The Fear (1) CHAPTER ONE The beginning is the most important part of the work (Plato) Fear is the main source of superstition, and one of the main sources of cruelty. To conquer fear is the beginning of wisdom (Bertrand Russell.) The things that we’re afraid of, get to show us what we’re made of. (Blessed union of souls) The nightmare- that claimed eight lives, and left four wounded- started on Friday the 18th of March 1980, on a cloudless, windless day. Jaap Vorster’s Landrover pounded along the lengthy dirt road, parting the sand as Moses had the Red sea. The midday sun beat down as he drove along the border of the Umvunto Game Reserve. "I’ll show them!" He muttered to himself. Waves of dust crashed onto the desolate farmland. Umvunto was situated thirty miles outside of Marble Hall, a small farming town. His head bobbed around. He closed the window, lifted his right leg, winced, and farted. The smell lingered as he inhaled it. He held his breath for a few seconds, then exhaled. A toothless smile crept over his unshaven face. "Flatulence, son…" his dad always said, beer clutched in right hand, "…is manly" I’ll take the job Ben offered me, he thought to himself. Yeah, take it, and then tell them to…the Landrover went over a large bump, his head crashed into the rooftop. "FUCKSAKES!" he said as he came down. His greasy hands slid over the steering wheel. Outside the temperature was approaching a record high. The farmland looked the same; covered in ankle high, khaki-brown, comatose grass; with thorn trees and bushes scattered around. To the left of the road a twenty-foot high fence ran, and to the right, Johan Smith’s farm. Jaap’s right forearm began to itch. He kept on driving, leant forward, and used his stubble to scratch it. He was out to do the routine check-up on the large fence of the reserve. They had to do these checks everyday, even though the most dangerous animals the park kept were wild dogs’. Jaap thought about the double brandies and coke he should have been consuming. "No…" he shook his head and sighed, "…that’s it. Today’s my last day!" He had been called in when the other maintenance man, Fred Nichols, phoned in sick. Stomach flu apparently. "I’ll take whatever Ben offers…anything but this!" he slammed his right palm down on the steering wheel. Heat waves rose from the ground. He was supposed to circle the game park doing ten miles an hour. That way, if he spotted any holes, he could stop and fix them. Or as his much-hated boss always said when the jobs heaped up- " Don’t despair Japie…repair!" But he was doing fifty. He threw fleeting glances the way of the fence. "That’s what I’ll do, I’ll quit today. Then we’ll see them jump around me." He grunted and laughed at the same time. His head twitched back, his Adam’s apple jerked up and down. Jaap Vorster never saw the hole in the fence. Two poachers had made it the previous night. Had he seen it, he wouldn’t have stopped. He was going to return, and say everything was fine. Then quit. The dust cloud his Landrover left crawled through the hole, in much the same fashion the wild dogs had crawled out a few minutes before. Had Jaap stopped, seven pairs of beady eyes would have been fixed on him from the surrounding bushes. Even if he had known of the dogs escape he wouldn’t have cared. Today was after all his last day. But somewhere between then and base camp, the thought of quitting leaked out of his uneducated mind, like water out a broken bottle. Maybe the increased brandy prices had something to do with it. Perhaps the repayments on his car. But the fact remains; he didn’t do his job. The dogs’ were out. Had he reported it, Charl Robertse would have been contacted. He was in charge of the dogs’. And unless something happened- like a hole in the fence- Charl only checked up on the dogs every six weeks. He had done the check up the day before. It would be six weeks before anyone noticed the dogs were missing. The following extract has been used with the permission of Marble Hall’s local newspaper, THE DALLER. Dated February 12th, 1980- …from there the dog made its way to the chicken enclosure- which had been left open- and mauled two of the birds, before the local veterinarian, Kobus Gouws- together with two police officers- shot the animal. The Border collie’s head was removed, and further tests confirmed Kobus’s fear. He said, " The dog was in the furious stage of rabies. We have no idea how many other animals it infected. I only hope this farm animal never came into contact with wild animals." Kobus explained that the virus-, which spreads