Choice of Weapon

by Craig Marten-Zerf

Chapter 21

  The old man woke even earlier than usual. He lay in the near-dark and analyzed what he was feeling. It had been so long that he had almost forgotten it. The tightness in the chest. The roiling stomach. Quickness of breath. Muck sweat. Yes, for the first time in many, many years he was feeling fear.

  He rolled onto his side and then pushed himself up onto one knee. And then he stood. Ancient joints popped as he came fully upright. The old man was not sure how old he actually was, he definitely remembered the last world war. He claimed to remember the Great One as well. But, in all honesty, he was not sure if he could. There were memories, but when one got as old as he was one could never be sure whose memories they were. His? His fathers? Maybe even his ancestors.

  Working more by touch than sight, so familiar were his surroundings, he packed and lit a pipe. The mix was slightly damp and he had to pull hard to get a good glow going. Using a calloused thumb to tamp down the burning plug. The pungent smell of marijuana filled the air.

  Outside the pyramid shape of the false dawn arrived fooling the local cockerels into a premature vocalization of territorial defense. Crying out to all rivals. Warning them to keep their distance.

  The old man sat at a rough wooden table. On a western style dining chair. When he was younger he would never have done such a thing. He would have scorned any who did. But now his joints and ligaments were as old rusted iron. Pitted and scarred with age. So he could no longer squat in the traditional way and had succumbed to the soft pleasure of western seating.

  With the night-fear still on him the old man knew that he would have to take a deeper look at what was happening. He would have to call on his ancestors for help. He would have to confront the fear.

  First he took a pot of soured milk that was resting on the table and drank down a large gulp, smacking his lips at the tart taste. Then he spilt a bit on the floor as an offering. He followed this with a good pinch of tobacco, grinding it into the clay floor with his heel. After this he opened a small leather pouch that contained his throwing bones and he emptied it onto the table. The various items danced and skittered across the worn wood. Hyena bones, shells, a small red matchbox car, a single domino, double six. They spread and rolled to the edges of the table. And left together in the middle of the circle, a piece of the rib bone of the Aardvark or African Anteater and the knucklebone of the Hyena. The old man felt a chill wind blow over him. This was a sign that even the most callow of diviners could read. In all his years as a Sangoma he had seldom seen such obvious sign. The aardvark signified death and the fact that it was the rib bone meant that it was to be from a familiar source. And it stood next to the Hyena, the beast of the night, all else scattered away from it.

  The old man rose slowly to his feet. He pulled on a faded pair of jeans, a pair of sandals made from old car tires and a red shirt. On his head he placed the beaded headwear of the witchdoctor, the Sangoma. He would have to warn the tribal chief. Death was coming. And he knew who would bring the chaos. The rib told him. It was the son. The son was coming home. And with him came the Beast that walks among us.

  And the cock crowed for the third time as the Sangoma left his hut.

  Texas was displeased. His organization made money in a myriad of different ways but most all of them led back to some form of tribute being paid to him. This payment was enforced through a network of guns under the immediate control of Dubula who then reported directly to Texas. Essentially this flow was subsistent on two major points; firstly, people paid because they were fearful of the consequences if they refused and, secondly; the payees were actually alive to do said paying.

  Texas cracked his knuckles as he thought. Now, ever since this white foreigner had arrived with his obsession with the orphans, business had been suffering. Two of his biggest revenue streams, the Taxi man and mister Big were dead. Not only that, their guns were dead as well. So, to all intents and purposes their syndicates had ceased to exist. Wiped out by the foreigner and that mad Zulu. As well as this, for the first time in a long while, some other payments had been either late or a little light. The people all had seemingly valid excuses but Texas knew the real reasons. Two major crime families had been wiped out. Two major crime families that were meant to be under Texas’ protection. And so the people were testing the boundaries. Pushing back to see how far they could push. Well, Texas had made sure that the message was clear to all. You could not push back. Not even an infinitesimal push. You paid. On time. The full amount. Or bad things happened. In the last two days Dubula had caused very bad things to happen to three people. Two shop owners and a taxi operator who ran a fleet of six taxis. Dubula had brought back the past. His punishment had taken place in the form of necklacing. The victims were tied up and an old car tire placed around their necks. Then the tire was lit. They all burnt to death. Eventually.

