The Fear (4) "You and what army?" Joey played along. Frank looked at him with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes and said, "Just me and your mom" And so the mom jokes started. Don’t think for one minute that making crude jokes about each other’s moms was unheard of for thirteen year olds. No way. You only had to utter anything vaguely insulting about the other guy’s mom to get him foaming like a rabid dog. But the gang was different. They all took the mickey out of each others mom’s, and never fought. It was all good fun, as Joey put it. "Anyone for another game?" Joey chanced his arm later on. The words hadn’t even left his mouth when the dust bombs rained down on him. He responded be jumping up, only after the money was safe, and kicking back heaps of the soft, warm dirt. "Guys! Guys!!" Timmy shouted from afar. "Spud, you’ve still got a while to go you impatient little four-eyed brat!" Joey answered. They heard the familiar patter of his feet coming along the dusty pathway. Finally he reached them, his spiky brown hair laced with fine drops of sweat. He joined the circle. Still out of breath, but his usual impatient self, he uttered, "Guys…" he panted "I found another one" An eerie silence blanketed the area. "I found this one on the edge of the forest," he said, moving his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Left index finger again. "Same thing?" Russell asked. "Yepp. Torn in half." "That’s number six then," Darryl said. "All of the dogs limbs ripped off as well?" Joey asked. "Yeah…then left tied to a tree. This one had a name tag: Chaptin." "Fucking sicko’s" Joey said shaking his head "They’re tryna scare me…I know they are," Timmy whimpered. "You sure it’s them?" Frank asked. "Course I am. Buster’s been taunting me at school about it. He said Spock was next…then me." Frank could see from the look in Timmy’s eyes that Buster had exceeded his evil self again. "Whatcha gonna do?" Frank asked "What can I do? I can’t lock Spock up night and day. Might as well kill him now and save him the pain." Tears gathered in his soft eyes as he thought about Buster’s promise. Russell said the only thing he could think of that would cheer Timmy up. "Hey! Wanna ride lightning?" "Can I?" Timmy looked surprised. "Only this one time" Lightning, Russell’s Bmx, was special. To him it was a sleek, rapid speed machine. It had two stickers of lightning bolts on the sides of the silver frame. His dad had bought it for his eighth birthday. He had used the extra cash he promised he would use on their rusty car. Russell had seen the BMX in the window of the local store a few months before, and had begged his folks for it. But times were tough, and his young mind didn’t understand the concept of paying rent and buying food. He wanted the bike. He prayed every evening to God, promising to be a good boy if only he could have it. On the morning of his birthday, he lay in bed wondering if maybe, by some luck, his dad had bought it. They came into his room, his mom with a birthday cake, his dad behind her, both singing the traditional song. He wasn’t interested in the cake. Or the song. He wanted the bike. His heart sunk when they handed him his present. Russell took the long, round gift-wrapped object from them. With heavy hands he opened the present, only to find that it was a bicycle pump. They had gotten it after all! He jumped out of bed and ran straight to the verandah, where Lightning awaited him. The feeling of touching the smooth, silver bike for the first time; his hands tingled with excitement. He pictured himself racing through the streets, avenging some crime that had been committed. It was his, forever. But at the age of thirteen, Lightning had lost its magic, and was now only a means of transport. Frank approached Timmy as he climbed onto the bike. "Hey spud, you alright?" Timmy’s temporary smile faded. "Yeah. I’m fine." "Sure?" He reinforced his answer this time with a nod of his head, his glasses wobbling slightly. "I’m fine." Frank, who was holding on to the bike, said, "You know they won’t be able to touch Spock?" "I know…but even the thought of losing him makes me cry." He continued, "Before you guys he was my only friend…I had no one else." "And he’ll stay your friend. Buster won’t harm him." "I know, but if he hadn’t been around whe–" "But he was, and will be" Frank reassured him. Timmy paused, fighting back the tears before continuing. "Whenever things get tough at school, I always know he’ll be around" "Things tough at school for you?" "I don’t mean work. I mean the older kids won’t accept me. They make me feel like I’m some kind of freak. Li–" Frank looked him in the eye "Hey! I’ve told you before, you’re the one with all the brains. They’re just jealous that you’re gonna finish two years before them." Timmy attempted to laugh. "I know…but still I ju–" "But you still have us…and Spock." "I guess that’s all that matters" "You guess? A genius like you should know…not guess!" the two of them laughed. Frank playfully punched the side of his head, and, as