Choice of Weapon

by Craig Marten-Zerf

  Chapter 26

  Garrett had told them the plan. It was relatively simple. Cut off any means of escape, put the enemy into a position where they were nervous to rest at night, obtain some weapons from them and then, place Mandoluto on a hill a half a mile or so away and tell him to start killing. When they came to look for the bishop, ambush them.

  But this morning had brought with it a new enemy. An enemy that Garrett had not even known the existence of before now. Impenetrable and gray. A mist as thick as a Swiss duvet had settled over the mountains.

  ‘Shit. How long is this going to last?’ Garrett asked Petrus.

  The Zulu shrugged. ‘Not sure. This time of year, maybe a week. Ten days. Not longer.’

  ‘Maybe shorter?’

  Petrus shook his head. ‘A week.’

  Mandoluto lit up a cheroot.

  ‘I don’t think that we should smoke,’ said Garrett.

  ‘Don’t worry;’ answered the bishop. ‘The mist will kill the smoke. It won’t travel. Even if it does, they know that we’re out here. Anyway, I’d rather get shot than spend another day without a smoke.’

  ‘Well then offer.’

  The bishop laughed. ‘Smoke your own. These things don’t come cheap and I’ve only got five left.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ conceded Garrett who pulled out his pack of Gauloise and offered them around. All of the Zulus accepted. The men all stood quietly in a circle for a while. The reverential silence of the true smoker who has abstained for a few days.

  Petrus was the first to speak. ‘Well, Isosha, this mist has fucked your plan up good and proper.’

  Garrett nodded agreement.

  ‘So,’ continued Petrus. ‘What now?’

  Garrett looked at the guard. ‘Now, my friend, we become the monsters in the mist. But first, let’s eat.’

  Petrus delegated the breakfast to Cowboy who boiled up another pot of the ubiquitous pap with sugar and the men sat and ate with their fingers.

  ‘Bishop, what’re your close combat skills like?’ asked Garrett.

  ‘They call me the long gun, not close-combat-man. Does that answer your question?’

  ‘Yep, as good as. Do you know how to use those Chinese stick grenades?’

  ‘I’m familiar with them.’

  ‘Good. This is what we’ll do. Three groups. Bishop, group one, you guys group two, and Petrus and I group three. Now give all six grenades to Mandoluto.’

  Texas peered into the gray but couldn’t make out anything. Men standing more than ten feet away became simple dark blobs. Beyond that they weren’t visible at all. The mist brought a spectral quality to the surroundings that did not sit well with the men’s current state of mind. The fact that one of the enemy had simply walked into their camp the night before and slaughtered one of them like a beast for table had unsettled even the most hardy of them. All except for Dubula who seemed to look on all that was happening with a sort of wry humor.

  Against Dubula’s advice the gang lord had sent another detachment of five men back down the trail to see if they could find any hint of what had happened to the first lot. Texas was sure that the cover of the mist would give them the protection that they needed. Fear had given the men wings and they had covered the two days march in a little less than four hours. And they had returned with disturbing news.

  ‘What do you mean, the trail has been destroyed?’ Shouted Texas.

  ‘I’m sorry, boss. But the trail, it’s gone. There’s just a big area of rocks and mud and shit. No trail.’

  ‘So how the hell do we get home when all this is finished?’

  The gangster shrugged. ‘Don’t know, boss. You could probably climb around it. Maybe. Would be dangerous though.’

  Texas took a deep breath. ‘You’re a moron.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘A useless fucking moron.’

  ‘Yes, boss. Sorry, boss.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  The man scurried away, thankful that he had gotten off so lightly.

  Texas turned to Dubula. ‘Well, what do you make of that?’

  ‘I’d say that they collapsed the trail.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To trap us here.’

  Texas laughed. A short bark that lacked the confidence of true amusement. ‘How can they trap us, that’s the job of the hunter? And the fact is that we are the ones doing the hunting, not them.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Dubula. ‘But has anyone actually bothered to explain the fact to them?’

  Before Texas could reply the world was rent apart with a series of explosions. Shrapnel buzzed through the air like a swarm of wasps and the pillow of mist was ripped aside by three massive concussions. Dubula jumped forward and threw himself onto Texas, covering his body with his own. A human flack jacket. But there were no more explosions. Instead they heard the crackle of automatic gunfire coming from the rear side of the camp.

