Shock and fear jolts me into action, adrenaline forces me to survive.
Before Rochester can decide to pull the trigger again, I kick him in his midriff.
He doubles over, gasping for air, but does not release his weapon.
I’m ready to strike a second time, but instead of finding purchase against his lean body, Rochester’s fist smashes against my eye socket.
“Motherf—”
My exclamation is cut off when Rochester backhands me across my cheek with the gun.
The metallic tang of blood floods my mouth. Spots dance across my vision; tears fill my eyes. Small deterrences like that don’t stop me from fighting for my life, though. As Rochester raises his hand for a probable knockout blow, I see my chance to gain the upper hand.
I block him, grab his arm, and use his momentum to tug him closer. Without losing a beat, I use all my strength to kick my knee into his groin. It’s a dirty move I know, but my life’s more important than losing sleep over below-the-belt fighting.
He loses his hold of the gun and it slides off the exposed edge of the room.
My elbow finds his face a second later—a sickening crunch as his nose gives way.
Rochester howls in pain and staggers a step backwards. However, my efforts aren’t enough to make his attacks come to an end.
He charges forward again, hell blazing in his teary eyes, and I defend myself by kicking out at his legs. My heel smashes against something solid—possibly his femur—and he finally goes down.
I’ve seen enough horror movies to know bad guys are excellent at faking incapacitation, so I don’t let my guard down. I can’t. It’s a good thing, too, because apparently he was just playing dead.
As soon as I’m close, he grabs my ankle and pulls me off balance. I cry out as I fall to the rocky floor, collecting more bruises and cuts.
Rochester scrambles to pin me down against the debris; his hands claw at my clothing and skin. But his desperation makes him stupid and careless, and I’m still in better shape than him.
My knuckles kiss his face repeatedly, and he responds by jabbing a fist into my ribs.
It’s okay. I can endure a bit of pain if it means I come out of this battle alive. So, I pound, and I hit, and I batter.
Eventually I twist us around until I’m sitting on his chest, rendering him almost incapable of defending against my attacks.
I hit harder, trying to fight away my own pain by inflicting more on Rochester Ramphele.
Voices intrude my foggy thoughts then, encircling us where we’re on the ground. I feel hands wrap around my waist, pull me off and away from the fallen criminal.
“He’s down. He’s down,” a familiar voice repeats dully as I’m pulled backwards to the Jesus mural.
I see Rochester lying unconscious on the ground. His face is a bloody mess. At least he’s breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest indicates as much.
“Someone call an ambulance!”
Perhaps I should have stayed in the car, I think before exhaustion overwhelms me.
Chapter 16
PRETORIA—BEAUTIFUL AND FORGOTTEN PLACES
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Howlen Walcott, Rumona Limbaugh and 17 others like this.
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Johnny Allen: That’s a beautiful view!
2hrs Like: 5
Rumona Limbaugh: Where did you take these?
2hrs Like: 1
Llewelyn Snyders: Please tell me you’re not where I think you are.
2hrs Like: 0
Geraldine van der Schyff: Is that the view from Schubart Park? Holy crap, I can’t believe that place hasn’t been demolished yet.
1hr Like: 2
Howlen Walcott: Please pick up your phone.
1hr Like: 1
Llewelyn Snyders: ^^What he said.
1hr Like: 1
Llewelyn Snyders: Your grandpa can’t reach you either. Get in touch, please. I’m a worried dad right now.
38mins Like: 0
Howlen Walcott: May, for God’s sake, just tell me you’re okay.
35minsLike: 0
Annalize von Kleist: @Howlen Walcott—Did I miss something important?
34mins Like: 0
Llewelyn Snyders: @Annalize von Kleist—Esmé seems to have gone M.I.A. We’re working on finding her.
32mins Like: 1
Annalize von Kleist: @Llewellyn Snyders—Okay, Mr. S. Keep me updated, please.