he gave him a push start, said, " I promise he won’t harm Spock" Timmy rode the BMX in the limited space around the fire, making strange noises with his mouth, which he said was his boost. Every now and then he would add in the irritating "Meep meep" noise, to which the others would all respond by shouting at him. To no avail. That was him imitating the roadrunner. The dogs were outside the tree house The laughter and chattering of the kids echoed through the dominant males mind. It’s all the same, his instincts told him. It was the root of the pain that had been holding his body hostage the last week. The pack had roamed from farm to farm. The small barbwire fences that ran along the borders of the farms were never designed to keep out dogs. The dogs’ had stopped greeting each other. Their characteristic chatter had been replaced with evil looks and glances. Instead of licking the dominant male and female, the rest of the pack growled at them, the hair on their backs standing on end. Although, in a fight they would stand no chance against the male. At eighty pounds he was ten pounds heavier than the rest. And the scares that ran across his face were proof of the dominance he had fought for. The respect had been earned. But that respect was now seeping away as the virus spread… "So now, lads…" Frank said as he put the first piece of meat on the fire. The steak sizzled as it made contact with the searing grill. The faint, sweet aroma tugged at their stomachs as they sat on empty tins around the fire. The sun was setting, showering the farmland with a golden light from the west. The air was cool. "The question is- what to do this weekend?" he asked. "That’s easy," Joey said, " the rugby’s on TV. Why don’t we all watch it at my place?" "Or we coul –" Russell was interrupted by the sound of them. They heard them howling as their car raced passed on the road. "HEEEHAAA!!!" the voice boomed from the main road. The unmistakable evil tone of them. The dogs approached the pathway leading to the kids. They wanted- no, needed- to get to the sound. There was only one escape route for the kids, unless they ran through the thick thorn trees. Otherwise, they could hide in the tree house. That is, of course, if they had the time… The dominant male sniffed the air. His nose picked up the scent of the meat. The smell made his sick, and his stomach twisted like a snake inside of him. It brought back the angry feelings. And he knew that wherever the feelings were, thirst followed. The thirst had been getting worse. It raged like a forest fire through him at night, ten times stronger during the day. His eyes were sunken, hollow and bloodshot. Bags of fatigue lined the eyelids. Thick, foamy saliva clung to the edges of his lips. He walked forward. But the sound of Buster’s car stopped him. The roaring engine made him shudder. His bubble of rage burst, and he flung himself forward, sinking his sharp teeth into the branch of a thorn tree. The other dogs watched with distant eyes. They themselves felt like exploding. The dominant male carried on biting away, growling in a sadistic tone. Small thorns ripped through the flesh around his mouth. Blood mixed with saliva. He stopped, chest heaving, and turned to the other dogs. The male’s mouth was fixed in a snarl, his yellow teeth covered in blood. The other dogs’ backed away, and headed to the right, towards the woods. The dominant male followed, his snout throbbing with its own pulse. "Think that was them?" Russell asked after a while. "For sure. No one else would drive like that." Joey answered. "Besides," Darryl said, "I’d know the roar of that Ford Cortina anywhere". "Don’t worry. They’re heading off to his farm. We’ll be alright here." Frank said. It was too late though. The look of fear had returned to Timmy’s face. The mention of Buster’s name was enough, the mere thought of his prophetic promise- too much. Joey looked over at Timmy, "Hey spud! Why does Spock lick his arse?" With a bemused look on his face, he answered "I dunno…why?" "Cause he knows that five minutes later he’ll be licking your face!!" "Ahh you sick fuck!" They shouted and laughed, chucking handfuls of dust at him. Joey carried on with the jokes. It took a while, but it worked. And first he got a slight giggle out of Timmy, then full-out laughter. Timmy almost fell off his seat he laughed so loud. The gang hadn’t always been the five of them. For a brief period, they had been six. Two years before, Timmy’s dad, Brian, had worked for Buster’s dad, Oscar Verensky. Brian Bellefonte’s farm was small, and they needed the extra money. Timmy frequently made the short trip to the farm next door to visit his dad. That’s where he stumbled across Lucas Mabanwhe, the son of one of Oscar’s farm laborers. The two bonded in days. Brian had taught Timmy that all people- regardless of race or creed- were equal, and that apartheid, was wrong. "Only the color of their skin is different, son," he had told Timmy. Timmy had looked into the matter, searching in all his science books for