  However, the rot did not stop there. He had just been told that Valentine was dead. Killed in his Jacuzzi. Shot. And then there was the British mercenary, Brian. Whether he had killed himself or not was immaterial. He was dead, it was the foreigner’s fault and it was causing Texas even more trouble. Add all of this to the nine guns of his own that the foreigner and the Zulu had either killed or disabled and it was fast becoming apparent that these two men were well and truly fucking up his business.

  There was nothing that he could do about the loss of revenue from the two defunct families. So he was going to muster his guns, all of them, and he was going to take these two men and cut the flesh from their bones with a small knife. And then he was going to throw the corpses into the middle of the main road in SOWETO so that the people knew, beyond all doubt; don’t fuck with Texas Zangwa!

  Petrus sat in the plastic chair outside the orphanage. Shirt off. Wearing only jeans and combat boots. His torso was finely muscled. Totally devoid of fat. But the skin was puckered and ridged with scars. Literally hundreds of scars. Long slash-scars from blades, tracks of rough stitching holes running next to them like little footprints. Short stab-scars, light triangular indents. And three or four bullet wounds. Dark craters, the skin around them rough and puckered like miniature dormant volcanoes. He was working on Garrett’s machete, running a whetstone along the edge.

  ‘There’s a nick in the blade. You must have hit bone last time. I’ll soon get it out though. Not a problem.’

  Garrett said nothing. A cigarette smoldered untouched in his hand. Finally Petrus stopped. Satisfied. He rubbed the blade with a lightly oiled cloth and put the weapon back in its sheath.

  Garrett passed him a lit Gauloise. ‘So, talk to me, my friend. Since Sweets buggered off you’ve been as quiet as a corpse.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking. We need to talk. Now listen, Isosha, I don’t want this to come out the wrong way. So hear me out.’

  ‘Okay, my friend, go for it.’

  ‘Isosha, we have been drawn into a war that we now have little chance of winning. This Dubula character. I know him well. He is the running dog of a man called Texas Zangwa. Now, by himself Dubula is an almost unstoppable force. And I say this with no sense of exaggeration. I have seen you fight and you have seen me and, in my humble experience, I would say that few men could stand against either one of us. But this Dubula. We are as children to him. I can tell you with no shame; this man scares the shit out of me.’

  Garrett shook his head. ‘We can stop him. Together we can, no matter how bad he is.’

  Petrus shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not. He’ll be coming for us so I am sure that we will get the chance to try. However, that’s only one small part of the problem. The only reason we’re still alive is that Texas hasn’t taken us seriously enough yet. We know this because all that he has done is send a few of his boys around to sort us out. By now he will know that we pose a bigger threat than he first thought. Now, my friend, this Texas Zangwa is not a man known for subtlety of thought or action, the next time that they come for us they will come with overwhelming force. Forty, fifty, maybe sixty men. Maybe more.’

  ‘S
o what? I’ve fought armies before.’

  ‘As have I. But think on this, never before have we fought an army whose sole purpose is to destroy us.’

  ‘That’s true,’ agreed Garrett with reluctance.

  ‘You see, Isosha, you and I, we cannot win this war. We can try and I am sure that we will sorely harm the forces of evil, but we will not win.’

  ‘What about Mandoluto? He can help.’

  ‘Three against sixty? They will be armed with assault rifles, squad support weapons, grenades. Even the Long Gun cannot tilt the scales.’

  Garrett sat for a while. Tight lipped. Logic told him that Petrus was right. And surely, only a fool continues to support a lost cause. Particularly one that will cost him his life. Garrett damned himself as a fool.

