We’ve all had those nights where drunken sex with a witch in a blood pentagram under a full moon on the roof of your favourite Johannesburg nightclub summons a hard-drinking demon who changes the fate of the human race forever. Right? No? Just me, then? ⛥♠⛥ Follow this page for decadent twisted tales of mystery, … Continue reading ♠⛥Welcome⛥♠
A shadow on what was left of the kitchen window. He’s outside. A gunshot smacked into the oven. Connor crouched low and returned fire. He kept low and hid behind the fridge. The policeman poked his head in through the window. It was the last thing he ever did as the bullet smacked into the side of head.
Boom! From the car. Make them run into the house and then … Two more explosions. Boom! First from the kitchen. That unused cupboard, spitting knives and broken crockery in a wide arc. Boom! Living room next. Connor had to cover his ears for that one. He uncovered to hear the shouting, the confusion. The screams. “Bedroom, then garage.” He counted them on his fingers. Boom! And then boom!
The timing was perfect. Connor ducked through the tiny wooden doorway that opened in front of him. Another motion-detector blazed as he closed the door with a click and a smile. “Bugger the buggery.”
Now he could hear voices coming from the gate. Bit pointless, really. Couldn’t they see he’d closed all the doors and windows? Now he drew the curtains too, smiling and waving at the small gathering of drones. What was the collective noun for government drones, buzzing together like insects? A buggery?
It was too early for the food parcel delivery. The real one. Everybody knew the daily deliveries were just an excuse for the hazmat-suited snoopers to keep an eye on the inmates. Oops. Let’s be politically correct. The “general populace.”
Where was she now? Probably dead. Forced labour in one of the government’s agricultural programmes. Or worse. Entertainment for the brave loyal military police. Passed round and shared like a bottle of tequila at a braai. She wouldn’t have been able to keep quiet. She would have stood up for people’s rights and she would have faced the consequences.
Connor got to his feet, only bothering to brush the dirt from his knees when he tried to get it off his hands. He looked around. Pointless. Of course, there was nobody there. Nobody could get into his garden. Unless they crawled through the delivery slot cut in the bottom of the steel gate.
His foot caught in a strand of kikuyu and he found himself flat on the path, face to face with a tiny green praying mantis. It raised one spiked arm. Attack? Defence? Saying hello? “Hello.” Satisfied with Connor’s response, the tiny predator shuffled off to carry on with the important business of the day. Connor envied it. Business as usual. Hunt. Eat. Sleep. Hunt. Eat. Sex. Decapitation. Yes, he’d dated women like that, too. He smiled. These days, it would almost be worth it, just for a change of pace.
The attacks were swift and ruthless. The leaders disappeared. No one knew whether they were in hiding or taken away to God knows where. It was certainly nowhere designed for pleasure. Rumours spread. Forced human vaccine testing. Labour camps. Hangings. Back when rumours could be started. Before the data cables were severed. Cellphone towers were blamed for Eskom’s power failure, and removed. Everyone remembered where they were the day the internet stopped. Businesses failed. Food stocks dwindled. Money became pointless. There was nothing to buy.
Isolation. For how long now? Connor tried to remember as he stared up through the leafy canopy to the blue Johannesburg sky ahead. Keep fit, keep active, he told himself as he started running the bare earth of the path around his garden. Around the house. Weeds poked through the bricks of the driveway and Connor slapped them with his hands as he ran.