Big Day Out

1 -  A visitor? At this time?

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.

What else was there to do, but run? Push ups, chin ups, star jumps. Connor knew how to take care of himself. Abandoned as a baby, he spent his life in and out of institutions. Orphanages, abusive foster parents, school and then the army.

The alternative to keeping fit was what? Veg in front of the TV like everyone else did and wait for death to come. When was the last time there was something new on? No sports, no new programming. All gatherings had been banned. How long ago was that now?

Just government-approved news. Connor tried not to watch. It had become an exercise in frustration, with the spokesperson never bothering to show up on time.

My fellow South Africans, thanks to your government’s swift actions to contain Covid-19, deaths have been kept to a minimum.

My fellow South Africans, do not leave your homes.

My fellow South Africans, our borders remain closed to protect you against foreigners with Covid-19.

My fellow South Africans, rely on your government to deliver your state-approved groceries. We will do our best to help you through these difficult times. Help us by staying at home.

Eskom guarantees each household three hours of electricity every night.

Data cables under the Indian and Atlantic oceans remain down.

The government blames anti-establishment rebels.

Connor knew the headlines by heart.

Anti-establishment rebel gatherings intent on spreading Covid-19 suppressed by the heroic action of Johannesburg’s finest military police.

The metro police had long since been amalgamated into the country’s defence force for a more efficient use of scarce resources.

More efficient way of suppressing civil liberty, Connor mumbled as he leaped up and over what was once his car. Now it was just metal and glass poking through the weeds, and a handy obstacle to keep him fit.

That was the sort of talk that would get a person taken away. Criticism of any form would instantly categorise you as anti-establishment. In the beginning of the lockdown, however long ago it was, anti-establishment talk was rife. It was a proper movement back then. Goals, aims, members and a leadership structure.

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 anymore.

Reliance on government became total. Food, power, TV, radio. There were two options. Acceptance, or face the consequences. Most accepted, aided by the government-produced brandydrink. Sickly sweet and a guaranteed release from the horror that daily life had become.

WHAT CONNOR WOULDN’T give for a beer. A six-pack would be better, but he’d settle for just the one. He wasn’t sure there were any left. They’d been an early casualty in the clampdown. Four hundred million bottles, destroyed. His own considerable stockpile had lasted a few weeks. He’d had to conserve them, obviously. Only two or three each night. Except for weekends. To be honest, he’d lost track of which days were work days and which weren’t, but there was something about cracking open a cold beer on a warm Saturday afternoon...

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.

Hello. What was this?

Lying in the neglected grass jungle, covered by brown stalks and invisible from any other angle, was a rectangular piece of paper. He reached out and plucked it from its lair. It wasn’t just a scrap of paper. It was an envelope. Crisp white stationery. Sealed with an old-fashioned wax seal.

Nothing written on the front, or the back. Where had it come from? Who was it for?

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.

The envelope looked fresh. Clean. New. It had been so long since he’d seen anything fresh or clean or new – or different – that he didn’t know what to do with it.

So he took it inside and tossed it into the decontamination corner while he washed his hands. Next to yesterday’s food parcel and three bottles of brandydrink he’d been saving for a special occasion.

Automatic reflex. Anything that came into the house sat in the corner like a naughty child until any trace of the virus had been starved into submission.

But as he dried his hands, he shook his head. How long was paper supposed to be left? Wasn’t going to happen. There wasn’t enough self-control left anywhere to ignore an unopened envelope for longer than the few minutes it took him to grab a pair of gloves and a new facemask from the box he kept on the hall table.

He reached down and picked up the envelope. Held it up to the light. Shook it. Almost put it next to his ear to see if he could hear anything rattling around inside.

Instead, he sat in his favourite lounge chair, took a deep breath, and broke the wax seal.

HE PULLED THE PAPER out and a key tinkled on the cracked tile floor. He peered down at the innocuous metal object lying between his once-white training shoes, before returning his attention to the paper held like gold leaf between his thumb and index finger. Wait - two pieces of paper.

