Choice of Weapon

by Craig Marten-Zerf

Garrett grunted as Petrus pulled the stitching tight on the wound in his hip. They had cleaned the two gunshot wounds on his shoulder and then packed them with mud and bound them. Both Petrus and Jabu were unharmed. Jabu had just returned from a recce at Garrett’s request and squatted down next to the soldier.

  ‘Isosha. The bishop is dead.’

  ‘Shit. How?’

  ‘Through the top of the leg, where it bleeds. He was smiling.’

  ‘Yeah, well. He had somewhere nice to go. Did you bring his rifle?’

  Jabu shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  Jabu shrugged. ‘He was holding it. It was part of him. It should stay.’

  Garrett nodded in agreement and then pulled himself upright, using the AK. ‘Listen, guys. I’m sorry but I’ve fucked this up. We’re in a no-win situation here. We did what we could. I want you to go.’

  The two Zulus stared at Garrett like he had spat on them. Eventually Petrus spoke.

  ‘I will forgive you for what you have just said. Obviously your wounds have affected your brain. Rest, and when your senses return we will speak again.’

  Jabu offered cigarettes. They accepted. He lit. ‘About thirty.’

  ‘What?’ asked Petrus.

  ‘We’ve killed about thirty of them. Give or take. Wounded a few more. That’s almost half. We’ve got three AKs. About twenty five rounds, two grenades and our real weapons.’ He looked at Garrett. ‘Rest tonight, Isosha. Tomorrow you can tell us of your plan to kill the rest of these animals.’

  Garrett pulled his canvas groundsheet around him and closed his eyes, wishing he had the confidence in himself that Jabu had.

  Texas had come within half an inch of death. During last night’s attack one of the shots coming from above the camp had taken off the top half of his left ear. Dubula had bandaged it with a turban style dressing that even now was soaked with blood. Also, it stung like all buggery.

  And with first light when they had taken a reliable body count he now saw that he had lost thirty-two men. Another three were too wounded to be of any use. And somewhere out there lurked the foreigner and the mad Zulu. Texas was less than happy. But the truth of the matter was, he had no idea what to do next. However, by the time the sun had fully risen it looked as if things may be turning in his favor. The mist had retreated, leaving behind only a few tattered remnants. Now it would be impossible to hide from his men. It was payback time for Texas and his boys.

  Dubula formed the men into five equal groups and strung them out on each side of the trail. They moved ahead slowly, two of the men in each group looking for tracks, the others keeping a watch. They were under instructions to give a shout as soon as they came across any tracks that might lead to the enemy.

  The first thing that they found, almost directly above the camp was the body of the bishop. He was sitting propped up against a rock, a burnt out cheroot in one hand and his precious rifle in the other. The men attempted to remove the rifle but it was as if the bishop’s hands had been permanently molded to it. Save breaking his fingers or perhaps even sawing his hand off, they could not remove the weapon. As well as this, the bishop was smiling. Not a deaths head grin or some unpleasant ricture. No, this was a genuine, gentle smile. A smile of joy. They left him where he lay and continued their search for spoor.

  Soon after they had left the bishop’s body Texas called Dubula over.

  ‘Dubula, we need to talk.’

  The bodyguard stood close to his master and listened.

  The three men sat in a sheltered rocky overhang. Almost, but not quite a cave. It was protected on three sides and had a small naturally formed wall of rock in the front, perhaps two feet high. Garrett stared across the valley at the searching men. It was only a matter of time before they cut spoor and started to track the soldier and his friends down.

  ‘Hey, Petrus. I thought that you said that the mist was here for a week at least.’

  ‘Yep, that’s what I said.’

  ‘Well, where’s it gone?’

  Petrus shrugged. ‘Not my fault. I tell you what; someone’s got a sense of humor. When we had a long gun we couldn’t see, now our long gun is gone we get thousand yard visibility.’

  ‘Whatever,’ replied Garrett. ‘We need a plan. You see that vlei there,’ he pointed out a boggy area of rushes and longer grass. Petrus nodded. ‘As they come across the valley they’ll bunch up there. The only way through is to the right of the vlei and to the left of the cliff. You see?’ The Zulu nodded again. ‘Do you reckon that you could get down there without anyone seeing you?’

  Petrus didn’t deign to answer such an unnecessary question. He merely sniffed theatrically and said nothing.

  Garrett grinned. ‘Sorry. Anyway, get your butt down there, take the two grenades, prime them and stretch a tripwire across the trail. That’ll take care of a few of them. As soon as they blow then we’ll pick the rest off from a distance. The ones that survive will die by the blade.’

  ‘Good plan,’ agreed Petrus.

  Jabu also nodded his agreement. None of them bothered to point out that the odds of the three of them killing over thirty well-armed men with only a couple of grenades and a handful of ammunition were slim to say the least.

  Petrus took an AK with ten rounds of ammo, the grenades and a ball of fishing line and ran down into the valley, disappearing into the long grass as he did so.

