President Coleman paces back and fourth in his capitol in Jackson, Mississippi, worried about the 5th Florida infantry and 9th Texas Armored. Three weeks ago while in his office talking with the general overseeing the mission on the radio, he lost communication suddenly and hasn't left his office since. His meals has had to be brought in to him as he either paces in front of or just sits near the radio awaiting any form of communication from the general. "I've had enough of this damned waiting!" Coleman yells standing up and walks over to his closet, opening it to find his old combat armor and model 1887. As he takes the armor off of the hanger and begins putting it on when there is a knock at the door. quickly he throws off the armor, closes the closet door and sits down. "Yes, come in the door is open.". The general of the battalions in question steps in with a file and Coleman breaths a sigh of happiness and relief. "My god you had me worried!" Coleman chuckles and the general approaches with a grim expression and puts down the file. "Sir." the general begins "When arriving to the state of Virginia, we found it was overrun by deathclaws, it appears the more north we go the more there are. We were lucky to save the men we did. We also saved a village of Raiders which the men and women have pledged to join our 1st Virginia infantry.". Coleman pauses at the fact that there are more and more deathclaws appearing. "Well, atleast that's all." Coleman chuckles nervously, but stops when the general shakes his head. "No sir, we have also gotten reports of other nations forming, many with large militaries as well as large populations, the closest being the New California Republic". Coleman looks at the map the general just put down and looks at all the countries. " Get my jet ready, I'm heading to California." He pauses again. "Also, begin the invasion of Kentucky, I want it done by the time we meet an agreement of alliance.". "Yes, Sir!" 3 Hours later the jet takes off, on it's way to California to meet with it's leader in hope to form an alliance.

The brown grey clouds roiled in the sky above Head Office as Hjordis Falk gazed idly across the sludge of the Thames. This weather would certainly delay shipments across the Baltic, but not significantly enough to worry about. She turned from the window back to his desk. She had more pressing matters in the south to deal with. The border conflicts with Franco-Iberia had reached a lull that she didn't trust to stay that way, and expansions eastward had been slowed by heavy mutant resistance. She needed to get some heavier troops to the east, but couldn't risk taking them off the border. Her UKEEN adviser had warned against another draft so soon after the last one, lest the populace get uneasy. There was the option of producing heavier armour to ship eastward, but that was a costly plan in both time and finances. If she let the Franco-Iberians get ahead in the territorial claims it would lower employee morale and productivity would suffer as a result.
She sighed and took another drink of brandy when she saw the next report on her desk. Reparations on the new oil rig were delayed by weather and a broken cargo vessel. The whole project would be pushed back a month at least. This she could deal with. A month wasn't as bad as things could have been and once the rig was functional it would provide a massive boon to the economy. She still wished that some good news would come through her office at some point.

It was yet another sunny day, the birds were chirping, and the skies were a nice shade of blue, not a cloud in the sky. The kids were playing, the teens were... Well, teens. Then suddenly, a cloud out of nowhere. And then another. Another. All in the shape of... Mushrooms? How curious. Then, a massive heat wave, and all the children were turned to dust, and then... A bright light. Richard's eyes jolt open as he is startled from his slumber. That same dream has been haunting him since the day he was rushed to the cryostasis lab to be frozen for god knows how long. He stood up and walked to the window nearby, overlooking the capitol of the New California Republic in San Diego, California. It took a lot to rebuild his old home, and he'll be dammed if it were to be taken from him again. There was a knock at the door. Richard turns to the door and shouts "Come on in." A medium build figure steps through the door, dressed in a full NCR commanders outfit. He says "Sir, an unidentified aircraft has just arrived, and we've identified one of the passengers as a president of a foreign nation. He wants to speak to you about an alliance." "Very well, check them for weaponry and let them in."

The Vancouver council joined together for the second time in the month, unusually, as normally there is one meeting a month, however the issues present required the meeting. The council members streamed in, just as the morning rays streamed in through the windows. The men all wore black suits with red ties, all except for Honourable Lord John Harrison. Harrison looked around the room as he entered, sighing as he felt woefully out of place in his ceremonial red robe, modeled after the ones in the former supreme court of Canada. The room was converted from an old classroom, the school around it destroyed by the bombing, in fact the room itself didn't survive unscathed, the new drywall in the roof clashing with the rest of the room. The floor was supposed to be covered in a red velvet carpet, but it hadn't been installed yet, sticking with the puzzle piece Styrofoam "Rug" that was already there from the days that the room was a kindergarten class. The "rug" itself had survived surprisingly well, melted parts existing and incredibly obvious compared with the rest, which was rainbow coloured, but the room wasn't supposed to look good, it was meant to be big. Harrison realized that he hadn't moved as he was daydreaming, and that the council was staring at him, some angrily, and some expectedly, others had simply rolled their eyes towards his direction. Embarrassed, Harrison walked to the front of the room with his hands clinched behind his back tightly. He stood behind the aged wood podium, and struck it with his gavel, the noise it made not quite as loud as he had hoped. He cleared his throat, and began his speech. "All rise, for the national anthem." He then pulled out his phone and a bluetooth speaker and placed them on the podium. The 20 or so persons in attendance rose from the black folding chairs, some making a loud screeching as the chairs moved behind them. Harrison pressed the play button, and the trumpets played triumphantly through the room as the anthem began. Some men joined the anthem in song, others stood vigil, Harrison twirled his finger behind his back as the song played, he loved the anthem, it was hopeful, and it made him happy in a world where little did. "And we stand aaaalways fo-or theeeeeeee!" The last words of the anthem roared out triumphant and loud, echoing throughout the room in a fantastic way, it nearly brought Harrison to tears, but he was no child, so he bit his lip, and prevented himself from crying. All of the council members sat down, yet again to some loud screeching, and Harrison cleared his throat again; "Now that we are all present, we begin." He flipped through his notes until he found the correct date, taking longer than he would have preferred. "Issues to deal with today, Deathclaws in the south, becoming a near infestation. Allies or enemies, new nations emerge as our neighbors and comrades in surviving this event. And finally, Yao Guai in the north, extreme caution reccommended. Now that the topics are established, let us begin." This was gonna be a long meeting.

