Apocalypse Now Now

by Charlie Human

  Legend says that a few Battle Shamans escaped, carrying the secrets of the Relentless Drunk Immortal Fist and the practices of the Jade Stem Temple to India, Japan, Vietnam and perhaps even further afield.

  Whatever the true roots of Zhuruquan, the legendary history – a heady mix of myth, religion and tall tales – remains a unique and compelling narrative within the broader framework of the Chinese martial arts.

  6

  ELEMENTAL, MY DEAR BAXTER

  RONIN HAS JAMMED an old cassette tape labelled ‘Cruising Tunz’ into the car’s tape player and is manically tapping the steering wheel to a compilation of surf rock. His powder-blue Ford Cortina is as messy as his office and smells of alcohol and cigarettes.

  We screech to a halt at a set of traffic lights. ‘I’m not cheap, kid,’ Ronin says, leaning back in the seat and playing an intricate air-guitar riff.

  ‘Great, I’m not poor,’ I say, and I mean it. Spider profits make me twenty times what my folks give me as an allowance.

  ‘Have you got your parents’ permission to be hiring a bounty hunter?’

  ‘What does it matter to you? The rent isn’t going to pay itself and you look like you have more than a few debts to cover.’

  He snorts. ‘I bet you’re a real little bastard at school.’

  ‘You have no idea.’

  ‘A thousand up front and five hundred a day after that.’

  He puts his fist out and I bump it with mine. It’s like punching a slab of knobbly iron.

  ‘As good as signed in blood,’ he says. ‘I just need to finish one last job and then I’m on your case like a chihuahua in heat.’

  There’s a hoot from behind us as the lights turn green. I look in the mirror and see a guy in an SUV gesticulating wildly for us to move.

  ‘Excuse me for a second,’ Ronin says and opens the car door. He walks over to the driver’s side of the SUV, sweeps Warchild from underneath his coat and slides it through the open window.

  I walk up alongside the car and see the weapon’s twin barrels pressing into a balding suburban dad’s throat. Ronin reaches in with his free hand and pulls a cigarette from a pack on the dashboard, pops it into his mouth and then lights it with the guy’s Zippo.

  ‘You see those lights up ahead?’ Ronin says, holding the cigarette between his teeth. The guy nods weakly. ‘You would have gained about two seconds. What would you have done with those extra two seconds?’ The guy gulps and the gun pushes into his Adam’s apple. ‘I’ll tell you what you would have done,’ Ronin says. ‘You’d have used them to get pissed off about some other insignificant thing in your life. You’d have complained about your fucking Internet speed or your garden service. All the while a little more of life would have passed you by. Your arrogance is so heavy you need this SUV to pull it.’ He blows smoke into the suburbanite’s face and then slides Warchild back under his coat. ‘If I hear anything more behind me, I’m coming back and performing a buckshot amputation, comprende?’

  ‘Part of my suburban re-education programme,’ Ronin says as he gets back into the car.

  We pass through Observatory and are heading onto the N2 when there’s a whoop and a flash of lights behind us.

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘Your little suburban re-education programme is going to get us arrested.’

  Ronin pulls over and adjusts the rear-view mirror and watches as a large form walks slowly toward us. I turn my head around and see the large form of Sergeant Schoeman blotting out the sun behind us.

  ‘Fuck,’ I say.

  ‘Something you want to tell me, sparky?’ Ronin says, arching an eyebrow.

  Schoeman lurches up next to the passenger-side window and taps on it with his large, meaty paw. I roll it down slowly.

  ‘Impressive little display back there,’ Schoeman says with a smile that makes his jowls dance the cancan. ‘Although I admit I was waiting for you to help your buddy out by cutting his throat and carving an eye onto his forehead.’

  ‘I told you I’m not the Mountain Killer,’ I hiss.

  Schoeman snaps his fingers like he’s just had a eureka moment. ‘Gee, well, in that case I’ll leave. Thanks for sorting that out for us.’

  Ronin leans across me. ‘Don’t you have a sumo match to get to, Detective? Either arrest us, eat us or let us go.’

