by TR Kohler
A battle that the young villager seems to be getting the worst of, his nose bloodied as he trades shots with them.
An uneven tussle that perfectly reflects the entire scene, the vitriol Kidman feels managing to rise ever further.
Leaping from his perch in the rear of the Jeep, he aims for the exposed back of the closer of the two fighters. Drawing his knees up before him, he waits until he is in the optimal position before jumping, reappearing in a pose to ensure maximum effect.
A rear assault that catches the man square, the full force of his weight and momentum knocking the man from his feet. Driving his top half directly into the ground, Kidman rides him into the dirt before raising either knife out wide.
A pose that he extends until fully stretched before scything the weapons inward simultaneously. Twin bludgeons as he mashes the base of each handle into the side of the man’s skull.
Wicked side impacts that pull any struggle from the man on contact, his body falling limp beneath Kidman.
Body poised atop his vanquished foe, his gaze snaps back to the continued struggle playing out between Wembo and the last man from the Jeep. A clash the man from the Jeep seems to be winning as he stands over the younger man.
Either end of a rifle gripped tight, he is attempting to pull it into position to get off a shot, Wembo clinging with both hands to the center of it, fighting to keep the barrel aimed harmlessly to the side. Every muscle and tendon plainly visible beneath his bare skin, his lips are pulled back in a snarl.
A look of pure malevolence paints his features.
A grim expression Kidman finds himself fast coming to share as he hops again. A short jump from his perch atop the militiaman to the side of his struggling cohort.
The one who sees nothing, not even knowing Kidman is there until the blade of the pahoa is driven directly into his side.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The transition is quick. The shift from the attacker falling to the side, his weight deposited in a heap atop the dirt, to seeing Wembo lying flat on his back beneath him.
The young man with the bloodied nose, still gripping the rifle tight with both hands. The one with his entire body held taut, fighting an enemy that is no longer a threat.
Two men surprised for a moment to see the other appear before them. People charged with adrenaline and angst, their bodies held coiled, ready to strike, before recognition sets in.
A realization demarcated by both visibly relaxing, no matter how unlikely such a thing might have seemed as recently as just twenty minutes prior.
A brief stare down that ends with Kidman shifting both knives to his left hand. Extending his right, he grabs hold of the rifle still clutched by Wembo, using it to jerk him to his feet.
A move that brings the man up beside him, the two sharing one last glance before turning their attention to the pair of burning huts nearby. The flames already chewing through the ragged structures, the dried fronds and wooden framing serving as little more than kindling.
In just a matter of seconds, already the fires have started to rise. Fingers of orange and yellow climbing ever higher, threatening to consume the entire village.
“How many are in there?” Kidman yells.
In his periphery, he can see Wembo take a step forward. Gone is the previous look of angst, the man’s attention also aimed at the ongoing carnage of the fire before them.
“At least three,” Wembo says. “Maybe more.”
“I’ll take the left.”
Already, Wembo has seen Kidman in action. He was there as they departed the original hut. Watched as Kidman hopped across the village and directly into the rear of the Jeep bearing down on them.
Likely, many others have as well. People that saw him make the same leap, and if not, almost definitely spotted him hopping from the first Jeep to the second.
Reflexive movements given without forethought to who might be watching or what reaction they may have.
A sum total meaning there is no point in continuing to try and hide. Nothing to be gained from keeping his abilities a secret, his recent actions either earning him the trust of the people around him or not.
No way to change it now.
Dropping his knives to the dirt by his feet, Kidman flings himself directly at the sagging structure, landing in the only small crevice of open space he could spot from the outside. A narrow expanse of just a few feet in the exact center of the structure, the full oppressive heat of the fire shoving in on him from all sides.
Temperatures enough to singe the hairs on his arms, the smoky air feeling as if it might turn his lungs to tissue paper with each breath.
“Hello?!” he yells, the single word tearing at his throat as he turns a quick circle. “Anybody in here?!”
Rotating two full revolutions, there is nothing for him to see save a thick cloud of dark smoke. Billows of it rolling up and over him, blocking all sight from view.
“Anybody?!” he bellows, the word clawing at his throat as he drops to his knees. A descent that lowers him beneath the worst of the smoke, the air clarifying to a pale haze.
Just enough sightline to see the two young children huddled in the corner nearby. A pair of girls visibly trembling, firelight glistening from the tears cleaving through the soot on their cheeks.
Jumping from his spot in the center of the hut to the ground directly in front of them, Kidman plants himself just inches from their faces. A human wall blocking the fiery pyre rising behind him as he leans in close.
A placement that lasts only a second, just long enough for him to assess where they are positioned. Check and ensure the girls are not pinned down, held into position by a sagging part of the structure.
A quick look before grabbing the outside arm of each of them in either hand. Snapping his focus back over his shoulder, he peers out through the narrow opening of the front doorway.
Just enough of a crack to see a wedge of daylight.
More than sufficient for him to jump all three out onto the spot he was standing a moment before.
