The Disappeared (18 page)

Coetzee
accelerated and raced towards the van. He came to a screeching halt and jumped
out. In two strides he reached the cabin of the car.

It was empty. Jali
was gone.

Coetzee cursed
loudly. He looked around in exasperation but saw nothing. And no-one. He ducked
into the cabin and studied the interior. There was no blood. No sign of
struggle. Nothing. Nothing at all that would indicate why a member of the South
African Police Services would simply abandon his vehicle and disappear into
thin air. Coetzee leaned over and studied the steering column. The keys were
still in the ignition. He grabbed them. At the same time he tried the CB radio.
Static. He slammed the received into its slot.
Bloody hell!
Around him
the street was quiet. The houses appeared serene and untouched by the
near-panic he now felt.

In the silent
street – as the dawn blossomed into day – Inspector Jan Coetzee stood ... alone
and afraid. Wondering what dark thing had befallen the little town of Bishop.

Duggan
unlocked the heavy Viro padlock and hung it around his pinkie as he slid open
the French door of the Cyber Pope Internet Café and Copy Shop – its full name
and description. One had to squeeze whatever business one could out of a small
Free State town.

A long wooden
desk lined one wall. Six flat-screen computer monitors were perched on it. A large
tattered couch filled one corner of the small room. On the other side was a
counter with various promotional posters – featuring graphics accelerator cards
and new game releases – pasted to the wall behind it. Behind the counter also stood
a large copy machine. The other walls of the Cyber Pope were adorned with
posters of leather-clad nymphs cradling impossibly huge guns and intricately
shaped knives. In the centre of the room, suspended from the ceiling, hung a
‘vintage’ poster of the seminal
Doom
game
.
It was the only poster
that was framed; a cherished possession purchased on eBay.

Duggan walked
over to the counter. He switched on the monitor that stood on a bench behind it.
This was the server that not only controlled the entire network but also
managed access to the Internet.

When the
screen faded into life Duggan felt his heart sink. He was looking at a big
ole
Windows error message. Sometime during the night the server had rebooted.
Duggan cursed loudly.
How could this be?
The server ran 24/7 and was
never shut down. How could this have happened? It wasn’t just unheard of – it
was near impossible. The UPS – uninterrupted power supply – and the backup
generator ensured that not even an electrical blackout would cause a shutdown.
But here it was. The server had rebooted sometime during the night.

The Cyber Pope
wasn’t exactly a money-spinner ... but at the very least it belonged to Duggan.
Looking back at the dismal record of his life – all the failed opportunities
and near misses – this was without a doubt his single most outstanding success.
But then again ... for a twenty-something man who still frequently masturbated
to images of pouting porn stars downloaded from the net ... well – most
outstanding was a very relative term indeed. In a small town like Bishop
business was hardly ever booming. Duggan had a steady flow of customers though.
Mostly kids playing LAN or Internet games and middle-aged and elderly clients
who still did not see the need for a home Internet connection. However his
biggest source of income was as local ISP – Internet Service Provider – for
Bishop and the surrounding farms. In line with this he also made a buck or two
designing and hosting local web sites. The sudden explosion about a decade ago
of Bishop as a trendy artists’ retreat had completely enlivened and
re-orientated the local economy. The various local galleries curio shops and guesthouses
had consequently become the mainstay of his web-design business. Especially in
the field of e-commerce. And that was – essentially – why the required upgrades
were so vitally important.
Bloody
important, in fact.

Duggan quickly
scanned his network to ensure that his IP settings were in order. Then he
accessed the log – a record of every single event that takes place on the
entire network. The reboot glared like a sore eye at him.

Fatal
Error. Shutdown. 2:34 a.m. 27 September.

Duggan
frowned. This was extremely unusual. There was no indication of what had caused
the shutdown. Nothing at all. It was like some invisible hand had appeared and
pressed the reboot button. Duggan scrolled up through the log. He was running a
very expensive Compaq server – one of the best in the industry. The server
should have given some indication of trouble ahead of time. Something like an
early warning system. But there was nothing. Nothing at all. Without reason –
without cause – the server had simply rebooted itself at 2:34 that morning.