  ‘I will not run. I will fight.’

  ‘You cannot win without an army, Isosha.’

  ‘I never said that I would win; I said that I would fight. There is no other road to travel, I do not have access to an army.’

  And Petrus smiled. ‘Ah, but you see, Isosha. I do!’

  The Crowned Eagle flew high above the hills and valleys. Far below the Mngeni river sparkled in the sunlight as it roiled down the valley cutting ever deeper into the frangible earth. The valley of a thousand hills. He caught a series of hot air thermals that carried him higher still, above an umuzi or village. The umuzi was walled by a wooden stockade with a gated entrance. Directly opposite the entrance were two large mud walled rondavels or circular huts. The eagle did not know but these two huts would traditionally belong to the mother of the Nkosi or chief and to the chief himself. In times gone by there would have been a hut to the left of the entrance for unmarried girls and one to the right for unmarried boys. This custom had, of late, fallen away and now there were simply another dozen or so huts scattered around the walled umuzi. These were occupied by other members of the family group. There was also a smattering of much smaller huts used for food storage, beer brewing and workshops.

  In the center of the village was another wooden fenced area called the izibaya or cattle kraal. This small enclosure was used to house the calves and was considered the most important part of the village. The entire village was built on a gentle hill with the entrance at the bottom so that, during a rainstorm, the water would flow through the village and naturally clean the izibaya.

  There were many other smaller umuzi scattered around the area but none contained a house as large as this one, for none other was the umuzi of the chief. Each other smaller village was ruled over by an inDuna, who were, in turn, ruled over by the inkhosi. The chief was then directly responsible to the king.

  At the moment almost all of the inDuna, seventeen in total, were squatting in the main room of the inkhosi. Between them these men had direct control of over two hundred well trained battle-hardened warriors. The inDuna faced the chief who, alone amongst them, sat on a small stool. To the right of the chief stood the Sangoma, smoking his pipe.

  The Sangoma had already talked to the gathering, telling of the coming return of the son and now the inkhosi allowed them to talk freely amongst themselves before he called the indaba, the meeting, to order.

  Whilst the inDuna talked the chief thought to himself. There was no question of whether the Sangoma was correct. He had not made a mistake in the last thirty years that he had been the chief’s advisor. But why would the son return? Was he looking to reclaim the rights that were his? How could his sense of shame allow him to return? And who was the beast that walks among us? Chief Dlamini knew that all would be answered on the arrival of Petrus, however, a good leader plans ahead. But how do you plan for something that should not happen?

  He thought back to those days when both the country and the Zulu nation were in turmoil. Civil war wracked the country and the white regime ruled with a steel fist. But death could come not only from the dreaded security forces but also from rival tribes and factions. The bloodiest of the internal conflicts being that between the ANC and the Zulu aligned Inkatha freedom party. This battle was a constant grinding low-level war of attrition that escalated sharply when white rule finally came to an end. The ANC had conscripted and trained a private army under the auspices of being SDU’s or self-defence units. Inkatha had retaliated by forming SPU’s or self-protection units. In a remarkably short time Petrus had risen to very high rank in the units. He did this by virtue of both his leadership and his awesome combat capabilities. But his rise to power ended with his self-enforced exile. With neither explanation nor warning he had simply left his family, his tribe and his people along with the trappings of power and wealth that came with it. As the only son in a family of daughters his leaving had brought great shame on his father and his family and, thus, he was never referred to by name, only as, the son.

  But now he was returning and from the expression on the Sangoma’s face, chief Dlamini knew that it boded no good.

  The Sweetie man stared at the lump of black metal that lay on the seat next to him and shuddered with revulsion. A Star 30M nine-millimeter semi-automatic. Fully loaded with one round in the chamber and sixteen rounds in the magazine. He had rented the weapon off the owner of a gambling den who specialized in such things. He had rented it after the men had come to his house and spoken to him. And showed him the DVD. He wished from the bottom of his heart that the Isosha and the Zulu had not come to see him. He wished that they had let him remain ignorant to the facts. But they had insisted.

