The ocean lapped up along the shore. Its low crashing cheers joining with that of a small group of young men who played along the long dark shore. On the western face of the Cuban Islands western reach there was little left along the shore line save for the dark soil mixing with golden yellow that indicated it had ever been inland, and that the surf had not crawled further inland in the intervening years since the nuclear apocalypse. From time to time with the passing of the tides some piece of a ruin or another would stick out from the ocean, piercing the tropical blue waters like a dock post if it were a tree, or barely breaking the water's surface like a turtle's shell if it were an old building. At times more often, the suggestion that the water beyond the tide line was shallow or precarious was the odd stranded or abandoned ship that was let to rot in the salty surf and sun, turning gray and becoming a roost for seagulls as weeds and algae bloomed around it.

	Palms and alligator apples lined the shoreline beyond where storm tides had stripped clean the earth and pulled it towards the sea, creating the dark brown beach that drifted this way and that in the ocean breezes, or was whetted and ran down to sea in the storms. Bare footed the young men running along it felt the warmth of the naked Earth under them as they kicked a leather skinned ball back and forth. There was no particular goal in this. But the effort carried them along the shore and over the afternoon they had moved a mile across the shore passing the rough dirty ball between one another. Their noise and traipsing would frighten crabs from their hidden burrows and they would race away moments before the brown heel of one of the Cuban players passed over where they had been hiding.

	Each of the men winding their way across the beach was athletic in build, their limbs sinewy in tight toned muscle. These were men who had come to know the rigors of the fight on the sea or on the coast. They had set sail north several times to loot the Mississippi Golf and to prowl its shrimpers and unprotected villages. Each knew at least one elder who in before their births had at one point gone over into the North in the hopes of conquering it in liberation. So too had  they also tried to bring the same against Mexico. But while the fighting had been fierce there the attempts had been eventually repulsed. Now there was talk of heading into Belize, to those inclined to the arguments among the International it was felt this was merely a play. The real prize among those who cared to make for serious adventures was the great Brazilian island of Guiana, sometimes called Amapa. But this would be an adventure if called for would not likely call on these young men, who were still hardly boys to volunteer themselves to it.

	But this was all just talk still.

	So they continued to play across the beach. Finding not just amusement but also exercise to keep their foot work clean. This they all were adept at, and like many went without so much as shoes. Through jungle, over rocks, or brown earth and beach they had no need for shoes. They were strong, the muscles of their feet and toes hardened to kick the ball, calloused against sharp cutting rocks. They were deeply kissed by the sun and they were of a deep smokey, earthly tone; like ground pulp of the coffee bean. Their brightly colored outfits of beaten wood pulp, made fine like cloth and woven into strips of pig's leather hung light off their shoulders and moved with the ease and relaxed movement of an easy breath as they moved, ran, and twisted and turned.

	The group comprised of such: Miguel Antonio Silvia. The oldest at twenty-five he was already an experienced man in the ways of fighting and the raid. Years ago a wayward bullet had struck his cheek, and gazing across the bone gave him a twisted scar that whipped and traced a line across the left side of his head to one of his large elephantine ears. His intense concentration on the ball was reflected in his green eyes, and long unevenly shorn hair flew in the warm tropical air as he jumped and ran delicately to intercept the ball before it could hit the waves and kick it off to whomever would have it. Though twenty-five, boyishness remained on his face like a phantom, he was round, almost clean if it were not for the first thin growth of a beard.

	The second was Jorge Royo, lighter skinned than the rest with a lighter shade of hair, almost ginger with a touch of cinnamon. He glowed red under the sun and was more the junior of Miguel in both age and physique. Perfectly clean shaven, he had never managed to grow a beard and his head was crowned in coarse wiry hair that made something like a woolen cap on his head.