Duggan
massaged his temples. It was still early morning but he felt as if he already
had a long and stressful day behind him. He would have to contact the Johannesburg
office and see if they could help him with this problem. If it happened once
... it could happen again. Someone would have to answer for this.

Now Duggan
understood why his download at home had been interrupted halfway through. Once
the server went, down his home web connection would be automatically
terminated. In fact – Duggan suddenly realised with a start – all his clients’
connections would also be down. Better get it sorted out before the posse
started breaking down his doors. Duggan opened the network settings and
attempted to re-establish an Internet connection.

HOST COULD NOT BE DETECTED

Check your settings

Duggan
screamed in frustration. ‘Fuck my settings, man!’ This was too much. He grabbed
the telephone that was perched on his desk. After consulting a business card
pinned to the wall above it he dialled a number. There was no dial tone.
Nothing. ‘Shit!!’ Duggan slammed his hand down on the handset cradle and tried
again. Nothing. After checking the cable and wall socket Duggan tried once
more. Nothing. He quietly placed the telephone receiver onto its rest. His anger
had turned to cold disquiet.

Something had
happened during the middle of the night.

Something
terrible.

And Bishop –
and all of its residents – were completely cut off from the world.

Lindiwe walked
aimlessly down Main Street. She was frowning and her eyes were unfocused as she
tried to process her chaotic thoughts. Not a single sound stirred the silence.
There was only her. And the listless crunch of her footsteps on the sidewalk. A
fetid anxiety throbbed in her chest. Her breathing was shallow and uneven.

Around her,
the quaint little town of Bishop loomed large and tomb-like. It was eerily
deserted. Like New Year’s Day – on a Sunday. Not one of the stores was yet open
for business. Lindiwe was all alone.

What did he
mean?

What did Inspector
Coetzee mean when said others were missing.

What did
that mean? What was going on?

Moments before
in the police station she had been too dazed and confused to ask the policeman
what he had meant. Now ... she was simply too afraid to ask. Too terrified to
know what those dark words implied.
She’s not the only one. There are
others.

Lindiwe
stopped, aware for the first time where her subconscious feet were taking her.
She was heading home. The anxiety suddenly exploded into panic. Her ribcage was
choking her lungs. She was gasping for breath. She couldn’t breathe. ‘Oh God,
please.’ Lindiwe spun around and looked up and down the pristine street with
its neat rows of mophead trees. There was no-one.

She couldn’t
go home. Not now. It was too much to process. Too much to confront. She could
go anywhere. Anywhere. Except there. In the middle of Main Street, Bishop,
Lindiwe quietly began to sob. Deep inside something told her she would never
see the old woman again. Spurred on by panic Lindiwe ran to the nearest shop door.
It was the Love’s Labour Curio shop. She gripped the door handles and shook the
doors with all her might. It was locked. A howl of frustration escaped her
mouth. Next she ran to the store adjacent to that one. It was a local branch of
the Edgars chain store. She gripped the large stylised door handles and heaved
with all her might. The heavy double doors moved only a fraction. Lindiwe
screamed and banged her fists onto the tempered glass panels of the store
doors.

Then she heard
it.

Her name.
Someone was calling her name. A loud wail that rose in pitch as it came closer.
She spun around. But there was no-one there. Then she saw her.

The little
girl. Running towards her on the opposite sidewalk. Minki. Tears flew from her
eyes. Her mouth was twisted into a howl. Her face was stricken with grief. And
something else. Terror? In a split second Lindiwe forget herself ... erased her
own concerns. She ran towards the little girl and swept her into her arms. Minki
sobbed hysterically into Lindiwe’s neck. As she grasped tightly onto the child,
Lindiwe felt new tears sting her eyes. ‘Hey? What’s the matter, munchkin? What’s
wrong?’ She placed the sobbing child onto the sidewalk and wiped the tears from
her eyes. ‘Hey, you can tell me, right? You know that.’ Minki bit her quivering
lip and sniffed loudly.

‘I had the
most horrible dreams, Lindi. Horrible! Horrible!’ Minki started sobbing again.

‘It’s alright
sweetie. It was just a dream. I’m sure –’

‘It’s not
alright. It wasn’t just a dream. Everybody was dead, Lindi. Everybody!’ The
words slammed Lindiwe. She felt a quick stab of anxiety.

