Fever

by Deon Meyer

  I would have to start shooting at five hundred metres, in the middle of the second U leg. I would have to shoot rapidly. I would have to hit the target.

  Okkie lay beside me. When he arrived I had shouted at him: ‘Come lie down here, and shut your eyes tight and keep absolutely quiet, you hear?’ My voice sterner than I’d meant, due to my shock that he was here, my fears for his safety. Okkie began to cry because of the sirens and my response. I had never spoken to him like that before.

  He lay pressed against my hip, his little arms over his eyes, whimpering softly.

  The motorcycles were in the second U-bend. I tracked the first one, got a feel for the movement, calculated the shot. The sun was behind me, there was no wind. Perfect conditions.

  I fired.

  He dropped. The rider rolled, the motorcycle skidded and scraped across the tarmac, sparks showered.

  The next one, I aimed for the chest, below the helmet. I shot.

  He fell.

  Another one and another one, and each time the shot boomed, Okkie jerked against me.

  My world narrowed into the tunnel vision of the telescope.

  The sixth one’s motorbike burst into flames, and then exploded. Behind the smoke and flames I lost sight of the group; another one came racing through, nearer, almost at the second bend of the U.

  I shot. He dropped. And again – the shot, the fall.

  A bullet smacked against a rock beside me. Someone was shooting at me and Okkie.

  I wanted to pull my eye away from the scope, I wanted to see where the shooter was, but I dared not, they were coming too fast, I had to keep my rhythm, I had to make sure not one of them got through.

  The next one was in the turn below me, a hundred and fifty metres away. I shot. He fell.

  Nine down. Three to go.

  The next one I shot in the turn, another one when he was ninety metres from me coming out of the turn: he and his bike skidded across the road, narrowly missing Domingo’s wrecked pick-up, and crashed into the rocks on the other side, and then there were no more bikes on the road and I thought I had counted wrong, I had seen twelve, shot eleven. And then another bullet smashed beside me and I realised one had stopped, one had holed up and was shooting at me.

  It was the sudden silence that made Okkie jump up. ‘Okkie!’ I screamed.

  ‘To Pappa,’ he said and ran.

  It would form part of the Domingo legend, what happened in the town on 2 June in the Year of the Jackal. It would fan the rumours about his past and his ability, become part of the myth of Amanzi.

  The crossroad at the Midas garage up in town is misleading, because the streets come together like the beams of a three-point star.

  Domingo had shot off the collar bone of the driver of the ERF lorry – before it hit his pick-up – so that he had to control the vehicle with only one hand, which was not good enough for the speed and the angles of the three-point star. At the last minute the driver tried to turn left, towards the dam. He lost control and the truck ploughed into the lamppost and olive tree in front of the police station. The pole and the tree could not halt the momentum of the heavy truck, and it rammed into the corner of the police station and broke through the wall.

  The twenty Amanzi soldiers who had been on field exercises were back in the police station, arming themselves in obedience to Domingo’s orders. The front of the ERF crashed through the wall and hit seven of our troops who were feverishly grabbing and loading firearms in the arms magazine. The other thirteen soldiers, who were in the room next door waiting for their guns, fell flat while the dust, noise and shockwave blasted through the building.

  Domingo had already shouted his orders to me, grabbed my R6, and sprinted after the lorry. He heard the crash as it hit the wall of the police station, four hundred metres away.

  By the time he reached the corner and could see the ERF truck, he was two hundred metres off. At that instant the back doors of the trailer opened, and revealed KTM men with guns inside the long trailer. Our rifles, the R4s that they had stolen from us more than two years ago.

  Domingo had my R6 over his shoulder, and his R4 in his hands. His R4’s magazine was nearly empty, just about six rounds left. He slowed from a run, walked down the street. In full view, he didn’t look for cover. There were people who witnessed it, looking out of the windows of their houses. Later they would describe how Domingo seemed so focused, so determined, that he was oblivious to danger.

  The KTM men began jumping out of the trailer.