“Are you okay?” he asks. Starting on the left, he waits until he gets a nod of confirmation before moving to the right.
“And you?”
Receiving a second affirmative response, he lifts his gaze. Swinging his focus around, he looks at the few stragglers still nearby. A final couple of villagers moving about, trying to save what remains of their homes in the wake of the soldiers having swept north through the village.
A battle that now sounds out from beyond his view, Sanga and his men seeming to be mounting some form of a concerted return.
“Okay,” he says, turning to peer back in the opposite direction. The second of the two huts, Wembo still yet to have returned.
The one in a far greater state of disrepair, the last couple of minutes having ravaged the structure. With the roof caving in, most of the building visibly sags, ready to fall in on itself at any moment.
“Stay right here. I’ll be back.”
This time, he doesn’t wait for a response. No nod of affirmation or comment saying they understand.
His focus set on the trembling hut fighting against fire and gravity to stay upright, he jumps himself forward. Right to the edge of the opening that would normally serve as a front door. A gap now obstructed by a corner of the roof having caved in, a support beam resting at an angle across it, flames licking at the wood, working their way steadily downward.
An effective blockade leaving no more than a foot of space above and below it.
“Wembo!” Kidman calls, rising onto his toes. An effort to see into the hut. Try and view some small snippet of an opening. A tiny wedge he can jump into.
An attempt thwarted by the dense smoke inside. Billows rising from the beam. Pouring in from every direction, put off by the thatching that comprises the outside of the structure.
“Wembo?!” he shouts a second time, dropping himself flat to the ground. Hands and chest pressed into the damp earth beneath him, he peers through narrowed eyes, ignoring the stin
g of sweat and smoke.
“Are you here?!”
Straining to peer into the darkened interior of the hut, to try and see Wembo’s feet or the slightest bit of movement, he is not expecting the face that appears before him. Not the sudden appearance or the fact that it is decidedly not the young man he is seeking out.
A young girl of not much more than five, her red and puffy eyes fill the small gap beneath the broken beam. Smoke and tears and fright dominate her features as she stares back at him.
“Wembo’s down!” she says. “Hurt, when the board fell!”
To punctuate her point, she raises one tiny finger, pointing at the board wedged between them. The beam with fire steadily working down the length of it, threatening to close the one small window Kidman has to work with.
A brief gap he can use to get inside before any chance of seeing in or out is gone.
“Are you hurt?” Kidman yells, his voice raised to be heard over the crackling of the fire.
A question that is answered with a quick shake of the head. Enough to blur her features for a moment, sprigs of dark hair swinging behind her.
“Okay,” Kidman replies, “give me your hand.”
Doing as instructed, the girl reaches out. Tiny fingers extended under the beam, just barely enough to allow Kidman to latch on and pull her free.
The instant her feet clear the threshold of the door, Kidman points to the pair of children still standing nearby and says, “Go stand with them. Okay?”
This time, the question is met with an emphatic nod. An answer in the affirmative before turning and bounding away.
A journey Kidman watches for no more than a moment before shifting his focus back to the interior of the hut.
A structure threatening to come down at any moment, Wembo trapped somewhere inside.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Long gone are the muddy chinos and loafers Hazik was wearing earlier. After standing out on his balcony for the better part of ten minutes, his first task was stripping out of the soiled togs and tossing them aside. Continuing the tirade that took him across the main floor, he left them strewn about his bedroom, there for his cleaning staff to deal with.
He had more important matters to get to.
In their place are a pair of camouflage trousers and black leather boots. Attire to match that of Yogo seated behind the steering wheel.
The messenger Fumu again sent back to Makoua to check in with Hazik. Ensure he made it back okay after the earlier ambush on the road and to brief him about what was occurring.
Something he could not get to himself, the combination of another skirmish needing his attention and the dense rainforest he was in blocking any sort of reception from being available.
Casting aside his previous post in the passenger seat, Hazik stands in the back of the Jeep. Feet spread wide to provide balance, either hand rests on the exposed top bar of the frame. Four points of contact to keep him in place as Yogo guides them through the thick forest vegetation.
Foliage pressing in tight from both sides, in some places threatening to swallow the path entirely from view.
“Faster,” he barks, Yogo on command leaning harder on the gas, the vehicle lurching forward.
A palpable lunge that causes them to leave contact with the ground in places as they bounce along, each second that passes heightening the anticipation within Hazik. The angst that has existed since the earlier encounter with the rebels and then the odd American with the long hair.
The images of what they might arrive to find.
Mental pictures that finally come to fruition as Yogo rounds one final turn before hitting the brakes, just managing to bring the vehicle to a skidding stop. A fishtailing effort marked by slinging dirt and gravel, the Jeep shuddering to a halt just before plowing into the random jumble of structures comprising Bukari.
Or, rather, the remains of it.
One of the few settlements Hazik has encountered in his limited forays into the rainforest over the last several months, it appears to be one of the larger he’s seen. Big enough to warrant having an actual name, a distinction not shared by many others throughout the region.
