Apocalypse Now Now Page 22

  My mind races up toward Devil’s Peak and blasts through the cloud covering. All around it’s misty and silent; a dense fog bank that has rolled in from the sea. Gradually the mist begins to part like theatre curtains to reveal a man quietly packing his pipe on a flat circular disc that is floating in a black sea of nothingness. He’s huge and gangly. An old wide-brimmed hat perches on top of his thick green creeper-like hair which winds and curls its way down to the floor. A mushroom grows from his forehead like a bulbous third eye and his shaggy, decomposing hands are covered in moss and lichen.

  He looks up at me and his eyes are serene and terrible. ‘Radial foguzzy serenth,’ he says, his voice warbling as he speaks, slow as erosion and warm and loamy as decaying plant matter, and it feels like a radio is being tuned in my cerebral cortex. He shakes his ancient head and dirt falls to the floor. ‘I haven’t spoken in a hundred and fifty years,’ he says finally, revealing a black tongue that’s covered with toadstools.

  ‘Are you the Devil?’ I say in awe.

  At that he laughs, a deep rumbling boom that shakes my bones. ‘I am Van Hunks who still smokes with the Devil. I am Hoerikwaggo, the mountain in the sea. I am Adamastor and I am the spirit of the Mother City. I am the Singer of Souls. I believe we have met before, although perhaps not in this form.’ He smiles and lights his pipe.

  ‘You?’ I say, remembering the one-eyed guitar player at the canal.

  ‘Two Sieners climb the mountain of time to meet me. They cannot see each other but I speak to them both.’

  ‘You?’ I say. Luamita’s necklace had allowed me to escape the magistrate house easily. I’d simply concentrated, let my mind become still and then focused on a form that would help me to get away. I became a sailor; a thick-necked, hairy man with dark hair and a beard. It had been so very, very strange to be a man that I had just stood there for a moment marvelling at the dense, sturdy and sweaty form I had assumed.

  Luamita had urged me to go, saying that the magic worked only for a short time. We had walked quickly through the streets together, people ignoring my rough appearance and shrinking away from Luamita’s. We’d made our way onto the mountain, struggling up the haphazard path until we’d found a copse where I could return my own shape.

  Back in my smaller, more frail form the going was even harder but I was used to walking for hours in the veld and I didn’t mind. Because I was free. Free from that terrible man and his evil plans. Luamita led, showing me the way through the thick underbrush until we reached a cave. ‘We can rest here,’ she said and led me into the darkness.

  ‘Big Ones!’ came a joyful squeal in Afrikaans from inside the cave and I was startled to be confronted by a boy, or, rather, half a boy. The other half of him consisted of the hindquarters of a springbok. He cantered up and down excitedly and gave Luamita an enthusiastic hug. ‘This is the boy,’ Luamita said with a smile.

  ‘You don’t have a name?’ I said, shaking his small hand. He shook his head and looked very forlorn.

  ‘I’ll call you Klipspringer,’ I said, smiling. ‘That’s what my father called me and you look like you’re very good at climbing.’

  ‘Exceptionallygoodthankyou,’ he said proudly, jutting out his chest. ‘CanIhavemypendantback?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, returning it to him. ‘You have helped me more than you can know.’

  ‘I always help Sieners,’ he said with a grin. I thought of the boy with spectacles from my dreams. So alone and afraid sometimes. ‘If you ever meet a Siener boy with spectacles will you help him?’

  He nodded. ‘Yesladyyes.’

  Luamita had urged us to continue and, saying our goodbyes to Klipspringer, we’d carried on up through the mountains, eventually reaching a cave where her family stayed. Seeing four of the glowing people without any of the concealment that Luamita was forced to use was astounding. It was like being a planet caught between numerous suns. After introducing ourselves we’d decided that there was no time to waste. I’d consumed the last of the liquid in my bottle and, once again, the world had ignited.

  ‘I am the gateway between worlds. It is to me you come to speak to those that are distant from you in space or time.’ Van Hunks folds his large hands into gestures that look like rock ’n’ roll horns and I feel something like a swirling vortex in my forehead. It spins faster and faster like a star imploding. My vision blurs and when I open my eyes I am staring at a beautiful girl. The girl of my dreams. Literally.

  We’re standing on the disc but the Singer of Souls is nowhere in sight.