  Garrett and Jabu waited and watched. They could pick up no sign of Petrus as the gangsters drew ever nearer. As Garrett had predicted, the enemy started to bunch together as the marshy ground and the incline of the cliff herded them in. They had seen no sign of Petrus setting the tripwire and Garrett could only hope that he had done so.

  And then the group walked through the most compacted section of the trail. Nothing happened. Garrett cursed. But in his concern he had forgotten the four-second delay. The grenades exploded simultaneously, the sound at this distance a muted thud, felt rather than heard. And then Garrett saw Petrus rise up out of the grass at almost point blank range and open fire. He held the rifle to his shoulder, snapped off ten aimed rounds in under three seconds, dropped the empty weapon and ran. A fusillade of shots followed him as the gangsters burnt off hundreds of rounds in his direction. Garrett could see him bobbing and weaving through the grass and felt like cheering him on but held himself back. Instead he took a quick count of the fallen. Two had gone down to the grenades and a further four had been taken out by Petrus’ rapid fire. Six less to worry about. Over twenty left. He brought the AK to his shoulder and fired three carefully aimed shots. One man went down. Next to him Jabu fired twice. No hits. But the enemy had pinpointed them.

  The return fire was withering. Chips of rock buzzed around them like shrapnel and the whine and crack of passing shot filled the air. Garrett flattened himself against the ground. A sliver of stone hit him in the head slicing through to the bone. Warm blood caressed his face. He blinked hard to keep it out of his eyes.

  Jabu popped up and snapped of another couple of shots to no avail. Garrett heard a rustle in the long grass and Petrus burst out and threw himself to the floor of the shelter. His breathing ragged. At first glance Garrett thought that he must have run through waist high water. His pants were soaked, the khaki a dark brown. And then he realized. It was blood.

  Petrus lay down, flat on his back, chest heaving.

  ‘Fuck me, Isosha. I’m broken.’

  Garrett crawled over to inspect him. He pulled Petrus’ shirt open. There were two wounds. Both had entered low down on his torso. Entry wounds in the back, exit wounds in the front. Hit while he was making his escape. Both wounds were bleeding copiously. Garrett tore up one of the ground sheets and used them to bind the wounds, pulling tight in order to staunch the bleeding.

  Next to him Jabu pulled off another two shots. ‘Ha, got one. Take that you fuckers.’ He turned to Garrett. ‘Got one.’

  The bullet hit the rock wall and ricocheted up striking Jabu in the solar plexus.
Blood frothed immediately from his mouth and he slid sideways onto the floor. Garrett crawled over and applied pressure to the wound but there was no point. It wasn’t bleeding. The blood was all internal. There was nothing that the soldier could do.

  Jabu craned his head and looked down at the wound. ‘Oh, shit,’ he said. ‘I’m dead.’

  He closed his eyes. His legs twitched twice and then there was no more movement.

  Garrett picked up his AK, sighted and squeezed off his last rounds. Two more down. They were out of ammunition. He lay down next to Petrus. Took out two cigarettes. Lit. Passed one. Dragged.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘This sucks.’

  ‘Marginally,’ agreed Petrus.

  ‘We got about forty of them.’

  ‘Good, less to kill now. Just as well because I’m fucked. Can’t actually feel my legs.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I reckon they’ll finish us with grenades. That’s what I’d do.’

  ‘Yeah, me too.’

  Garrett peered over the rocks. The gangsters were about four hundred meters away and advancing cautiously. Fanned out in a line. He lay back down. Lit another cigarette off the last one.

  ‘Isosha, why don’t you go. Run for it, maybe you get away.’

  ‘I might. Think I’ll stay though. See what happens.’

  Petrus grinned. ‘Thanks. Never wanted to die alone. Don’t know why. Dead is dead.’ He held out his hand. Garrett grasped it. They lay in stillness for a while.

  In the distance Garrett could hear rain coming. Hissing as it swept across the long grass. And with it a far away rumble of thunder, long and drawn out.

  ‘Great, now we’re going to die in the rain. How fucking Hemmingway can you get?’

  Petrus burst out laughing. Then coughing. Then laughing again.

  Garrett was puzzled. ‘Hey, it’s not that funny.’

  Petrus laughed again. ‘It’s fucking hilarious, Isosha. That’s not rain.’

  ‘Of course it is, I can tell a storm when I hear one.’

  ‘Yes, Isosha. There is a storm coming. But not the one you thought.’

  Again Garrett peeked over the rocks. And he saw, sweeping across the valley, their shields brushing through the grass and making a sound like rain, their feet thundering over the ground, at least two hundred Zulus in full battle array. And as he watched they took up their battle cry.

  ‘Jeee!’

  The sound echoed around the hills and set the hair on Garrett’s arms upright. It was an atavistic sound that went straight to your soul, a wolf’s howl. A lion’s roar. If fear had a sound, that was it.

  ‘Jeee!’

  The gangsters did not even try to fight, they simply turned and fled. But it was to no avail. Within seconds the impi was upon them. Assegais rose and fell, turning from polished steel to dull red flames of metal.

  Garrett could hear the cries of the Zulus as they struck.

  ‘Ngadla! I have eaten.’

  And then he too was laughing alongside his friend.