Moxyland - Lauren Beukes [97]
I tumble backwards, clutching my wrist, and fall in the blood, the soles of my tackies squeaking in it, so I leave tracks and a handprint. And now I do vomit, kneeling in Tendeka's insides. When my stomach stops contracting and there's nothing left except spit, I look down and see this muck mixing with his blood, and I try and brush it away, scoop it up with my hands, so it doesn't, because I can't handle this, can't handle him pooled around me, can't handle how I've violated his remains. Please. Jesus. Motherfuck.
'C'mon Tendeka.' I'm whispering, rocking on my heels, forwards and back. I want to shake him, scream at him, even though I know it's pointless, that he's not teasing. That it's not some hoax, a bluff. I can't touch him. And oh Jesus motherfuck, if it's not a hoax, how long do I have? I can't. Not like. Jesus. I can't even look.
I fall onto my knees again, dry-heaving some more, my hands over my mouth so I don't do it again, and somewhere the heaving turns into sobbing.
The coat. The coat. The fucking coat. I check the playback. But there's nothing. Static. Blur. White noise. I rewind, fast forward and there! It's bad quality, but it's there underneath the fritz. 'Human rights violation–' and my snarky comment, overlapping.
Oh fuck, Tendeka. Fuck. I'm sorry. Maybe it can be cleaned up. If I can get it to, I dunno, someone, upload it to some geek site, let them clean it up. And get to a clinic. Get the vaccine. Turn myself in. How long do I have?
I look up for helicopters. But it wasn't casting. I'm okay. They're not looking for us yet. I hit save. I sprint down the stairs. I don't look back.
And it's only when I'm back in my apartment, with the door double-locked and the fridge up against it, already uploading the files to my machine, not that it's gonna do me much good with my connection down, that I notice my wrist is glowing green, a pale jellyfish phosphorescence shining through. I switch the channel on my screen to mirror, and stare at my face. I look incredibly healthy. I close my eyes, probe how I'm feeling. Freaked. Definitely. But not sick.
It gets worse. Tendeka's on every channel on the TV, his face dominating the screen, Osama, coupled with some kid, Zuko Sephuma, who's already been arrested.
My first thought is how much shit I'm in. How I need to just set fire to my entire apartment and all the evidence and walk away, disappear. What flammables do I have at handy?
Or.
Or I have the total sony exclusive on the untimely and grotesque death of a terrorist.
Or a martyr. Depends on who's paying.
I can't stick around here, though. They've already been here once. And they're sure to notice Tendeka's corpse on the roof. Hard to miss with all the splatter.
I stuff the coat, spare clothes and my laptop – and fuckit, the VIM, cos wherever I'm going, I'll still need a clean-up – into my bag.
I step out of the door into a whole new bright world, feeling exhausted and exhilarated.
And thirsty.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing may happen in isolation, but books don't. I'd like to thank a long list of people who helped make Moxyland what it is, from its original South African incarnation to its assimilation into the Robot Army.
Thanks to Marc Gascoigne and Lee Harris at Angry Robot for their boundless and bounding enthusiasm and easy-going candour – and my agent, Ron Irwin, for getting the book into their hands.
The University of Cape Town's MA in Creative Writing programme gave me the creative space to start the book and a grant from South Africa's National Arts Council gave me the financial freedom to finish it. Thanks especially to André Brink, Stephen Watson, Ron Irwin and Jenefer Shute.
Maggie Davey, the publishing director at Jacana read the manuscript on the plane to the Frankfurt Book Fair and by the time she'd landed had decided to give Moxyland its first home. Jacana's Russell Martin, Bridget Impey, Emily Amos and especially Pete van der Woude (most passionate punter of books and deft ringmaster of book launches) helped make