Kill Baxter (17 page)

There are rumours of certain genetic lines that retain the ability, but sadly most of the knowledge of dreamwalking has been lost in the mists of time. It is the hope of the author that through careful research some of this forgotten art can be restored to its former glory.

‘
TELL ME AGAIN
about your spirit guides,’ the Witch says. She’s wearing a black Iron Maiden T-shirt, a pair of camo shorts and a thin line of beads that circles her head. She sits cross-legged on the couch in her apartment and I sit on a cushion on the floor. She says that particular seating arrangement is traditional. The Mumblerock hangover is throbbing in my temples and my lacerated side hurts like hell.

‘Psychosexual Development,’ I say. ‘That’s what they call themselves.’

She stares at me.

‘
Ma
,’ I add.

She nods. ‘And they’re …’

‘My libidinal phases,’ I say with a sigh. ‘I know what it sounds like,
ma.’

‘The fact that you are able to enter other people’s dreams is positive,’ she says. ‘And the quest you’re undertaking through your own mind is talked about often in magical literature.’

She gets up and walks over to the ceiling-high bookcase that dominates the back of the room. She locates a book with a really terrible cover of a muscular shirtless man riding a dragon. Apparently some self-publishing magicians do their own covers.

‘“The journey to find one’s True Will, or True Self, is the most important journey that a magician will ever undertake.”’ She leans against the bookcase and reads. ‘“The True Will is protected by various psychic processes from attack by rival magicians. One must never allow any outside influence into one’s psyche.”’

‘Yes,
ma
,’ I say, suppressing a yawn and then wincing as pain shoots through my ribs.

‘Am I boring you, Zevcenko?’ the Witch says, her eyes fixing on me like rifle scopes.

‘No, ma,’ I say quickly.

‘Well, whatever blocks you have are all in your own psyche. Meeting your True Will can hopefully release them,’ the Witch says, snapping the book shut. ‘Nevertheless, on to your next lesson. You have your mojo bag?’

I nod and retrieve a small blue canvas bag from my pocket. All the newbies were given one by King, but so far they’ve remained empty. She reseats herself on the couch and produces a bag of her own. Hers is made of blue
shweshwe
fabric.

‘Your mojo bag is fundamental to your practice of the art,’ she says, opening the mouth of her bag and delicately retrieving a dead jewel-encrusted spider. She lays it in her open palm. ‘The seven items that you keep in it are your totems. They’ll allow you to interface with the mental state necessary for you to effect changes in the world.’

‘I don’t have any totems,’ I say, opening my bag and shaking it.

The Witch looks at me like I’m a special brand of stupid. ‘Your totems are not tradeable stickers, Zevcenko,’ she says. ‘It takes years to build up a full set. Mine took ten years.’

‘It took ten years to find seven trinkets,
ma?’
I say.

The Witch raises her hand as if to swat me. I flinch.

‘Are you trying to test my patience?’ she says. ‘You don’t find your totems, they find you. You’ll know when it happens. It feels like a puzzle piece fitting into place.’

So I guess I shouldn’t bother looking on eBay.

The Witch dismisses me with a wave of her hand and I walk quickly to the door.

‘Go get your side looked at in the infirmary, Zevcenko,’ she says as I put my hand on the doorknob. ‘If you miss a lesson because of whatever stupid shit you get up to, it’s not going to be happy times for you.’

‘Yes,
ma
,’ I say and get the hell out of there as quickly as I can.

I make a pass at the infirmary and get the tough, beefy tattooed nurse to disinfect and bandage my side. She barely bats an eyelid at the lacerations. I’m sure she’s seen a lot worse. Back at Malpit, I lock myself in the bathroom. I’ve got a short break before my next class and I really need to wake up. I rub my eyes and stare into the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot and have that stinging, sandy feeling. I feel permanently hung-over. Someone bangs on the door. ‘Chill the fuck out,’ I scream. The communal nature of Malpit is also really starting to work on my nerves.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I yank it out. ‘Bax!’ Kyle says. He sounds nervous and on edge, and for some reason that instantly annoys the hell out of me. He’s there in Cape Town living it up and I’m stuck here. What’s he got to be on edge about?

‘Hey, man,’ I say, stifling a yawn. ‘What’s up?’

‘Listen, I phoned because something weird is happening in Cape Town,’ he says.

‘People are arriving to events on time?’ I say.

‘Funny,’ he says. ‘No. It’s … I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s like a feeling, something in the air. It feels wrong.’

