The Disappeared (49 page)

‘Okay, guys,
really,’ Duggan said unimpressed. ‘We’ve got a very important task ahead of us,
you know. Can we get a bit of focus here?’

‘Yes, my
precious.’ Joshua blew Duggan a kiss and took one final bite out of Lindiwe’s
neck. She giggled as she pushed him away. Shaking his head in exaggerated reproach,
Duggan walked ahead entering the dark woods. Grabbing Lindiwe’s hand, Joshua
followed. Each step took them deeper into the man-made forest. The sparse light
that had been available to them now disappeared completely. Duggan took out his
LED flashlight and switched it on. The lightning-bright light made eerie dancing
shadows out of the trees and brought the forest alive. At times Joshua felt the
slope rise dramatically and at other times the gradient was hardly perceptible.
At one stage he looked back expecting to see the darkened town of Bishop far
beneath them. But they had already penetrated too deep into the forest and any
view of the world below was obscured by a hundred trees. Joshua wondered if he
would ever see the little Free State town again.

Up ahead,
Duggan halted. When Joshua and Lindiwe reached him they found him looking up.
He was staring at the warning sign featuring a skull and cross bones and a bolt
of lightning. The legend

DANGER

GEVAAR

INGOZI

appeared on
the faded yellow sign. They had reached the perimeter of Obsidian Technologies.

Jansen sat
cuffed to the table sinking into darkness. With scowling eyes he surveyed the people
scattered around him. His mood seemed to be reflected in the sombre scene
inside the restaurant. With all the disappearances that had taken place the
room appeared almost empty. Less than a dozen residents now remained. They were
gathered in clusters talking in low voices. Outside, night had consumed
everything. Jansen sat sinking into darkness. Thoughts morbid and black populated
his mind. While all around him
they
continued talking in low whispers. Plotting.
Scheming. He looked at them with brooding eyes. A slight sardonic smile touched
his lips. Oh yes. He was onto them alright. He could hear their little scheming
whispers. He could even see their little nefarious thoughts. They had all
turned against him.
Him
! He was their only hope. Their salvation. And
yet they turned against him. Here they were sitting on their lame asses.
Waiting. Like numbed cattle. Waiting for slaughter. While the cause of their
doom was outside roaming free. Making his escape. Yes. The black couple from
Joburg had told everyone what the white trash and his nigger whore and his nerd
lackey were planning. They were going to save the survivors. What a joke. Why
couldn’t they see what was happening? Was he the only one left still thinking
rationally? What had the world come to? Jansen spat at his feet in disgust.

That’s when he
saw it.

The long black
canvas kitbag that Collie had left behind. His eyes widened as he realised the
implications. He took a deep breath and sat back in the chair trying to control
the excitement that pulsed through him.

The bag was
crammed with handguns, rifles and ammunition.

Jansen
suppressed the smile of triumph that now threatened to give away his discovery.
He looked up quickly. Had anyone noticed? He surreptitiously scanned the morbid
faces around him. No. Like numb dumb cattle. It was a measure of the extent of
their defeat that no-one had noticed the kit bag. Or bothered to remove it. Living
meat. Stunned into submission. Ready for the slaughter. Was he really the only
with enough life to resist defeat? He looked around. Yes. It was up to him. And
him alone. He suddenly realised this astounding turn of events was a sign from
God. It was God reaching down and showing him the way. Helping him to do what
others were too numb to do. Jansen knew it then. It
was
true. He was
their saviour. Their salvation. He had come. And despite betrayal and adversity
he would triumph. And he would lead them to a new promised land. God had
spoken. And he would listen. And no-one. No-one would stand in his way.

Jansen looked
around again. No-one was taking note of him. They were too busy. Whispering and
plotting. Planning their own demise. Dumb fools!

Carefully.
Slowly. Jansen hooked his foot around one of the bag’s straps and pulled it
towards him. The scrape of the bag across the wooden floor was deafening to
Jansen. But no-one else took any notice. When the bag was at his feet, he
slowly reached out with his right hand to the extent that the cuffs allowed.
With excruciating slowness he unzipped the bag and craning his neck almost
imperceptibly, he peered inside. Jackpot! Good old Collie. God bless his
strange little soul.

