Newmarket Street
St Anne’s parish shanty town
Tikal Free State
A tropical storm was approaching from the North Thalassan Ocean. The rain poured, soaking through the clothes and gear of the hundred or so marching men. The streets were dark with curfew where once, only a few weeks ago, the island’s vibrant nightlife had ensured that they were brightly lit until the early hours of the morning. For the thousands of tourists eager to leave this increasingly violence-stricken island, the storm compounded their anxieties as flights and ships were cancelled or delayed. For the assault party, it seemed an apt backdrop to the task they had at hand. After shocking recent events, it'd seemed to the islanders that their little world was rapidly falling apart.
James O’Callaghan, the newest member of this group, was seventeen years old. He wore a green uniform shirt, boonie hat, combat boots and, for added martial affect, two bandoliers of ammunition crosswise across his torso. He toted a 9mm Sterling submachine gunp which, along with the Galil 5.56mm rifle imported from Yisrael, were the most common small arms utilised by Tikal’s security forces. The group even had a pair of Model 43 machine guns. A few of them had hand grenades.
Not that he or heavily-armed comrades were from the official security forces. Rather, they were part of the ‘Defence Force Auxiliaries’ – respectable armed citizens doing their duty to safeguard their homes from the endemic mob violence of the shanty town denizens. As always, they said amongst themselves, the feckless Mayans had made a mess of things, and it was up to the Hibernians, the dutiful, responsible and industrious backbone of this small nation, the ones who brought civilisation to this once desolate land, who must clean up their mess. James spared no thought to interrogate the many questionable assumptions inherent in this mentality. Like most in his age, class and demographic, growing up on this small island, it just seemed a natural part of the laws of the universe, rather than mere cultural construct.
There were about a small company-sized force of them advancing through the street on this fateful night, moving with an air of purpose and displaying some of the tactical methods that army trainers had imparted upon these part time paramilitary vigilantes. James was anxious about going into his first real action, but excited nonetheless behind his grim countenance. How could he not? In the aftermath of the bombing which, face it, could only be the work of some Mayan mafia or drug cartel, an unauthorised radio station had begun to broadcast from the heart of the slums, regaling the slum-dwellers with biased accounts of systemic injustices inflicted upon them by the Hibernians, and inciting them to defy the lawful authorities. They could not allow this sedition to continue. With the official security forces putting out a hundred metaphorical (or, increasingly, real) fires at once, it was down to James and his fellow responsible citizens to put this right.
In his young impressionable mind, James replayed the speech delivered by his commander earlier in the evening. Commandant Charles Kelly had harangued his men earlier as they mustered in a school’s gym. As an adventurous but devout young men, Kelly had left the island to enlist in the Fabrian Order Militant. He’d seen combat as part of a peacekeeping contingent, before rising to the rank of sergeant major. Leaving the order, he had returned to his homeland a changed man – one who burnt with conviction that the kingdom of God rests on shaky foundations in this fallen world, and must be protected at all costs with not only faith, but armed might.
“Brothers,” he had said, “do not be despondent, for God has given us this day! The day to display our devotion to him by barring shut the gates of hell as anarchy threatens our homeland’s good and natural order! We have no quarrels with our Mayan brothers, and indeed I mourn the passing of our premier, whose murder by criminal elements had precipitated this latest wave of violence. However, more and more dwellers of these cesspools of misrule have turned aside from the holy Church and fell into sin and depravity, peddling drugs and prostitutes to the tourists and the dissolute. Their violence and rapacity has forced us to form the Defence Force Auxilaries, so that the respectable citizens of Tikal can defend ourselves from these thugs and brutes.”
“They are sinners, but their malevolence is at a human level, and by the justice of man they shall meet their comeuppance. More sinister, more menacing, are the infiltrators from Mutul. They peddle not depravities of the flesh, but depravities of the soul – their pagan religion and their diabolical rites of human sacrifice, worshipping their false king of the House of Ilok'tab. They have been tolerated, at dire peril to our immortal souls. Now, we will tolerate them no longer.”
“Brothers, as the great saint and apostle said, ‘we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.’ Now, is the hour that we must strike, and strike hard, to remove these agents of the malevolence from our homeland! What is our battlecry?”
The vigilantes’ shouted response shook the hall. “Deus lo vult! Deus lo vult! Deus lo vult!”
“May the Lord bless your arms, my brothers,”, he concluded, ” for God wills it!”
With this masterful display of demagoguery still reverberating within their minds, the green-clad paramiltaries grimly set forth for the task at hand.
Newmarket Square,
St Anne’s Parish shanty town
Tikal Free State
One hour ago
Little did James and his fellows know, some two hours ago, a meeting of a not dissimilar nature was taking place in the square they were proceeding to.
Phillip Uneh Chan – Phillip Scroll Serpent, knew he had a reached a decisive point as he climbed on top of a pile of crates to address the crowd gathered before him in a large warehouse. There was little electrical illumination, although fires were lit in a half dozen steel oil drums to give plenty of light. Before him were young men and women in their twenties and thirties, in tracksuits and jeans and bandanas. All had a weapon – most were armed with gang-smuggled guns, although one or two bore machetes, their blades shining bright in the firelight.
“Make silent!” he said in Anglic, which was the only language most of them understood, though most understood a peppering of Mayan loan words. He waited until the crowd had quietened down substantially before continuing - “make silence, and heed the sound of thunder!”
The pro-forma response was not in unison, but displayed an underlying sense of confidence “Heed the divine words, oh people!”
