Dawn of Defiance

by Dempsey, Albert

  "Hey! Wat doen jy hier?" She demanded, repeated the question with more authority, but still no response.

  "What are you doing here?!" she said louder, coming closer so he could see the gun.

  The wounded man still remained silent, but she could see he was trying to speak.

  Nicole looked at him again, not sure if she should call her father, or try to handle this on her own.

  As usual, it was probably just another run-away or drop-out.

  Moving forward with the gun still pointed at him, she stopped a few feet away.

  He looked at her with bloodshot eyes, still trying to focus.

  It must have been terrifying for him to hear the dogs but not see them.

  "Please," he said, in a dry voice, "don't shoot…"

  Nicole stared at him, something was out of place.

  He must have been in his late thirties, had shoulder length hair, and a bit of a beard.

  She was not afraid of him, but for the thought of what her dogs would have done if they found him by themselves.

  They would have mauled, maybe even killed him, she thought.

  This time she lowered her voice.

  "You’re hurt!" she said.

  He just nodded.

  "Yes, but it's okay, I'll be alright," he said.

  It was the look in his eyes that told a different story.

  "Who are you?" she asked again.

  It was obvious from his American accent; that he was not a local!

  "Does it really matter to you who I am? He asked, struggling to talk.

  "Just forget you saw me, I will be gone, in the morning."

  "Yeah right. Look here buddy, don't try to fool me. You're in no state to go anywhere." Nicole glanced over his body. From what she could tell, he had probably spent the night there.

  "You will not recover without medical help, especially that leg which you’ve injured."

  The man instinctively moved his injured foot.

  "Have you had any water at all?" Nicole asked.

  He nodded and tried to speak.

  "If you don’t get some water in you soon, you'll go into shock. Now, do you want to tell me what happened, or must I call the police?"

  He closed his eyes and sighed.

  "Look, I just want to rest for a while, and then I’ll be on my way. That's all."

  Nicole looked at him.

  "Ok, you can do that, but unfortunately, without the right treatment, you won’t get far. Do you understand?" she asked.

  "Now for the last time, what's your name?"

  He stared at her for a while before he answered.

  "Nathan," he said. "My name is Nathan."

  She was too persistent to be fooled.

  "Well, Nathan, if that's your real name, my name is Nicole, and this is our farm. Now, where do you come from, and what are you doing on our land?" she asked, firing question after question at him.

  The dogs had probably run all the way home, at times they were real cowards. Nicole had a strange feeling about this one.

  "Hey, listen to me: you're not going to get off so easy, so you better start talking. The question is simple! All I have to do is call my father and he’ll be here in a flash," she said, gesturing at her iBand. My dad is someone you don’t fuck with, ok?"

  Realizing he would not get out of this, he tried to sit up so he could talk more freely.

  Nathan was still in pain from the fall.

  His chest seemed to burn more from the chemical agent than from the broken rib.

  But the memories of what he’d seen carried more pain than he could muster in a few words.

  "The police raided our kibbutz by helicopter, three of them, to be precise. It was late yesterday afternoon. I was some distance away when I heard the first of the gunshots," he said, still struggling to speak.

  "Away! Really! Where exactly?" Nicole asked not believing what he was saying.

  "Repairing a water tower at the dam with two friends, but when we stood up to watch the helicopters they spotted us and opened fire. I jumped off the tower into the closest tree and fell to the ground, where I sprained my ankle. They didn't jump but fell to the ground anyway.………. I lost friends that day. So if you're going to shoot me, then get it over with, or else stop pointing that fucking gun at me!" he said.

  Nicole was shocked. The American spoke with anger in his voice and she could tell that he really didn’t care anymore. She lowered the weapon.

  "I remember seeing some helicopters yesterday," she said.

  Nicole had no idea what they were doing, but they were beautiful to watch.

  "Now, wait a minute, the police do not just arrest people for no reason. Who are you really?" Nicole asked.

  She lifted the gun towards him again. This girl was obviously very much in command of the situation.

  "I am from a Kibbutz farm a few kilometers from here," he replied. "Perhaps you have heard of it, Mount Ararat?"

  It was difficult for him to speak. But his eyes had started to clear.

  "I do not believe you. It makes no sense. I mean, why would they attack a Kibbutz?" Nicole asked.

  "It does, if you're branded an extremist by the UWN. According to them there is nothing more dangerous than a group of religious extremists, because we breed 'terrorism'!" he said.

  "Anyway, the Government doesn't like people they cannot control."

  Just then Nicole realized what he was talking about.

  "My father told me of a Christian cult that had its headquarters there."

  Was he one of them? She thought to herself.

  "Are you a Jehovah's Witness?" she asked.

  "No, not at all! Please, never!" he replied.

  Nicole sighed in relief.

  She had a run-in with some of them previously and they’d left her feeling very confused.

  "Okay, so what are you then?" she asked.

  He tried to smile through his cracked lips.

  "I am just a man who believes, that’s all."

  It was his calming smile that set her fear at ease. She put the gun away for good this time.

  Coming closer, she touched his ankle gently.

  "May I?"

