Still wanted dead

Short Story Dedani Nkala
THE founders of the church desperately wanted her dead. The “book” that was still in her possession had to be found before it fell into the wrong hands and expose the church’s secrets.

What began as a routine safety operation by the detectives to protect Chiedza by relocating her to another hide-out was turning out to be disastrous.

For suddenly, there was another deafening blast. This time the gunshot was accompanied by an explosion. The rear wheel of the black metallic Audi had been hit. With all his experience, he struggled with the steering wheel to keep the car running on the road. The tyres screeched and screamed against the wet tarmac. He was failing to control it. Besides he had been driving above the recommended speed limit to keep a distance between themselves and the elusive gun-man. His job was to ensure Chiedza was safe.

Now he had a split-second decision to make. He withdrew his massive foot from the accelerator pedal and permitted fate to take its course. But he jammed on the brake pedal. The car swung. First, it was to its left; he steered to steady it. Then it lost control to its right. This time it swerved off the road and there was the sudden bang as it ramped into a pylon knocking it down. It skidded sideways for a couple of metres before overturning and rolling over several times before halting on all fours. As it diced, fierce sparks emanated from the electrical pylon. Finally it got telescoped to a wreck of useless metal. This took place in a twinkle of any eye and it seemed everything was slowing down.

Instantly Chiedza screamed her lungs out and blackened out.

Detective Hoko fought for his breath as blood welled down his nose and mouth. He was drowning in excruciating pain. In front of him dark clouds of smoke were building up and whooshing into his lungs and suffocating him. Spits of fuel trickled, and the car began to blaze fiercely. As he nicodemously turned, shock paralysed him. Where Chiedza sat, massive tongues of flame had replaced her . . . and the passenger’s door was ajar. Sweat popped out like mulberries and trailed down his armpits. His heart pulsated. He could almost hear it in his chest. It beat very hard as though an electrical kettle had replaced it.

A buzzing sound filled his ears. He jerked against the wreck of the door with his elbow. The door wouldn’t budge. Then he felt the heat from the inferno through his shoes. Fire was quickly eating towards him. He shoved once again with all his might, and somehow the door opened easily as though nothing had happened. He took a deep breath, undid the safety belt and rolled out onto the wet tarmac.

Hulk clouds drifted heavily in the heavens, gliding the passage of stars. Lightning flashed. Like little peddles dropping, rain fell.

Straining his eyes unavailingly into the utter darkness of the night, he saw the movement. He was still after them and armed.

The gunman had a lot of cleaning up to do. He had to finish up what he had started. After all, he had been paid handsomely to find the “book” and kill her.

Detective Hoko had to think and act fast. On all fours, he crabbed away from the burning vehicle. Sweat and rain soaked him to the core. As he struggled in pain, he pulled out his shotgun, and a click sounded as he cocked it.

“You surely don’t want to use it, Detective!” boomed a male voice as a matchstick struck.

A knot tightened below his navel. Detective Hoko stopped abruptly and anger flashed in his eyes.

Standing before him was a goliath-of-a-man; strong and big. He was in an outrageous outfit consisting of a massive dark trench coat — collar turned up. Perched on his head was a huge hat. He was like the wrestler — The Undertaker. Under the match light, Hoko had noticed that the gunman had snake eyes, and the look in them was like death itself. He was finished. A cold stirred in his bowels.

The detective coughed out blood and spit. Using the back of his hand, he wiped his mouth.

“You’re finished,” the man remarked. “Just give me the book, and I will let you live.”

Taking goose steps, he pointed a shot gun at Detective Hoko.

Hoko snapped, “You are not having it. Not without a fight.”

“Oh,” he cried, “so you want to fight me? You think you are kind of John Rambo? Okay, get up and be the man, and fight me. Come on, get up.”

Detective Hoko slowly rose to his feet with difficulties. His legs gave in like jelly. He found himself on the ground like Pinocchio who initially failed to stand on his wooden feet.

“Are you going to stand up and fight?” he mocked him; his python eyes watching him speculatively. “Do you have the book, anyway?”

“Of course I have it,” Detective Hoko pointed out.

In lightning speed, Jack had taken long strides kicked off the gun from the detective’s hand. “You’re lying, and just buying time.” He picked the other gun. “And where is the girl?” Now he had the detective’s gun pointed at Hoko.

Hoko grinned and winced in pain.

Suddenly there was a blast. It was the sound of a gun and the odour of gun powder filled the air. He had raised the gun and fired. He fired again. And the result? The bullet shattered Hoko’s forehead. Jack smiled and strolled towards the blazing Audi.

Then there was another powerful explosion that sent the earth trembling. The remains of the car burst and shot into the air like fire crackers.

On the other hand, somewhere in the dark, Chiedza’s chest rose and fell. She was breathing. As pain shot through her left arm, she applied pressure on the arm and she felt blood stick in between her fingers. She was bleeding off from the bullet wound she had received earlier on at the hotel’s parking lot.

She rose to her feet, disoriented for a second.

She picked herself up and zigzagged, side stepping and pushing through bushes. Suddenly leaves rustled from behind. She came to a halt, heart thumped, a cold chill trickled down her spine. She froze. Slowly she turned and strained her eyes. Mist pocketed the forest. Her hair was gently tossed in the breeze. Her heart pounded hard. She didn’t move.

Then she caught the movement — just a few yards from where she was. She held her breath. A silhouette appeared. A man in a trench coat approached. Warm beads of sweat popped on her forehead despite the rain. She focused.

The wind howled softly.

Then the movement came into sharp focus, though a little vague, it was sharp enough to tell that it was a man. Something was glowing from his mouth; probably a cigarette. She exhaled steadily and searched for the knife from her jeans and found it.

The night stung with mildness. Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled. The ground grumbled. She stiffened and lackadaisically huddled herself up against a big tree. She made the sign of the cross.

Twigs broke and leaves rustled . . . very close to her. She held her breath. She waited; ears and eyes alert. Her heart was in her throat. Then the man looked directly towards the massive tree — she caught her breath. He held a gun in his hand.

“I know you are out there,” the man shouted. “Come out and we do a little talking.”

She didn’t move.

His eyes were searching everywhere.

“I can feel you,” the man’s voice echoed in the forest. “My name is Jack. Just do the right thing and come out and give me the book. All I want is the book.”

Still she didn’t move.

Chiedza was in possession of a scared book of “churchpreneurs”. It was an ancient leather-like book that seemed to have been made of human skin and scribbled in human blood. It listed the founders of the church and other several respected members of the church. The book contained seven secrets of a certain church. What surprised Chiedza was learning that the church was using voodoo to lure its members. In fact, all branches dotted around the globe had human skulls buried in their foundations.

The other secret was that most of its church members held powerful and influential posts in most of “offices”. Every year its powerful members, called Elders, meet at a secret base between September and January to harvest human blood to keep the church going and riches afloat . . .

“You can run, but you cannot hide,” Jack said; bringing Chiedza back to the present.

Indeed Chiedza knew too much. No wonder the founders of the church wanted her dead. She had to pay the price for being in possession of a book that she accidently took with her home after being offered a lift by one of the church-leaders who happened to have a similar handbag with hers.

But would Jack risk putting a bullet through her without the book?

“I am not running,” Chiedza staggered from the shadows of darkness into view. “I don’t have the book,” she groaned in pain.

Jack grinned, and slowly raised his gun and fired . . .

The rain continued to pour with no remorse.