  Schoeman chuckles. ‘Jackson Ronin. Code name Blackblood. Former MK6 operative and member of an apartheid security forces biological weapons unit. You’re certainly no stranger to killing. Are you giving our little buddy here a few pointers?’

  ‘You’re strangely well informed for a pig,’ Ronin says with a smile. They stare at each other for a long moment before Schoeman give a nonchalant shrug.

  ‘I’ll let you be on your way,’ Schoeman says. He looks at me. ‘Try not to kill anyone.’

  Ronin starts the car and pulls back onto the freeway. ‘You could have told me that there was a cop on your ass,’ he says as the surf rock gurgles back to life.

  ‘And you could have told me that you’re some kind of agent and apartheid spy.’

  ‘Was an agent. Things changed.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘None of your fucking business. It has no bearing on this case. What does, however, is that there are cops on our tail apparently trying to prove that you killed your girlfriend.’

  ‘I didn’t fucking kill her,’ I say.

  ‘You’re weird, sparky, but it’s a bit obtuse, even for a punk like you, to hire me to find someone you’ve cut up and are storing in your refrigerator.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  He reaches across and grabs me by the T-shirt. ‘And if you did kill her I’m going to pistol-whip you, drag you into the cop shop and claim a reward. Are we clear?’

  ‘Crystal,’ I say. ‘Just help me find Esmé.’

  He releases my shirt. ‘First we have to get rid of this tail.’

  We coast between the buildings until Ronin finds an alley next to a Chinese import–export warehouse. There is a mountain of refuse in the middle of the alley, fed by two battered and overflowing dumpsters. Wind caught in the alley whips the refuse into little junk devils that leap and spin through the air.

  We climb out of the car and are immediately assailed by the stench of grime and dead animals.

  ‘This place stinks,’ I say, holding my sleeve up to my nose. Ronin shrugs as he produces his mojo bag from beneath his coat and pulls a vial of fine white powder from it.

  He kneels on the ground and sprinkles the powder in the shape of three intersecting triangles.

  ‘What’s that?’ I say. ‘Some kind of hoodoo powder?’

  ‘No,’ he says, replacing the vial in the bag. He retrieves the domino from the bag and places it in the centre of the middle triangle. ‘It’s cocaine. Make sure it doesn’t blow away.’

  I huddle over the lines, trying to shield them from the wind with my body. Ronin pulls a thin, black-bladed knife from his boot and stalks into the mountain of rubbish. ‘Here little buddies,’ he calls softly. ‘Don’t worry, I just want to talk.’ There’s a skittering of claws on tar as a large grey rat bolts from the refuse toward a dumpster. Ronin leaps forward and scoops the rat up in his hand, holding it tight as it writhes and squeaks frantically.

  He carries it over to the triangles on the ground.

  ‘This is the part where you tell me what the hell you’re doing,’ I say.

  ‘Guess,’ Ronin says as he quickly draws the black blade across the rodent’s throat. The blood drips down onto the triangles, slick and bright.

  Cocaine and blood mix, forming a grimy design on the tar. Ronin hawks and spits into the centre and makes an elaborate gesture, mumbling a jumbled string of words that sound like a record being played backwards. He drops the rat corpse and then reaches down and retrieves the domino, placing it back into his mojo bag.

  The whole process has stunned me into a bewildered stupor. Ronin is insane, and I’m insane for hiring him. Ronin turns to me with a grin and wipes his bloody hand
on his trench coat. ‘Cheer up, sparky,’ he says, clapping me on the shoulder with a still bloody hand. ‘This is just a minor evocation. Wait until you see the higher-grade stuff.’

  We drive around backstreets until Ronin is sure we’ve lost our tail. Whether the ‘spell’ worked or whether Schoeman just got tired of following us is up for debate, but Ronin can’t get rid of the smug grin on his face.

  We get back onto the freeway and drive, the houses flanking the N2 becoming increasingly dilapidated the further we go. Emaciated cows graze on weeds on the sides of the road watched by kids balanced on plastic milk crates. We take a turn-off to the left and follow the road round into the township.

  The road takes us through a neighbourhood of shacks made with corrugated iron, cardboard and old wood. We get to a T-junction and Ronin stops the car and leans out of the window to hail an old man sitting on a bright yellow chair next to rows of broken appliances.