General Ibrahim Erdogan, Lord Commander of his Radiant Majesty's Illustrious Legio XIII, scanned across the dusty wasteland with the irreplaceable and ancient Zeiss digital binoculars from the cupola of the Land ship Bellatrix. Bellatrix was the mightiest war machine in the Legionary arsenal outside of the new tanks that were just now rolling off the assembly lines back in Constantinople. Directly above and behind Ibrahim's head sat a twin-mounted pair of .50 caliber machine guns, another such turret was also mounted in an armored tub on the rear quarter of the mighty rig's trailer. Those weapons alone would have made Bellatrix a threat for anything in the region, but it was the gyroscopically stabilized 40mm autocannon "amidships" that truly made the Rig a force to be reckoned with. Flanking her on all sides were the other members of Legio XIII's hefty Cavalry Maniples that had been chosen for this mission. All counted there were two other "landships" (Diocletian and Furiosa), An oil tanker, a dozen technicals of a dozen makes, a dozen scout bikes, a fuel tanker, and a car carrier rig for scavenging destroyed or damaged cars (because things were still that desperate out here in the boonies).
The detachment had left the comfort of walled Jerusalem 7 hours prior when aircraft on patrol spotted a war party flying the flags of the Caliphate dangerously close to the Holy Land. The report said twelve plus vehicles including at least one armored rig, and so General Erdogan had decided to play this one safe and overwhelm his opponents with numbers and firepower. All things considered though this was a milk run, the Caliphate hardly had the firepower that Byzantium could bring to bear and they knew it. He could have easily sent one of his adjutant generals to command this Thunder Run, there was no major risk, but General Erdogan had a personal hatred of the Caliphate that traced back to before he had laid eyes on them.
Among his colleagues General Erdogan was known as "The Unconquered Turk." They did not mean it as a compliment. He was the only Muslim to ever reach a staff rank in the Byzantine army, let alone become the commander of an entire legion, his Radiant Majesty's favored legion no less. The other generals had balked, "Why would they let a Muslim command the legion that defends the Holy Land? Won't he just bend the knee to the damned Caliph the second our eyes aren't on him?" There had even been attempts on his life at one point. They never found out who sent the assassin though he had his suspicions. What the other generals, especially those from the west, did not understand was the truly massive gap between Ibrahim's faith and that of the sworn enemies of the Empire. Whatever the Caliphate was, General Erdogan was sure they were not Muslim and that their heresy must be expunged from the world. At least that was a sentiment he shared with his Christian colleagues, though they did not realize and had still fought vehemently against his assignment to Legio XIII.
Luckily for Ibrahim, the Emperor had understood. And so General Erdogan now scanned the horizon, looking for the plumes of dust that only a column of vehicles could kick up, hunting for his prey across the vastness of the Middle East. It turned out that fortune had favored him this day, as he caught the hint of a cloud raising up above a rock bluff in the distance. Smiling viciously he descended the Cupola back into the passenger side seat of Bellatrix and yanked on a cord that ran along the ceiling twice in quick succession followed by one long drag and another three short tugs. The great horn of the Rig rumbled out in kind and relayed the message to the others in the party: Enemy sighted, 11 O'clock, prepare for battle, Deus Vult.
Weapons were given final checks, prayers were uttered, and a flock of pennants bearing the two-headed eagle and Chi Rho rippled in the desert air as the war party made a slight adjustment to their course and thundered away towards the jaws of the enemy.

-

Lake Kivu

The chatter of birds summoned the awakening morning. A clear morning sky hung over head, traced and painted with clouds glowing in luminescent fiery colors from the bright blood-red sun that rose gently over the distant mountains. Long shadows from the swaying palms, junipers, and rosewoods cast long stretching shadows across the soft red clay. Slowly pulling their cool embrace from mother-earth's raw flesh.

In the tired shade of ironwoods acres of empty pasture lay, their wooden pole fences marking square plots marked along the shallow hills as the gentle embankment of the savanna lowered to Lake Kivu's glimmering surface. Near to the river's edge near to where land met water and long raft-like piers stretched out into the water, desperately reaching for – but never reaching – the distant abandoned natural gas platforms at the lake's heart. These monoliths toppled and twisted as if by the foot steps of a giant, and thrown up as if the lake-water underneath had surged like a billowing carpet.

The village, built of mud huts lay in a controlled chaos by the lake's edge. Nursing the sleeping residents within. And as the morning sun rose so too did the great cliché come: a rooster crowed.