‘Listen here, munchkin.
It was just a dream. Okay? You listen to me.’ Her own words sounded hollow and
distracted. After the events of the morning the young girl’s words had struck a
dark and foreboding chord in her mood.

‘No! You’re
not listening to me. I saw it! Everybody was dead. You too, Lindi. I saw you
too. I saw you and you were dead. And Mr Wessels. And ... and –’

Lindiwe
grabbed the little hysterical girl and pressed her to her chest. Through her
sobs, muffled words floated up to Lindiwe. ‘Everybody dies, Lindi. Everybody
dies.’

‘Shhhhh. It
was a dream. That’s all, just a bad dream.’

Minki looked
up at Lindiwe. ‘And I’m worried about daddy, Lindi. He’s not well. He’s talking
to mommy again. Like he used to. And I think ... I think –’

‘Shhhh. It’s
all gonna be alright,’ Lindiwe said, stroking Minki’s hair, ‘Everything’s gonna
be just fine. You hear?’ Minki sobbed quietly while Lindiwe held her.
‘Everything will be alright.’ She was surprised how easy it was to lie.

Inspector Jan
Coetzee stood in the doorway of the modest but pristine Cape Dutch house on
Marula Street. The property was located in the southernmost part of the little
town ... and was just a few houses from Vlad’s home. It belonged to the
Vanderbijl family. Or at least ... it had.

From where
Coetzee was standing, he had a commanding view of the neat lounge with its
matching cane furniture. He could also see into the small kitchen at the rear
of the house. On any normal day this would have been the centre of activity. It
would have been bustling with the raucous breakfast language of a close-knit
family; loud and good-natured. Now – however – it was empty. The lounge was
empty. All the rooms were empty. The house was deserted. They were all gone. Inspector
Coetzee knew he would never see any of them ever again. The entries in the
station logbook flashed through his mind.

Insects in
mouth.

OH JESUS OH
HEL

After discovering
Constable Jali’s abandoned van, Coetzee had taken a drive to Vladislavic’s
house.
Old Vlad the Inhaler.
The immigrant from ... Czechoslovakia?
Bulgaria? The Ukraine?  Coetzee could never remember. Due to his advanced age he
could no longer serve as a fully-fledged member of the South African Police
Services. As a result he was appointed and served as the only non-permanent
member of the tiny Bishop police station – a police reservist with special
duties. It was a special concession from Mayor Friedrich Theron – one of only a
few concessions the mayor was known to make.
Vlad the Inhaler
.
Vladislavic was a chronic asthma sufferer. And a chronic inhaler from his
little ever-present pump. It was a name that Mayor Theron had first given to
Vladislavic. Behind his back.
Vlad the Inhaler.
But it stuck and now
everyone – including Vlad himself – used it to refer to the antiquated
East-European who had arrived in the Free State capital when he was only a
child. It always brought a smile to Coetzee’s face as he thought of the witticism.
But that morning, as he pulled up to the Vladislavic house – right at the
western end of Marula Street – there was nothing light-hearted about his mood.

The old Ford
XR6 with its faded yellow paint job was parked in the driveway. It belonged to
Katya Vladislavic – old Vlad’s wife. Coetzee slowly exited the police van and
surveyed the area. The street was quiet. Behind the row of modest houses – this
was the Bishop equivalent of a lower-middle class area – the large behemoth of
Bishop’s Berg loomed large and ominous. With measured steps Coetzee approached
the Vladislavic house. He paused by the front door with its long vertical
stained glass panel. He peered inside but could detect no movement of any kind.
Coetzee knocked hesitantly on the ornately carved wooden surface. He listened.
Nothing. He knocked again. Harder this time. And waited. There was nothing. Coetzee
walked around the house. He wanted to peer into more windows. Specifically the
bedroom. Under normal conditions his sense of propriety and decorum would have
prevented him from even thinking of violating the sacrosanct privacy of one of
his officers. Or anyone for that matter. But these were not normal conditions
by any means. So with a sense of both embarrassment and trepidation, Inspector
Coetzee trudged through the quaint flowerbed, leaned over and peered in through
the bedroom window of Ivan and Katya Vladislavic.