30mins Like: 1
Bernard Meenthuis: Wow, that’s a creepy picture. I LOVE IT! #endoftheworld
20mins Like: 0
Geraldine van der Schyff: Have you guys found her yet? Now I’m worried.
10mins Like: 7
Bernard Meenthuis: This just popped up on News24.
Cops, Criminals in Schubart Park Shootout Pretoria – There are reports of a shootout at the condemned Schubart Park flats… See More
5mins Like: 2
Ollie Rousseau: Jirre @Bernard Meenthuis, don’t you think Esmé’s family’s worried enough as it is?
3mins Like: 4
~
Cops, Criminals in Schubart Park Shootout
2015-09-08 | 21:28 0 Comments
Pretoria—There are reports of a shootout at the condemned Schubart Park flats on Tuesday evening, said police.
Police officers were tailing a suspect to the area and spotted an exchange of illegal goods for money after the area’s load-shedding occurred. When police went in to make the arrest, a gunfight ensued, said Lieutenant Colonel Moses Dlamini.
“The criminals fired shots at the police as they fled into the building and police shot back as they took chase,” said Dlamini.
One suspect was apprehended with the illegal goods, hiding in the elevator shaft, according to reports.
The 28-year-old man was arrested on the scene.
“A pistol and several [rounds of] ammunition were found on the suspect’s person. He also had a cooler box with medical waste in his possession, allegedly to be used in the production of muti,” said Dlamini.
The second suspect was allegedly arrested after a brief struggle on the eleventh floor of the building. The 25-year-old man was taken to the emergency room for minor injuries.
Both men were charged with attempted murder, possession of an illegal firearm and ammunition, buying of human tissue without a medical licence, and conspiracy to sell human tissue without a medical licence.
It was reported that several injuries had occurred in the assault.
—News24
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Chapter 17
Abraham Amin’s captor is as courteous as he is cruel, as intelligent as he is insane.
Evidence of his previous murders is still present in the dimly lit slaughterhouse. The sharp copper smell pollutes the air, a constant reminder of what’s in store if Abraham doesn’t find a way to escape. Blood coagulates in puddles around the clogged drains. Sharp metal hooks glint precariously in the yellow light, promising years of therapy if he somehow manages to flee. Rats scurry in the shadows, searching—always searching— for their next meal. He shudders to think of how soon he will be on the rodents’ menu.
He has no idea how long he’s been held captive; could be days or weeks, but it feels like years have passed.
His captor had wrapped a chain tightly around his waist and fastened it with a lock in the corner of the slaughterhouse. A filthy pallet and raggedy blanket lay in a heap nearby. A fat rat sluggishly dragged a piece of intestine into the dark. Seeing that, Abraham had barely made it to the bucket toilet to vomit. Fear forced away whatever semblance of courage he’d gathered since he awoke in this hellish place.
“They’re more afraid of you than you are of them,” the man had said in a sympathetic voice, patting Abraham’s back. Abraham couldn’t—no, he wouldn’t dignify the comment with a response. He continued to retch instead.
Eventually his captor left, though not before tending to
Abraham’s wounded heel. “No need dying before Death’s ready,” he’d said, finishing up.
“Fuck off,” Abraham had growled back.
They have not had a conversation since.
Now, as Abraham sits alone in his decrepit dungeon with only the rats for company, he regrets his animosity towards the lunatic. Maybe kindness and politeness would’ve appealed to the man behind the monster? Perhaps there’s a way to escape death after all? Abraham doesn’t know.
He tugs at the padlock around his waist and wishes that he’d learned how to pick a lock. “That shit only happens in books and movies,” he says to himself softly.
Abraham shifts the chains a bit, first this way then the other way. He frowns, looking at the heavy chain, tests the gap between the metal and his body, and begins to wiggle the chain up his torso one painstaking millimetre at a time. Abraham sucks his stomach in as much as possible, squirming within the chain which had caught on an extra layer of fat he’d unknowingly accumulated.
“Bloody hell,” he wheezes.