Within the bosom of a hut a young girl stirred. Hardly passed the age of ten. A head of wild black hair fell about in curls. And she wore a dress passed down through the ages that hugged softly her small form. She starred blankly up at the ceiling, where the tree-limb struts and beams met to hold up the inevitable ceiling of thatched grass and assorted debris. She moaned disinterested, she wanted to go back to sleep but still the morning rays of sun that shone through the cracks gave no pittance to this want. She scowled and moaned angrily as she rose up. Her skin was light, more so than the Bantu villages down the water's edge. She and her kin were refugees from the north, from the Mahgreb and the harsh glass deserts of the old Morocco. But she was of a generation now that knew not of a Morocco.

They knew themselves and Taureg and Berber, but that was an identity long gone to them. It was left behind in the sands. Now it was only an explanation to their misplaced dialect of Arabic. And another community moved to Lake Kivu to take advantage of the abandoned villages and infrastructure that spanned the coast.

Now sitting in her stick-strung cot, where straps of leather and animal hide made a mattress she sat in the empty silence of the morning. Listening to the nothing that filled the hut. A curious thought nibbled her brain between sleepy blinks of the eyes as to why uncle and mother were not up yet. Or why father was not up with her brothers to run the goats to pasture. She wondered where the distant voices of the fishermen were that so normally echoed in the cool stillness of all mornings. But there was in their place an echoing silence that drowned all over. Only the song birds seemed to sing their frenetic morning song.

But maybe they were up already and she had overslept? That seemed like the logical conclusion as she stood up off her cot.

The hut was a one-room building, and out for any to see where the cots and beds of her entire family. All packed tightly together they formed a unity in the chaos of their placement. Their home was not a big one, and the only open space was a short wooden table they sat at for lunch and dinner at the far end of the ovular abode. A wicker mat was laid out over the dusty wooden floor.

Standing up she furrowed a brow at the mess in the room. It seemed to be much worse than it was usually for a family of ten under one roof. Of particular agitating shock were the misplaced shoes that had been strewn all about the entrance. Was someone playing a trick on her?

Her bare feet padded softly across the wicker mat as she ran to the door. The cloth curtain that otherwise hung there and helped keep the mosquitoes at bay had been completely torn from the stakes that drove it into the mud adobe walls of the huts. She would have to have a word about that to someone! She was princess after all, that's what mother told her she was.

But she'd need to find her shoes first.

“Wahid. Itnain. Thalatha.” she counted to herself, rambling through her arabic numerals as she lifted single shoes as she dug through the pile for her own. She like to count. There was a strange peace in the numbers as they escaped her lips. “Arba. Khumasah. Settah.” she continued through the next three. Her parents both had taught her to count, she and her brothers. They all knew basic arithmetic and could read the Quran. Or the one copy of the book the village shared.

“Sabaa. Thamaaneeya.” she continued. She was always told that her voice was like a bird from her mother. So she began to sing her way to ten, “Tissaa. Ashara!” she said triumphantly as she pulled up two identicle pairs of battered sneakers. The shoes had seen better years. Now they were little more than footwear strapped together by duct tape. She wasted no time getting them on.

She would have continued from Ashara, but there was no need as she went out into the morning light. And into the silence of the morning.

It was odd. She for sure would have seen someone as she stepped out onto the dust. But there was no one. Not even the goats. A stray cock strutted by, cackling contently. But there was something disturbed about the way it moved. She had met a bantu woman once who said that all animals know something is wrong. And the erratic and frightened way the rooster moved gave her great concern. It scanned like it was searching for a hawk, but the skies and trees were clear save for song birds.

It was not the silence that troubled her then, but the worried rooster that gave a sinking feeling to her stomach. Blood rushed from her face as she walked on down to the lake. Still, not seeing anyone.

She rounded about the corner of where a hut met a goat pen. The pen itself was quiet, nothing moved. They should have been taken out to pasture but she couldn't hear any bleating in the distance. 'What was wrong?' she asked herself rounding the corner, then saw it.

There was no funeral and no regard to the corpses. Only a wild frenzy that had torn them to shreds and strewn the parts far and wide. Bones lay scattered everywhere, stripped of flesh to where there was only loose strands of the tough tissue left. Broken open even, sucked dry of marrow till they were hallow as chicken bone. No part was left untouched.

Terror, horror, and a deep sorrow exploded in her gut and she fell to her knees. She splashed down in clay still moist from the blood and bile of the desecrated corpses. Among heads cracked open and emptied. Only the fingers and toes remained.

Collapsing in the ichor she screamed. Her cry was the one being stripped of life. Everything she had was burned by her sorrow. The mournful wailing came is a washing torrent with tears as even the energy of her soul escaped with all the happiness and joy. She was destroyed on the inside.

Kinshasha

“A week ago, we lost the village of Wali al-Kivu.” a man said, pacing the room. In the high afternoon light of Kinshasha the high African sun beamed bright and heavy through the windows. Even curtained there was a sort of resilient strength to the light that cut through the thin fabric. Just outside the window the old pillars that marked the front-face of the old parliamentary building of the former Democratic Republic of the Congo formed silhouettes that broke the golden light into regular bars. The shadows cast lay across the table and far wall.

The office was full. A motly collection of regional representatives and corporate officers had pitched a meeting in one of the old offices of the old parliament. In truth, much of the building was unusable to them, far too big for any realistic work and the parliamentary chamber was doubly so for meetings that averaged twenty individuals and some six regulars.

