EPILOGUE

 

 

The door to the makeshift bunker burst open and the man who entered looked as if he had sprinted through hell to reach there. Several grazes marred his left arm, as if he had just barely escaped a flaying wind. Blood dripped from a cut above  his eye, and his skin was dusted liberally with white powder, making his bronze skin look as if he had caught a deadly infection. Which he might, given time enough for the wounds he had to fester.

“Sir,” he said to Mendoza in rapid fire Spanish. “The Federales, the army, they’re landing men with helicopters. They’ve already put down machine guns.” He blinked as one of the other fighters in the bunker tossed him a plastic water bottle. He drank, splashed his face, sighed.

Mendoza forced himself to regard the map. He tried to see a future for himself and his men. Instead, he mentally placed the machine guns where they would be the worst for him on the map. A few seconds later, when directed to point them out, the fighter placed his fingers at exactly those points. Mendoza bit back on a groan of frustration. His men needed to see him as they believed him to be.

As if he always had a plan.

“You, you,” he pointed. “Get the RPGs. We shall have to expend our last Russian presents early. I will take squad two and three out and we shall see if we can get the helos into the air. Take those ball-less whores out of the sky, my men.”

The two men he pointed at nodded quickly.

Mendoza picked up a battered AK-47 that might have first seen service in the Cold War. It still fired, well enough, and there was enough ammo for it. Most of his men carried better weapons. Most of his men were better shots, and younger, and had eyes that could still see straight. But Mendoza knew that, in a time like this, it was about appearances. Men would stand and die, if they believed their leader stood and died beside them.

And so, he worked the chamber. A touch dramatic, but it accomplished what he wished. He saw his fighters taking heart, despite the now audible hammer of the machine guns.

The out doors were hot and painted in blood and dust and smoke. A few fires had been set – either intentionally or by gunfire or by grenades. The underbrush was dry this year and fires that would have died a decade ago, choked out by a wet rain forest, raged now. But it provided cover, and so Mendoza forced himself to grin as he breathed in the choking fumes. He remained as low as he could manage, throwing himself behind a rock. He peeked out and saw the flack vests and helmets and the moving forms of the Federal police and the army – though, as had often been the case for years, there was little difference between the two when it came to situations like this.

He let out a cry, and then leaned around the rock and fired. His men joined him. Assault rifles flashed and casings went flying. Bullets clipped branches and sparked off stone. A few men cried out in pain – but they were fighting veterans. The other group of men spread, dug in, and started to return fire. Bullets whine and hummed overhead. Mendoza broke from cover to get behind a tree. He fired a quick burst – then heard his gun clack.

Assault rifles tore through ammo far faster than they had any right too.

He pulled the magazine, his hands feeling every decade at the moment. As he fumbled the magazine around and slapped it in, he could hear the thump thump thump of helicopters. They were swooping forward, coming to provide air support to the men who were facing more than they bargained for. In the distance, machine guns hammered and he knew that their forward pickets were pinned.

It was do or die time.

One helicopter buzzed forward, blithely confident. Either the pilot was a fresh from basic puta who had believed his superiors when they said Mendoza and his cause were on the ropes...or…

Well, why did not matter. Whatever the pilot had been, he ceased when the RPG smashed into the cockpit. A roar of flames and a haze of smoke filled the air as the helicopter shuddered in the air, then slewed to the side. It smashed into the jungle with a roar of crashing trees, shattering branches. Cheers rang from Mendoza’s men. But the other helicopter jinked hard to the side. The RPG fired at it whisked off and the machine guns mounted under the wings winked and flashed like hateful fireflies.

The man with the RPG, who had been trying to reload his weapon, sprawled bonelessly. Other men were cut down, flushed from cover by grenades and rifle fire. The army was getting closer and closer. Mendoza realized that his magazine hadn’t quite clicked home. He worked at the old mechanism, thinking: An old gun for an old man, eh?

That was when the army man came out from behind a tree. He had a flack vest and a brand new rifle with a combat scope. He even had an attached laser scope and underslung rifle-grenade launcher. He needed nothing. He could have hit with a thrown rock at that distance. Mendoza froze, his eyes widening.

Time seemed…

To stop.

Mendoza was ready for the impact, the hammering feeling, the long awaited question to be answered. Instead, time continued to remain still. The army man – he looked so young now that Mendoza had time to look past the rifle and into his face – had grim expression on his face. But his finger remained caught in the act of pulling the trigger. The flash had not even begun to spring from the barrel. And then, as if reality had blinked, a man appeared between the rifle and the grizzled revolutionary.

He was fairly short, as men went. But despite that, he radiated a dangerous energy that Mendoza immediately recognized. His muscles were corded and lean, not the bulging body building muscles of those terrible American movies some of his men loved. But it was his stance that Mendoza noted. As the veteran of many fights, Mendoza could see the posture of a man who was an artist with a battlefield.

The man looked about the battlefield, his dark hair wavy. His face was Mediterranean – almost as bronzed as Mendoza’s, really. He looked faintly amused.

“It’s not quite going well is it,” he said, his voice sounding faintly distant.

“No,” Mendoza said, slowly. The man spoke English. No accent, as far as Mendoza could tell. “No it is not.” He lowered his rifle. “Who are you?”

The man looked at him.

He smiled.

“I’m god, Mr. Mendoza,” he said. “And I have to say...I really respect your little revolution. And so I have come with a deal.” He held out his hand to Mendoza. Mendoza looked at it. His eyes were wide and he felt as if he could taste the electricity in the air. He should have spat in this man’s face. Him? God? But he couldn’t help but believe him. There was a deep, earnest conviction in the man’s voice. And...well...what did Mendoza have to lose.

His hand and God’s touched.

Time moved once more.

The Army man started, as if surprised to see Mendoza standing with his hand out.

He pulled back on the trigger. Despite his surprise, training held. He put a quick three round bust down range and into Mendoza. Mendoza’s shirt tore and dust went flying. He staggered slightly. But he did not fall. He looked down at his chest and saw the bullets skidding along his skin. They fell to the ground with a soft sizzle. He hissed, slightly. The impacts had done nothing. But the bullets were still hot.

The soldier gaped at him. Then, reacting with remarkable alacrity, he switched to full auto. Mendoza felt his clothing tearing as bullets slammed into him. Nearly every single one of a full, twenty, thirty round burst. They peppered him and bounced off him and left tiny, stinging burn marks. The magazine emptied and the army man’s rifle clicked as he continued to hold down on the trigger.

More cries of alarm were coming...from the army men. Mendoza looked. He saw one of his troops standing in the open, his face twisted with a manic grin. He shot an army man in the face, then another. Two more soldiers hosed the fighter down. His clothing tore. Bullets bounced. But he didn’t fall. Mendoza looked back at the army man.

“Dios Mío!” The soldier flung his rifle down, crossing himself.

And Mendoza knew exactly what to say.

“We all have a new god now,” he said, his eyes glowing. He beamed. “We all have a new god now!”