NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: If you want to be a part of this, contact me via PM and let me know what you want to do. I'm open to ideas, just remember to keep it to contemporary tech, etc.

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Joshua Davis, head constable for the dusty farming town of Ruddsberg, was having a bad day. It was Monday morning, which meant that the town lockup was full of men who had been arrested over the weekend for disturbing the peace and public intoxication, which seemed to be the primary form of entertainment in this small town of five thousand people. Davis' day had been made worse by the absence of his deputy, Clarence Morgan, a small, wiry man who was perpetually red from the subtropical sun. So Davis was spending his lunch break to drive the ten kilometers to Morgan's farm.

Davis turned his tan Land Rover onto the dirt road which lead through a grass krall up to Morgan's home. After a short, bumpy ride, Davis stopped the Rover, cut the engine, and got out. He bounced up the steps to the front verandah and knocked on the door.

“Clarence, you in there? Christ, man, it's midday,” he called. Nobody answered. He pushed the door open and stepped in. “Clarence?”
As he stepped inside, a wave of hot air, smelling sickly of rotting meat met him. He heard the buzzing of flies. And then he saw Clarence. His body was lying limp in a chair, hands tied behind his back. The neck was cut almost completely off, and brown, congealed blood covered his body and the floor. His face was almost as pale as the whites of the two eyes which rolled backwards. Davis ran out of the house to the Rover, flung its door open and grabbed the radio.

“This is Davis. I'm at Morgan's house and he's, he's bloody been murdered. Christ, it's awful. Call CID in Mutare, this looks big.”

He grabbed the SLR he carried in the Rover, loaded it, and leaned it against the car's hood. He walked a short distance, squatted down, and vomited.

Two hours later a car arrived from the CID office in Mutare. In it were two men, one wearing the tan uniform preferred by detectives in the bush, and the other wearing striped military fategues, a green beret, and a leather “Sam Browne” pistol belt. Both men got out of the car and approached Davis, who was sitting on the hood of the Rover, smoking a cigarette. The detective spoke first.

“I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Constable, but it's a long drive from Mutare. I'm DS Wilcox and this is Major Johnson, from the Army's tracking unit.” He and Johnson exchanged handshakes with Davis.

“Well, he's inside, in the kitchen,” sighed Davis, sliding to his feet off the Rover's hood. “Guess I'd better show you. I've never seen anything this bad, even in the war. I was in the Rifles.” he added, turning to Johnson, “Put in six years.” Johnson nodded approvingly.

As they entered the kitchen, Davis spoke again. “I put a sheet over him and lay him, didn't think it was right to leave him uncovered and tied up like he was.” He gestured to a linnen-wrapped figure on the table. “He was tied up in the chair with hands behind his back, and his throat cut clean through. Hope it isn't trouble, I just wanted something decent for the poor guy. Looked like he'd been here for a day.”

“It's all right, Constable, we'll be fine.” said Wilcox, patting him on the shoulder. “Look, the Major can take a look around in here while I give you a hand moving the body outside to the Rover. If you don't mind I'd like to ride back with you. I'll be staying in town for a few days, and I have the feeling that Davis might stay here longer than you'd like to.”

“Yeah,” nodded Davis, “yeah, that'd be fine.”

As Wilcox and Davis manuvered Clarence Morgan's linnen-wrapped body out of the house and tied it onto the back of Davis' Rover, Johnson studied the grizzly scene in the kitchen. His eyes fell on the wall behind the chair, which until now he had paid no attention to, so splattered with blood was the floor. On the wall, written in what appeared to be blood, was the following:

DEATH TO THE SETTLERS
DEATH TO THE COLABORATORS
PFSL

“PFSL,” muttered Johnson, “The Popular Front for Shona Liberation.”

As Johnson turned out of the kitchen and walked into the living room, he saw Davis and Wilcox. “If it's all right with you, we're going to clean up in the kitchen,” said Davis.

“Yeah, that's fine. I'm going to have a look around the house. Constable, would it be a problem if I stayed here for a few days, in the house?”

“Clarence ain't gonna need it anymore, and he don't got no kids,” responded Davis from inside the kitchen.

“Thank you, constable.”

Johnson stood in the middle of the large living room, arms crossed, clutching his beret. He looked around at the walls, covered with photographs showing the various stages of Clarence Morgan's life: baby Clarence with his parents, little Clarence playing with a toy car, pre-teen Clarene with his school books, teenage Clarence with his arm 'round a girl, soldier Clarence with his squad somewhere in the bush. His eyes finally fell on the doorway leading to the rear porch and on the fresh white gash in its dark stained frame. Johnson walked over and squatted down to eye level with the gash, which was just below the doorknob. It was fresh, and stained with tiny flecks of blood. “Machete must've nicked the door on the way out,” he muttered to himself. Standing up, he opened the door and looked out on the verandah. There was the same kind of gash, at the same level, on one of the pillars which framed the steps down into the kraal.

Johnson walked slowly down the steps, stopping on the last one, eyes to the ground. He could make out footprints in the dust, too small for a man of Morgan's height. He followed them, stepping deliberately, eyes still on the ground. They lead into the kraal, and as his eyes moved to look for a path which might give him some sense of their direction, Johnson spotted something. He bent over, one knee to the ground, and examined the small green-brown wad of leaves at the edge of the grass. Now what do I have here, tobacco? He touched his finger to the wad, feeling the disgusting moisture of human spit, then brought his finger up to his nose, smelling its dank, sticky odor. This isn't tobacco. It was khat, a leaf chewed by natives of the nation whose border was only twenty kilometers away, to the east. As Johnson was standing up, Wilcox called to him from the verandah.

“We're finished inside, Major. The constable and I are gonna burn the chair and leave.”
“Yeah, that's fine. I'll stay here.”

The sky was starting to turn grey, and the sun was low in the sky, giving the trees, grass, and everything around a golden tint. Johnson's right hand reached for the nine millimeter Browning automatic on his right hip. Flipping up the top of the leather holster, he drew the pistol. Its chrome body shining gold in the afternoon sun, he gripped its slide with his left hand and drew it back in one smooth motion, the gun giving a satisfying click as its was cocked. He then carefully lowered the hammer and put the gun back into its holster, which he fastened closed. Johnson turned back towards the house, walked up the steps, through the living room, out the front door, and to his Land Rover. From the rear of the Rover he took out a large canvass kit bag. After he had unzipped the top of the bag, he extracted a satellite telephone, unfolded its antena, and dialed the number for the Counterinsurgency center at Muteke.

“Yes, this is Major Johnson. Could you connect me to Colonel Zuma? Yes, I'll hold.”

Still on the phone, Johnson walked around to the front of the Rover and sat on the hood, his foot tapping impatiently. Ten seconds later he was speaking to the Colonel.

“Yes, Colonel, this is Major Johnson. Yes, I'm at the farmhouse now. No, Wilcox went in to town with the Constable. I need a tracker team, four men and a dog, I'll lead them myself. I'd like them sent directly to me at the farm, by helicopter. They can land in the kraal. I'll put out a strobe for them. Three hours? Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”

After Colonel Zuma hand hung up, Johnson slid himself off the Rover's hood and walked back to his kit bag. He replaced the telephone, exchanging it for a strobe, a small device about the size and shape of an eyeglasses case, which placed in his pants' cargo pocket. Johnson checked his watch. Four thirty. The chopper should be here about seven thirty. He zipped up the bag and slung it over his shoulder, then grabbed his SLR in his left hand and made off for the verandah to wait.