  He nodded as she carefully began her examination, and he could tell from his previous encounter with medics that she knew what she was doing.

  "Well, you'll survive, but I need to get you some antibiotics and bandage that ankle of yours. It's badly sprained so it'll need a brace too. A shot of anti-inflammatory and you should be back to new in no time. These cuts need to be cleaned; we don't want you getting an infection, now do we?" she said, giving her first prognosis since Medical school.

  "Nathan, if that is your real name, I’m going back home to get my first-aid kit so just hang tight. I'll be back before you know it. Whatever you do, please try to relax and for God's sake do not fall asleep. No sleeping, ok? Do you hear? I don't want you going into shock."

  He nodded. Nicole stood up and took off her jacket, placing it over him for extra warmth. His Angel of Mercy!

  "I'll be back as soon as possible; within an hour!"

  His eyes followed her as she walked to the doorway and out of sight. In his heart he knew he could trust her - she would be back.

  Her perfume still lingered in the air.

  It gave him hope.

  He thanked God; finally his prayers had been answered, by a strange girl with golden hair.

  Yet, was he foolish to tell her his real name?

  Chapter 3

  "Some fanatics are so obsessed proving everyone else wrong they do not see the evil in their own actions. Obsession blinds the understanding, destroys all possibilities

  Fanatics are obsessed, or possessed; it's all the same anyway."

  Vargän Barchevski - UWN Supreme Chancellor.

  Sunrise exploded across the horizon, sending its warm rays of hope to the thousands of prisoners held captive at the Staaldraad Complex. The few rays of light that crept into Russell's van Tonder's cell gave him hope, but it
was soon dashed when he again heard the screams coming from down the corridor. Today his faith in God would be put to the test. Spending the night in turmoil had exhausted him. Memories of his son lying in a pool of blood…….. just out of reach. All he wanted to do was awake from his nightmare.

  Russell felt a heartache burn inside his chest. He wished he had the power to make it stop.

  Then he could join those who now waited for him on the other side. The three guards who took turns keeping him awake all night began shouting insults at him in some language he could not understand.

  Russell van Tonder could handle almost anything, but at his age it was the constant coldness that broke him. Eventually he collapsed in the corner, too tired to move. Yet the guards continued with the water torture, perhaps hoping he would die before his interrogation.

  After a long walk past holding pens, where hundreds of prisoners were huddled together, he stopped and gazed across the many faces staring back in fear.

  Steenkamp had been up since 05h00.

  The interrogation section was separated from the other cell blocks, but still the screams could be heard across the courtyard. No need to hide the cold truth anymore.

  Staaldraad had become the infamous solution for unwanted problems.

  Two large African soldiers had already prepared their prisoner for interrogation and now stood guard behind Russell, both within arm's reach. His night was spent with little or no sleep, part of the tactic. But soon his memories came flooding back; it was the screams that cut deep into the soul. As soon as the door opened, the guards snapped to attention. The epitome of evil had returned. Steenkamp looked at Russell as he walked around the table.

  "Het jy lekker geslaap van Tonder?" he said, asking if Russell had slept well.

  Steenkamp looked down at the prisoner with all sincerity, and then glanced over at the black slab of a window. This show was for his superiors, hidden from view, afraid to get blood on their hands. Even Steenkamp had to perform from time to time, as other high ranking officials assessed his techniques of torture. Their observations would sometimes include requests for certain things to be done to prisoners. Hopefully this morning he could just begin the day with a few simple questions. Yet, something about this particular prisoner plagued him.

  Opening his briefcase, Steenkamp took out a file and motioned for Russell to look at the camera positioned above the plasma screen on the wall.

  "Let the records begin.

  Today's date is the 16th of March 2028.

  Your name is Russell Johan van Tonder. You are sixty two years old.

  Your date of birth is the 24th of August 1966.

  Identity number 6608245793084.

  Is that correct?" he asked, looking at van Tonder.

  Russell nodded his head in agreement.

  "Good, let the record show that the prisoner has been positively identified."

  There was a moment of silence while Steenkamp went through his notes.

  "Our main topic for this interrogation will be the location of the Christ 4 Life Kibbutz camps, where members of your organization are hiding," he said while turning pages in his notebook. Steenkamp took his suit jacket off and hung it neatly over the chair in the far corner. His crisp white shirt was ironed military-style. Russell van Tonder was already broken, it was obvious. His eyes had glazed over as he stared into oblivion. Images of his son, his life and his people flashed through his mind, all shattered and destroyed.

  "Now I must emphasize this in the strongest terms possible, so do not waste my time."

  Both these men came from Afrikaans stock but they spoke English to each other. So much had changed in South Africa. It seemed Apartheid had eventually disappeared in time; however, its colonial past would always remain. Steenkamp only changed his alliance to suite the new power-base of the day. Bitterness had seeped all the way to his core, especially after the death of his second wife.

  Now he dedicated himself exclusively to his work and the UWN. Foremost, he was and always would be a soldier with only six more years to a very comfortable retirement. One he no doubt didn’t want to spend alone.

  "Let's start! Do you know the location of the other Christ 4 Life training camps?" he asked.

  Russell looked at Steenkamp in disbelief.

