DRU-controlled territory
East Sharatrak
0650
Dust clouds heralded the arrival of another gang of raiders, the latest in an uncountable series that stretched back thousands of years. Deep in the jungle, the laws of those who lived in their palaces and government buildings in gleaming cities so far away did not apply. Out here, only the fittest survived, and as the centuries passed what defined "fittest" shifted. Today, the fittest were a group of soldiers riding in a dirty green pick-up truck, a Jeongmian heavy machine gun bolted on the roof. Their uniforms were tattered and dirty, their hair and beards were unkempt and some looked no older than boys. One in particular stood out, sitting in the passenger seat in the cab, wearing dark aviator sunglasses with a clean-shaven face. He was the only one with any form of rank insignia, but his uniform was as dirty as the rest.
The truck smashed through the gates of the village, riding in on the backdrop of the sun rising past the distant mountains and thick canopy. It hit a slight bump as what may have been a chicken or something was flattened. They tore down the unpaved dirt road between thatched huts that served as the village's main road, then entered the village centre, driving at a dangerous speed around the dusty courtyard, smashing through one hut's porch, then coming to an abrupt stop next to the flagpole. The officer's lip curled nastily as he peered out of the scratched windscreen at the flagpole's bare top.
Whatever semblance of morning peace that returned in those few seconds was shattered as the heavy machine gun got to work, randomly blasting the houses as 12.7 millimetre rounds punched through flimsy wood that had stood for decades. The soldiers piled off the back of the truck, carrying an eclectic mixture of Jeongmian Cold War-era Jeonhyeong 16s and Myaarmese Type-39s. These men too began randomly firing into the air and into the huts, most with gleeful abandon and inaccurate hip-fire. The officer opened the door and stepped out gingerly, clutching a bottle of a Meisaani soft drink. Flat and warm by now, but this far out, a luxury it was. He yelled aggressively and the soldiers stopped firing, except one who looked to be in his late teens. The officer gave him a hard punch in the rear of his head, and the soldier dropped unconscious.
And then they began yelling and fanning out to drag everyone in the village to the courtyard. Whoever had not yet fled into the jungle were rounded up at gunpoint and pulled into the dusty square, from the elderly to the young. There was a distinct lack of young men. Under the watch of the heavy machine gun, the villagers were made to stand in a row facing the flagpole. A pair of the soldiers began raising a dirty, faded Sharatraki flag as the officer stood drinking his soft drink arrogantly.
"You are all traitors," the officer yelled, "the national flag must be raised at all times, you scum!"
He proceeded to recite the 'national flag code', though much of it was littered with expletives, contradictions and what were definitely exaggerations. The men finished raising the flag, and he officer made a grandiose show of saluting the flag as it hung limply in the stiff air.
"Traitors must be punished," he declared, eyes invisible behind the sunglasses. He beckoned to his soldiers and pointed out one older villager.
The younger men had no challenge in subduing the elder, dragging him to the flagpole despite the tearful protests from a youth and a pair of women. He did not struggle much, and was soon lashed to the flagpole. The soldier on the machine gun tossed the younger of the two soldiers an item which clattered against the dusty ground. He nervously scrambled to pick it up, teenage acne visible through the dirt on his face. It was a piece of bamboo, fashioned into a crude machete. The blade was stained with a dark brown substance, but the edge itself had been re-sharpened and was clean. The NCO on the machine gun ordered him to use it as the officer leaned against the truck.
With a sharp crack, the young man brought the bamboo blade against the captured man's neck. It did not go in deep, the soldier's swing was not strong enough. The man screamed in pain and began thrashing as the soldier attempted to pull the blade out of his neck. Blood sprayed from the wound, splattering all over the young man, who glanced over at the officer nervously. The moustached superior only sipped his drink, smiling slightly. A second swing went deeper and the man began chocking as blood poured down his windpipe, but the blade was stopped by the man's spine. Some of the observing soldiers began snickering at their colleague's attempts to cut off the man's head. The villagers watched in stunned silence, except for the man's sobbing relatives.
A bamboo blade is just not sharp enough to cleanly make it through the flesh, sinew and bone that make up a man's neck. The soldier was still unfinished almost an hour later, the villagers still forced to watch the scene. The officer had retired to his truck, napping inside. Most of the other soldiers had gotten bored of watching and now lounged around, some smoked opium and others just sat around chatting or eating what meagre rations they had. A few men had dragged a woman into a hut earlier, and the men took turns entering the hut every few minutes. A fight broke out between the NCO and a younger soldier regarding the queue for the hut, soon escalating into a brawl that attracted the attention of the other men who began cheering on their preferred fighter. The villagers did not dare leave despite the soldiers now leaving them completely unguarded.
The unfortunate soldier tasked with hacking off the man's head grew more and more agitated as his comrades began enjoying themselves as he continuously swung his now-dull blade at the remnants of the man's neck. Just a little more flesh remained, and the head hung sickeningly off the bleeding stump of the neck. Already carrion flies were attracted to the corpse. Just one more swing...
With an unceremonious thump, the head came loose from the body and dropped to the ground. The soldier gave a victorious yell and kicked the head towards the villagers. Most of the other soldiers were too occupied with the fight to take notice, but the villagers shrank away from the grisly remnant of their friend. The officer was roused by the yell and emerged form the truck, congratulating the young soldier harshly before opening his mouth to say something.
A deep rumbling interrupted him. The man turned his head. Only the village was reflected in his sunglasses. A plume of grey smoke rose from the nearby jungle line, as though some kind of engine was running there, but the huts to his left obscured the view. He barked an order for two men to check out the source of this, then pulled a pistol on the villagers and demanded to know what they were planning. Suddenly, the huts collapsed, bursting apart into nothing but a pile of wood and bamboo. The officer and most of the soldiers let out surprised yells.
He was suddenly staring down the barrel of a 100 millimetre cannon, belonging to a green-painted Myaarmese Type-49 that ploughed through the remnants of the hut. There was scant time to move before the machine guns opened up, cutting down the soldiers of the national military. Guerillas of the DRU emerged from behind the tank, dressed in a mixture of Myaarmese digital camouflage and all-black uniforms with rice paddy hats. A pitched firefight began as the villagers finally regained their senses long enough to flee the area, the tank and the truck exchanging heavy machine gun fire.
While the flying rounds also began shredding the nearby huts and cutting down troops on both sides, the officer scrambled into the truck. He grabbed the truck's radio, which naturally only he and his NCO knew how to operate, and quickly made contact with his headquarters far away outside the jungle.
"Artillery strike on this position now! Fucking kill these DRU dogs! Fuck!" He was suddenly dragged out of the truck by a DRU fighter. She screamed as she thrust her Type-39's bayonet into his chest. He did not die immediately, and instead flopped around uselessly on the ground. The guerillas plucked the sunglasses from his face, smirked as he began puking blood, and gingerly stepped back into the firefight.
It was over as suddenly as it started, and all of the government soldiers soon lay dead alongside some rebels and some villagers. The guerilla leader stepped forward, squinted at the national flag hanging from the flagpole before noticing a pair of villagers still hiding in the area. Another rebel cut down the rope - and the flag - with an axe as the commander pulled out his pistol and advanced on the cowering pair.
"You race traitors! Myaar'tway is our true mother country," he declared, then shot both.
That very second, a whistling sound filled the air, replacing the echo of the gunshots.
And then the governmental artillery shells hit the village, obliterating it entirely.
This is civil war.
