Moxyland - Lauren Beukes [81]
We'll already have been picked up by the security cams outside the hospital, but I don't think it's worth pointing this out to Zuko, who is tensely eager underneath his cool, still fucked on glue, and wound up from watching the Grand Parade light up in pyrotechnics.
'Yeah. It's the most accessible.' We've already checked out two other temporary vaccine locations, one in the CBD police centre, the other set up at the main entrance to Adderley Station, but there were dogs lurking at both of those, and they started barking when we came too close, picking up some residue of the chem scent.
No one will get seriously hurt. The explosive is low-capacity RDX. Limited 'blast phenomena' according to the instructions from Amsterdam. The nearest people will suffer flash burns, maybe. But they're right next to the ER. They'll be able to get medical treatment on the spot. Sometimes small sacrifices are necessary. It's collateral damage. And there is zero chance Ashraf will be here. He'll have gone to a more convenient clinic, closer to Khayelitsha. Definitely.
Zuko shrugs, always the team player, and strolls across the road, dribbling expertly, dodging a car, while still keeping the ball going, casually following it towards the ER doors, like goal posts. Just a kid messing around. The security guard is too preoccupied with managing the line to hassle him.
Zuko bounces the ball off his knees a couple of times, fearlessly, as if it were not packed to capacity with RDX, then lets it drop. Before it has a chance to touch the ground, with a swift and perfect sideswipe, he lobs it at the automatic doors.
The motion sensors pick up the ball and slide open to swallow it up.
I click the detonator in my pocket, subtly as possible, already walking away.
The bomb rips through the building with a shudder of glass and concrete.
I don't look back for Zuko.
Lerato
There is a weird vibe on the underway on the way in to the office, an undercurrent frisson even though there's almost no one around, just a few people coming home from partying, a couple of churchgoers. But the controlled clampdown means I'm oblivious to the reality, until I actually reach the office and find out what has gone off overnight.
Communique's offices are a study in controlled frenzy. The ultra-caffeine baristas are doing overtime. I don't even make it as far as the lifts before I am whipped away to join Rathebe's emergency task team, which has commandeered the boardroom and an additional coffee machine. There are twenty-three people crammed in with their laptops, all monitoring the datalines, killing the most damaging of commentary before it gets out, because anything is allowable when it comes to national security, and the government is a big Communique contract. To my disgust, Mpho is already in the thick of it.
I pull up a chair next to him. I'm dying to slide into my backdoor to get the full story, but it's insanely risky with the kind of scrutiny going on right now.
When the first bomb reports start coming in, I don't have a choice. The techniques are so inventive, they leave me breathless and everyone else clutching for information and something to do with it, before it gets out on the newslines – and worse, the streamcasts. There's no way to contain this one, only spin it. We're shutting down large parts of the network with service errors to try and keep it contained. Later, we'll blame this on an underground cable being damaged by the bombs. Of course, I recognise the signature. Soccer balls and graffiti aren't exactly Terrorism 101.
I have to be circumspect.
Despite all the caffeine being consumed in the clean-up marathon inside, it's luck or fate that I'm the only one in the stairwell bathroom. The red mosaic tiles seem menacingly shiny, but I know I'm just tired and hung over and not thinking clearly. I take the third cubicle, in case the one on the end is too conspicuous and click my back-up SIM into my phone, which is not, surprise, surprise, coded