The man speaking was one of them. An advisory to the Gens sans Frontiers. Broad-faced and broad shouldered he had the physique of a tired gorilla. A white man with ancestry tracing to Europe, or perhaps America. Dirty blonde hair made a mottled close-shaved crown across his scalp as mousy stubborn eyes scanned the present heads from behind the long sloping nose. “The entire settlement was killed off save for a handful. We have a young girl, approximately age ten to twelve and a handful of other kids who had sought refuge at the lake shore at the time of the attack.”

With a wave of his hand he motioned for a projector sitting at the end of the scratched table. A attending guard nodded and hit the switch at its side and it sputtered to life. The whole of the building was fueled by bio-diesel burned in generators on the roof and in the back. The image took awhile to come into view, the old machine flickering between a blank white screen and then threatening to shut off completely. But as it did it illuminated the pasty white wall with a faded, washed-out image of the scene of the village.

Strewn at is center as if disposed there was a pile of dismembered corpses.

“The attack is patterned like two others witnessed on the far-side of Lake Kivu and two-miles north of the pictured village, and another settlement called Bwosasha. There was between each a history of missing live-stock and what hunters called a 'silent forest'. The attacks are not typical of raiding activity. Yet, constitutes an event of grave concern.”

The American-or-European looked over to the end opposite of the table. To the stocky, balding black man seated there. To Joseph Zubata. If there was ever a man that was his opposite it was Zubata. He was a thin figure. His face covered in wrinkled lines. And a low brow and back-tilted face housed a pair of wide examining eyes. He slowly thumbed his thin lips as he took in the picture. Looking over at him he gave a nod of approval and motioned silently with one hand as he scratched his balding head.

“Attacks largely leave behind fingers, toes and sometimes whole hands or feet. In most cases where accessible the marrow was sucked from the bones.” he motioned again and the guard changed the image in question on screen. It was a closeup of a man's femur, but inside was hallowed and tube-like. Still, traces of pink flesh hung at the toothy broken ends, “Breaks in the bones are characteristic of a creature with strong jaws. The depth of the marrow extracted suggests a long tongue.”

“Or an exceptional skill with tools in its own right.” growled a drawling voice from mid-table. The presenter stopped mid-slide show and turned. His face quivered and he went visibly pale. Even having seen the man's face multiple times.

It wasn't an easy task to tell if the man who looked up at him through narrowed beady eyes was ever black, white, red, or yellow. But his current flesh was a gnarled bubbled white. A white suit covered his body, and a beige texan cowboy hat crowned his gnarled, naked head.

He snarled from behind twisted scarred lips as he looked up from his seat from behind a mask that covered his eyes. To keep too much sun from shining up at him he said. “Hale you're an unbelievable fucking idiot to think we can't tell what the fuck is going in.” he argued angrily. His voice was gravely like rocks being dragged across broken glass. He waved a dismissive hand at the pictures. It's a Ufiti, clear as day for fuck's sakes.”

He turned his attention to Joseph and asked: “May I, sir?”

“Go ahead.” Zubuta signaled with a low voice. The burned, gnarled man nodded and rose to his feet. Grabbing a ivory cane by his seat.

“By the degree of these attacks and the proximity of human settlement to one another it's not just any Ufiti, not what's fucking around our north-west either.” he said loud, almost shouting. He shot a glaring burning look at Hale as he limped up to the displayed slide. “I'm going to cut to it because I can sure as fuck tell we all know what it is and I can get to it faster than Hale can beat off at night, gentlemen. So let's get to it: we're looking at an exceptional fucking specimen.

“I'm not going to waste my breath reminding us all that Ufiti must eat and eat a lot. And this one that's hitting the lake here is no different. But as surmised from the scale of the deaths and the totality of the victum range we're looking at a big cunt. And not just any royal cunt that might nip us in the ass but one I believe by seeing this is exceptional in three areas.

“First, he's exceptionally strong!” he shouted, whipping his cane against the wall so it cracked, “Not that he broke bones but because he took on an entire village. Which even for a Ufiti and all their shit isn't easy. He took on a village not once: but three times. So it's smart, it's smart and brave.

“This shitter has learned there's food in those hills and it's going to eat and eat until there's nothing left and it's going to move on. And it'll devour all the Congo has to offer before it finally turns over dead in its own shit. Now that it knows it can hit villages, it will be more than brave enough to repeat it, and to kill everyone.”

“What about the fingers though?” asked a distant young man. The burned cripple looked up at the private that had wandered in.

“You're piss stupid, you know that?” he called back, “All Ufiti don't eat the toes and fingers of their victims. There's not a lot of fat in that. Ufiti need to eat, and they need to have the fattest stuff they can find. Release one of these fuckers in old-school America and it will empty every burger joint on the block before decimating the entire city's stock of cheese steaks and still want more.”

The young private shrunk back, biting meekly at his lips and shot a look over the room. Joseph looked over at him from his chair, scowling. He left without ceremony, “Without interruption let's move on: he's new. He's new to the area probably and he might start forcing other Ufiti to move out and move on. Every alpha on the side of the country is going to be removed from their harems and they're going to be wandering out. So if we're going to be pretend to be afraid of this one, then think about what's going to happen as he tries to settle. We're going to have a lot of angry, hungry, bachelors on the move.”

With a tap he swung at the wainscoting of the wall and stepped back. “Now Hale if you want to keep pussy footing than feel free.” said the burned man, casting a long unpleasant look to the better-skinned man.

