began running up the trail again, beckoning Ganganez to follow him.
“Come on,” he called back to the Brigade commander. “You’ll see….”
It was the men at the rear of the Night Brigade’s column who were the most nervous.
Several times in the past thirty minutes they had turned around and found dozens of their colleagues suddenly gone. Vanished, without a trace. When they went back for them, cutting their way through the dense brush, all they found were their boots and their guns. No footprints. No bloodstains. No last cries. They were just gone, as if swept away by ghosts.
Now these men—they were part of the Night Brigade’s explosives squads—were suddenly on the tail of the column. They were so frightened, some were actually wetting themselves.
One man, a sergeant named Aswalo, was trying to keep his courage up by chanting under his breath. To the sun god, the moon god, the earth god, the water god. To any god who might hear him, he chanted and sweated and gulped, while wiping the fluid from his nose and eyes. He was trying his best to keep up with the main column, but felt himself being slowed down, and losing sight of the man in front of him for long periods of time.
The vegetation was so thick, his eyes were suffering from green-out, a condition that made him see just about everything in shades of green only. Even his skin looked green to him now. Or maybe that’s what happened when a man lost his courage for good, he thought.
He was almost running now, trying like hell to keep up with the man in front of him, but slipping and sliding on the liquid pathway and falling further and further behind. He should never have slaughtered that family of innocents back in Bolivia several months ago, he cursed. He should never have blown up that church in Chile with so many women and children inside it. He should never have killed his own father in a dispute over two pesos. And he should never have …
Aswalo was sweating so much now his boots were hard to keep on. In that frightening moment, he became convinced this was the way his missing colleagues had lost their boots!
Aswalo looked down at his jungle shoes and saw they were coming undone. A new streak of terror went through him. He knew he would have to stop and retie them—but this meant he would fall further behind the column. But not to do so would be even more foolish. If he walked very far in the squishy untied boots, he knew from experience he would develop sores and blisters which would make it impossible for him to walk at all.
He quickly stopped, laid down his rifle, and hastily began to restring his boots.
When he looked up again, he found himself staring into the eyes of one of his colleagues.
It was Sergeant Pedro Petro, one of the company’s cooks and a friend of Aswalo. But in the microsecond that Aswalo recognized his old chum, he also knew something was very, very wrong. Pedro’s eyes were staring at him unblinkingly and his head was cocked in such a way as to look very unnatural. A moment later, Aswalo knew why: It was Pedro’s severed head he was looking at.
It was tied through the ears with hemp twine and looped around the neck of the man who was standing over him, watching him tie his boots. This man was wearing Pedro’s severed head like a ghoulish necklace, even though Aswalo had spoken with Pedro not five minutes before he’d disappeared.
Aswalo tried to cry out, but even then he knew it was useless. This person standing over him, he was a native—just like the one who was leading them up this mountain of hell. But his face was painted with bloody red liquid. And his eyes were fierce and burning. He had a double-barrel machine gun in one hand and a huge machete in the other. And he was looking down at Aswalo like a hunter looks down on a calf before slaughter.
In his last seconds on earth, Aswalo saw another strange thing. It was a gallery of faces staring out at him from the bush. Same blood-painted faces, with the
“Come on,” he called back to the Brigade commander. “You’ll see….”
It was the men at the rear of the Night Brigade’s column who were the most nervous.
Several times in the past thirty minutes they had turned around and found dozens of their colleagues suddenly gone. Vanished, without a trace. When they went back for them, cutting their way through the dense brush, all they found were their boots and their guns. No footprints. No bloodstains. No last cries. They were just gone, as if swept away by ghosts.
Now these men—they were part of the Night Brigade’s explosives squads—were suddenly on the tail of the column. They were so frightened, some were actually wetting themselves.
One man, a sergeant named Aswalo, was trying to keep his courage up by chanting under his breath. To the sun god, the moon god, the earth god, the water god. To any god who might hear him, he chanted and sweated and gulped, while wiping the fluid from his nose and eyes. He was trying his best to keep up with the main column, but felt himself being slowed down, and losing sight of the man in front of him for long periods of time.
The vegetation was so thick, his eyes were suffering from green-out, a condition that made him see just about everything in shades of green only. Even his skin looked green to him now. Or maybe that’s what happened when a man lost his courage for good, he thought.
He was almost running now, trying like hell to keep up with the man in front of him, but slipping and sliding on the liquid pathway and falling further and further behind. He should never have slaughtered that family of innocents back in Bolivia several months ago, he cursed. He should never have blown up that church in Chile with so many women and children inside it. He should never have killed his own father in a dispute over two pesos. And he should never have …
Aswalo was sweating so much now his boots were hard to keep on. In that frightening moment, he became convinced this was the way his missing colleagues had lost their boots!
Aswalo looked down at his jungle shoes and saw they were coming undone. A new streak of terror went through him. He knew he would have to stop and retie them—but this meant he would fall further behind the column. But not to do so would be even more foolish. If he walked very far in the squishy untied boots, he knew from experience he would develop sores and blisters which would make it impossible for him to walk at all.
He quickly stopped, laid down his rifle, and hastily began to restring his boots.
When he looked up again, he found himself staring into the eyes of one of his colleagues.
It was Sergeant Pedro Petro, one of the company’s cooks and a friend of Aswalo. But in the microsecond that Aswalo recognized his old chum, he also knew something was very, very wrong. Pedro’s eyes were staring at him unblinkingly and his head was cocked in such a way as to look very unnatural. A moment later, Aswalo knew why: It was Pedro’s severed head he was looking at.
It was tied through the ears with hemp twine and looped around the neck of the man who was standing over him, watching him tie his boots. This man was wearing Pedro’s severed head like a ghoulish necklace, even though Aswalo had spoken with Pedro not five minutes before he’d disappeared.
Aswalo tried to cry out, but even then he knew it was useless. This person standing over him, he was a native—just like the one who was leading them up this mountain of hell. But his face was painted with bloody red liquid. And his eyes were fierce and burning. He had a double-barrel machine gun in one hand and a huge machete in the other. And he was looking down at Aswalo like a hunter looks down on a calf before slaughter.
In his last seconds on earth, Aswalo saw another strange thing. It was a gallery of faces staring out at him from the bush. Same blood-painted faces, with the
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