through the nerves towards the brain-, has three main stages. The first phase, known as the prodromal stage, lasts two to three days. Symptoms include anxiety, solitude, nervousness, fever and thirst. The animal will bite at the infected wound. The second phase, the furious stage, lasts up to a week. Animals become restless, irritable, and hyper responsive to audio and visual stimuli. Vicious attacks on inanimate objects have been noted. The final phase, the paralytic stage, last up to four days. The muscles in the throat and face become affected, with foaming at the mouth. Coma, and death, follows. Unpleasent? Kobus urged all those who haven’t had their pets inoculated, to do so without delay. And as if the virus wasn’t enough, Africanized honeybees, or "killer bees", have been spotted. The experts warned that the bees aren’t usually killers, but can- if provoked- be lethal. They offered this simple advise to anyone unlucky enough to encounter them: run. As fast as you can. The average human can outrun them, and the bees give up after half a mile or so. And in another case of the…. The dominant female lay on her side while the five wild dogs licked and nibbled her in a grooming ritual. In front of them, the dominant male stood; his eighty-pound, muscular frame frozen, his snout in the air. A series of high-pitched, chittery noises shot around the dusty area as the dogs talked to each other. The male hadn’t moved. His white-tipped, long tail formed a straight line with his back. The early morning sun cascaded off his black-patched golden coat. His large ears were pinned in the air; his right paw in front of the other. He had stopped in motion. His beady brown eyes had spotted something wandering around the farmland they were hiding in. He had spotted Bessie. The female jumped up, and joined him. The pack hadn’t eaten in days. Their razor-sharp teeth ached with anticipation. They sniffed the air; their jaws throbbed. Hunger pains shot through their bodies like a series of electrical shocks. They exploded into action; their long legs kicking up small clouds of dust, carrying them towards Bessie… Bessie had been wandering for two days. If her owner, Johan Smith had been home, he would have been looking for her. But Johan and his family were sipping drinks on the shores of Durban’s beaches, ten hours away. Bessie belonged to Johan’s twelve-year-old son, Hennie. He had been present at her birth five months earlier. Johan had seen him cry when the vet had said she might not make it. But she had, and since then, Bessie was the first thing in the morning Hennie spoke about, and the last thing at night. Johan and his wife had become worried, and he had told Hennie that if they sold Bessie, Hennie would have enough money to by a motorbike. That had brought a smile to his face. But then his older brother, Lourens, had told him what happens to cows after they are sold. That had sent him into shock, and the subject was never mentioned again. Bessie staggered around the dry landscape. None of the farmers in the area farmed cattle. Wheat, cabbage, corn and tomatoes were the main produces. The hot, humid climate meant that cattle were kept only for the occasional barbecue, or for milk. Had she stayed around the house, she would have been safe. There she had all the food and water required. But Bessie had had a run-in with a rabid dog four weeks earlier, and was in the furious stage of rabies. She had roamed six miles. Her left upper leg revealed the bite, and she had chewed away most of the flesh as she passed through the prodomal stage of rabies. Thick, bottle green flies stuck like chewing gum to the bite wound. She swayed from side to side. The water trough had made her run. After the pain, thirst exploded inside of her. The sight of water made her sick and unhappy. Her instincts told her to leave the place, then the pain would die down. Her throat ached, and felt swollen; each time she swallowed, it felt like a thousand pins shot into her tender flesh. Her mouth was dry, her eyes bloodshot. Even without rabies, Bessie wouldn’t have stood a chance against the pack of wild dogs. As they neared her, she never heard them. She was hours away from the paralytic stage of rabies… The dominant male wondered why the cow carried on towards them, staggering from side to side. The thoughts were overrun by the dog’s killer-instincts. They reached Bessie, and formed a circle around her. Their cautious eyes studied her. Deep, guttural growls echoed. Bessie carried on forward, unaware. The male rushed, and embedded his teeth into Bessie’s