  After they had left he had fallen to the floor and wept. He had been responsible for delivering the children into evil. With a few simple photos he had condemned them to the most horrific of deaths imaginable. For them there would be no loving family. There were no childless couples looking for someone to love. They had lied to Sweets. They had caused him to bring harm to the people that he loved. The people that had loved him. So he had phoned Dubula on his cell phone and set up a meeting in the Alex beer hall.

  And when he got there the Sweetie man was going to kill him.

  Sweets pulled his delivery truck into the beer hall parking area, slipped the semi-automatic into his coat pocket and got out. He felt as though he were walking through water. His movements slow and sluggish. Terror had robbed him of his usual autonomic senses and every step that he took was achieved through conscious thought. Step, breathe, step, breathe. He walked into the dim building, momentarily blinded as his fear-dulled eyes adjusted from the African glare.

  There were perhaps seven or eight other patrons scattered around the room. Dubula sat in his usual place, back to the wall, hands on the table in front of him. A tall glass of iced water. His eyes hooded. Expressionless. Lifeless. Like two black orbs of polished stone. For a moment Sweets was convinced that the big man was already dead and relief washed over him. And then Dubula spoke and reality returned.

  ‘So, Sweetie man what do you have for me? More photos?’

  Sweets said nothing. He could not. His tongue had cleaved to the roof of his mouth. His eyes were too dry to blink. His heart hammered against his chest like a child kicking off its blankets. He reached into his coat pocket and drew out the pistol. Pointed it at Dubula’s face. The big man did not even flinch.

  ‘For the children,’ said the Sweetie man. And he pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened. He pulled the trigger again. As hard as he could. Still nothing.

  Dubula stood up. ‘You have left the safety on.’

  Sweets scrabbled frantically at the weapon. But to no use. He had no idea where the safety was.

  ‘There,’ Dubula pointed. ‘The small lever on the left hand side. Push it up so that you can see the red dot.’

  Sweets pushed up the lever and then dropped the pistol. It clattered onto the table.

  ‘Pick it up,’ commanded Dubula.

  Sweets did so and pointed it once again at the big man. The weapon waved from side to side. They stood facing each other for several seconds. A lifetime. A block of obsidian and a Sweetie man. And Sweets pulled the trig
ger again.

  The gun bucked in his hand. The report was obscenely loud in the closed room. Sweets felt it in his chest, his stomach. A vast compression. The nine-millimeter slug left the barrel at 1300 feet per second and struck Dubula at an oblique angle approximately two inches above his left elbow. The high velocity full metal jacket scored along the outside of his bicep and embedded itself into the wall behind him.

  Using his right hand Dubula drew his Desert Eagle action express, pointed at the Sweetie man’s central mass and pulled the trigger. The massive half-inch round lifted the little man off his feet and threw him across the room in a fountain of flesh and bone. The broken body crashed into a table and eventually came to rest, sprawled on the floor, even tinier in death, his withered arm twisted awkwardly behind his shattered back. One of his jacket pockets had split open as he had been thrown back and scattered across the floor were a multitude of fruit sparkles. Yellow and purple and green. Sugar jewels.

  Dubula looked down at the small broken Sweetie man and shook his head. He had given him every chance. But some men were simply not able to kill, no matter what the circumstances. He turned to face the other patrons in the hall. They sat still. Faces wary. Some fearful. He pointed at a group of four of them.

  ‘You. You four will take care of the body. I want him buried with respect. I will cover the costs. He was a good man. A gentle man. He deserved more than this.’

  He holstered his weapon and strode from the room. And if you had been close to him you would have heard him whisper to himself.

  ‘We all deserve more than this.’