“No, that's all.” Hale excused himself, “I'm done speaking.”

“So what would you recommend, Dr. Paston?” a black attendant wondered.

“Kill it.” the burned man, Paston said, “Same as any other of the trouble wild-life. Kill it. But not with any normal team, that's for sure.” he paused for a moment, thinking, “But I do want it when the hunting team is done with it.”

“Insane!” the same attendant exclaimed. He looked to be the Bantu double of Hale. But with a deeper jungle voice, “They decay within several days, and it's at least a four days trip to Goma's ruins. It'll never make it.”

“Not if you don't cover it with butter first.” Dr. Paston explained as he leaned back into his chair.

“That's a lot of butter though.” the man responded, he wasn't believing it, “And what would it even do?”

“I've had a fair few transported fine in butter. I don't see the problem.” an annoyed Paston explained, “Zubata, sir?”

“Keep going.” the leading officer in the room motioned. It was enough for anyone.

“I've been doing some research on the Ufiti, smaller ones mind you but research all the same. There seems to be a direct correlation to the presence of carbohydrates to the speed at which it decays. While living it must eat, and somehow while dead it must have the fats – saturated, unsaturated, omega-3, whatever – has to be present in or on the body to preserve it. This I feel goes hand-in-hand with the restorative properties of the Ufiti to heal severe wounds that's anything less than losing an entire limb. So I have some ideas.”

“Which'd be?”

“That the Ufiti may be hosting some symbiotic micro-organism in its fur or in its skin that gives it persistent healing for any and all injuries. But it deducts a cost from the animal, the monster as some call it. And that is: food.

“I haven't been able to fully comprehend the magnificence of this ecosystem and I would like to see it on a exceptional specimen, and one eating so much should be saturated in this power it has.”

“That's fine and all but have you done anything to prove it?” asked Hale.

“To a point. But I'll jump at any opportunity, gentlemen.” smiled Paston. It was a hard leathery smile. It looked hardly real as his knotted flesh folded back from his teeth, “Needless on the few sampled and specimens I've received I have found traces of a microbial community in its flesh. Or something neither blood or bile. But the samples or the sample specimens I have had are so fundamentally small that during study their bodies decay before they can be fully dissected and studied.

“A bigger one – well preserved – will give me more than enough flesh to study and so I can understand what's going on.”

“What'd the benefits even be to this research? The Ufiti are a mutation that must be destroyed!” shouted the Bantu as he rose from the tample.

“Kamputa I know you're energetic but please lighten it up before you fumble all the balls like Hale.” Paston commented, nodding to the irritated man, “Should I know what's going on I believe I could make a application from the 'substance' the Ufiti use and engineer it for human use. A serum, if you will. Won't you imagine it? A serum that will accelerate the healing of our people!

“It's the sort of research trauma doctors the world over would have liked. No more stitches and cauterization.”

“Bu-” Hale leaned forward to argue.

“Stop!” Joseph Zubata shouted, cutting Hale off mid-sentence. “Enough, I've heard what I need to hear and I think the case has been made. I'll call to send a team to Lake Kivu and they can track down this Ufiti. And on the Dr. Paston's humor I will give the order that if they can: bring the monster's body back.

“I'll have to find out where to get the butter though.”

“If I can sir, then it might be a good idea to get the butter when we know how big this thing is.” Paston commented, “And a truck.”

“Right.” Zubata grumbled, he rose from his chair, rubbing his throbbing temples.

“I'd also like to deliver the briefing to this team's sergeant or lieutenant when you get the chance sir.” Paston said as he followed Zubata's movement, “I want to make sure they understand.”

“I'll make a note. And as always, thank you gentlemen.” the South African thanked, if with irritation.

The bushes rustled with birds. The slope of the ravine, ending in an emerald green expanse of water, was overgrown, a dense mass of tamarix and acacias, a perfect place to nest and prey. No wonder, then, that they were full of birds. Stubborn larks, doves, and storks chirping, every sound resonated, every moment the sonorous wail of a crow. Buzzards warning of rain, though Barrats, instinctively glancing towards the sky. There were no clouds. But the crows were calling. They could use a little rain at last. The place in front of the ravine was an excellent post, giving potential for a successful hunt, especially here in the desert, a wild stretch full of beasts. The few traders who occasionally strolled past rarely hunted, and men even more rarely dared to venture here. Here, an avid hunter of meat or hides itself became the object of hunting. The creatures here, thirsty for any liquid wether it be water or blood, had no mercy for intruders. The trio had experienced this first hand.

In any case, animals were not lacking near this oasis. However, Barrats, Fel, and Roals had laid in ambush for nearly all of noon and still they had not spent a single arrow. They could not hunt on your feet here – a drought had prevailed for several months leaving the leaves crisp underfoot, dry branches creaked with every step, despite the presence of the lake. Under such conditions, only stillness in the ambush could lead to eventual success and reward. A butterfly delicately landed itself on the neck of Barrats's bow. Unflinching, he watched it as it folded and unfolded its wings, looking simultaneously at his bow, a new acquisition, which he had still not ceased to find pleasure in. Although he was a beloved writer and up-and-coming statesman by trade, he loved a good weapon, and that weapon which he held was the best of the best in such dire times.