stomach. Another dog latched on. To Bessie it felt as though the contents of a fire had been thrown over her. The dogs’ worked away like a molded unit; each one biting, and tearing. Biting, tearing. Bessie was disemboweled. She staggered forward, tumbled over, and fell on her side. Freckles of blood sprayed on her throat. Her lifeless brown eyes stared straight ahead. The sound of flesh tearing filled the area. The scent of blood dampened the air. The pack was on the outskirts of Marble Hall. Bessie would be the last meal they ate without the rabies virus inside of them. CHAPTER TWO Everybody is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody. (Anon) Gotta learn to keep those ghosts away, buy them all a one-way ticket on a flight to neverland. (Blessed union of souls) Five weeks later, on the Friday morning, April 22nd, seventeen-year-old Buster Verensky awoke feeling like he had had the mother of all parties; as though his brain had swollen to twice its size. It pushed out against his skull like an airbag in a crushed car. Powerful magnets seemed to suck his eyes back through their sockets. His tongue grated against his palate, his muscles protested to sudden movements. Not a single drop of alcohol had touched his lips. He had come to hate sleep since – (I am not a bad person. He deserved it.) – the dreams started. At first he didn’t remember the dreams. But lately they had become more vivid and haunting. Later that day, skinny thirteen-year-old Russell Carsten arrived home. Russell lived in a run-down, two bed-roomed house in Penina Street. It wasn’t a bad place, just required fixing-up. But Russell had never seen the owner. The faded white walls were in desperate need of new paint. Along the sides, thick, vertical cracks ran, a combination of moisture and heat. A four-foot wire fence closed off the back garden. Russell’s dad always played cricket with him there, but he was never any good at it. A dusty driveway extended to the right of the house, with a neat garden in front. His mom spent what little free time she had keeping it that way, said it helped her relax. Red and white roses formed a semi-circle in the far left corner of the garden, right above the beehive in the roof. The bees had delivered so many stings; Russell had grown used to the pain. His dad always said, "I’ll take care of it myself…save us some money." That day never arrived. He rushed inside, changed out of his sweaty school clothes, and headed back to the road. "Be careful now Russ!" his mom popped out from behind a bunch of white roses, kitted in her usual attire: light blue round hat with white flower patterns, and cheap yellow plastic gloves. They stopped her hands from chapping. "Jeez ma, I’m only going to the tree house!" "Yeah I know. But I’ve told you before I don’t like you going there. Honestly, Russ, you and that gang. I don’t suppose you’ve eaten anything, huh?" she said, scratching the bottom of her nose with the back of her hand. "Aw ma, I’ll be alright," he said. Wind rustled through his scruffy blonde hair. "I want you back before dark. You hear me mister?" "Yeah yeah". Russell pushed his silver BMX passed their rusty, green Chevrolet. His dad was fixing the broken exhaust, again. They had nicknamed it Titanic; it was just so damn big. Russell liked the exhaust; he could hear them before seeing them. "Bye Russ!" his dad’s coarse voice boomed out from under the car. "Bye dad, see you later." His dad coughed. The same violent, consuming cough as always. It reminded Russell of a baseball pitcher: he winds up, gathering all his strength to deliver one almighty pitch. The same with the cough. It started in the depths of his dad’s lungs, winding all the way up and out. "Never smoke son…stuff’ll kill ya," his dad always warned him. The Carsten’s were surrounded by lavish, expensive houses on all sides. That made the contrast more noticeable. Yet the neighbors always tried their best to help out. Like the time his dad lost his job. That was just before he started his own radio repair business. Russell remembers his parents arguing about money a lot. That was when his mom needed her tablets more than ever. Russell recalls hearing the doorbell ring one day, only to find a load of groceries outside the front door. No one ever said who it was…but he had his hunches. 