  ‘Hello,’ I say awkwardly. Damn, she is very, very pretty. For a great-great-grandmother, I mean.

  ‘Hello,’ she says with a thick Afrikaans accent.

  ‘Um, I think you’re my great-great-grandmother,’ I say. Direct and straight to the point, there’s no other way to do this.

  ‘Oh,’ she says shyly.

  ‘So …’ I say. That awkward moment when you don’t know what to say to your hot great-great-grandmother when you’re standing on a cosmic disc that transcends time and space.

  ‘Yes …’ she says.

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened to you,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry about what he did to you.’ Although I’m not sure that I am. If Mirth hadn’t done what he had done then I wouldn’t exist, would I? Or would I exist, just in another form? Or would I exist in another version of this universe? I don’t really know. This time-travel stuff has always confused me.

  She holds her stomach protectively. ‘I’ll have Klara,’ she says. ‘I’m not sorry about that.’

  I think of Grandpa Zev and the picture in his room. Klara, his mother. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You will.’

  ‘You need to destroy the vehicles,’ she says. ‘It is beyond me now.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can either,’ I say.

  ‘You can,’ she says. ‘You must.’

  I look at the boy in front of me and I want to cry. I can see my father in him, the shape of his face, the brow, and in those eyes behind the spectacles. They are confused eyes, but kind. Good eyes.

  ‘You are a good person,’ I say. ‘I can see that.’

  He laughs unpleasantly and looks at his feet. ‘You’re probably the only person who thinks so.’

  ‘I am proud of you,’ I say. ‘I am proud that I am connected to you.’ He looks up at me. ‘I promised my father I would destroy the vehicles,’ I say. ‘But I have failed. I need you to promise me, your great-great-grandmother, that you will destroy them.’

  His face is pained and his eyes confused but he gives a short nod. ‘I promise,’ he says.

  Just like that she is gone and the Singer of Souls coalesces in the smoke once more. He waves his hand and the smoke from his pipe begins to rise and dance in the air. The smoke is everywhere, weaving itself together like the threads of a huge tapestry. Whole worlds form in the air; cityscapes of huge buildings with spires and minarets dissolve into volcanoes erupting on islands to destroy ancient civilisations. I see intelligent life destroyed by robot uprisings in distant worlds.

  I see. I see dimensions collapsing in upon themselves. My sight rips into matter. I’m on the top of Table Mountain and then I’m soaring. I am the South East wind, the Cape Doctor, whipping mercilessly through the city. Every tree, every blade of grass, every molecule in existence is an extension of my awareness. I swirl above the city screaming with the agony and the ecstasy of it all. I scatter myself into a million different pieces and blow through the minds of the tiny ant-like people walking on the streets. I feel first-hand their coarse desires, their bright thoughts, their sticky emotions, their incredible beauty, their infinite shame. I draw myself together into a singular thought and scream. Hear that in your third eye, Cape Town.

  13

  ANCESTORS

  ‘WELCOME TO THE Jungle,’ a familiar voice says as I open my eyes. My head feels like it’s been kicked repeatedly. I touch my fingers to my forehead. Nothing there, thank God. I’m not exactly sure what I would have done if I had encountered an eye
on a stalk.

  We’re in a cell like the one I was in with Nigel, the monkey man. Ronin is slumped in the corner, his face a mess of dried blood, but humming the Guns ’N’ Roses tune while strumming listlessly on an air guitar.

  Tomas lies in the centre of the room covered by Ronin’s trench coat but shivering, groaning as Tone kneels next to him, trying to rouse him. The sangoma is hurt too; his suit is burnt, with some of the material stuck to seeping wounds on his chest and shoulders.

  ‘Well, here we all are,’ Tone says.

  ‘What happened to you?’ I ask. ‘Where’s Savage?’

  ‘He’s how Mirth knew we were on to him. Didn’t think he was smart enough, but Savage was working with him all along. Never trust a half-breed,’ Tone says and then gives me a small smile. ‘No offence.’

  ‘So you … know about me?’ I say.

  ‘We know you’re part Crow and part Siener,’ he says. ‘That you’re a science project Mirth has taken on.’

  ‘You’ve known all along that Mirth was after me?’ I say, standing up unsteadily.

