The Obsidian Chamber

25

On a back street of one of the shabbier business districts in Katutura, Namibia — a Windhoek suburb whose name translates as “the place where people don’t want to live”—stood a three-story residential building, sandwiched between a radio station and a garment factory. The building was seedy and in disrepair, its stucco exterior cracked and peeling, its tiny, lopsided balconies heavy with rust. Each floor was painted a different color — turquoise, yellow, gray — which, along with the mismatched windows and slapdash architectural details, gave the structure a bizarre, disquieted appearance. It was two in the afternoon, and every window was open in the vain hope of a cooling breeze.

Lazrus Keronda sat by the window of a two-room, barely furnished second-floor apartment. He was tucked back from the window, positioned strategically so that he could see the goings-on in the noisy street below while remaining unobserved himself. The restaurant on the floor below specialized in mopane worm crisps, softened in a stew of tomatoes, fried onion, turmeric, and green chilies. The pungent smoke from the steaming worms, wafting up, made his eyes water. But he would not take his gaze from the window.

He reached for a bottle of Tafel Lager — holding it loosely so that his injured hand would not protest — and took a long pull. The fresh, bitter taste of the beer helped a little. Maybe he was being overcautious. Still, it wouldn’t do to take chances. Another three days, maybe two, and then it would be safe to leave town. He had a stepbrother who lived in Johannesburg; he could hunker down there, with the brother and his family, for a couple of months. And with the cash he’d received, he had enough money to start a new venture. The dealership had been deep in debt, it wasn’t like he was losing anything by—

There was a faint sound behind him — the creak of a single floorboard — and he wheeled around.

“You!” he said. The beer bottle dropped from his hand and rolled away, unheeded, dribbling amber foam.

“Me,” came a soft voice. And then a young woman stepped out from the shadows. She was in her midtwenties, with light-blond hair, blue eyes, and prominent cheekbones. She was dressed in black leggings and a denim shirt with the tails knotted around her midriff, revealing a flat, muscled abdomen and a navel pierced with a diamond ring. Despite the heat, her hands were covered in latex gloves.

Keronda jumped to his feet. He was immediately aware of the extremity of his situation. A hundred excuses came to mind; a hundred lies, distractions, apologies, justifications. Instead, he blundered: “How did you find me?”

“It wasn’t easy.” A fanny pack was fastened around her hips, and as she took another step closer to him — the motion as smooth and lithe as a panther’s — it rose a little, then fell.

Keronda’s mouth had turned instantly dry. What was it about this woman — this girl with the ridiculous piercing — that aroused such fear in him? She couldn’t have been taller than five foot three, while he weighed at least twice what she did. And yet he was panicked. It was something about the coldness of those blue eyes — that, and the sly, cruel smile. He’d noticed these things the first time they’d met — and the memory had stayed with him ever since.

“You left the dealership,” she said.

“I had to,” he said. “I had to!”

“You were paid to stay. Instead you left the gate ajar, the office unlocked — and a lot of blood on your worktable. Now the police are interested.”

“He hurt me. He threatened me.” He held up his injured hand beseechingly.

“You were well paid to let him hurt you, let him threaten you — and then stick to the script we gave you.”

Keronda was babbling now, almost crying. “And I did. I stuck to it! I told him what you wanted. Exactly as you said. I gave him the Land Cruiser. I made sure he took it.”

“Then why did you run like a scared rabbit?”

Again he held up the bandaged hand. “Look what he did to me!”

As her blue eyes wandered over the bloody dressing, her smile deepened. “Quite the stigmata. But that still doesn’t explain why you deviated from the plan. The plan you were paid a lot of money to keep to exactly.” She stopped, as if to let the lesson sink in. “What did we tell you? Clean up any mess. Get treatment. Stay on the job. Business as usual. But what did you do instead? Leave a mess and run.”

“Look what he did to me!” Keronda repeated, both hands up now.

“What do you think we’re going to do?” was the silky response.

When there was no answer but a whimper, the girl shook her head sadly. “We promised you he wouldn’t be back for at least a week, maybe never. You should have listened.”

“I—” he began, then stopped. With a movement that seemed casual, almost desultory, and yet was terrifying in its speed, the girl reached into her fanny pack and drew out a knife. It was like no knife Keronda had seen before: a multi-barbed blade, like four curved arrowheads in series, with a narrow, neon-green handle.

Seeing his terrified gaze on the weapon, her smile widened further. “Like the knife?” she asked. “It’s called a Zombie Killer. I like it, too — especially the barbs. It’s like the dick of a tomcat — hurts more coming out than going in. So they say.”

“Dick?” Keronda repeated uncomprehendingly.

“Never mind.” Then — with an even swifter movement — her hand darted forward and plunged the knife between his ribs. The blade was so sharp he barely felt the thrust but, looking down, he saw that it was buried to the hilt.

“I’m pretty good at anatomy,” she said. “Almost as good as I am with a blade.” She nodded at the handle. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s just severed your phrenic artery. Not one of the major arteries — but you’re still going to bleed out in five minutes, give or take.”

She paused, surveying her handiwork. “Of course, you could always pull out the blade, put pressure on the wound — good luck with that — and call for an ambulance. If you did that right away, like this instant, I’d give you a fifty — fifty chance of pulling through. But I don’t think you will. As I said: hurts more coming out than going in.”

Keronda’s only response was to sink back into his chair.

The girl nodded. “I thought so. Another nice thing about the Zombie Killer — it’s cheap. You can leave one behind without regrets.” She zipped up the fanny pack, tugged fastidiously at her gloves. “No parting words? In that case: have a nice day.” And with that she turned on her heel and strode out of the apartment, leaving the front door wide.