Inside the
darkness of the bag Jansen could see the outlines of at least two pistols. Even
deeper in the crowded darkness he saw the dull glint of two rifles. It was a
treasure chest. A mother load. Jansen’s chin creased under the pressure of the
broad grin he was trying to suppress. Good ole Collie. It was a treasure chest
indeed. But all Jansen would need was just one pistol. With the heel of his
shoe Jansen widened the opening in the bag. In a row of interior pockets he saw
several boxes of ammunition. He would need only the 9mm bullets for the calibre
of pistol that he knew Collie preferred. But first things first. Attached to
his belt was the universal key set that all policemen possessed. The keys to
the cuffs that now restricted his movement. Once again. In his quiet defeat
Coetzee had neglected to remove these from Jansen’s person. Jansen glanced up
at his commanding officer, sitting at the bar counter, morose and dejected.
Coetzee had failed as a leader. And God had chosen him to take his place.
Jansen was ready. And more than willing. He bent down trying to bring the key
set within reach of his manacled hands. Shit! What Jansen was planning was near
impossible. His hands were nowhere near the keys. And if that wasn’t enough he
had to reach them without anyone noticing. Damn! Jansen scanned the room from
under his brows. He couldn’t admit defeat. He wouldn’t. Not for anything. He
was a
bittereinder.
And this was if nothing else the bitter end.

Feigning a
languid stretch and making the appropriate noises Jansen twisted his body into
a posture that would – hopefully – bring the keys within reach. The pain was
excruciating and torturous as he forced his body to accommodate his will. Reaching
and grasping with bound hands, the cuffs ate deep flesh and a tiny whimper
escaped his throat as his body was bent into agonising acrobatics. And then.
Just when he thought he could take no more. And he would never reach the small
stainless steel keys. His hand closed around them. And pulled them free. He had
done it. Breathing a deep sigh of relief he slyly inserted the key and twisted.
With a click the cuffs fell open. He was free.

Slowly under
the cover of the table, he reached for the pistol that lay nearest him. It was
a Glock 9mm, just as he had guessed. From within the folds of one of the
interior pockets he silently extracted a box of bullets and slipped it into the
side pocket of his police tunic. He was ready. Ready to take control and do the
bidding of God. He would save them from the disease that had infiltrated their
ranks. He knew its face. He knew its name. And he would show no mercy. But
first he would have to escape this soft prison. His plan was simple. He would
stand and point the gun at the only person that could offer any resistance.
Coetzee. He would disarm him and simply exit through the kitchen door at the
back. Earlier Coetzee had asked him to lock it. And now he still possessed the
key.

As quietly as
he could, he ejected the clip that was inside the pistol. It was full. He
coughed to disguise the click as he re-inserted the clip. He looked around.
No-one was the wiser. It was time. God had spoken. And he had listened. On the
count of three.

One.

As if sensing
what was about to happen all the whispering suddenly ceased.

Two.

A silence more
awesome and complete than any he had experienced that day now filled the
restaurant. It was time.

Thr –

There was an
almighty crack in the distance. Like dull thunder. The window panes shook
reverberating echo. The noise had injected sudden life into the group of
survivors. Bewildered and fear-stricken glances were exchanged. Several of the
townspeople jumped up in alarm. Coetzee pushed himself off the bar stool and
cautiously walked towards the restaurant doorway. He paused, craning his head
as he tried to listen for additional sounds, frowning. Then he exited the
restaurant. All those who were standing followed him. Those still seated now
also rose and gingerly followed the policeman outside. In the corner, only the
old woman – widow of
Vlad the Inhaler
– and the little brat girl
remained.

Willie Jansen
couldn’t believe his luck. If ever he needed confirmation that God had blessed
his endeavour this was it. Jansen holstered his gun. Without the slightest bit
of effort or resistance he simply stood up and walked towards the double swing
doors that led to the kitchen. He pushed open the one door and looked back.
Everyone was outside trying to discover the source of the disturbance. Through
the restaurant entrance he saw only vague shapes in the darkness and heard
muted conversations. He looked at the corner booth where the old woman and the
little girl were sitting. His heart skipped a beat. Minki was looking straight
at him. But it was her expression – or lack of it – that truly got him. Her
face was blank. Robotic. A seamless void that floated above her body. Jansen
swallowed hard.

A void.

Red.

Like fierce
burning molten. Red choking light. It swallowed him. It seared his eyeballs.

Red. It was
all around him. Inside him.

The red light
grew. Transformed. Separated into shapes. Clawing and grasping, it reached for
him.

A soft whimper
escaped his throat. With teeth bared into a primordial growl. Jansen pulled
himself away. And ran blind through the kitchen. Towards the back door. He
grabbed for the handle and fell to this knees. Heaving and choking. He sucked a
huge lungful of air into his shaking body. With great effort he pulled himself
to his feet and with a trembling hand reached for the key in his trouser
pocket. The red light had receded. Burning at the periphery of his vision. He
unlocked the door, pulled it open and fell into the cool air outside. On hands
and feet he breathed deep and slow. The cold evening air calmed his nerves. He
rose slowly unsteadily. He reached for the cool consolation of his gun,
treasuring the solace of the steel in his hand. The clouds had pulled away. And
a billion stars illuminated the night sky in pinprick brilliance. The cold orb
of a full moon glowed a beautiful hole into the universe. Before him lay the
dark mountain. Somewhere up above, on its shadowy slopes lay his destiny. His
redemption.