  "We know you have two other bases in the area. Tell me where they are or you’re going to have a very bad day, one you’d wish to forget."

  Russell finally snapped out of it and fixed his gaze on Steenkamp. He took a deep breath and spoke in the clearest possible way.

  "Firstly, as I’ve said before, they’re not training camps or bases but farms. Secondly we bought them a few years ago so we can survive as a separate community and live off the land. And finally for the last time, we’re not training terrorists, how many times must I tell you this?”

  Russell was tired and in no mood.

  “Or have you not heard a word I said?” Russell stated with just a little too much sarcasm in his voice.

  Steenkamp looked at him for a moment and smiled.

  "Don't fuck me around, van Tonder!" he said in Afrikaans.

  The two soldiers who stood behind Russell knew this was not going to turn out well for the prisoner. They did not understand much Afrikaans, but the signs were easy to read.

  "Verstaan jy my?" he asked Russell if he understood. Speaking now, man-to-man, Afrikaner-to-Afrikaner.

  "Do I make myself clear?" he asked again.

  Russell sat in silence, just looking at Steenkamp.

  "I see you’ve some interesting toys. So tell me, what are these used for?" Steenkamp asked as he activated the plasma screen on the cell wall which showed a small arms cache.

  "Did you know it is illegal to own unlicensed firearms, Mr. van Tonder!?"

  Steenkamp put the .38 special on the table. It was fully loaded.

  What is he trying to do? Tempt me? Russell thought to himself as he eyed the gun.

  "For this alone you’re looking at 15 years."

  The taste in Russell's mouth was bitter. He swallowed hard.

  "I see you're also a keen collector of unlicensed and not to mention, banned electronic equipment, especially devices like this." Steenkamp motioned towards the screen again.

  A photo of their communications room and the adapted Cellsat3000 ISIS unit clearly labeled for evidence.

  "Also illegal. So do you wish to explain?" he said, tilting his head ever so slightly.

  "Tell me, who is it that you're communicating with?"

  "Oh, I almost forgot to mention the modifications. Removing the ISIS serial chip is rather ingenious; don't you think Mr. van Tonder?"

  Russell knew they had gone over everything with a fine tooth-comb.

  Steenkamp would not allow Russell to take him for a fool anymore. The plasma screen flickered as he activated it once more, displaying a satellite photograph of the Cederberg mountain range.

  "Where are the other farms, Mr. van Tonder?"

  Russell knew there locations, but they too would surely suffer the same fate.

  "I have no idea, but if I did know, I would never tell anyone anything. You are all fucking bastards. Every last one of you. Why did you have to shoot my son?" Russell said, looking at Steenkamp.

  "You fucking traitor." He repeated himself again with just a little more venom.

  Russell was shaking in anger, his face contorted in pain.

  "Fok julle, fok julle almal!" he shouted, cursing them all to hell. He resorted to speaking in his native language again. It gave him some sense of pride and comfort.

  "I serve God and only Yahushua will judge me," he said in Afrikaans.

  "Two of our informers infiltrated your group. They tell me you separate yourself from society because you think modern society is an evil system. Is that true?" Steenkamp said with some sarcasm in his voice.

  "Yes, it's true. Your system is fucked up," Russell said, looking straight at the little camera above the plasma screen for the benefit of the others he knew were watchin
g.

  "For a religious man you swear a lot," Steenkamp said with a hint of disgust.

  "I also believe in God, van Tonder, and you have no right to assume I don’t. In your belief system you are told not to judge others, but all I see is a self-righteous fool."

  Russell was not really listening; his mind was focused on the traitors. No doubt it was Anne-Marie and Dwayne du Rand, the so-called missionaries from Upington. They said they were Christians; newlywed and full of life. They prayed together and worked the fields just as hard as any of the others.

  Damn them to hell, he thought as the anger started to swell again.

  "I think this corrupt Government is only focused on controlling everyone and everything. It's evil and I don’t give a shit about South Africa or the world anymore. It's all going to end soon anyway!" Russell said, folding his arms. The guard had waited for the nod and he came.

  Steenkamp turned away to avoid the sight of two black men beating up an old white man. He was still a little racist at times, even if he denied it. Perhaps his blood was not so thin after all.

  The blow struck Russell in his side, cracking a rib for sure. As he groaned, the other soldier grabbed the back of his head and slammed his face into the table, again and again. Then they pulled him off the chair and began kicking him but stopped as soon as Steenkamp commanded it. Blood was pouring out of Russell's nose and his face was a mangled mess.

  "Get him right!" Steenkamp ordered.

  They put him back in the chair but this time they cuffed his hands and feet so he was firmly restrained.

  "That was un necessary, that statement, don’t you think? We all work for the Government around here - they provide for our families," Steenkamp said, mostly for the ears of the listeners.

  "You cannot go around accusing people of being evil just because they belong to the Government. I am part of that Government, Mr. van Tonder. Are you saying I am evil?" Steenkamp looked at him in disgust.

  Russell was fighting the pain of a broken rib as he struggled to breathe.

  "God will judge you, judge you for what you are," Russell said, as the blood dripped off his face and onto the table.