‘OK, Sherlock Holmes,’ I say. ‘Step away from the paranoia.’

‘I’m telling you,’ he says. ‘There’s something off.’

‘Dude,’ I say. ‘There’s nothing off in Cape Town. Seriously, don’t worry about it.’

‘Oh well, if the Amazing Zevcenko says so, then I guess it must be true. Stupid me.’

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘It’s just that you don’t really have an aptitude for this kind of stuff. There’s nothing wrong with that.’

There’s a long pause.

‘You haven’t even spoken to anyone at Hexpoort about me, have you?’ he says eventually.

‘What?’ I say. ‘You’re getting all worked up and—’

‘Just answer the fucking question,’ he says. ‘Yes or no. Have you spoken to anyone about getting me in there?’

Maybe I’m just hung-over and annoyed, maybe I know that at some stage I need to tell him, or maybe I just feel bad about lying to my best friend, but I go and do it. I tell the truth.

‘No,’ I say.

There’s another silence.

‘Fuck you,’ he says eventually.

‘Kyle,’ I say. ‘I’m just trying to—’

‘No you’re not,’ he says. ‘You don’t care about what I want. You fucking go around like you’re Supreme Lord Commander—’

‘Kyle …’

‘You want to know the truth?’ he says. ‘The truth is that even when you’re trying to be good, you’re a dick.’

That hurts.

‘Please,’ I say.

‘Since we’re being truthful,’ he says, ‘Esmé has been spending way too much time with that Troy guy. You might want to look into that, Supreme Lord Commander.’

The phone goes dead.

Someone bangs on the door again. I get up, fling it open and face the pimply kid outside, who still has his fist raised. ‘What the fuck is your problem?’ I shout. He looks at me like I’m insane.

I push past him and storm down the Malpit stairs. The anger burns white-hot inside me. I’m sick of it all. I’m sick of Hexpoort, I’m sick of Kyle and his whiny bullshit, I’m sick of Esmé and this fucking Troy. I reach for Nom’s phone and dial her number.

‘Hey, magic boy,’ she says. ‘You didn’t call me last night. You said you would.’

‘Tell me about Troy,’ I say tersely.

‘What?’

‘Troy,’ I repeat. ‘Who is he? What is your relationship with him?’

‘I told you,’ she says. ‘He’s a friend, we hang out.’

‘I don’t believe you. I can’t believe you would do this to me. I fucking saved you. I save you and this is what I get.’

‘Oh, so you saved me, did you?’ she says sarcastically. ‘All hail the hero.’

Shit. This isn’t exactly going as I had hoped.

‘Wow,’ she continues. ‘Baxter Zevcenko, you take emotional blackmail to another level. May I remind you that I wouldn’t have HAD A FUCKING ARACHNID ATTACHED TO MY BRAIN STEM had it not been for the fact that some psycho had a massive occult crush on you.’

‘OK,’ I say. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just I’ve been—’

‘Let me make this easier for you.’ Her voice drips acid. ‘Remember what I said about long-distance relationships? Well, I don’t think this one is going to work. Goodbye, Baxter.’

She hangs up.

I throw it against the granite wall and it explodes in a shower of cheap plastic and electronics.

‘Fuck!’ I scream down the corridor. ‘FUCK!!!’

My screams of self-pity are cut short by a massive explosion outside. The aftershock throbs in my solar plexus. A siren begins to wail, and in the distance I can hear the
dukka-dukka-dukka
of gunfire. There’s more gunfire and it’s closer now. I begin to walk down a corridor, and then my something-bad-is-happening sense kicks into full gear and I break into a flat sprint.

I hurtle back towards the Malpit staircase and slam into a bunch of kids milling uncertainly at the bottom. ‘What’s going on?’ I shout.

‘The siren for when we’re under attack,’ says one of them, a short, stocky kid that I know from Magical Design.

‘Attack? What kind of attack?’

He shrugs. Another bunch of kids come hurtling down the stairs and I’m relieved to see Nom among them.

‘Hey.’ I grab his arm. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Don’t know,’ he says with a frown. ‘We’ve done a drill like this before. We should congregate in the courtyard. Have you got the phone I lent you? We can call Stevo.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I, um, left it somewhere. That sounds like gunfire, though. Are you sure this is a drill?’