Looking to have quite recently been as many as thirty or forty structures in total, at the moment it is mostly rubble. Ash piles interspersed between the remains of dwellings. Half-burned shells that stand in an uneven pattern.
Destruction that has spared only three in their entirety, everything else sustaining some level of damage.
Overall devastation that has the small crowd of villagers gathered off to the side in a state of despondence. Mostly women and children huddled together, many openly weep as they stare on.
A casualty of the ongoing hubris of their menfolk. Self-important bastards that think by standing up to him they are accomplishing something. Making it possible that he will eventually leave them be, free to harvest the grounds and live in peace.
An eventuality that will never occur, whether it is him or somebody else serving as mayor of the region.
Not now that word is out of how valuable the ground they occupy really is.
Hopping down out of the back of the Jeep, Hazik is greeted by Fumu halfway across the center of the village. The stock of a rifle resting on his hip, the barrel is pointed toward the forest canopy above.
Gone are his usual mirrored sunglasses, unnecessary in the darkened state of the rainforest. In their stead, the man’s eyes are fully visible, the whites threaded with red tendrils.
Some amalgamation of smoke and lack of sleep, if not more.
“Hazik,” Fumu opens, his tone emitting the same weariness as his appearance.
“What happened here?” Hazik replies, bypassing a greeting of any sort.
Shifting slightly to look at the wreckage of the scene, Fumu says, “Part two.”
An explanation that goes no further, Hazik picks up the implication. What he is now seeing is the second part of what started on the road north out of Makoua. A continuation of Fumu and his men giving chase into the forest, ultimately finding themselves in Bukari.
The final stanza of a battle the rebels had no way to know they were starting when they planted their little surprise.
Grunting softly, Hazik’s head bobs. A physical manifestation of his approval, driven by the acrimony that has been fueling him for the last several hours.
“Losses?” he asks.
“More than a dozen men,” Fumu replies. “Women and children rounded up. Most of the homes and food stores destroyed.”
A list that isn’t quite as exhaustive as Hazik would prefer, but is a good start.
Enough, anyway, to make them rethink any more sudden attacks on him or his men.
“For us?” he asks.
“Eight men,” Fumu replies. “Two Jeeps.”
Midway through a sweep of his surroundings, Hazik stops. The words catching his attention, he shifts directly back to Fumu.
“Eight men? From a handful of jungle fighters with old guns?”
“No,” Fumu replies, meeting his gaze. “Only a couple were from the local forces. The rest...well, they had help.”
“What kind of help?” Hazik snaps. “Other villages?”
“No,” Fumu repeats. “Outside help.”
Lips parted to fling another barb, Hazik stops. Images from earlier in the day flood in. Recollections from his trek back to Makoua with the American that had seemed to arrive from thin air.
The one that didn’t carry the look of a soldier, but still seemed plenty capable.
The same one that lied about everything asked of him, from how he got there to his reason from being so far from home.
“American help,” Hazik mutters.
“Yes,” Fumu replies. “Tall guy, long hair.”
Words that confirm Hazik’s suppositions. His various concerns since parting ways with the man earlier in the day.
Thoughts filled with self-flagellation that he pushes to the side, not about to voice them in front of Fumu or his men.
“Tall guy,” Hazik repeats instead. “As in, one?”
“Yes,” Fumu repeats. “But not just any one. One like those we’ve heard stories about. The ones with abilities.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The faint outline of the slash is just barely visible as Kidman lifts the blood-stained tail of his shirt. Torso bathed in sweat, he peels the cotton away and runs a finger along the thin furl of skin puckered up the length of the wound.
A quick check to ensure it is closed.
Another in an endless supply collected throughout his previous life, within the hour it will be completely erased. One more of what would be too many to count, there and gone without a trace.
Even if the pain they provide in the process is very, very real.
“Are you alright?” Wembo asks. His voice faint, the words are just barely audible, even in the stillness of the rainforest. A tone that reinforces what Kidman already knew, able to almost feel the strength fading from the man as they make their way forward.
The reason both for this pause and the need to keep it as brief as possible.
In the wake of exiting the burning hut with Wembo, both of them burned and battered, Kidman had lay sprawled in the dirt for several seconds. All three children that were pulled from the fires sitting watch over him, he’d taken a moment to let the worst of the pain pass. Instants of excruciating agony, his entire body clenched, every nerve ending set alive at once.
A moment of misery surpassing anything felt since that day in Yangon before eventually, mercifully, his body’s healing started to take over.
A slow trudge over the tipping point before he was able to unfurl himself. Time enough for Sanga and some of the others to arrive, having driven off the militia for the time being.
A state that the man was certain would not last long, needing to get as many as possible away from the camp while they still could.
A task Kidman was glad to help with, though Sanga had other ideas.
Namely, the assignment that now has he and Wembo moving northwest away from Bukari. A part-mission, part-trade, willing to tell Kidman where to find Anika Purna in exchange for taking Wembo to her.