Phillip smiled at the crowd with pride. A year ago, none of them would’ve known anything about their ancestors’ cultural heritage. Neither, he admitted to himself, did he. Scroll Serpent grew up as an orphan on the streets of the shanty town. He left school after the age of 16 to take make a living in the tourist industry by taking up a series of petty jobs. Petty jobs soon turned into petty crimes which became increasingly less petty, culminating in a robbery attempt which seriously injured a police officer. As a mere lookout for the gang, he was given a five-year sentence, of which he served three. He left prison determined to find his purpose in life. Almost on a whim, he travelled to the land of his Mayan ancestors – the Kingdom of Mutul, on a journey to ‘find his roots’. He returned to Tikal educated in the language, culture and history of his ancestors’ people, not to mention adopted their religion with a convert’s zeal. He worked as a social and youth worker in the roughest shanty towns, helping young people to, like him, find a purpose in life.
He’d also come to share with them the religion of their Mayan heritage. It was never officially encouraged by the Mutulese religious authorities. But then again, they never officially discouraged it, either.
“My fellow Mayans,” he intoned, “brothers and sisters. Today, we gather here to mourn our fallen compatriots, Mr Edward Siyahkak, better known among you as Edward Smoking Frog.” Privately, the social worker turned community agitator had his doubts. Siyahak/Smoking Frog was from the middle class, educated in Arthurista, worked as a lawyer most of his life, and decidedly not at home in the slums where his constituents lived. The less trusting may be tempted to argue that he was a garden-variety demagogue who cynically exploited the working class Mayans as a support base. Wherever the truth lies, it was immaterial now. His memory would now serve as a blood-soaked banner for his people’s cause, whether he would have wished for this in life or not.
“He was a true leader, one of the finest sons of Tikal. He was a Mayan but reached across the cultural divide in an attempt to bridge the gap between us and our Hibernian fellow citizens. And for his noble vision of reconciliation, he’d paid the ultimate price.” Phillip had his doubts here either. After all, nobody knew why he’d been assassinated. Phillip considered it just as likely that Smoking Frog had been ‘on the take’ and the cartels had blown him up after a deal had gone sour – he was a politician, after all, for all his supposed reputation of incorruptibility, and Phillip did not trust politicians. Again, propaganda has never had much overlap with the truth.
”This is a time when the people of Tikal should unite, and together create a future of equality, peace and justice. We know, however, this is not how things are going. Violence has erupted on the streets. Instead of working with us to build a fair and just Tikal, they wish to perpetuate centuries of inequality, with our people confined to the slums and to menial jobs despite decades’ worth of failed equality policies. They even defame the culture and religions of those of us who have left the foreign church, and embraced the faith of our ancestors. They slander our venerable gods as demons, and us as human sacrificers. Will your people’s honour be slighted in such a way?”
“Even as we speak, our Hibernian neighbours are marching to shut down our community’s voice, our humble radio station.” He paused for maximum effect, before continuing. ”Brothers and sisters, we are a peaceful people, but if those with violence in their hearts raise their spear-throwers in our direction, intent to hurt and to kill, what is our response?”
” Heed the words of your sovereign lord! Him of the divine rain in peace, but in war whose lightning is wrath, and whose thunder rends our foes asunder! Pick up the spear, my friends, for battle is at hand, prepare to defend yourselves!”
Newmarket Street,
Approaching Newmarket Square
St Anne’s parish shanty town
Tikal
A shot rang out in the darkness, shockingly loud against the gentle patter of the rain. A man fell, crumpling over without a sound, most likely dead. The column of vigilantes dispersed and sought cover, as they were trained to do. Before they could even scramble two paces, however, the alley opened up in a cacophony of automatic gunfire. Flashes could be seen from the upper floors, followed by salvoes of rounds kicking up fragments of the concrete pavement, or mercilessly cutting down the paramilitaries.
Those who could took cover behind any solid object they could find – cars, large metal rubbish tips, anything at all. The ambushers seemed to have anticipated this, however, and began to drop hand grenades and molotovs from the upper floors. Machine gun fire – it seemed almost certain now that the militia had belt-fed weapons, scythed through the street, keeping the vigilantes pinned and immobile so they could be blasted and burnt at leisure.
A streak of smoke and fire emerged from one of the buildings, - a rocket propelled grenade. It crossed the street with shocking speed, and impacted a van behind which a few members of the militia had taken cover. The vehicle likely had a nearly tank of fuel, because it exploded spectacularly in a ball of fire. The paramilitaries immediately behind it were incinerated instantly. A few standing some distance away were turned into human torches, screaming as they ran in panicked flight down the street until they were cut down by gunfire, or collapsed onto the asphalt of their own accord.
James ran then, fleeing heedlessly into the dark. It seems a good number of the vigilantes were already on their feet and running away, as members of the Mayan militia could be heard to be cheering and leaving their shooting perches to pursue them on foot, their blood curdling yells urging their prey on.
This was, the youth thought, not what he’d signed up for. The group had planned to heroically march down this shanty town street, run down with decades of governmental inattention and urban decay, smash the unauthorised radio station, arrest the miscreants responsible, then hand them triumphantly to the authorities, who’d make sure that the magistrates deal with them in a manner fit for their seditious crime. People shooting at them were distinctly not part of the plan, especially people shooting at them with ghastly effectiveness, with rockets to boot.
James turned a corner, hoping that he’d lose his pursuer at last. Instead, he came face to face with a red-shirted Mayan militiaman, a thick, curved machete in his hand, glittering in the dark by the reflected light of burning objects. The last thing he saw was the arc of the bright blade terminating in his jugular.