  Dubula jumped to his feet and ran in the direction of the gunfire, rallying the men as he ran.

  ‘Come on, face the rear. Return fire. Move, move.’

  Metal-jacketed slugs whipped and cracked through the air around him as he ran, one bullet coming close enough to pluck at his coat. A desperate street vendor trying to attract attention. He couldn’t see his assailants for the mist but he could see the muzzle flashes from the rifles. He drew his Desert Eagle and started to fire back.

  ‘Fire at the muzzle flash,’ he shouted.

  The gangsters had finally got their act together and were returning fire in withering sheets. Skorpions burning off twenty round magazines in sharp jagged bites of sound, AKs hammering away like an insane blacksmith at an anvil underplayed by the light pock of handguns and the massive boom of Dubula’s hand-cannon. Every now and then someone would throw a grenade, the explosion a torso compressing crump of sound followed by a wave of hot air.

  And at the other end of the camp two figures ghosted through the mist. Silent. And where they went, men died. Sharp metal slashing through reluctant flesh. Assegai and machete. The Zulu and the beast in tandem. And then exactly two minutes after the first attack another three explosions ripped through the camp. At the same time the attacking rifle fire stopped and the assailants retreated behind the mist. As did the machete and assegai wielders.

  The gangsters continued firing for a while until, under Dubula’s shouted instructions, the battle hiccupped to an end.

  ‘Stop firing. Check around you for the wounded and take them to the front of the camp.’

  Texas came staggering out of the mist. ‘There are more bodies over here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Here, at the front of the camp. While you were all busy shooting the shit out of something out there, something else was in the camp killing people.’

  Dubula strode past his master to see what he was talking about. As he walked the charnel sights loomed out of the mist. A badly written horror movie. Too much gore. Too much blood. Dismembered limbs. Intestines. No one wounded. Only dead. Five bodies. Three more at the other end of the camp. Two more felled by the grenades. Four wounded. In the last three days they had lost sixteen men.

  They had yet to even see the enemy.

  Garrett pushed down hard on Winston’s chest in an attempt to stanch the flow of blood but he knew that it would be to no avail. One of Dubula’s .50 cal rounds had hit him high up on the left hand side and barreled through leaving a massive wound channel.

  ‘Eish, that was a good fight,’ Winston whispered.

  Petrus took his hand and squeezed. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘ A good fight.’

  ‘You know, we don’t get to fight as much as we used to. Times are not as good any more; it’s all politics and talk. I miss the old days.’

  Petrus smiled. ‘Yes, those days were good. Much fighting.’

  Winston coughed weakly. ‘Man, I’m tired. Must be this mountain air. It’s too thin. I think I must rest a while. Wake me before the next fight, okay?’

  Petrus nodded.


  Winston closed his eyes.

  And died.

  Garrett stood up and took a couple of steps into the mist. A gray curtain to hide emotion.

  Petrus stayed next to the body, stroking his head. ‘Hamba gashle, go in peace, my friend.’

  The other Zulus filed past, touching him once on the face and saying their farewells.

  ‘We will sacrifice an ox for you, Winston. When this is done you will be buried with honor.’ Petrus said to his dead friend.

  Finally, the long gun knelt down next to the fallen warrior. From his pocket he took out a small glass vial of olive oil with which he anointed Winston. The Zulus looked on with approval. Although they did not believe they still had great respect for the power of the church and figured that it could do no harm.

  ‘Through this holy anointing may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.’

  There was a chorus of Amen. Petrus covered him with his canvas ground sheet and weighed the ends down with small rocks.

  Then they all squatted in a circle and lit up cigarettes. The Zulus talked of Winston for a while. Little stories that spoke of the man. They meant nothing to Garrett or Mandoluto who did not know him, but they were the type of stories that would encapsulate any young man’s life bar differences for culture and time. When he had come close to burning down his grandmother’s hut as a little boy. His first girlfriend. When his father had beaten him for letting the cow with the crooked horn stray into the road. His initiation ceremony. His first kill. But after a while they stopped, for a man’s life contains both too much to talk about in one sitting as well as too little. He was different. He was the same. He is dead. Silence.