  Domingo raised the R4 to his shoulder, looked through the scope, and shot. Three measured shots.

  Three KTM men dropped. But there were ten in the back of the lorry. And the remaining seven returned fire.

  I knew the sharpshooter who lay down there somewhere would see Okkie running. I knew how it worked, how movement drew your eye through the telescope, how you instinctively aimed, measured and shot.

  I shouted Okkie’s name, leapt to my feet. He was running back towards the Orphanage. He was four paces ahead of me, I had the R4 in my left hand, reached out with my right hand for him, then something plucked my left leg out from under me. In that instant there was no pain, but I knew I was hit because I had been expecting the bullet, I was just thankful that it hit me.

  I grabbed Okkie as I fell, a handful of his shirt in the scruff of his neck. I hit the ground, my shoulder hit Okkie, he was winded, I heard him gasp and wheeze for air. I turned over on the ground, felt the dampness of blood on my leg. For the first time I felt the burning pain, but only at the exit wound, and I wondered why, such an odd thing to think of in those circumstances. I knew I had to locate the sniper’s hiding place, I had to shoot him.

  Okkie panted, gasped for breath.

  I saw the lightning flash of the shooter’s gun. He sprawled flat behind his motorbike that lay on its side in the middle of the road. The man was barely visible through the smoke cloud of the burning bike.

  The next bullet hit right in front of me, dust and sand and gravel in my face, my eyes.

  Okkie still struggling to breathe beside me.

  I wiped the eye of my scope, desperate. I had better shoot fast, he had my distance, the next shot would not miss.

  I drew the sights on him, I shot. I had him.

  Okkie drew a deep gasping breath. He wept, in loud, ragged bursts.

  I looked down at my leg. I saw the pool of blood forming on the ground.

  I was going to bleed to death here.

  ‘Okkie,’ I said, ‘you have to call someone. Anyone at the Orphanage. Do you hear?’

  The R4 was empty. Domingo threw it aside, swung the R6 off his shoulder. Bullets slammed into the tarmac in front of him, ricochets whined away.

  Suddenly he dodged left, quickly off the street, behind the Midas garage building.

  The KTM men all jumped out of the ERF trailer. Three of them crawled under the lorry, using the big wheels as shelter. Four of them ran through the gaping hole in the wall of the police station.

  Those four spotted the movement of the thirteen Amanzi soldiers. One soldier tried to reach the arms magazine, through the dust and bits of plaster and brick, over the bodies of his comrades who had been trapped between the lorry and the wall in the collision. The KTM shot wildly. They mowed the Amanzi soldiers down – only four of the twenty would survive.

  Domingo

  As recorded by Willem Storm. The Amanzi History Project.

  There’s a lot of exaggeration and nonsense about that day. I did very poorly. Me and my whole team. Our losses were heavy. We had all the advantages, the high ground, the checkpoints, the gates. And we failed miserably . . .

  They said he was like a shadow. He moved like a phantom through the garage, while the three KTM men hiding under the truck shot at him.

  Domingo used the windows and doors, even the petrol pumps, and he got them one by one, with single shots from the R6. He didn’t seem to hurry, he didn’t seem afraid, he expressed only focus and determination.

  He jog
ged to the truck, rolled under the trailer, picked up two of their rifles, took out the magazines, shoved them in his pockets. He disappeared into the open hole of the police station.

  The people across the road in the OK heard the shots. They said the KTM shot wildly. And every now and then there would be a single shot from Domingo. The storytellers would say, remember there were four of them, and just Domingo, and the police station wasn’t big. But it didn’t take long, three minutes they guessed, and then Domingo emerged and walked to the horse of the ERF truck, and there wasn’t even a mark on him.

  Two KTM members were still in the cab, driver and passenger, injured after the crash into the lamppost and the police station. The two who had killed Thabo and Magriet. They were bleeding, broken, but still alive. Domingo opened the door on the driver’s side. Bits of glass fell to the ground. The driver with the broken collarbone handed his pistol with the silencer to Domingo. He said, ‘We give up, we give up.’

