Dust Devils (31 page)
Sunday ran into the night. Kicked off her shoes, her feet flying over the rocks, skin toughened by years of climbing these hills. Her arms pumped, breath strong and even. She was a born runner. Always something to run from, in this place.
She saw a slope ahead, rising black against the moon. If she could reach it she would be safe. No car could follow her. Forced more speed into her legs. Told her lungs not to burn. Not far now.
Zondi heard the gunfire and the sound of tearing metal. A pause. Then the chatter of automatic weapons, coming from below him. He'd been holding a parallel course to the vehicles that pursued the Toyota, trying to outflank them. Found himself above them now, bouncing across an eroded plateau lying silver in the moonlight.
He edged the old Ford close to the slope, ratcheted up the brake and left the truck with its door open, engine idling unevenly. He crouched low and approached the rocky edge. Looked down. Saw a pair of vehicles jammed together like mating dogs, while the two trucks roamed the plain.
One set of headlamps sent yellow fingers into the night and snagged a running figure. From the lightness of the runner, it could only be the girl. Sprinting across the sand toward the slope. Toward him.
The truck surged after the girl, headlamps throwing a halo around her. Zondi drew the pistol and took a bead on the lights as they bucked and weaved. Too far for an accurate shot. He fired. Knew he'd missed. Saw the girl look back over her shoulder. Wanted to shout. Tell her to keep running. Saw her stumble.
Sunday felt her body leave the ground. Seemed to take forever before she hit, the palms of her hands tearing on the gravel, the breath smashed from her. She sucked dusty air, pulled herself to her knees, saw lights warming the sand around her.
The truck was beside her, door opening, voices shouting. She tried to get up and run again but a man's arms grabbed her and pulled her onto his lap. The truck flew away, door flapping like a broken wing.
She tried to fight the arms off, to fling herself out the door that swung wide. But the man tightened his grip around her ribs, squeezing the air from her lungs. She could smell his sour breath. Feel the rough scrape of his beard against her cheek. Sunday stopped fighting. Let herself go slack.
The man reached over and pulled the door shut and the truck bounced across to where the old dog stood waiting.
Inja wiped blood from his eye. He had a gash on his forehead but he was alive. The medicine had worked. The yellow truck slid to a halt, the girl up front, slumped in the lap of his soldier.
"Is she hurt?" Inja asked, stepping toward the truck.
The big soldier with a shaven head, skull bearing the dent of an old axe wound, pushed the door open with his boot and stood up, still gripping the girl, her bare feet dangling. "No,
Induna
."
Induna
."
"Put her down."
The gunman lowered the girl. She stood a moment, head hanging, then she folded into a squat, skinny arms drooping onto the dirt. In the spill of the dome light Inja saw she was crying. "Stay with her," he said.
Inja went back to the Pajero and removed a flashlight from the glove box. Whipped the beam around, taking stock. The driver was dead. The soldier in the rear gut-shot, lying with his face pressed up against the window glass, blood leaking from his lips.
Inja's beam found the body of the old white man, lying on his back on the sand, arms flung wide.
"Where is the other white man?" Inja asked.
His crew shrugged, waiting for his fury. Inja stood a while, sniffing the air.
The big soldier approached him. "Do you want us to search for him,
Induna
?"
Induna
?"
Inja shook his head. "No. Where can he go? He won't be able to hide his pale ass in the morning."
Inja ordered his soldiers to remove the driver's body. Throw it into the rear of the Pajero with the dying man, who was weeping and pleading for water and for his mother.
Inja ignored him. Got behind the wheel of the SUV and started the car, jammed it into reverse gear. Heard tearing and grinding, then the Pajero was free of the Toyota. Headlamps smashed and blinded, but the car good to be driven. He left the SUV idling when he stepped down.
Inja crossed to where the old man lay, the beam of his flashlight bouncing off the dead eyes. He called for a knife. Took it from the soldier who held it out to him and passed the man the flashlight. "Shine this on him," he said.
Inja knelt beside the old man. Lifted the shirt, saw the pale, wasted body stitched with gunshot wounds. Loosened the dead man's belt and pulled the khaki pants down past his hips.
He stabbed the blade into the old man's white flesh just above his pubes and pulled the knife up to the sternum. Disemboweled him. The way his ancestors used to disembowel their enemy, to make sure they could never return to haunt the battlefields. Then he moved the blade up to the old man's face and took out his eyes. So his spirit wouldn't be able to see Inja from the shadowlands.
Dell scrambled up a hill, loose rocks tumbling. Telling the men below where he was. He stopped. Crouched down.
Do I honest-to-god care?
Wondered what impulse still made him run.
Why not just stop and take a bullet?
End it all.
Do I honest-to-god care?
Wondered what impulse still made him run.
Why not just stop and take a bullet?
End it all.
He sat with his back to a rock, holding the pistol. Waiting. At least he'd take some of them with him. Then he heard an explosion and the sky beyond the rocks glowed orange. He edged forward and looked down. The Toyota was burning, flames kicking high into the night. Doors slammed and the two trucks and the Pajero took off, the SUV running without lights.
Dell watched the flaming Toyota. Saw the Volvo tumbling. Burning. Back in the morgue as the fumes from the gasoline fire grabbed at his throat.
The convoy rumbled up the track to Inja's homestead. His wives peered out of the doorways of their huts, children clotting their legs like ticks. When they saw Inja stand up out of the lead truck, they clucked the brats back inside and locked their doors. Inja put aside the thought that they would have danced if it were he lying dead in the rear of the Pajero.
His sister waddled down the steps from his house. "Brother, you are bleeding."
He swatted her fat hand away from his forehead. Looked across to where the girl sat between his two men, in the yellow truck. "Sister, you take that girl. Stay with her in there until morning." Pointing at the newly completed hut. "I am locking the two of you inside. You don't close your eyes. Watch her. If she wants to piss or shit she does it in a bucket. Do you understand?"
"Yes, brother."
Inja looked on as the big woman dragged the girl into the hut. He locked the door after them and turned to his men. Pointed to four of them. "You stay here and keep guard. If I catch a man sleeping he will follow the swallows." He drew a finger across his throat.
The men nodded and took up positions around the hut.
Inja addressed the last pair. "Take those," pointing at the bodies of his two soldiers, lying in a tangle of limbs in the rear of the Pajero, "and bury them."
The men looked at each other. The big man with the dented skull found the courage to speak. "
Induna
, they have wives and children that need to mourn them."
Induna
, they have wives and children that need to mourn them."
Inja stepped up to his soldier, and even though he reached barely to his chin the man took a step back and dropped his eyes to the earth. "And you? You have a family?" Inja asked.
"Yes,
Induna
."
Induna
."
"Then you do as I say or they will mourn you. And once they have cried their tears and wiped their snot, I'll fuck your women and kill your sons. Understand?"
The man nodded and Inja walked up to his house, feeling the stirrings of the sickness in him again, the weakness that robbed his limbs of power. Waited until the door closed behind him before he allowed himself to sink to the floor, the room spinning, sweat dripping from his forehead.
It was late when Zondi got back to the room at the hospital and he felt hollow and meaningless. The drapes were open and moonlight washed the bare walls. He didn't switch on the light. Shut the door, took the gun from his waistband and put it down on the table beside the bed. The bedsprings creaked as he sat down. Wished he had a bottle of Glenmorangie.
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