The window
opened.

Katya
Vladislavic hovered white and phantom-like inside the window frame. In shock
and bewilderment, Coetzee back-peddled wildly and almost fell over the neat
walls of the flowerbed. ‘Oh my God, Katya ... I –’

‘Where’s Vlad,
Jan?’ She was looking pale and worried. Apparently unaware of Coetzee’s
embarrassment. ‘Something’s wrong. I can feel it.’

For a few
moments, two bewildered and lost souls stared at each other in complete silence
– a thousand words of subtle understanding passing between them. Then Coetzee
broke the hovering silence. And said the only thing he could say. That he didn’t
know. He wished he could tell her different ... but he couldn’t . He then told
her about the events of the morning. He told her he was worried and even a
little scared. It was the truth. And at the very least he owed it to the woman
now standing before him.

‘I will try my
best to find him, Katya. That is something I
can
tell you.’ Katya
Vladislavic had simply nodded and said nothing. She was filled – Coetzee knew –
with an inexhaustible strength. The kind of quiet strength that develops over
decades as an antidote to the harsh realities of life in Eastern Europe.
(Unlike Vlad, she had only arrived in South Africa in her late twenties.) He told
her to stay inside until further notice. And then he had left the petite woman
alone. In the time since he had last seen her – a week before - she had become
a widow overnight. For some reason, Coetzee knew this to be true – beyond a
shadow of a doubt. It wasn’t easy. Losing a loved one.
That
was
something else Coetzee knew only too well.

And then.
Leaving the van parked in front of the Vladislavic home Coetzee had begun
searching  the adjacent properties. At the Mabele house – one of only five
black families in Bishop – he had found two half-drunk cups of coffee on the
lounge table. Next door lived ole Dougherty whose wife had died of leukaemia
the previous winter. This house too was deserted. On the kitchen table Coetzee
found a cellphone. He picked it up but discovered the battery was flat. The
next four houses he searched revealed the same grim mystery. Glaring empty
houses with no sign of their owners. By now Coetzee had detected a pattern. Most
of the beds in the abandoned houses were unmade. Whatever happened to the
residents of Bishop, had occurred in the

(
Insects in
mouth
)

dead of the
night.

At the next
house – the largest on the street – Coetzee had encountered a locked front door.
The only locked door thus far. After a moment’s hesitation he kicked at the
heavy wooden door. Three kicks later and the door slammed open. After
collecting his breath Coetzee entered the foyer.

And was
immediately attacked by a figure in a bathrobe.

The force of
the assault had thrown both Coetzee and his attacker to the cold tiles of the
foyer. There was an immense struggle. Blows landed. The little tight knot of
violence rolled twice and then –

‘Jan! What in
God’s name are you doing? You broke my
bliksemse
door.’

Jan Coetzee
was staring at Gert Le Roux – owner of the house – who had him pinned down on
the floor with his fist raised, ready to bring it crashing down. Next to them
Berta Le Roux was standing with a
Jamie Oliver
pan in her hand – also
ready to bring a world of pain to the intruder that was now pinned down by her
husband. ‘Jan?’ It was Berta. ‘You broke our door.’

There was
shocked silence as the three old friends stared at each other. A flustered and
sheepish Coetzee apologised. And began to explain the events of the morning to
the shocked Le Roux couple. Shock gradually turned to disbelief and then to
horror. So much so that it took a few minutes before Gert Le Roux realised he
still had the local station commander pinned to his floor. Le Roux helped the
policeman to his feet. And apologised absently. Before Coetzee left through the
unhinged front door he explained his plan of action to the shaken couple. They
agreed. A great distance in their eyes. Stunned. Disbelieving.

Since the
encounter at the Le Roux house Coetzee had searched more than a dozen homes. Now
he stood in the ominous silence of the deserted Vanderbijl home. Where a family
had formerly lived, there was now only glaring emptiness.

As Coetzee
walked to his parked van he mused on the ludicrous impossibility of the
situation that now faced him. Out of more than a dozen houses he had found only
three residents. What did that mean? Where were the rest of the town’s
population? And what had happened to them?

Coetzee fired
up the engine. It was pointless searching more houses. It was time to implement
some kind of an emergency response plan. And fast. But first things first.