	Between the two in age was Gabriel Carlos Ramirez. Tall and spry he stood imposing, even above Miquel, and with a heavy build with the strength of a sword fish or a shark. He smiled brightly as he moved with a grace far beyond what would be described of his build. But while his body was tall and burly, his face was narrow and sharp, his nose stuck out like a broad hook and the bridge of his nose had the soft crimson hew of sun burn. His high cheeks had been kissed and speckled by many small freckles.

	Jesus Ikal and his brother Rodrigo stood out on the periphery of the group. Outsiders to the island as much as the group here. Migrants to the island, residents of Cuba for only a couple years. Their fortunes had drifted them from the mainland, from the Mayan Mexico across the sea. They had insinuated themselves into the group and were welcomed well enough into it. Both were unremarkable looking young men, with wide pan-like faces and narrow Indian eyes. Jesus' nose was heavier though than his younger brother, who was only  twenty. But Rodrigo's chin had picked up the same proportional size as his brother's, and was held nearly as far out as either one's blunted flat noses.

	The game progressed into the shadow of a large ship that had centuries ago been washed ashore in some storm long ago. Its hull had sunk into the sand and its bow rested far into the forested inland where it was broken on the rocks. Thrown like a javelin by some now ancient storm it had been embedded into the northern shores of Pinar del Rio Island. There it languished, its metal hull rotting away in the salty air of having been stripped away to as high as man's easy reach. It was half a skeleton now and years of being washed by rain and washed had streaked its hull with long streaks of rusty red and brown and inside in the scant light stalactites of rust had formed on the interior and had mixed with crystallized salt and the shit of sea gulls.

	The game to an abrupt end in the shadows of the great bulk as a voice shouted, “Viva, Comrades!”

	They stopped, and the ball was allowed to roll harmlessly to a stop between two of the players as they looked up to see who had shouted. Walking towards them was a broad shouldered man in a tattered green canvas field outfit. He rose his hands in greeting and he met with the group half way.

	“Good evening, Raul.” Miquel greeted him, nodding his head.

	“I hope I am not disturbing anything.” the older man said with a wide smile. He was wearing a thick graying beard, and the rest of his hair was tied up in a ponytail underneath his field-green cap, “But I bring news.”

	“Then what is it?” Gabriel asked, his tone was sharp, blunt in its delivery. To any other man he may have been considered rude. But Raul knew each of the young men and took it as no sour slight.

	“Have you been keeping up in the rumors and the talk?” Raul asked. Most of the young men shook their head, save for Miquel whose eyes lit up with interest. “The International Congress has come to a conclusion on where our efforts of liberation are to pass. Volunteers are called out for, and since all you have come to serve in some capacity before, I thought I would bring it to you.”

	“What are the details?” Gabriel asked, again bluntly and without and consideration towards the delivery.

	“I'll explain on the way back to San Capital. Now, viva!” Raul said, turning to head back. The whole group of five followed.

	“I know it had been long rumored that any ploys against the mainland might next be towards Belize.” Raul continued, “But I'm under good confidence that it's believed that to liberate Belize from its warlords may incite reaction from Mexico. I realize that for you, the last conflict with the Mexican Estado Libre did not end conclusively. Though we burned Cancun and Merida we did not fair well in the jungles. Our only legitimate victory had been consolidating our alliance with the Estado Zapatista in Chiapas, they wore forced to give up half their territory. And it would seem that the Mexican League attracted help from beyond the Rio Grande, while the naval force of Mexico was greatly damaged, someone came to their aid and actually continuing it became complicated.”

	“So what then, are we just giving up in Mexico?” asked Jesus Ikal with a real feeling of worry.

	“Hardly.” Raul smiled, laughing, “The delegate from the Zapatista said they would continue on as they had for generations before against them. There may be formal peace for the time, but it is not without conflict. But while they keep Veracruz's attention it was decided in Congress to turn the attention back south, and sans fighting in the jungles we will liberate what we can of Brazil, and bring revolution to its ruin.”

