Muti Nation (15 page)

The twinkling of weakness blinds him to the trap he’s walked straight into, there at the thorn tree.

Hope turns to pain turns to anguish as a knife is buried hilt-deep in his gut. It came out of nowhere; nowhere at all. A hand covers his mouth, muffling his scream before he could even think of making a sound. The blade tears through his flesh, centimetre by agonising centimetre, spilling blood and viscera across Abraham’s filthy pants and the brown grass.

“Irony aside, you were probably the best guy for the job. That’s why I voted for you,” the killer says. “Apologies, my friend, but this was always meant to be.”

With inhuman precision and speed, Abraham’s stomach is sliced open from one hip to the other. The blade leaves his body and the killer steps away to regard his dying hostage.

As intestines and organs spill out, Abaraham evacuates his bowels. He falls to his knees, unable to fight or speak or do anything except to hold his slick innards in bloodstained hands.

Shock keeps Abraham from screaming now, shock and defeat.

“What a nice view we have.” The killer kneels beside Abraham and pats his shoulder.

Abraham falls on his side, curling into the foetal position.

“It beats dying in an impersonal hospital room, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Abraham whispers. “I’ll see you in Hell.”

Abraham Amin’s killer smiles sweetly, almost saintly. “Only mortals have an afterlife, Abraham. I’m in the process of becoming a god.”

Chapter 18

Green fog billows around my feet as I walk through Menlyn Park’s deserted undercover parking lot. Gravestones rise from the invisible tarmac, in the vehicles’ allocated spaces, illuminated by the ghastly green tinge. The stark black night doesn’t mute the neon-colour. Shadows dance on walls and gravestones, following me as I aimlessly search for
something
.

I’ll know what I’m looking for when I see it, until then I’m on a treasure hunt without a map.

The gravestones come in various shapes and sizes. Some are extravagant, others plain. Here and there, there is no gravestone, only dead flowers to mark a body’s location.

This is a dream, I’m sure. I would never wear a ballgown—a black designer dress with a stifling corset and a matching black veil—in a parking lot for no reason other than to search for
something
. I also can’t read the markings on the gravestones, a sure sign that this is a dream. My search is a subconscious rendition of my conscious mind. I’m looking for the killer in real life. In my dream, however, I’m searching for some kind of lead to him or her.

The killer is male, most probably, but one can never be too sure about these things.

Nevertheless, the missing link is hidden somewhere in my subconscious, I know it. If only I can manipulate the dream, mould it into something less eerie, but I can’t. At least I don’t have anything to fear. It’s a dream.

Dreams can’t kill you… I hope.

I search one level and move to the next, and the next. I search and search, between gravestones, behind concrete pillars, in darkened corners.

Click.

“Hello,” I cry out to the empty world around me, but only an echo responds. I wait and listen for what feels like years, contemplating an escape if something decides to chase me. There isn’t a reasonable place to run. The gravestones will provide cover, though. “Hello? Is anyone there?” I try again.

Nothing. No sounds apart from my ragged breathing and pounding heart.

My search resumes.

Thick fog wafts around me, changing my skin tone from healthy pink to zombie green. I bet my red hair looks even worse in this lighting, but I can’t do anything about that. Not when I need to find whatever vital clue I think I possess to break the case. How illogical it sounds. Finding a break in the case via a dream search. Ha! How ridiculous and desperate.

Click.

I halt in my tracks. My bones are on fire; my skin icy to the touch.

The fog rolls across the pavement, tosses against the gravestones, and ripples around my frozen form. A chill crawls up my legs and thighs, runs over my torso and dances towards my spine. A breath of condensation escapes my lungs as the temperature plummets five degrees Celsius within a millisecond.

Search and you will find.

I spin around, searching—always searching. The startling sentence comes from everywhere and nowhere. Search and you will find, but I can’t find a damn thing!

Run
, it says.

I hitch up the dress and run towards the glass doors, which lead inside the mall—hope upon hope I’ll escape in the labyrinth of shops.

Hesitation seems foolish, but I throw it off by crisscrossing through the graveyard.

The thing behind me cackles and crows in delight, talons or claws clicking against the pavement as it chases me through the deserted parking lot.

Pavement turns to tiles as I approach the glass doors, where more darkness awaits. The doors slide open automatically when I reach the sensor. I sprint forward, aware of the fast approaching clicks behind me.

Once I’m through, I’m no longer in Menlyn Park. Instead, I’m standing on the platform of the Gautrain station in Hatfield. The ever-present green fog obscures the platform. Darkness still reigns over this unusual dream, even here in a different segment of my psyche. The sleek bullet-shaped train stands in the field of fog, waiting for non-existent passengers.

Click.

Terrified, I board the Gautrain without a ticket.

The doors slide shut as I survey the compartment. All it holds are human-shaped silhouettes. Faces don’t stare back at me, but from the prickles on my neck I sense someone or something watching me.

The Gautrain pulls away without a sound. The fog thickens but does not rise.

A solitary shadow figure shifts in its seat, a clear indication for me to sit. Social convention comes into play at this point.

I take the offered seat and thank the male silhouette.

He nods back and goes on with whatever it is fictitious shadow people do.

I look around the compartment, still searching. For what, I don’t know, but it’s important I find it.

An uneasy quietness fills the train as the benign shadow people sit motionless in their seats and stare into space. Outside, the black canvas of nothingness stretches on forever.

I fumble with my hands in my lap, my gaze darting around the compartment for the elusive creature. Nothing. I’m safe, for now.

If only I could wake up.