  Tone looks at me. ‘You’re not going to like this,’ he says. ‘But I suppose you have a right to know.’

  ‘Know what?’ I say, feeling dizzy and leaning my hands on my knees.

  Tone looks across at Ronin and Ronin makes a ‘go ahead’ gesture with his hand. ‘Ronin never really left MK6,’ Tone says. ‘He and Pat have both been working as part of a shadow team to prove that Mirth had gone rogue.’

  ‘Fucking great,’ I say.

  ‘Sorry, sparky,’ Ronin says. ‘We needed to pantomime a bit to keep you out of the loop.’

  ‘Well, everybody seems to know who, what and why I am,’ I say. ‘Except me.’

  ‘We’ll tell you what we know,’ Ronin says, ‘but it’s not a whole lot. Mirth has been interested in you for a long time. We have surveillance records going back years; besides his little weapons project here you seem to be his number-one priority.’

  ‘And Esmé?’ I say.

  ‘Nothing to do with us,’ Ronin says. ‘She seems to have run off of her own accord. We just used her situation to bring you closer into our sphere of influence.’

  ‘Motherfucker,’ I say. ‘You used me.’

  ‘Yeah, well, sorry, sparky,’ he says. ‘But with Mirth so keenly interested in you we couldn’t take the chance that you’d get killed storming through the supernatural underworld on your own.’

  ‘So where’s Pat?’ I say.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Ronin replies. ‘Combed the whole facility before they caught me.’

  ‘Shit,’ I say.

  Tomas gives a small groan and his body shudders involuntarily. I give Ronin a dirty look and then kneel beside Tomas and pull the coat down a little so I can see his face. He is almost transparent. Through opaque layers of skin I can see his heart lethargically pumping the last of his translucent blood.

  ‘Hey,’ I say.

  He tries to smile but the effort causes another shudder to ripple through his body. ‘I’m dying,’ he says softly. I want to argue with him but it’s undeniable. ‘I’m going to meet my family in the land of my ancestors.’

  I nod and give him what I hope is a comforting smile. I’ve never seen anyone die before, let alone the last of an extinct species of glowing people.

  ‘I want you to take my blood,’ he says.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s OK, I don’t need it.’

  ‘If you’re going to fight him you will.’ Despite his weakness he invests the word ‘him’ with so much venom I flinch. ‘He needs you, Baxter,’ Tomas says. ‘He’s not going to let you go. The only way you’re going to escape is if you’re ahead of him, if you can see more than he does. You can’t do that alone. I know you have a struggle inside you,’ he continues hoarsely. ‘My people have always been attuned to the gift of the Sieners. I see how the Crow and the Siener inside you fight each other at every turn.’

  ‘We’re not going to kill you,’ I say. ‘We’ll take your blood if you die. Not before.’

  Tomas’s body is racked with coughing and he has to wait a few moments before he can speak. ‘You can’t do that. Once I’m gone my blood will be useless to you.’ He reaches his hand up and grabs my hand. ‘Please, Baxter,’ he says. ‘You have to do this.’ I grip his hand. ‘OK,’ I whisper.

  Ronin produces a small vial of diabetes medication which he hid in his boot. He’s sweating profusely and his hand shakes as he pours the liquid out onto the floor. ‘Can’t use it without a syringe,’ he says. ‘Take it.’

  I grab the vial and take it over to Tomas. ‘How are we going to get the blood?’ I say to Tone.

  ‘I can make a small sonic drill,’ he says. ‘It’ll be painful for him but it’ll do the job.’ I look at Tomas and he nods. Tone whistles shrilly; a harsh piercing sound that seems to ricochet off the walls.

  Tomas takes my hand again. ‘Kill him,’ he whispers to me.

  ‘I will,’ I say.

  The sound reaches a crescendo and then plunges like an invisible dagger into Tomas’s chest. The shining blood begins to bubble out. I hold the vial near the wound to collect the precious liquid. Tears sting at my eyes and for once I don’t care. Tomas didn’t deserve to die and neither did his family. I push the stopper into the vial. I hear a low, familiar singing. It throbs in my ears for a moment and then Tomas sighs and the last of his light flickers frantically for a moment before it goes out.

  ‘I want Mirth,’ I say, wiping my eyes with my sleeve. ‘I want to rip off his fucking head and use it as a bowling ball.’