‘Well, if this aren’t the biggest bunch of
fokken
cry babies I has ever seen.’ The Boer strides down the corridor towards us. ‘This are not a drill,’ he shouts. ‘I repeat, this are not a
fokken
drill. We are under attack.’

‘Jesus,’ Nom whispers. ‘Who would be dumb enough to attack this place?’

‘Fall into line and follow me,’ the Boer orders.

We jog down the corridors like soldiers marching. The Boer heads straight for the armoury and flings open the heavy steel door. Inside, it’s like something out of a video game. Racks and racks of guns, knives, swords, spears and halberds line the walls. The Boer begins handing out weapons. He shoves an assault rifle, a handgun and a long, ugly pig-sticking knife into my hands. I fumble with the holster, and the Boer grabs it and straps it around my waist, then slaps me on the back.

My palms are feeling clammy and the back of my throat is very, very dry. I’m getting a pretty strong WWI fighting-in-the trenches feeling about this, and I’m not incredibly keen to be cannon fodder.

‘What do we do?’ I say hoarsely.

‘Kill anything that bloody tries to kill you,’ the Boer replies. Well at least it’s not complicated.

Nom and I follow a bunch of kids into the courtyard. The Witch is on top of the wall. She has her breastplate on and her face is painted. Her falcon perches on her glove and she holds an assault rifle in the other hand.

‘Everyone up on to the walls,’ she shouts. ‘Take firing positions.’

We zigzag up the staircase to the battlements. Teachers and students are crouched down to avoid the barrage of machine-gun fire that is tearing holes in the granite. I squeeze my way in between a bunch of Pondscum kids and risk a peek over the wall.

‘Might be a training exercise,’ Stevo says nervously.

It’s an attractive thought, right up until the Pondscum kid next to me is thrown backwards by a bullet. He clutches manically at the wound in his throat, kicks a couple of times and then goes still. The blood pools at our feet.

‘Oh God,’ I say, pressing my back against the wall.

‘Return fire,’ the Witch shouts, aiming her rifle over the wall and squeezing off a burst.

I take a deep breath, expel it forcefully and then pop up and point my rifle over the edge.

Down below, a dozen black Humvees are parked in formation. Their fifty-cal turret guns are rattling and spraying the wall. I duck again without firing. This is insane. I look up and see black shapes circling above us.

‘Crows,’ I spit.

‘And golems, goblins, Kholomodumo and
narlfa
,’ Nom says.

‘It’s an army,’ I reply.

The Boer crouch-runs down the wall and stops next to us. ‘Flammables,’ he says, as he pumps another magazine into his gun. ‘If those
fokken
birdies attack, we need something to
braai
them with.’

As if on cue, the Crows start spiralling down and dive-bombing the walls. Nom and I scramble down into the courtyard.

‘Emergency generators,’ I say. ‘They must have fuel.’

We’re running across the courtyard when there’s another explosion. I get hit in the back by a piece of masonry and stumble to my knees. I kneel there on the cobblestones trying to assess how badly injured I am.

I don’t have much time to think. The explosion has opened up a hole in the wall and Kholomodumo come snarling through it, their snouts to the ground and their red eyes rolling about in their heads. One of them catches my scent and heads for me like a heat-seeking missile. I scrabble for the rifle on the strap around my neck but I fumble it. The creature’s maw is inches from my face when something slams into it and sprays me with its blood. Gigli gives me a big grin and then spins around and finishes it off. I’ve never been so happy to see that demented smile in my life.

The hole in the wall is crawling with enemies. Goblins stream through, and I brace the rifle against my shoulder, point it in their general direction and squeeze the trigger. The gun bucks against my shoulder and one of the goblins drops. Another returns fire, and I scramble backwards desperately behind the gallows. Wood splinters fly past my face as gunfire rips into it.

I glance across to the generators. I’m not fast enough to make it to them without getting shot. Gigli looks at me and then jerks his head for me to climb on to his back. I swing my leg over his body. It’s like riding a really bad-tempered, foul-smelling Luck Dragon, but I’ll take it.

With a snort, he pushes off and hurtles across the courtyard. Bullets zing around us, but we make it to the generators without being aerated. Two goblin commandos run towards us but are engaged by King, and I don’t mean in a critical discourse about the Hidden. His chubby tabby body reveals a foundation of corded muscles that ripple beneath his fur as he attacks them. A claw rips through a goblin face. The other one throws a vicious punch; King catches it in his teeth and with a shake of his head rips the hand right off. Nunda are warriors, I no longer doubt that.