Carnifex

9/8/49 AC

Belisario was about given up hope. His band was down to seventy-five men, perhaps less by sunrise, and he'd found no solution to the problem. Even now his men were scattered across two hundred square kilometers, in little groups of five or ten, partly to ease foraging and partly so as not to attract the attention of the always-threatening UN air power. Of the modern weapons he and his group had captured, few remained. For those few there was no ammunition. Even Pedro had wrapped and buried his prized heavy sniper rifle for lack of anything to feed it with.

Hanging his head in despair, Belisario thought, for perhaps the thousandth time, about just giving it up and surrendering to the Gurkhas and Sikhs who hunted his men morn and night. They were good men, those. Better, by far, than the other troops the UN set loose to terrorize the population.

"Don't shoot, Dad," he heard and looked up. It was the voice of his daughter, Mitzi. She walked into the center of the camp, gripping an escopeta and accompanied by a young man.

A gringo, by his looks, Belisario thought. He saw half a dozen others, leading heavily laden mules. Gringos, too, most likely.

"Mom says 'hi,'" Mitzi said. "She told me to lead these men to you. Even loaned me her shotgun for safety and I never would have expected her to do that."

"Are you Belisario Carrera?" the young man with Mitzi asked.

"I am."

"Sir, I'm Juan Alvarez, Jr., from down in Southern Columbia, and, sir, I've brought some things I think you maybe need."