From a mound of brush, a twig snapped. The birds launched their furious noise. The larks and storks broke into flight, their tail feathers flashing white. Barrats gasped. Finally. A crow squealed. Again, a twig snapped. He adjusted the worn-to-a-shine leather protector on his left forearm, held together with a bunch of grips attached to a loop. He plunged a hand into the quiver on his thigh. Instinctively, out of habit he inspected the blade tip and fletching. The blades, along with the bow itself, were a result of their latest experience with bandits – he choose on average just one out of ten offered to him - but he always feathered the arrows himself. With most commercially available ready-made arrows, the feathers were too short and arranged directly over the pole, while Barrats applied his to find in a spiral, lying no shorter than five inches.

He readied an arrow onto the string of the bow and looked out over the ravine inbetween a patch of verdant palm trunks with clusters of dates which stood out from the rest of the trees. The larks flew not far away, resuming their song.
Come on, little deer, she thought, lifting and stretching the bow. Come on. I'm ready.
But the antelope moved away from the ravine, towards the marshy springs flowing into the water. The young antelope rose from the valley. A beautiful beast. At a glance it could weigh forty pounds. He raised his head, pricked up his ears, then turned to the brush and crunched a few leaves.

It was easier to shoot it from behind. If it weren't for the trunk covering his target Barrats would have fired without hesitation. Upon hitting the thigh, it would sever the artery, and the animal would fall soon after. He waited, not releasing the chord.
The deer again raised its head, took a step, went behind the trunk – advancing slightly. Barrats, maintaining the bow at full stretch, cursed silently. A shot from the front might fail: instead of planting in the lung, the tip could pierce the stomach. He waited, holding his breath, feeling the salty taste of the chord at the corners of his lips. This was one, almost inestimable advantage of his bow - a heavier weapon or one less perfect, he could not have held for so long in suspense, without the risk of hand fatigue and poor accuracy in his shot.

Fortunately, the deer lowered his head, nibbling a few blades of grass that sprang from the moss, turning sideways. Barrats breathed calmly, aimed for the chest, and gently released the bowstring with his fingers. But he did not hear the snap that was expected of the ribs pierced by the arrow. The deer jumped up, kicked and disappeared to the sound of dry branches and trampled leaves. For a few heartbeats Barrats stood motionless, like a marble statue of a petrified god in the forest. Only when all the noises had subsided, he removed his right hand from his left cheek, lowering the bow. Noting the escape route of the animal in the corner of his memory, he sat quietly, propping his back against the trunk. He was an experienced hunter, he had trotted in from the woods since childhood, having shot his first deer at eleven, and a fourteen-horns stag - an extremely happy hunting omen - on his fourteenth birthday.

But experience had taught him that pursuit of a wounded animal was pointless. If he had hit well, the deer would had fallen no more than two hundred paces from the escape route. If he had hit badly - in fact he could not rule out such a possibility - rushing could only make matters worse. After a flight in panic, a badly injured animal, undisturbed will slow its pace. A hunted animal will race at breakneck speed and not slow down for quite some time. He had half an hour at least. He stuck between his teeth a blade of grass he had pulled from the ground and returned to the makeshift encampment his compatriots had organized at the end of the slope.



The two of them said nothing, just watched as Barrats dismounted, then led his horse to the water and retrieved the leather bucket so that he could drink. For a moment or so the only sound was the soft bump of the bucket on an underwater rock as the liquid was fetched, then the slurping as the horse drank. Barrats drank too. He sipped then gulped, wetting the sizable beard he'd acquired from the two week journey and wiping his face. He filled his flasks and took water to the two other horses, making sure to tether them both. When he looked at the duo they were curled up asleep, their heads on their packs, robes wrapped around them, hoods pulled up and arms resting on their provisional pillows. Barrats took a blanket from his own pack, found a spot on the other side of the lake, and laid down to sleep, intending to wake up in time to find his target again.

Kinshasha

“You realize Hale, that you really don't need to beat around the bush.” Paston remarked as he walked in towards the center of the room. He set down a ceramic cup onto the deep rose-red wooden table that sat at the room's very center. Atop a leopard skin rug it gave an air of considerable lost colonial authority. But Paston didn't stop moving as he wandered off to the irregular thump of his gait.

“Yes, well I was... uh-” Hale started. He fumbled across his tongue, spilling out uncertainty. “I was simply being thorough is all.” he sighed defeated, “And you don't make it any fucking better, do you realize that?”

“I fail to see where I'm the problem.” the ghoulish doctor remarked dryly as he stood in front of some well-worn sound-system. A giant case mounted with speakers that was nearly as large as a dresser. At the far end of the room it had its own dominating space at its wall. Where bookshelves normally would have stood stacked high alongside trophies and framed photographs there was a stark nothingness. The only other occupant to this room the pair of windows that let in the soft Kinshasha evening sun. The city outside was burned in an orange marmalade glow. The Congo River was especially bright in its beaming glow. And beyond it, the sister city of Brazzaville with its long-lying high-rises and tree-lined avenues.

In every reality, Kinshasha and Brazzaville were much the same. No fundamentally different than Arlington and DC in America. But colonial divisions from the 19th century had rendered them two starkly different political entities. Even as the GSF lorded over both. And from it: total control of the Congo River.

“You're not very... Encoura-” Hale started before Paston spun from in front of his toy, a look of fire on his gnarled wrinkled face.

“Encouragement my ass boy! We're the real world now!” he shouted. His voice rattled the room. Its weight carried ghosts, the ghosts of a drill instructor, “For fucks sake don't go on encouragement. Pussy footing doesn't grow a fucking man. Grow some balls Hale and assume for a moment that we're not complete morons. You got nothing to prove.”