  Petrus spoke first ‘Isosha, what now?’

  ‘We don’t actually have many options but my granny did once say to me, “If it ain’t broke don’t fix it.”’

  ‘So,’ said Petrus. ‘More of the same?’

  Garrett nodded. ‘More of the same. But let’s wait until just before nightfall.’

  Dubula was now ipso facto in charge of the operation and would thus be held responsible for anything more that went wrong. For, although Texas was a remarkably good tactician in the tight confines of the urban jungle he was very uncomfortable with the actual outdoors. Dubula had also spent his life surrounded by concrete and steel but his mind worked in a military fashion what ever the situation. He had come up with a plan. Firstly he needed to find an area of the trail that he could build a proper camp, as opposed to a rambling row of tents clinging to the side of a steep incline. So as soon as they had taken care of the wounded he struck camp and pushed the men on, leaving the bodies.

  As it happened, luck smiled on him and, within an hour, they came to a small, flat area where the trail broadened out for a short while. He got the men to pitch enough tents for half of the people, figuring that half would always be on watch. Then he split his men into five groups of roughly ten men each. These groups were then split in half and allocated one shift each. Then he divided the surrounds into five equal portions and gave each group a specific area to cover. This concentrated their attention and ensured better coverage of the surrounds. If they saw anything at all, or even thought that they saw something, then they were to open fire at once. He placed Texas in the center of the camp and then he prowled around keeping everyone on their toes. They would wait. For he knew that the enemy would come to them. They were so few that attack was their only reasonable option.

  As the sun set over the mountains the low level rays lit up the mist, turning the gray to white. It was like being inside a ping-pong ball. Garrett had done a recce and measured out where the new camp was placed. He had explained it’s setting in detail even down to how many paces it stretched from one end to the other.

  Once again the bishop was to take the high ground, this time using his rifle to fire into the middle of the camp, or as close to the middle as he could estimate through the mist.

  Bongani, Cowboy and Jabu would circle around the camp and attack from the rear, getting in as close as possible in order to be able to see their targets. This was the part of the plan that worried Garrett. The mist had now gotten so thick that the Zulus would have to be within ten to twelve feet of their adversaries. Almost hand to hand combat. He and Petrus would then strike from the front. Quick in and out. After two minutes they would all pull back.

  As Mandoluto’s first shot echoed around the hills the three Zulus started forward. Using the mist as cover they ran crouched over, heading towards the camp. But as it came into view they were surprised by a sudden accurate fusillade of sustained fire. They immediately went to ground.

  ‘Hey,’ shouted Bongani. ‘What the fuck? Are these the same idiots we attacked yesterday, how come they can shoot now?’

  ‘They’ve been taking lessons,’ replied Jabu. ‘Cowboy? Hey, Cowboy.’ Jabu crawled over to their friend. He lay flat on his face in as pool of blood. One of the AK rounds had hit him in the throat, tearing out his jugular. Jabu swore, then he took Cowboy’s magazine off his rifle and slid it into his own pocket. All around him the air was alive with the spiteful buzz of hypersonic rounds. A hundred bullwhips cleaving the air. He raised himself up onto one elbow, sighted carefully at the muzzle flashes in the mist and started firing. On his left, Bongani joined in.

  Mandoluto crouched behind a small rock while all around him the air crackled with fire. Someone had organized the gangsters. The moment that he had started firing he had drawn return fire directed at his muzzle flash. After his fourth shot he had been forced to take cover. He sank to the ground and, carrying his long gun in the crooks of his arms, he leopard crawled away from the rock for around twenty feet. Then he got up onto one knee, brought the rifle to his shoulder and started to fire again, moving after every two shots.

  Garrett leant in close to Petrus. ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

  ‘What? Gunfire?’

  ‘Gunfire is fine. It’s their volleys of controlled gunfire that I don’t like. These guys aren’t just firing blindly like before; they seem to be picking their targets. I’ve underestimated the situation. Someone has organized this rabble into a cohesive force.’

  ‘So, who cares? They’ll die just the same.’