differences. He found that all races have inherited traits, skin pigmentation being one of them. Otherwise; human blood, human hair, human teeth. "Why then," he asked his dad, "do we treat them like animals?" Brian hadn’t been able to answer the question that so many had asked before. But he was glad that Timmy and Lucas were friends. Timmy had begun to teach Lucas to read, and Lucas had taught Timmy to play football. And after two months, Timmy decided it was time for Lucas to join the gang… On a sunny Friday afternoon, Timmy arrived with Lucas. Joey, Frank and Darryl were playing cards around the fire. The minute Lucas walked into the ring, silence gained control. The three boys stared at the small black kid in front of them, his hair frizzy and dirty. Lucas was wearing a pair of torn blue shorts, and a faded black t-shirt, which sported three large holes. His chapped feet were caked with mud, his breathing was rushed, and his eyes darted around nervously. "Guys…" Timmy said, " This is Lucas…he’s a good football player" No one said anything. Lucas stood with his hands behind his back. Sweat glistened on his brow. Timmy continued, "He’ll beat anyone in football…" Darryl’s eyes sparkled. "Is that so?" he said raising his eyebrows at Lucas, " we’ll see about that" Timmy walked back to the entrance, and took out the ball they had left there. The ball had lost most of its leather patches, and was half deflated. Joey and Frank marked out a small field in the dust. Russell made goalposts using four empty coke cans. Darryl and Lucas squared up. Darryl had never played football, but had the basic ball sense, and an indomitable will. Lucas, on the other hand, had a killer left foot, and had been raised on the game. Clouds of dust rose up from the makeshift field as the two kids elbowed, pushed, shoved, and sidestepped each other. Darryl huffed and puffed, his face fixed in a snarl, the four spectators shouted and waved their arms around…the final score was 10-1, to Lucas. After the last goal, Darryl stood, hands on knees, black hair drenched in sweat, face puffy and red. Dust, along with defeat, lined his lips. He walked over to Lucas. The others watched, expecting to see a fight break out. The area was silent but for the crickets. Darryl stood in front of Lucas, and started to raise his right hand. Lucas instinctively pulled his head back. Darryl held his hand out, not to strike Lucas, but to shake his hand. He wasn’t angry. He had lost to the better player. After shaking hands, Darryl put his left arm around Lucas, "Timmy," he said, "this kid can play. Man, you got a killer left foot" "Lefty," Timmy said, "that’ll be your nickname, Lefty!" And so, Lucas "Lefty" Mabanwhe was accepted into the Wanderers gang. He joined the Friday meetings, taught the rules of football to them, and progressed well with his reading. Then a year back, Lucas’s body was found, mutilated and decapitated. It had stunned them, and the meetings took a few months to get back to normal. They didn’t like talking about it. He had been the only other member of the gang. But with no Lucas, and as the lazy sun set on the Wanderers gang house; Timmy, Joey, Frank, Darryl and Russell sat roasting marshmallows Joey had acquired, and talking about the big one that got away. About the same time the dogs entered the forest, David "Swifty" Moekwena was on his knees, setting a snare in the open field, near the forest. The field was quiet and peaceful. The air humid. Sweat raced down his face. His pulse beat faster with each passing second. The sun bolted for his dark blue overall, stinging his skin. He felt constricted, wanted to rip off the clothes. If his boss, Oscar Verensky, caught him…he breathed in, and relaxed. His dad had taught him that the white man was evil. And whenever possible, take from him what you can. David had been working on the Verensky farm for two years. He had been present when the body of Lucas was found, and he was one of the workers who had protested. His hands added the final touches to the trap. He was always the one to offload the game after Oscar had been hunting. For months he had fantasized about catching one himself. But he knew the penalty for poaching from the boss. Hopefully he could snare a small kudu. That would feed his family far better than the measly food they received from Verensky. His nose began to run, as it always did when he was nervous, and he wiped it with the backside of his right hand. He got to his feet, and looked around. Phantom noises rushed into his mind. His heart beat in his ears, his mind told him the boss was near. Run, it told him. Run now and don’t stop. Otherwise the same fate as Lucas’s will befall you. He did the ritual his mom had taught him from a young age; closed his eyes, inhaled a deep breath, kept it inside his lungs for a few seconds, and exhaled. Then turned around and surveyed the area. Nothing in sight. Just his imagination. His mom had told him that whenever his mind played tricks on him, to do the routine, and everything would be fine. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them in anticipation as he thought about the buck he would soon be eating. Monday, he made a mental note, I’ll check on my prey. But little did David know, that when he returned, he would be the prey… That Friday night, while in bed, Russell though about Darryl and the incident in the shop. It hadn’t changed the way he regarded him, more the way he regarded himself. It was fine for Darryl to steal. No one ever suspected him. But for Russell, things were different. He never harbored the big dreams of Joey. He didn’t want millions, and was happy the way things were. Although poor, his parents gave him everything he needed. Not wanted. He had higher ambitions than managing the local gas station of course, but to him living was what mattered. Enjoying life. Not selling your share off to satan for a few bucks. Yet his life felt like a movie. One he was watching, and had no control over. It was as though every thing was planned out. Like every time he walked past the gas station, the manager, old mister Thompson, was eyeing out his height, weight, and size, trying to predict what size outfit he would need when he started after school- or jail- which ever came first. And today was just another step in Russell Carsten’s life long journey towards the role of gas station manager and alcoholic father with ten kids. Stereotyped to the last tee. He had heard old mister Thompson’s voice in his mind, saying, "That’s right boy, you go and steal now. I’ll keep one of them uniforms for ya!" Soon Russell drifted off into sleep. That night he dreamt about working in the local supermarket. The kids spent the Saturday watching the rugby over at Joey’s house. Transvaal was playing Natal in the Currie cup, the national first class competition. The game had a religious following. Each time Transvaal, or the red lions as they were called, scored; spontaneous cheers erupted throughout the neighborhood. Even Joey’s dad moved ever so slightly. Adrenalin surged through Russell’s body as he sat with them watching the game. Emotions running high, the team neared the try line- all five sets of eyes glued to the small box. Hearts pounding with fear when the opposition attacked. Brilliant. Somehow though, whenever Russell watched the game on his own, it battled to stir the slightest emotions, let alone get his pulse racing. It just wasn’t the same. The lions won, and, high on emotion, they decided to finish the afternoon off with a game of touch rugby in Joey’s dusty front garden. Frank and Russell took on Darryl, Joey and Timmy. These games were hard fought and serious. Winning was all that mattered. After a while, the scores were level at nine all. "Black ball point?" Russell asked. A mass of dust hung in the air. Sweat raced down their brows, their chests heaved up and down. "Alright then," Darryl agreed. Black ball point meant that whoever scored next, won. Russell and Frank had scored last, so they kicked off, sending the ball deep. Darryl caught the ball, one handed, and charged at Frank, then at the last minute swerved to his right and passed to Joey on his outside. Russell saw the move, and ran around Frank. Joey kicked up small clouds of dust, his legs imitating the roadrunner. He shouted "YESSIRREE!!!", not seeing Russell, who caught him. Joey attempted to pass back to Darryl, but Frank intercepted, and before Darryl or Timmy could touch him, passed to Russell. He was open. Joey had taken a while to stop, and was five meters behind. Joey gave up, but not Darryl. He stayed behind Russell, face aching from effort, running till the end. Russell heard him gasping for air, but stopping was out of the question. Didn’t make any difference though, and the score was 9-10. They finished, legs covered in a layer of dust up to their knees, and hair drenched in sweat. But happy. Darryl was not pleased. After gulping down a few glasses of water, they said goodbye and headed home. Frank and Russell lived nearby, and headed off together. The ride back took about five minutes, Russell on Lightning, and Frank on the modified bike he had built from scrap pieces the holidays before. Russell still couldn’t believe he had turned the pile of rubbish into a bicycle. It took him three weeks, but Russell had never seen him in a better mood. Whenever he works, he gets transformed, and nothing else matters. Russell once asked him why he does it. He shrugged his shoulders, and said, "Dunno, suppose I enjoy fixing stuff…" Saturday afternoon would be the last for the young buck. It wandered through the open field of the Verensky farm, oblivious to two dangers; one was the trap set by David, the other was the pack of wild dogs stalking it. It nibbled at the grass, wandering along, sniffing the slight breeze. The field was unnaturally quiet. The buck listened for danger. It heard nothing, and took a step in the wrong direction. SNAP! The rusty jaws of the trap thudded shut. Pain flashed across its soft eyes. Before it even had time to look down, the pack reached it…
Copyright © 2001 David Rama |