Behind the hand-written letter was a newspaper clipping. Written in English but not from a South African paper. They had been disbanded many years ago. Early victims of the department for information control. Possession alone would guarantee arrest, detention without a jury, torture to find out where it had come from, and then, if he was lucky, death.

How long had it been since he had seen anything so white? The books on the shelves in his study were yellowing and dog-eared now, they had been read so often.

Keep the body active, keep the brain active. That had been Francina’s parting words.

Bitch.

No, he didn’t mean that. He loved her.

She had left him. Yes, he did mean it.

Bitch.

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.

She was the past. Francina’s pretty face and athletic body was shunted back into a deep dark part of his memory. The split was rammed down underneath that.

No! Connor shouted at the world. I will not think about that.

He slowed his breathing and turned his attention to the contents of the envelope.

Shit! A low hum was coming from outside. He stuffed the papers under a cushion and ran to the window. Fuck. A drone.

Drone surveillance was regular and bad news. He snatched the papers and key and rushed to the spare bedroom. Under the bed was a false tile which had to be prised open with a long nail. The nail was kept on the pillow for occasions like this.

Tile open, he placed the papers with his other prized possessions. Fake ID, his last picture of Francina (bitch), his hand gun and ammo.

Tile back in place, he rushed to his study, found the book with the false compartment and hid the nail. He ran back to the living room window to see the drone was hovering around his garden, its camera peering in through the dirty windows.

Fuck off. Connor encouraged the drone to go about some other business. The drone ignored him and was joined by a second.

Despite the heat of the day, Connor rushed to close all the doors and windows. Drones weren’t supposed to come inside without a warrant, but warrants were a formality and could be backdated. The system was rigged, with every advantage given to the military police.

Then, to make matters worse, Connor heard a pounding on the front gate.

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.

And everybody knew not to do anything outside, and not to make too much noise if they did anything inside. Especially after those first few months, when several of Connor’s neighbours had suddenly moved away in the middle of the night. As far as he knew, the houses on either side of him were still empty, except for the homeless crowd who dropped in occasionally in their desperate dance to stay one step ahead of the authorities.

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?

Now the clock was ticking. The hazmat brigade wasn’t used to being ignored. Especially when their buggery (yes, he liked that word) could see that he was definitely home.

Back to the study. Grab the book. Get the nail. Spare bedroom. Kick the bed. Open the tile. Grab EVERYTHING. Toss it on the bed. Open the cupboard. Find his favourite leather jacket, the one with the extra pockets.

Bang.

He didn’t have to look. That was the steel gate, still holding but no longer defiantly impregnable. Another few bangs and they’d be inside.

He wouldn’t be. Jacket on, pockets full, he raced down the short hall to the cupboard under the stairs, where his keys hung on a hook gathering dust. One hand snatched them from the hook while his other hand opened the cupboard door. The motion-activated light revealed nothing but a duffle bag and a switch on the wall.

Grab the bag. Slide the false switch to the side. Push the red button hidden behind it.

Bang.

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.

Time for one last look around, patting his pockets and hefting the bag.

Bang. Thud. Crunch.

He’d never liked that gate. It was Francina who’d insisted on securing the property against the roving bands of starving refugees that had spilled onto the streets during the first lockdown.

Bitch.

But he still smiled when he pushed the red button on the inside of the door. His smile grew wider when the tell-tale ticking started.

By the time he was halfway down the stairs leading to the cellar he’d dug out of sheer boredom, he was even whistling. REM, if memory served. Da da da da da da da da da. And I feel fine.

2 -  Explosions, torture, and baking

The cellar contained shelves, with tinned food, a bowl for washing, an oil lamp and a mirror. It was a project he’d started for the worst. Hide underground with food.

He dropped the bag on the dirt floor and looked in the mirror. We didn’t finish it, did we? Didn’t want to die like a rabbit, did we? Explosions are much more fun. Go out with a bang. He looked from side to side and started laughing.

Quiet! his reflection interrupted. We don’t want to miss it.

Connor agreed and wiped spittle from his short white beard.

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