Jansen sucked
air into his lungs. His first few steps were unsteady but he soon found his
rhythm. He was focused again. The strange ordeal in the restaurant forgotten.

Somewhere
ahead in the dark lay his destiny.

Joshua,
Lindiwe and Duggan stood before the blackened gaping jagged hole. A sprawling
field of debris lay around them. Torn metal shards. Jagged blocks of masonry. A
minefield of disintegrated glass. A swivel chair lay not far from them,
upturned and almost unscathed. At Joshua’s feet, a metal filing cabinet lay
twisted into a
koeksister
.

The explosion
had occurred in a basement area at the north-west corner of the main Obsidian building.
It had ripped a huge crater into the earth at the edge of which they now stood
silent. The force of the blast had ripped into the two stories above the
basement level. The ground-floor ceiling now hung precariously at an angle,
twisted tendrils of iron rebar jutted out from broken concrete. The floor above
was a dark void through the hole in the side of the building.

There were no
lights. No sign of life. Nothing. The main compound building loomed above them.
A dead empty shell. A lifeless monstrosity. Cloaked in darkness.

Silent, the
three of them stood before the wounded building. Staring in mute disbelief.
Duggan was the first to speak, turning to Joshua. ‘How you feeling?’

Joshua looked
around, his senses turned inwards. He nodded slowly. ‘I’m fine. I’m feeling
okay.’ The two men turned to Lindiwe. ‘Lindiwe?’

As if startled
and awoken from a deep sleep, Lindiwe looked at Duggan and Joshua, at first
unseeing not comprehending. Then her eyes shifted into focus. She shook her
head. ‘I’m fine.’

Minutes before,
Duggan had tested the Obsidian fence and found it without threat. The current
was down. They could proceed. With the wire cutter he had brought along, he had
forced a large opening into the fence into which the three of them had entered
the Obsidian compound grounds. The compound itself resembled a modern office
park. The square monolithic sandstone building featured three stories. All of
the levels were lined with gold-tinted windows. The main office building was
surrounded by a huge sprawling lawn. Undulating, with walkways, park benches
and several artificial dams. Clusters of trees provided shade to groups of
wooden tables and benches. Serene and gentle and washed in silvery moonlight, it
had a picnic atmosphere.

Mute, the
three of them stood before the gaping hole. A thick cocktail of emotions pervaded
their hearts. Their experience was akin to that of the detective who, having
finally arrested an elusive killer, feels fulfilment but no joy. They stood
mute before the gaping hole. Dumb-struck and incredulous that the terrible
series of events which had defined their day, had all begun here. This was the
genesis of their tragedy. The origin of their disaster. Here, born in the
violence of expanding fire, lay the undoing of an entire community. The vicious
chemistry of man. A perverted science. A precise bonding of elements designed
to do one thing and one thing only. Destroy.

‘So, this is
what killed Bishop.’ Duggan spoke barely above a whisper. For him, the words
and visuals of websites maintained by a group of conspiracy enthusiasts now
leered into life. Obscene and despicable. It was Plato’s cave. Their theories
and discussions a mere shadow of a reality that was so much more terrible and
sick than they could ever have imagined. Only a tiny fraction within himself
felt vindicated by what they now saw. Irrefutable proof that he had been right
all along.

Duggan felt
revolted and strangely deflated at the same time. Like a child who had been
pawing and exploring a Christmas present wrapped in gift paper. For weeks trying
to discern its shape and nature with explorative fingers. And now that the gift
lay unwrapped, feeling disappointed that its identity had after all been correctly
guessed.

‘Should we not
get the others?’ Lindiwe turned to Joshua and Duggan. ‘I mean, now that we know
it’s safe. Shouldn’t we bring them here?’

‘Before we ...
do that,’ Duggan said, his voice sounding as if it came from a great distance
away, ‘we need to make sure we can get out of here.’ Fumbling absent-mindedly,
never taking his eyes off the building’s jagged maw, Duggan extracted the
folded blueprints from the back pocket of his denims. He slowly unfolded the
map, studied it then looked at the building. ‘The parking lot is in the
south-west part of the basement.’ He turned to Joshua, folding the map into a
tight square. ‘If there are any cars here at all ... they should be there.’
Joshua nodded. ‘I think the best thing –’