  ‘Sorry, tata,’ Ronin says. ‘We’re looking for the First Baptist Church.’ The old man stares at us with watery eyes. ‘First Baptist?’ Ronin repeats.

  The old man raises a finger and points toward a spaza shop on the corner. We turn the corner at the shop and pull up alongside a red face-brick church. ‘First Baptist Congregation’ a sign says in bright colours.

  Ronin gets out of the car and pops the trunk, motioning for me to follow. I climb out and watch as he hauls a mess of equipment out of the back. First a long plastic square that looks like a remote control. He flicks a switch on it and it begins to emit a low keening noise. Next, a long electrical cord that he loops around his shoulder. Finally, a rusty, bent metallic implement that looks like a cross between an old TV antenna and a trident.

  If the ‘spell-casting’ eroded any faith I had in Ronin, then this smorgasbord of junk-shop trinkets dissolves it like hydrochloric acid. All he needs now is a tinfoil hat and a book by David Icke. My only ride home is going to be wandering through the townships hunting goblins with a TV antenna. Brilliant plan, Baxter.

  Ronin shoves the TV antenna trident into my hands. It’s not very heavy but it’s unwieldy and I struggle to get a good grip on it, accidentally slamming it into the Cortina.

  ‘You’re paying for that scratch,’ Ronin growls as he hefts an old car battery onto his shoulder and slams the trunk closed.

  I sigh and follow Ronin as he walks through the shacks, holding the beeping remote in front of him with one hand and balancing the car battery on his shoulder with the other. The houses here look deserted and I start to feel more than a little paranoid.

  What if Ronin really is a psycho? Only Kyle knows that I went to his offices, but he has no idea where I am now, and he’s still back at home, babysitting Rafe. Ronin could kill me and bury me in the townships and nobody would worry until later tonight.

  I hold the TV antenna in front of me like a weapon. If he tries anything I’ll fucking stick him with it. We turn a corner and slam into the back of someone crouching against a shack. The TV antenna jams into Ronin’s back and he turns around and gives me a scathing glare.

  ‘Jesus,’ Ronin says.

  ‘No,’ the man we walked into replies, ‘just one of his humble disciples.’

  The guy is probably in his late forties and has well-coiffed dark hair that is liberally peppered with grey. He’s wearing a purple shirt and stands with a stoop, his small eyes flicking back and forth between us. A large silver cross hangs from a chain around his neck.

  ‘You are the one I called?’ he asks.

  Ronin’s mouth curls into a wolfish smile. ‘The one and only.’

  ‘Praises,’ the man says, holding his hands out to us with his palms up. ‘I fear the Lord is testing us with this foul demon in our midst.’

  Ronin snorts and rubs the back of his hand across his nose. ‘If we’re dealing with an elemental, which I suspect we are, your Lord is probably sitting back with some popcorn to watch the light show.’

  The priest frowns. ‘Our community is being terrorised by a demon sent by Lucifer himself.’

  Ronin gives a quick shake of his head, which causes his red beard braid to wobble back and forth like a fishing line that’s snagged a big one. ‘Not a demon, padre. If it was, all your cross-waving might actually have some kind of effect. From your description I’ll bet my last pair of underpants that it’s an elemental, and if that’s the case, well, the quicker we deal with it the better for all of us.’

  ‘A knight of Jesus sent to save us,’ the priest says, leaning in and kissing Ronin on the cheek.

  ‘Yeah, something like that,’ Ronin replies, wiping his cheek with the sleeve of his trench coat.

  The priest guides us through a narrow alleyway at the side of the church toward a large open plot of land. I can see sweat stains forming on the back of his shirt.

  ‘Thanks, padre,’ Ronin says as we reach the plot. ‘Why don’t you go and count out my money for me?’

  The priest doesn’t leave.

  ‘What is it?’ Ronin says. ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘I’m afraid some of the community have committed a sin and hired a sangoma to rid them of this devil.’

  Ronin swears. ‘You could have told me about this and saved me a drive. Do you know what this sangoma’s name is?’

  The priest shakes his head.