  Domingo took the silenced pistol, and shot them between the eyes.

  One after the other.

  Chapter 50

  The KTM come: IV

  Domingo

  Let me try to set the record straight.

  The KTM were not trained. They were a bunch of amateur yahoos with assault rifles. And yet they managed to kill my guards at two gates, breach those gates, and get past me with the lorry. They managed to kill twenty-six of us.

  And remember, their plan backfired. Their plan was the Trojan Horse, their plan was to hijack Thabo and Magriet. Then two men with silenced pistols hid in the lorry cab with Thabo and her, and ten were behind in the trailer, and the twelve on bikes followed. At the gate my guards saw Thabo and Magriet, and they didn’t suspect a thing, but then the two with silenced pistols jumped out and told the guards to tell us everything was okay on the radio.

  At the Petrusville checkpoint their plan worked well. They shot my guards and the motorbikes came through.

  The motorbikes then waited where the bus gate guards couldn’t see them, and Thabo and Co. drove the lorry to the bus gate.

  At the gate, the plan went wrong, we know, ’cause one of my guards survived to tell the story. He said Thabo tried to grab one of the silenced pistols, and then everyone began shooting, and the guys in the back of the trailer popped out, and that’s how they breached my bus gate. But now their plan was shot to hell, no more element of surprise. The big mistake they made then is they should have cut their losses, should have retreated to fight another day. But they didn’t have good leadership. They shot everyone, my guards, Thabo and Magriet, and the lorry raced ahead to get into town. There was a big gap between the lorry and the bikes, and that’s what messed it up for them.

  But despite the fact that they were yahoos and their plan was messed up, they still managed to kill twenty-six of my people. That’s totally unacceptable. That’s a defeat. That’s shameful.

  That’s why people mustn’t come and say I was a hero that day. I was a total failure. The real hero is Nico Storm. You won’t see shooting like that again. Ever.

  But nobody says a word.

  That’s messed up.

  I took off my shirt, and tied it very tightly around my leg, trying to staunch the bleeding.

  I began to feel dizzy.

  I couldn’t hear any more shooting in the town. I wondered what had happened.

  I saw Nero running towards me. And behind him, a bawling snot-nosed Okkie.

  I lay in the sick bay. Domingo was standing beside my bed.

  ‘Why did you shoot them? Those last two.’

  ‘You know my mantra.’

  ‘The other guy wants to kill me. If I hesitate, I die?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘But they surrendered.’

  ‘With concealed weapons tied to their calves?’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Nico, they’re animals. If they don’t get you today, they’ll get you tomorrow. Never forget that.’

  I nodded.

  ‘And what would we do with prisoners?’

  Chapter 51

  Sofia Bergman

  As recorded by Sofia Bergman. The Amanzi History Project, continued – in memory of Willem Storm.

  I sometimes wonder if Meklein hadn’t died that May in the Year of the Jackal, if they had lived another four or six or ten years, if we would have stayed on our farm, if I would have ever seen Amanzi . . .

  I don’t know how old Vytjie was. Deep in her seventies, I think.

  So many nights we sat outside by the fire. Meklein loved it, sitting under the stars.

  I know it sounds romanticised, but I think he knew the end was near. That last night of his life we were around the fire. The nights were already getting cold, we huddled close to the flames. He coughed a lot, more than usual. Then Meklein said he thought the Fever came because people were hurting the earth so badly. He said, with a coughing fit for every sentence, ‘Vytjie, when last did you see a gompou?’ He was talking about the kori bustard, that’s what we called it, a gompou. He said, ‘It’s been years, but we used to see a lot more of those big birds long ago. Remember the black eagles, when we were young? There were so many. Remember the bakoortjies, how often we saw them in the old days? Those little bat-eared foxes are termite eaters, scorpion eaters, but the people thought they caught lambs. They never did. You don’t see them any more. So many things you don’t see any more. The old people hurt the earth, a lot. I wonder, is it not maybe the earth that sent the sickness?