Abraham wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, looks down at the chain seemingly stuck in an unsightly flap between his pelvis and stomach.
“No wonder Colleen can’t bear to look at me.”
A few breaths later he repeats the process.
Suck in stomach. Hold breath steady. Wiggle chains up.
It’s tiresome work but it keeps his thoughts from wandering to places where failure reigns.
He vows to get fit, “Just let me escape and I’ll be a better, humbler person.”
When the chains reach his bellybutton, a milestone if ever there was one, the work lessens. By the time they reach his chest, the chains have enough slack to remove in a jiffy.
Free, Abraham grins as the chains pool on the floor, but he knows his work is far from over. With his ankle barely healing due to his diabetes, he knows his escape will be slow-going. He also doesn’t have a clue when his captor will return.
Abraham gets to work.
Carefully he stands, placing all his weight on his uninjured foot. With one hand pressing against the grimy wall, he hops towards the workbench.
Seeing the selection of weapons, unclean yet sharp on the workbench makes his stomach churn with fear and disgust. He swallows down the bile threatening to debilitate him. Knives, saws, drills, scalpels and even a long Phillips screwdriver are amongst the exposed weapons, not including those in what looks like a tackle box. He pockets a scalpel and a knife and takes the Phillips screwdriver in his hand. Better safe than sorry.
He moves to the far side of the slaughterhouse where a door leads out into the unknown. It’s unlocked and opens into the interior of an abandoned office.
A sliver of pre-dawn is recognisable through the filthy windows behind the reception desk. Dust covers the surface, paper litters the floor. Old metal chairs lie tipped over against the other wall, the insides of the cushions chewed out by rats for their nests. A shudder ravishes his body as he recalls that fat rat dragging the intestine.
He’s close to being free. So close.
“Don’t get cocky now,” he urges himself, dragging his injured leg behind him as he crosses the office to another door. “Please be open,” Abraham whispers as he reaches it. “Please,” he begs when his hand rests on the door handle.
Abraham pushes down and out.
The door swings open.
Fresh air rushes in cooling the sweat on his body, filling his lungs, revitalising him. He inspects the greyish plains where weeds and grass grow wildly. Abraham listens for a sound of vehicles but hears nothing of the sort. Undeterred, he limps forward into the wilderness. Go straight in any direction and eventually he’ll find life. Or so he hopes. All he can do is hope.
With the screwdriver in one hand, he makes the journey across the veld barefoot. Kakiebos, otherwise known as African marigold, clings to the hem of his pants and scratches against his skin. Dubbeltjies, or devil’s thorn, digs into the soft flesh of his feet. He yelps every time, stops to pull out the offensive little thorns, and carries on.
Abraham remembers his childhood at every stop and curses himself for going soft. He recalls the thick calluses on his heels protecting him whenever he and his brothers ran across the open fields. Nothing could stop them, not even the dubbeltjies, and they ran like the wind. Now though…
“Soft,” he mutters.
When he reaches the top of a hill, where a lone thorn tree stands with its bare, gnarled branches. Ahead he sees a narrow road cutting through hectares of open fields.
Abraham’s heart leaps.
For an infinitesimal moment, his hopes soar. He will get out, get clean, hire more competent bodyguards and change the world! He will live. For a microscopic instant, Abraham sees the life he always wanted to lead flash in front of him. A loving wife—not that crazy bitch Colleen—looking back at him with adoration in her eyes instead of loathing. Kids, he always wanted kids, running around the house, laughing and playing. He sees himself helping the homeless, the impoverished, orphans, abused women and children, the SPCA. He sees everything that could be.
The twinkling of weakness blinds him to the trap he’s walked straight into, there at the thorn tree.
Hope turns to pain turns to anguish as a knife is buried hilt-deep in his gut. It came out of nowhere; nowhere at all. A hand covers his mouth, muffling his scream before he could even think of making a sound. The blade tears through his flesh, centimetre by agonising centimetre, spilling blood and viscera across Abraham’s filthy pants and the brown grass.