Hale sighed, lowering his eyes from off of Paston's cold criticizing stare. “Fine.” he puttered. “Well, what are we drinking?” he asked, pushing aside the previous topic hastily. He looked down at the non-descriptive mug and the clear liquid inside.

“Waragi.” Paston replied. He held up in a gloved hand a cassette tape. Turning it over in his fingers and close to his skeleton eyes to read the faded label.

“Oh, so you broke out the hard gin.” Hale laughed nervously.

“More to my benefit than yours. But if you would like a shot I keep the gin in the cabinet over there.” Paston directed, pointing to a glass case besides a tall door.

Paston's apartment in Kinshasha was something washed out of the turn of the century. It was an old building, one of the older ones left standing in Kinshasha during its waves of attempted modernization and the sprawl of chaotic shanty construction that spread out into the hills and forests around the city's core like the outwardly spun dress of a black African flower. Many had caught Paston bragging that these halls had seen the aides of Joseph Mobutu almost a century ago, if not Mobutu himself.

The building – and his sitting room even – had a certain transitional appearance to it. Situated just near to the banks of the Congo River and three stories over the street it looked out first on a canopy of African junipers and ironwoods. Then to the muddy shores of the Congo. If one pressed their head against the glass just right, they might be able to peer down through the boughs of the trees to the vendors on the street just below.

With a tall cathedral ceiling the room echoed, and it was only more pronounced as Paston put in his tape into his monolithic player and hit the switch. With a warbled sigh it turned on and spun to speed, reading off the magnetic tape of a over-worn cassette tape. Where Paston ever found them was a mystery unto itself.

The notes of an erratic if regular piano began its beat and stole the space of the room, taking full advantage of the room's echo and despite the worn distortions of the music began to take a concert feel as guitar and drum came to full yawn with a alien funk.

“I always liked Heroes.” Paston smiled as he limped from the player, “Wouldn't you agree?” he asked Hale as he took his seat and reached out for the Waragi.

“I've never really known anyone who listened to as much David Bowie.” Hale expressed dryly, “Infact I don't know if I knew anyone who listens to him.”

“It is well passed his time but if people can keep listening to Chopin and Mozart then I see no reason why not to.” mused the doctor, waving his glass of Waragi, “Especially past the end of the war. When the nuclear EMPs killed the computers and the old servers I don't know how much of the old data remains. The only reliable medium that ever plays is what came in a tangible format.”

“Yes, but why even care about before?” Hale contested with disbelief, “There's a reason its dead. And I don't feel sorry for its loss.”

“Well Hale Salbert, it's because some of us lived back then.” he tapped his cup of Waragi against his head. Hale shivered to even look at his scarred visage. And without his usual hat or mask there was something unnerving and skull-like about his head. If it weren't for the spectral remnants in his face, he was all but without feature. Or ears even.

“Well bullshit, you're all relics.” Hale grumbled bitterly.

“Well if it wasn't for us then you wouldn't be here, remember that.” Saxson pointed out observantly, “Even if your dear mummy and daddy where to meet then you might be in some shittier place. Fucking Europe, or god forsake-us all: the US or Russia. There's plenty of places the nukes touched and you might just end up turning into a worse monster than I by the time you turned thirteen.”

“Right, and having to deal with you makes it any better.”

Paston laughed, “I think we lost tracked of why we're both here even. Was this for drinks or to continue the same sort of bickering as we started in conference?”

“Why does it matter though?” Hale groaned, “Maybe I should be in Europe, or America. Maybe I'd be doing better?”

“Better doing what? Clawing over some lost legacy at the behest of morons?” Paston laughed, “You undersell yourself, that's your flaw. Then you undersell ourselves to us, or so you try. Fucking stop. There, that's you're fucking positive encouragement. Are you fucking happy?”

“Jesus P-” Hale started.

“No- no. Just stop there for God's sake before I bust my cane across your face.” urged Paston impatiently, “I think we're both about done with the bullshit. So let's play a game. How about we try to act like men and beguile each others with stories?

“I did want to drink and you aren't going off to some mid-Kinshasha bar.”

Hale sighed, and leaned back into the couch. He ran his hands along the leopard skin draped across it. It was fake, that much he knew. “Ok, how do you want to play?”

“One thing you'd change.” Paston smiled, taking a healthy drink of the African gin in his cup. “You go first as my guest, and I'll offer you one thing of mine. Whatever you want. Chick you should have lost your virginity to, offers you should have taken, things said. Now: go.” he leaned forward expectantly with a grin that looked for to evil for this sort of game. But Hale conceded.

“Well...” he started, he stuttered on his word before they even came out. And they retreated down his throat to choke him over what he thought to say. Biting his lip he reconsidered, and searched for a new avenue. “I probably should have said goodbye to my folks before they left.” he admitted.

“Why, what happened? Or rather, what was it they did?” asked the doctor.

“My mother was working with Doctors Without Borders, but what they ran out here got swallowed up by Saxsen when shit hit the fan. Father was one of his employees. They got hitched, had me.”