  We sit in the cell and wait. Ronin begrudgingly allowed his trench coat to be used as a shroud for Tomas’s body but my eyes keep sliding over to the mound.

  ‘I’m, umm, sorry I lied to you,’ Ronin says. ‘You could have just told me,’ I say. ‘It would have made things easier.’

  ‘Not for us,’ he says. ‘Would you really have hired me if you thought I was working another angle? We thought Mirth had kidnapped Esmé. It seemed like a win–win.’

  I look around at the empty walls. ‘Didn’t exactly turn out well, did it?’

  He chuckles. ‘No, not really.’

  A muffled explosion comes from the east wing of the building. ‘I told you she’d come,’ Tone says. Ronin pushes himself to his feet and assumes a relaxed fighting stance. I help Tone to stand and we wait as another explosion rocks the building and the sound of fighting echoes down the corridors. ‘Sounds like she’s brought a small army,’ Ronin says with a smile. ‘That’s my girl.’

  Gunshots crack outside our door and there’s a shrieking, howling sound. ‘Stand away from the door,’ a voice calls from the other side. We flatten ourselves against the walls of the cell as bullets rip into the door. Something large smashes into the steel and the door folds inward. A large bulk squeezes in past the shattered door.

  ‘You!’ I say.

  Schoeman cradles an AK-47 against his large bulk. ‘Hey, candy cane,’ he says.

  ‘Nice going, darling,’ Ronin says and Schoeman leans down to give him a peck on the cheek.

  ‘What the …’ I say.

  ‘Lovely to see you too, sugar,’ Schoeman says. ‘Or perhaps you prefer me like this.’ His bulk shimmers for a second and then Katinka, the Osiraii barmaid and erotic illusionist from the Flesh Palace, is standing in front of me, her wings folded back against her body and her hand stroking the muzzle of her gun suggestively. ‘Or like this.’ She shimmers again and Miss Hunter appears. ‘Oh, please behave,’ she says in a trembling voice. ‘Oh, gosh, please.’ Another shimmer and Katinka appears again with a grin splitting her voluptuous crimson mouth.

  ‘Did I forget to mention that Osiraii are shape-shifters?’ Ronin says with a chuckle.

  ‘You’ve been my maths teacher all this time?’ I say. I feel like I’ve been living in The Truman Show.

  Katinka sticks out her bottom lip. ‘It’s only an illusion, sugar, or I wouldn’t still be going to doctors for hormone injections. I’m sorry abou
t the deception, sweetheart, but we had to have someone to keep an eye on you at all times.’

  ‘But Schoeman?’ I splutter. ‘You almost convinced me I was the Mountain Killer.’

  ‘Oh, come now,’ she says, putting a hand on her hip. ‘Give yourself more credit than that. We needed a reason to follow you. A fat, incompetent cop who had you pegged as the prime suspect was perfect.’ She pulls a disgusted face and brushes imaginary dirt off her shoulders. ‘However distasteful the disguise was.’

  ‘We need to get out of here,’ Ronin says, gratefully accepting the revolver that Katinka hands him. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Mirth took a chopper out of here,’ Katinka says. ‘But he left enough Gogs and Crows to make sure it’s going to be a bloody fight.’

  Ronin spins the chamber of the revolver. ‘Good.’

  We step over the bullet-riddled body of a Gog and fan out into the corridor. Katinka braces the butt of the AK-47 against her shoulder and stalks down the left-hand branch of the corridor. Ronin follows her, holding the revolver like a gunslinger at his hip.

  Katinka turns a corner up ahead and immediately rattles off a burst of gunfire. There’s a bellow of pain and she swings back around, pulling the empty magazine from her gun and shoving another one in its place.

  ‘Gog,’ she says. ‘A big one.’ She sticks the gun around the corner and rattles off another volley of gunfire. The Gog bellows again and I can hear the thump of a body hitting the ground.

  ‘You’re so pretty when you’re killing evil things,’ Ronin says to her with a wink.

  ‘Oh, stop, you,’ Katinka says, giving her hair a flick.

  We step over the huge twitching Gog body – this one has gross, oversized spider fangs. Up ahead six short figures in grey hooded cloaks turn a corner, bringing handguns to bear on us and then lowering them and throwing back their hoods.