1980 was the year the temperature records tumbled as the heat soared to unknown heights. The humidity was the worst: it followed you wherever you sought refuge, entwined itself around your body, and wrung out every drop of fluid. If it hadn’t been for the various deals with the ice-cream vendors, Russell would have frizzled away like Dracula when the sun catches him. It wasn’t the vendors in cars, but rather the one’s that came around on the modified bicycles, ringing those dreadful bells. What kind of deals? Well, Darryl Henderson and himself used to nick the uncollected radio’s that Russell’s dad kept in the garage. Russell wasn’t keen on it. Darryl persuaded him, "Your dad has so many…he won’t notice" the little devil said. They got ten ice creams for a radio, and fifteen for one with a tape deck. Russell loved the condense milk ones, and Darryl the passion fruit flavour. They explained to the vendors not to take the same radios to Russell’s dad’s store for repairs. Yet there had to be one idiot in the bunch that landed up in front of his father, stolen radio and all. Then Frank Watkins- who would have nothing to do with the radio’s- and Russell used to repair their carts for them. Sometimes a flat tyre, other times the ball bearings needed greasing. Standard rate of two lollies for a flat, and four for greasing the bearings. Although the one time Joey Anderson bargained them to five. Only the well off could afford a swimming pool. So Russell, Joey and Frank had to rely on good’ol hosepipe to cool down. Darryl had a swimming pool, but his mom didn’t want the others round. Russell hated using their hosepipe. It ran underneath thick, shady trees. When the water hit him, it seized hold of him, turning his lips pale blue, shrinking his balls, and leaving him shaking. The sound of his shivering teeth similar to the noise of prisoners clunking their empty tin cups against the railings. Darryl Henderson’s footsteps echoed through the unearthly-quiet, double-storey mansion as he walked along the solid marble floor. He winced, as he always did, the floor feeling hard and cold to him; void of any warmth. Various paintings by unknown artists adorned the white stucco walls. Darryl glanced at them, shook his head. His black hair dangled over his forehead. The paintings were his – (I ain’t no expert, but I know shit when I see it) – mom’s choice. He walked down the winding steps towards the entrance hall. Darryl was the only child of Hugo and Sue Henderson. Sue had said Darryl had been such a difficult child; she would never go through the hell again. "One of his kind is already one too many" she told her husband. Darryl spotted his mom, next to the front door, glancing at herself in the mirror. She turned this way, then that way, stroking her neat, brown hair, then touching her bony face, keeping her beady eyes glued to her. "Darryl!" she said, jumping up straight, thrusting her hands on her dress. "You startled me" "You look fine maam," he said, reaching the bottom. "Darryl," She blushed, "I wasn’t looking at myself in the mirror…just checking if my dress was straight" "I finished my homework" "Properly I hope," she said, raising her left eyebrow at him, "I’ve told you before," she wagged her thin finger at him, " no son of mine will get B’s. Straight A’s for you young man," she nodded her head once, "straight A’s" "Yeah yeah" he said. "Darryl, I don’t like your tone young man!" "Sorry maam," he bowed his head, " I’m going to get ready. Will you call me when my friends arrive?" "Huh," she winced, dropping her shoulders, " honestly son, I don’t why you hang out with those paupers. No good will come of it." He ignored her, as always, and headed back up the stairs. Sue Henderson turned to the mirror again. Frank Watkins’s tall, lanky frame bent over, and his golden blonde hair fell forward. "One bottle of red wine, half a bottle of brandy and twelve bottles of beer," he said, chucking the empty bottles into a black bag, " that’s a record, even for you dad" He stood up, stretched his back, and looked around the dirty lounge. Sunlight filtered through the dark curtains, exposing layers of dust. His heart sunk. He shook his head, and walked towards to the kitchen. On the way, he spotted the wooden ashtray, stopped, and placed it back on the glass coffee table. He smiled as he thought about the day he and his dad made it. The ashtray was his first ever creation with his hands. Since then, he had made far greater things, but that first time was special. At least, it had started out that way. His dad had watched, beer in hand, and told him what to do. He remembers seeing the empty cans heap up. His heart beat a little faster. His hands started to sweat. "No goddamit," his dad shouted, "use the other saw. That’s not for wood!" Frank knew it was danger time.
Copyright © 2001 David Rama |