  ‘True, let’s go.’

  The two men continued forward. Unlike the three Zulus they did not attract any fire as they ghosted unseen through the mist. Garrett went left, Petrus right. Wraiths. Moving undetected until they were within touching distance of the foe. And to the defenders it was as if the mist had suddenly become solid and attacked them. Garrett moved fast, downing the first man with his swinging machete. Cleaving his neck and clavicle. He snatched the Skorpion from the man as he fell and fired one handed at the next visible defenders. Three quick bursts took out two men and then the weapon ran dry. As Garrett moved on to connect with the fourth gangster he felt the strikes. High up on his left hand side. Like someone had taken a run up and hit him in the shoulder with a baseball bat. Twice. He turned fast. Right behind him a man holding a Tokarev. The pistol had jammed, the offending round sticking up out of the breach like a smoke stack. Garrett leapt forward swinging upwards as he did so. The shooter staggered back clutching at his stomach as his intestines seemed to boil out of him. Blue and purple and gray.

  More shots from behind him. Fire flicked at Garrett’s hip, spinning him around and driving him to the ground. The pain from his multiple wounds crashed through him, momentarily blacking out his vision. When his sight cleared he saw an AK lying on the grass next to him. He grabbed it, jammed the butt into the soil and used it as a crutch to pull himself upright. As soon as he was steady he brought the rifle to his shoulder and started firing at two more shapes in the mist. Saw them go down. Someone reared up out of the gloom. He turned to fire.

  ‘Hey, Isosha. It’s me. Let’s get the fuck out of here.’

  The two of them loped out of the camp. Petrus slowe
d down once to pick up an AK and an extra magazine and two grenades from a dead body then they ran again. Fast disappearing into the mist.

  Bongani had been hit three times. The first bullet had struck him in the arm, the next had taken out his left eye the final shot had shattered his hip. The pain was indescribable. But still he continued firing back, killing and killing again.

  Jabu crawled over. ‘Hey, Bongani. Let’s go, man.’

  Bongani didn’t answer. He simply drew another careful bead and squeezed the trigger. The target dropped to the ground. He looked up at Jabu. ‘Hey, brother. My hip’s fucked. No more dancing for Bongani.’ He grinned, face a mask of blood, the side a gory mess. ‘Eyesight’s a bit screwed up as well.’

  ‘Come one. I’ll help you. We can fix you up.’

  ‘No way. I’m having too much fun. You go. I’ll just stay here. Shoot a few more of these fuckers. Seriously, I’m fine.’

  Jabu grabbed his hand. ‘Shlala gashle, my friend. Stay in peace.’

  ‘Hamba gashle, go in peace.’

  Jabu crawled away. Behind him Bongani continued to fire. His shots aimed and unhurried.

  Mandoluto crouched down and ran. Things were getting far too hot and it was time to bug out. Anyhow, he figured, a sniper firing blindly into the mist wasn’t the best usage of firepower. In fact all that he seemed to be doing was giving a bunch of gangsters something to shoot at. Every time he took a shot they were onto his muzzle flash like moths to a flame. Even as he ran he could feel the nudge and buffet of shot as it cracked close past him.

  And then he stumbled and fell. He hit the ground hard and rolled, cursing his clumsiness. But when he tried to get up he couldn’t. His legs were numb. He glanced down and saw that his pants were soaked in blood. He took out his knife and cut a slice down his pants leg. Saw the wound. Laughed out loud.

  The slug had entered the back of his thigh and exited at the front completely severing the femoral arteries. Blood was being pumped out at a rate of around five liters per minute. Mandoluto figured that he had about a minute left. Killed by a stray bullet fired blindly into the mist on the top of a mountain in KwaZulu.

  The bishop pulled his cheroots from his shirt pocket, opened the case and lit up. His hand did not shake. In fact he felt quite good. Warm. Relaxed. He was not unhappy. He had done his best. He laughed again. It was a good feeling; it had been a long time since he last laughed. Felt good. He tried to take another drag of his cheroot but couldn’t lift his arm. Strange that, he never knew that a little tube of tobacco could become so heavy. Then he saw a bright light come towards him. Envelope him.

  He smiled.

  The light smiled back.