	The group murmured between themselves. Could it be serious? Could it be true? “Comrade High Commander believes we need twenty-thousand brave comrades and we're beginning to scour for anyone who may. The regulars had already been reached out to, and they will learn what they can of Amapa and open doors to us. Viva, comrades! Exciting times again!”

	The way back to the village took them from off of the beach and they walked through the forests and jungles of the highlands. Much of it was young growth, and between the branches and trunks of apple trees, cashew trees, and palms they could spot the ruins of the world before enveloped in vines. At a point as they came closer the dense young foliage began to break and the path took on an air more like a mule trail and open fields full of beans and squash became more a presence. There would be at times clusters of small farmer communes and the sounds of cocks and the rooting of hogs entered into the soundscape of songbirds and breeze.

	Crossing a bridge over a small creek they heard the songs of washerwomen somewhere further upstream, and looking to find they could find glimpses of the old wives and young daughters washing clothes in the cool water the trickled down from mountain streams, their white dresses wet from the splashing or they going topless in the heat.

	Cresting a hill they now came to look down at the small village tucked into the bosom of the green mountains. The crowns of the trees and forests obscuring their view from the sea, but the smell of the ocean was still strong even with the flowery and fruity aroma of the wild orchards around them. The village of Sans Capital below them looked to be sleepy and calm, laid wide out over the gentle mountain hills in a series of clumped shacks or sturdier brick and mortar homes slowly being raised from the middle of the commune. Just looking down onto it there was a feeling of excitement below in its mud streets for all the flags were out and flying.

	On the streets the old men sat stooped on their stoops, clutching walking streets or canes as they laughed and talked to one another. Chickens and roosters ran free in the village and they pecked through the mud and overturned dust of the street in search of worms or insects that they could further scratch up. Their cackling and cawing echoed in the afternoon air as Raul, Gabriel, Jorge, Miquel, Jesus and Rodrigo made their way to the center of town. There gathered around a notice board were a few handfuls of men their age or older, looking excited or anxious. Nearby at a makeshift desk made of an overturned apple crate and under a tattered tarp canopy sat a burly black man, a large cigar in his mouth.

	“Senior Jovenel, I have brought those volunteers I told you about. As I said, they are eager.”

	The man at the desk looked up, and laughing smiled. He rose and invited them over. “Then come. Come!” he cheered, “Are we ready to partake in the next great throw of our history, and bring liberation to our brothers under warlords to the south?” he talked in a thick accent, reminiscent of the French islands to the east, lost or barely there.

	“I am ready to bring the new world!” Miguel declared. Approaching the recruiter he turned his head so he might see the scar on his face.

	“He is as mature a fighter as any. My recommendations is to let him lead, and he will be a strong force.” Raul said, “I have experience on this matter.”

	Jovenel nodded, “We will see.” he said, “Your name, comrade?”

	“Miguel Antonio Silvia.” Miguel answered.

	“So it is.” the man nodded, directing his attention to the others the process was repeated.

	“Jesus, Rodrigo,” the recruiter said of the last two, “You two are brothers, and I would feel guilty about recommending a mother's  two sons to fight together.”

	“Our mother will be fine. She has more back home in Guatemala.” Jesus said, Rodrigo nodding.

	“Are you sure? To die is one thing, but to leave the spirit of our kinsfolk in total sadness is one thing entirely.” Jovenel said.

	Both Jesus and Rodrigo nodded in confirmation and the recruiter clapped his hand on his crate. “Very well then.” he said, writing down their names.

	“If it would be possible, these young men have such a relationship it would make sense for them to be together. A mutual love for one another makes good men fight like devils for one another. They will be safer together.” Raul advised.

	“I can not make promises.” Jovenel said, “But I will recommend it to the mission's Comrade Commander. Perhaps justice will done for them, and they will set foot on the beaches together. In the next week, we will learn. The full recruit list will be posted here in your village then.”

	“Thank you comrade, and viva!” Raul cheered.