The Fallen by Jack Ziebell Page A

take a look.”
    He moved slowly towards the open front of the garage but the gravel drive magnified every step.  The sounds emanating from the city made him afraid.  He peered around the edge of the garage door; nobody was inside.  A car lay in pieces, mid-fix, and a motorbike was parked on the far side with its front wheel removed.  Tools lay scattered on the ground.  He motioned for Asefa to come over as he walked inside.  There was a faint smell of electrical burning but no smoke, a radio was plugged in on one side of the building; perhaps the source was the plug socket, it looked scorched. 
    Asefa picked up a car alternator on the floor.  “See what I mean about the cars?”
    The alternator’s copper coils had been fused into a single copper band, as if a large electric current had surged through them generating instantaneous heat. 
    Asefa kissed his teeth.  “Something wicked has happened here.  Some kind of juju.”
    Things must have been bad for him to talk of juju, the Cameroonian voodoo.  He had ridiculed it many times in front of Tim, saying it was only the backward bush people who believed such superstitions.  Things were changing.  Tim was a staunch atheist but even he had asked God for help when he was trapped in a plane falling from the sky with no undercarriage.  Men look for answers and turn to Gods when they find none.
    A bang at the back of the shop made Tim spin around and freeze.  There was a moan from the storeroom, where the garage owner kept spare parts.  Both of them ran to the room to find the owner lying face down.  His hands were grasping at the floor, as if he was trying to climb a ladder and one of his feet was kicking aimlessly. 
    Tim grabbed the man’s arm.  “Help me turn him over.”
    They put the man on his back; his eyes were open but stared vacantly, then with unexpected fury he gripped Tim’s trouser at the ankle, shaking it repeatedly.  Tim pulled away and the man let out a weak cry, slapping the now empty hand against the floor. 
    Asefa gasped.  “He is cursed.  I have heard of such things but never have I seen it.”
    “He probably just had a bad fall or something, concussion can mess with your head.  Give me your water bottle.”
    Asefa handed Tim the bottle and he took off the cap and put it to the man’s lips.  As soon as the water flowed into his mouth the garage owner grabbed the bottle with both hands and drank like he had not had water for days.  When what little water there was had gone he continued to suck on the bottle, still staring into space, kicking his foot.
    Asefa shook his head and walked away.  “He has lost his mind.”  
    Leaving the garage owner, Tim went to the dial-up telephone that was hanging on one side of the shop floor.  He picked it up and rattled the receiver several times but there was no dial tone.  He went back into the office and tentatively reached into the garage owner’s pocket, trying to avoid being kicked as he did so.  He managed to retrieve a set of keys and a mobile phone.  He tried the mobile but it wouldn’t switch on. 
    He walked outside and the terrible sounds in the distance became chillingly audible.  Behind the garage was a corrugated metal shed.  The doors were padlocked and any gaps in the structure were meticulously sealed with a fine mesh of chicken wire, welded to the walls and iron doorframe.  Tim figured the mesh was to keep out the birds and mice; the garage owner obviously loved his vehicle to protect it so meticulously.  He was intrigued to find out what was inside and against all reason hoped it was something that could replace their bicycles.  He tried one of the keys in the padlock, which well-oiled, clicked open.  He opened the double doors to reveal an early model, white Soviet Lada Niva.  Tim loved this car, a few of his NGO friends had them; all-wheel-drive and built like a Russian tank – not the most fuel efficient or environmentally friendly, but that was not the