“Irony aside, you were probably the best guy for the job. That’s why I voted for you,” the killer says. “Apologies, my friend, but this was always meant to be.”
With inhuman precision and speed, Abraham’s stomach is sliced open from one hip to the other. The blade leaves his body and the killer steps away to regard his dying hostage.
As intestines and organs spill out, Abaraham evacuates his bowels. He falls to his knees, unable to fight or speak or do anything except to hold his slick innards in bloodstained hands.
Shock keeps Abraham from screaming now, shock and defeat.
“What a nice view we have.” The killer kneels beside Abraham and pats his shoulder.
Abraham falls on his side, curling into the foetal position.
“It beats dying in an impersonal hospital room, huh?”
“Fuck you,” Abraham whispers. “I’ll see you in Hell.”
Abraham Amin’s killer smiles sweetly, almost saintly. “Only mortals have an afterlife, Abraham. I’m in the process of becoming a god.”
Chapter 18
Green fog billows around my feet as I walk through Menlyn Park’s deserted undercover parking lot. Gravestones rise from the invisible tarmac, in the vehicles’ allocated spaces, illuminated by the ghastly green tinge. The stark black night doesn’t mute the neon-colour. Shadows dance on walls and gravestones, following me as I aimlessly search for something.
I’ll know what I’m looking for when I see it, until then I’m on a treasure hunt without a map.
The gravestones come in various shapes and sizes. Some are extravagant, others plain. Here and there, there is no gravestone, only dead flowers to mark a body’s location.
This is a dream, I’m sure. I would never wear a ballgown—a black designer dress with a stifling corset and a matching black veil—in a parking lot for no reason other than to search for something. I also can’t read the markings on the gravestones, a sure sign that this is a dream. My search is a subconscious rendition of my conscious mind. I’m looking for the killer in real life. In my dream, however, I’m searching for some kind of lead to him or her.
The killer is male, most probably, but one can never be too sure about these things.
Nevertheless, the missing link is hidden somewhere in my subconscious, I know it. If only I can manipulate the dream, mould it into something less eerie, but I can’t. At least I don’t have anything to fear. It’s a dream.
Dreams can’t kill you… I hope.
I search one level and move to the next, and the next. I search and search, between gravestones, behind concrete pillars, in darkened corners.
Click.
“Hello,” I cry out to the empty world around me, but only an echo responds. I wait and listen for what feels like years, contemplating an escape if something decides to chase me. There isn’t a reasonable place to run. The gravestones will provide cover, though. “Hello? Is anyone there?” I try again.
Nothing. No sounds apart from my ragged breathing and pounding heart.
My search resumes.
Thick fog wafts around me, changing my skin tone from healthy pink to zombie green. I bet my red hair looks even worse in this lighting, but I can’t do anything about that. Not when I need to find whatever vital clue I think I possess to break the case. How illogical it sounds. Finding a break in the case via a dream search. Ha! How ridiculous and desperate.
Click.
I halt in my tracks. My bones are on fire; my skin icy to the touch.
The fog rolls across the pavement, tosses against the gravestones, and ripples around my frozen form. A chill crawls up my legs and thighs, runs over my torso and dances towards my spine. A breath of condensation escapes my lungs as the temperature plummets five degrees Celsius within a millisecond.
Search and you will find.
I spin around, searching—always searching. The startling sentence comes from everywhere and nowhere. Search and you will find, but I can’t find a damn thing!
Run, it says.
I hitch up the dress and run towards the glass doors, which lead inside the mall—hope upon hope I’ll escape in the labyrinth of shops.
Hesitation seems foolish, but I throw it off by crisscrossing through the graveyard.
The thing behind me cackles and crows in delight, talons or claws clicking against the pavement as it chases me through the deserted parking lot.
Pavement turns to tiles as I approach the glass doors, where more darkness awaits. The doors slide open automatically when I reach the sensor. I sprint forward, aware of the fast approaching clicks behind me.
Muti Nation Page 10
