----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- [u][b]June 12th: The Nabakazi River Bottoms, Swahili People's Republic[/b][/u] ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- James Lutalo sat stonily in the passenger's seat of an open top Landrover, his sunglasses making the surrounding swampland look shadowed as if by an eclipse. A convoy of the same vehicles followed, loaded with Communist warriors, their firearms in hand or hanging about their bodies by the straps. It'd taken some time for Lutalo to get home from Addis Ababa and put Kampala back together after the horseback raid by their enemies. Only now could he respond in kind with furious retribution. The roads were muddy, slowing them down. Rain washed away the enemy's trail, but Lutalo knew who had attacked his people. The King of Buganda was not so bold, and the Freedom Army of God were far to the north lighting their crosses and killing so-called deviants. A raid so daring was the mark of Marcel Hondo-Demissie, who lorded over his [i]Watu wa Uhuru[/i], self described Anarchists, from Fort Portal. There were no such thing as anarchists. He didn't know what Marx had to say, or any other Communist writer, but he knew that people respected power. Maybe someday there would be a socialist utopia, but in the modern world somebody had to wield the mighty power of the state in the name of the people. Wasn't that Hou's essential philosophy? So what was an Anarchist but a usurper, a modern-day pretender to the throne, wielding a subtle claim to sway the desperate? For the sake of peace and prosperity, Marcel had to be crushed. But to catch a trickster hare would be easier. The mere mention of the name "Marcel Hondo-Demissie" made soldiers nervous. They called him a ghost, or a sorcerer, imagining his tricks as supernatural acts. A few miles back, a nervous soldier had taken a random shot at a tree, convinced it had blinked at him, as if Marcel could command the very foliage. Smoke rose above the forest somewhere in front. Another trick? His driver slowed down, looking at him for answers, visibly afraid. Lutalo held his hand out, "No No, keep going". They did, but everybody was visibly on edge, their rifles ready to fire. They came around a bend where the dirt road angled down the bluff to a ford on the river, the turn masked by thick swamp growth. Breaks rasped as they slowed down their descent, moving at a creep. The smoke was coming from the ford. Everybody knew to expect something. But what? Three open Landrovers blocked the road. The bed of the one in the middle held a roaring fire, whatever had fed it already blackened past recognizability. They stopped, just for a moment. Lutalo felt the fear. He jumped out, took out his pistol, and prepared to face that fear, but behind his sunglasses his eyes were wide. The Anarchists popped up, only three or four men hiding behind the trucks, and opened fire with Tommy Guns. The Communists cleared into the bushes for cover. A firefight ensued. He'd seen the Anarchists wearing faded blue. They were [i]Force Socialiste[/i]. Marcel was originally from the Congo, an Askari who lead a rebellion against the Belgians and fled into the jungles. The [i]Force Socialiste[/i] were the men who came with him. They were hardened soldiers, but a small handful couldn't take on all the men Lutalo brought with him. This wasn't a trick. It was a stalling tactic. Lutalo moved forward through the brush. Bullets sliced through green undergrowth. One struck the shoulder piece of his breastplate. He felt it like a punch, but it did not penetrate, and he recovered. "Get back!" he heard someone in his ear. "We need you! Get back!" He would not be a coward. He emptied a magazine and slammed in another. "Retreat" he heard one of his people calling. Were they that easily spooked? He wouldn't have it said that so few men had sent him running. He turned to rally his men, and was confused to see one of his Communist warriors attacking a shrub. He was stunned when he saw that the shrub fighting back. Gunfire was coming from all over. Lutalo aimed at the warrior plant and shot it. Bright red blood exploded across its leaves. Even Supernatural trees don't bleed blood. Lutalo sprinted over to the collapsed shrub and saw that it had the face of a man. Leafy branches were tied to his body, and his face was smeared with green paste. An Anarchist Tree-man charged at him with a machete, ululating a bloodcurdling cry as the leaves tied to him rustled like paper. Lutalo shot him point-blank, hitting him in the stomach, causing him to fall over bleeding into the mud. Lutalo picked up the man's machete and drove it into the cleft in the back of his skull. Blood dripped from the weapon like syrup. "We need to go!" His driver came to him. The man was caked in mud and blood. "We don't know how many there are!" Somewhere in the back of the caravan, communists piled into the back of a Landrover and sped off, abandoning their comrades. This wasn't a battle anymore, it was a brawl. The [i]Force Socialiste[/i] were still pouring lead across the road, but slower now that their camouflaged allies had closed in. Trees fired rifles from the bushes. Lutalo nodded. His driver loaded him into back of a gore drenched landrover. The engine turned, and a tree started toward them. Lutalo shot it. A spatter of automatic fire shattered the windshield. The vehicle struggled to get traction, but one tire was on the dry ground above the road, and the car jerked that direction into the foliage. They barreled down the road, away from the fighting. A communist warrior jumped on board. The battle had devolved into a rout. Gunfire continued behind them like a foreboding thunder.