No, I need to find what I’m looking for.

The train slows down until it comes to a complete stop in the Pretoria station. Silhouettes stand and exit the Gautrain in single file. My neighbour sits tight. Nobody and nothing boards here. Soon, we’re moving again but the scenery never changes and the fog never dissipates.

“Excuse me,” I ask the shadow man beside me.

He slowly turns his attention from the window.

“Do you, perchance, know what I’m looking for?”

He shakes his head, bit by bit.

“Thank you.” Trying was worth a shot. What harm could it do?

A few minutes pass before the train rolls into the Centurion station. This time my neighbour stands up, nods my way in greeting, and exits the train along with more shadow people. Nobody boards.

The motions repeat station after station until I’m the single occupant of the Gautrain.

When the last stop comes up, Park, I decide to get off. What use is it sitting on a train that doesn’t go anywhere?

The doors slide open and I walk out, only to end up right back in the Menlyn Park parking lot where the gravestones are still enveloped in green fog, black night and utter loneliness.

Obscenities echo back in my own voice, repelled by the concrete and stone pillars.

Click.

It’s not hidden somewhere ahead, as I had hoped, but behind me. Near me.

Click.

Its breath tickles the nape of my neck. I can’t escape, even if I run.

Click.

My courage wavers. I’ve been made a fool. This hunt is over. It’s been over before it began. I know this now.

Claws wrap around my arms.

My pulse races, my hands sweat, my body does not answer my requests to run or fight.

I’m spun around to face the creature haunting my nightmare; a creature that’s neither bird nor beast. It’s a man, but not a man per se. Feathers cover his entirety. Hands and feet aren’t
hands or feet
, but claws. Shark-like teeth fill his mouth. His captivating ochre eyes stare at me with predatory malevolence.

My legs give in from fear. He keeps me upright with ease, and says without moving his lips:
What a pretty little thing you are.

He leans in until our lips almost touch. He sucks the air right out of my lungs.

My diaphragm deflates. My body aches. My lungs are burning from abuse. I’m trembling. I’m dying.

“
Stop!
” I manage weakly, looking into malicious, demonic eyes that are too close for comfort.

He doesn’t release his hold on me, but pulls away far enough so I can take a lungful of air.

“Please.”

Stop!
Please.
The creature mimics my voice effortlessly, and cackles again.

The green fog comes alive, swirling and twirling, growing as it surrounds us in a funnel. The hideous being leans closer to my ear, hot breath blowing against my neck. A single claw drags its way down my throat and plays at the edge of my corset.
Run. Hide. But know, Him watches you always.

The creature suddenly releases me and I stumble to my knees. The green fog slams into my face. I’m blinded by the neon green tinge. It chokes me with the toxicity of mustard gas. It forces its way down into my throat before settling in my lungs. Wave-like crashes deafen me as the fog searches for entry at any other viable orifices. Once, twice, thrice, the fog slams down.

I’m heavy and sluggish and there’s no escape, no matter where I turn or how much I thrash.

I stifle a whimper as I bolt upright on a strange bed in a strange room.

No.

My hands tremble as my gaze darts from corner to corner, floor to ceiling, in search of the creature that terrorised my dream.

It’s my bed in my room, and nothing’s out of its place. I inhale deeply, press my palm against my chest to calm my fluttering heartbeat, and take a few moments to gather myself.

It’s just a nightmare. It’s just a nightmare. It’s just a nightmare. I think the mantra until I’ve convinced myself I’m no longer stuck in my own mind.

Dawn trickles into my bedroom through the uncovered window. The indigo sky is being pushed into submission and a pinkish haze takes its place. Cornflower blue is hot on the dusty pinks’ heels. Soon, the sun will emerge from its slumber, cutting through the remaining darkness with magnificent oranges and sunburst yellows. A new day approaches, unaffected by the wiles and woes of mankind.

When the dream recedes into the back of my mind, I gently lift my weight off the bed and head to the kitchen barefoot.

I switch the kettle on, unarm the alarm system and unlock the door. I step outside and look out on my yard.

Apart from a single loquat tree in the corner, spilling its fruits onto the grass, there isn’t much of a view. There’s birdsong, of course, but their songs are off-key today. A bad omen, if my experiences are enough proof to go by. The breeze blowing through the valley is hardly enough to cool the sweat on my neck. Even now with sunrise barely taking root, the weather is intolerable.

Another hot day is coming. Oh joy.

I ache all over from Rochester Ramphele’s assault, but the pain reminds me I’m alive.

My cheekbone throbs were his fist had connected with my face, my left kidney feels tender to the touch, but other than the few scrapes and bruises I sustained, I’m perfectly fine. He got off way worse than I did. Mosepi texted me Ramphele’s injuries: two broken ribs, a broken nose, and seventeen stitches to his face and head. Being sued for assault is a possibility but I doubt he’d win the case if it even got to court. One can hope.

The kettle clicks off loudly, startling me. My nightmare has caused more damage than I thought. No. It’s not the nightmare making me jumpy, I decide.

I make my way back into the kitchen, wary of anything out of the ordinary. My gaze flick around the room, scanning across the dishrack where a couple of clean mugs and a plate have been left out, across the kitchen table where an empty fruit bowl sits beside the kerosene lamp I use whenever Eskom implements load-shedding, across the closed cupboards and drawers that houses a myriad of kitchenware. Nothing is out of place, yet my paranoia is not unfounded. There’s an undeniable oppressiveness in the air, a malevolent presence of some sort. I feel it prickling on the back of my neck.