bloody maize bag on the passenger seat. What was he going to do with it all? Well, he was sure he would think of something. For now, maybe just make the call, and then home first for a nice nap.
THE END
Acknowledgements
I would like to send a special thanks to my mom, Libby, for all her help and support. Also thanks to Martin Jakoby, Adrian Lamour and Matthew Ryder for their beta readings. Also a shout out to my friends, family and all the residents of Wakkerstroom.