  Ronin pulls out his phone. ‘Still got signal. The elemental can’t be that close.’ He dials a number and then waits as it rings. ‘Protocol 4,’ he whispers into the phone and then waits again. ‘Tone,’ he says. ‘I know … Yes, I goddamn know. Are you going to lecture me or answer my question? Do you have any of your people tracking an elemental? … OK … Yes, thank you so much, your goddamn highness. Fuck you too.’ He hangs up.

  ‘Your little bone-throwing buddy is a charlatan. Which leads to the unfortunate conclusion that she’s going to become a sangoma smoothie unless someone steps in.’ The bounty hunter claps the priest on the shoulder and pushes past him. ‘But have no fear, my Bible-thumping friend. Ronin’s here.’

  Ronin waves the priest back to the dubious safety of the alleyway. The keening sound from the remote has begun to increase in frequency – yipping and squeaking like a little digital dachshund. My hands begin to tremble slightly and I watch as the hairs on my arms spring to attention.

  ‘Definitely an elemental,’ Ronin says. ‘And it’s getting closer. We should get a visual soon.’ He drops the car battery and holds his hand out for the antenna.

  ‘What exactly are we looking for?’ I say as I hand it to him.

  ‘That,’ he says. I follow his gaze to where something is moving slowly from behind a shack on the other side of the plot of land.

  ‘Holy shit,’ I say. I feel like I’ve been hit by one of the tasers we used on Yuri. My mind jumps the diving board of reality and does a bellyflop in the messy waters of consciousness below.

  BizBax: Not to be Captain Fucking Obvious, but there’s a giant electricity beast meandering toward us.

  MetroBax: Let’s just get the hell out of here. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to see that thing.

  BizBax: We could be suffering a stress-induced psychosis.

  MetroBax: It looks pretty real to me. Oh my God, is that its tongue?

  If my mind is creating the creature that shuffles toward us, then it’s being pretty damn creative. The hulking mass of blue flame that stumbles closer is an electricity troll with a massive crackling energy furnace body. Its face is distorted, eyes yellow swirling vortices, framed by a beard of spitting sparks. Its long simian arms are topped with lightning-bolt talons that drag on the ground creating a scorched trail behind it. It is the most terrifying fucking thing I have ever seen in my life.

  It looks at us and grins, a tongue like an electric eel whipping back and forth in its gaping maw.

  ‘Pure electricity mixed with equal parts bloodlust and hatred. Nasty bastards, and this one’s a biggie,’ Ronin says calmly.

  The thing lumbers slowly forward, tasting the surrounds with its tongue, se
nding whip-crack bolts of energy into the air. I’m mesmerised by the shifting patterns of current that writhe and twist in its body.

  Ronin unwinds the cord he has looped around his shoulder and attaches one end to the bottom of the trident and the other to the car battery. ‘Blood,’ he says. ‘It’s the only thing that keeps them on the material plane. That’s why they’re called township ticks. They’re made of pure energy so people make deals with them. Communities feed them goats, sheep, the occasional thief or rapist convicted in a kangaroo court, and the elementals let whole neighbourhoods hook power lines into them.’

  He makes an adjustment to the pole and then lifts it up to examine it. ‘Sounds like a good deal when you’ve got no electricity.’ He hefts the antenna in his arm like a javelin to test the weight. ‘All hunky-dory until some of their kids go to fetch a ball in its sewer and get devoured. And if there’s one thing elementals find finger-licking good, it’s young life-force. Now they can’t stop the thing.’

  The thing hunches forward onto its arms like a baboon and contemplates us. Its tongue darts in our direction and I feel a shiver of static pass through me. It looks at me with its swirling eyes and grins. With a lurching movement it begins to move in my direction, faster this time.

  ‘Young life force,’ Ronin says. ‘It can taste you.’

  ‘I’m getting the fuck out of here,’ I say.

  ‘Run and it’ll hunt you,’ Ronin says, ‘and unfortunately we can’t kill it. Energy can’t be created or destroyed and all that jazz.’

  ‘What?’ I say. ‘So what the fuck are we going to do?’

  ‘We capture it and starve it until it has to leave the physical plane,’ Ronin says. ‘Oh look, and here comes tonight’s light entertainment.’