  Late that night he stopped coughing, as if his body just had enough. That night Meklein died in his sleep, and we buried him, Vytjie and me, and we divided up the chores again, but not even four weeks later, Vytjie also died. That night she sat so quietly by the fire, it was bitterly cold, I remember. She went to sleep and she just never opened her eyes again.

  I buried her, then, beside Meklein, on the side of the ridge where they loved to sit close together in the sun on winter mornings and drink their herbal tea.

  For months after Vytjie’s passing I didn’t even think of leaving the farm. I wanted to stay. I did stay. Through the winter. It was a regular Karoo winter, that year, no snow, just what my father always called ‘perfect desert cold’. I pruned the fruit trees in July, and made biltong from two springbok. I stayed through August and September. And when it warmed up, I had to start planting. I began work, and I began digging manure and compost into the vegetable garden. But one morning, I packed the seeds out on the table, and I looked at the vegetable garden, and I saw the seasons stretching ahead, and I pictured harvesting the vegetables and fruit, and realised there was no one to share. And that was the moment the loneliness hit me. Odd, isn’t it, the knowledge that I would eat alone, all those fresh vegetables. I wouldn’t hear Meklein smacking his lips in delight, or wonder how Vytjie could nibble the sweetcorn so skilfully with the few teeth she had left.

  That was when I realised I would have to find some other people. It was like a dam wall breaking, suddenly there was a flood of insight: it was actually dangerous to be so completely alone on the farm. You could slip and fall in the veld, or in the bath, and there was nobody to help. It was just as dangerous to go somewhere now. Where to? And how? We never used the vehicles, the batteries were flat, the diesel was probably spoiled long ago, and I never even considered getting anything going. I would have to walk. But where to?

  To Bloemfontein.

  That was the place I knew as a child. It was my frame of reference for where you went when you needed something that you couldn’t get on the farm. It was where people and goods and services were.

  I know it will be hard for people to understand this, but I still imagined the outside world as it was before the Fever. You must remember, I had been on the farm for more than three years, without seeing a single other soul, apart from Meklein and Vytjie. I had been entirely alone for nearly five months. I was just sixteen years old. I was in a kind of daze.

  I thought I should pack a rucksack, take a rifle, and walk. I
knew the shortest route to the N1; by the farm roads to Hanover it was a hundred kilometres or so, not more than that. There would be cars on the N1, and at Hanover I would beg a lift to Bloemfontein. I could stay in the hostel at my old school.

  Silly plan, I know. I was so naïve. So ignorant.

  I thought if I took enough food and water for a week, I would be okay. I thought it wouldn’t matter that my mother’s hiking boots were a little too big.

  The best decision I made was to take the crossbow at the last minute.

  Chapter 52

  The coup: I

  It took Domingo and his assistants four days to dig the graves in the hard ground of the Amanzi hills. I only heard about it. I was laid up in the sick bay to start with, and when the nurse and Nero were satisfied that I had ‘stabilised’, I moved back into my room.

  My wound looked bad, but Nero said it was ‘clean’, there wasn’t much tissue damage. It should heal well. That news I shared with no one.

  On the fifth day after the KTM attack, the entire community assembled on the ridge for the funeral service conducted by Pastor Nkosi. I wasn’t allowed to attend, the nurse said the wound wasn’t sufficiently closed.

  On the ninth day we held a community meeting in the Forum. Jacob Mahlangu trundled me down from the Orphanage to the Forum in an old wheelchair with a wonky right wheel, my leg tightly bandaged and sore. I didn’t want to miss any big announcements. I didn’t want to forgo the admiration of the people. After all, I had shot twelve KTM members off their motorbikes. I didn’t want to miss out on Lizette Schoeman’s sympathy for my injury.

  We had to sneak out of the Orphanage so that Okkie would not see us.

  I was the centre of attention in the Forum; residents who called out their congratulations or came over to shake my hand, ask how I was doing. Some patted me on the back. Some of the seven- and eight-year-olds accompanied the wheelchair through the crowd, touching me now and then, eyes wide in hero-worship. I liked that very much.