A few minutes
later the Toyota Hilux pulled up outside a derelict house with a litter-strewn
yard. Two garden gnomes guarded the shaky wooded gate that had once been
white-washed but now was simply dirty yellow neglect. The one gnome was missing
half of its head and a sizeable portion of its left arm. The other gnome
appeared to have suffered significant fire damage. As Coetzee pushed open the
rickety gate he wondered – as he always did – how the hell a garden gnome
sustained fire damage. Whatever the case. It said
as
much about the owner
of the house as did the dirty garden and the derelict house. Not to mention the
red Volkswagen Beetle shell that was perched on six mounds of face-brick in
front of the chipped garage door.

No 13 Marula
Street was the home of Willem Jansen – Sergeant in the South African Police
Services – currently stationed in the district of Bishop. Free State. South
Africa. Willem Jansen was owner of the property by sole virtue of being related
to Veronica Jacobina Desdamona Jansen, who had passed away – rather suddenly
and prematurely some would say – without leaving a legal will. It was rumoured
that she intended to donate all her earthly belongings to the local branch of
the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Instead her only son, who
didn’t ‘deserve the oxygen he breathed’ was the sole beneficiary of Veronica’s
sudden demise. Veronica – the cantankerous wife of a former professional
wrestler (The Masked Misfit) – was by no means a doyenne of style and good
taste. The gnomes were her idea for instance. As were other dubious additions. However,
since her death three years ago, her son had nonetheless allowed the modest
little property to decline significantly. Now, as Coetzee stood on the oil-stained
doorstep, the lack of Sergeant Jansen’s maintenance skills was the last thing
on his mind. He had never – admittedly – liked the crude young man with the
rapacious laugh and the constant blush of the functioning alcoholic. In fact
Coetzee had detected the hint of a deep sadism in his subordinate. And on more
than a few occasions, he had suspected Jansen of coercion, intimidation and
even – in the recent bust of the region’s most notorious drug dealer – evidence
tampering. Yes. He didn’t care a great deal for the man who had shown up drunk
at his mother’s funeral – just to vomit in the church. But right now it didn’t
matter. He needed his colleague more than ever. Before he knocked on the door
with its flaking green paint, Inspector Coetzee shot a quick prayer into the
breeze. And hoped for the best. He knocked. And waited. And waited. He knocked
again. Nothing. His heart sank. He couldn’t do this alone. He needed his men.

‘Dammit.’
Coetzee waited a moment longer. Gathering his thoughts. Angry that yet another
of his men had disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle of this Bishop morning. He
turned and walked down the cracked walkway towards the precarious gate. He didn’t
want to. But he would. If he needed to ... he would do this on his own.

Behind him a
lock was unlatched. The door opened. Coetzee swung around. And stared into the
bleary red eyes of a hung-over Sergeant Jansen. Never – never! – did Coetzee
think he would be
this
happy and relieved to see the young policeman.

‘Boss,
whazamatta?’ Jansen asked, bleary with sleep. ‘What you doing here?’ Coetzee
quickly crossed the distance between them. ‘It’s my off day, isn’t it?’ The fuzzy
Sergeant stared thickly at Coetzee, straining against the morning sun.

‘Sergeant
Jansen ... Willem ... I need you to get dressed. We have an emergency.’ Jansen
rubbed thick dirty knuckles through his eyes. ‘Vlad and Jali and ... and the
others have ... they’ve disappeared. I need everybody at the station.’

Jansen’s eyes
stretched large and round. A bloody network of capillaries framed his dull blue
irises. ‘Huh?’

‘Look here,
get dressed and get to the station as soon as possible. I will explain
everything later. You got that? Jansen nodded dully. ‘Good.’ Coetzee placed a
hand on the groggy man’s shoulders. It was without doubt the most affection he
had ever displayed towards his junior. Without a further word he turned and
headed towards the police van.

The journey to
the police station was hazy and vague. A thousand thoughts crammed his mind. A
thousand things to do. A thousand assessments and procedures. A thousand fears
and worries.

With all these
things happening in his mind ... it was a miracle at all that Inspector Coetzee
spotted the young man on the WANTED poster.