Hale sighed long and low as he looked up to a lion's head that hung over the left door, between two bookshelves stacked high with all sorts of material. For a moment he distracted himself wondering if Paston ever had time to read that much material, or if were merely decorative. “They both left when I was maybe eleven, or twelve.” he said, getting back on point, “I probably should have said something when they went to head north. There was a need for doctors up around in Gabon and Saxen took it into his head he could oblige and put some relief effort. But they got attacked and they both were killed.” Hale finished with a dry suppressed voice. A part of him was still sad, still mad. But in all the thought dried the whole of him out. But that deeper voice could not help but voice itself.

“There was a lot of that.” Paston admitted, taking a heavy drink as Bowie continued to play in the background, “Would it be a surprise that by chance I was part of that expedition?”

“You were?” Hale asked.

“Probably not close to your parents, different team. I was but a battle-field medic there for security support. But the point stands: I was there.

“To be topical I'd say what I'd like changed about that was either I didn't get my knee shot out, or they didn't burn me. I could decide which.”

“How could you not want to be burned?” a shocked Hale exclaimed, “It seems like for sure that would be the thing to change.”

“Well, see here: I've come to enjoy field retirement.” he laughed, “I could have done with just being shot in the knee and that'd be the end of it. I could have played dead then and maybe I would have been left alone. Or they would have got straight to it and someone could have claimed I magicked someone's penis off of them earlier so they could get to the torching earlier.

“But as it was I and my unit all got burned.”

“I don't believe I ever was told the story.” Hale wondered, if grimly. His stomach was knotting at the thought of it. Smiling, Paston rose to his feet and picked up his cane, hobbling to the glass liquor cabinet.

“Well, we were entering some little village east of Libreville, Gabon.” Paston began, taking out a bottle as he leaned on the ivory cane, “It was about high-afternoon and an advanced team had gone through with helicopters and shot up the parts of Gabon's military that didn't want us there. So there was a lot of wounded to attend to. Me and my unit's role was to move in and hold the position and do what humanitarian shit we needed.

“But I don't know what went wrong. Sometime between getting off the ATV and moving to the first victims someone shouted something. I didn't notice it at first. But as I approached the house they were housing some of the wounded I felt something explode in my knee and all the sudden I couldn't stand as my leg exploded in pain.

“I didn't lose it, obviously. But for all the blood and gore it was probably there only on a few tendons. I lay in the dust screaming in agony. And a second or ten after gunshots went off.

“One way or another I and a few squad mates were dragged off. And these people were screaming about penis-thievery or some such insane shit. We were thrown onto some concrete block, and gasoline was poured over us and we were set on fire.

“Now, I couldn't move, so imagine how painful this all was.” he scoffed dismissively as he carried over his glass of waragi, “But I got out, and I curse everyone there that day for not pulling out anyone else, or leaving just me. Fucking bastards, I fucking tell you.

“One thing to another, I survived. Burned, cranky, sour, and a stick up everyone's ass. I could have done with one or the other but not both: because I do enjoy this 'retirement'.”

After being searched and cleared of all weapons, Coleman approaches the door with his crew and reaches for it before pausing. He then turns around and sets up a small speaker and hands one of the men a phone. "Okay..." Coleman begins, "I need you to play the national anthem as I walk in, to make it seem like we are a legitimate country, understood?". The soldier nods his head and Coleman smiles as he turns back to the door. As he opens the door and walks in he smiles confidently knowing their anthem, God Save The South, would be playing. After a few steps, though, he heard something different. "Rollin' around at the speed of sound, got places to go gotta-" Coleman's eyes widen with shock and he quickly turns around leaving the room and slamming the door behind him. Some yelling is heard from behind the door. "HOW'D THE HELL DID YOU PICK THE WRONG GOD DAMN SONG!?!?" And after a few minutes of telling a loud smack is heard. A few seconds later Coleman opens the door and the correct song plays as he walks in, though by this point president Nixon is on the ground, laughing so hard he's almost crying. Coleman's face gets a bit red from embarrassment, but he continues on.

"Good morning, Mr. President, I'm Confederate President Coleman A. Osburn. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice." He helps the president to his seat, and then sits down himself. "See, at the moment we are the two countries occupying what used to be the U.S. and after hearing about your country I believed I should come here and create some ties and make a few deals so we don't have 'disputes' over territory." He reaches into his suit and pulls out a folded piece of paper. As he unfolds it, he reveals it to be a map of the U.S. with a line drawn vertically from Texas upwards. "Now, I know countries need land to show power, and that's what this does. We are basically splitting the country 40-60, and to show you I really want this deal to go through, I'm offering up Arizona and New Mexico, two states I've cleared of any and all Deathclaws or mutants that could harm my people. You'd be receiving two states already established, as well as the other nearly half of the U.S." He stops and calls in a soldier who hands him a stack of papers, stapled together, and he places it down. "If you're interested in knowing the specifics of it, it's all in here. This is the North American Alliance Treaty, or NAAT if you will. I'll be heading north after this meeting of all goes well to meet with the leaders of the Consulate of Rupert's Land to try to get them to sign as well." He quickly looks at his watch to see the time.

"Now, it also says that we should not go to war with each other, and instead form a continental alliance to fend off any external threats to our countries' national security. Not only that, but when one of our countries go to war the others must support them in some way, whether it be sending money, supplies, troops, etc. This will also establish a somewhat continental U.N. Type of thing where each of the leaders will meet together at least once every month, if needed I will supply transportation because I'm not sure how developed yours or Rupert's land countries are. This is where we will discuss topics of interest and decide what is best to do. Now you don't have to agree right now, I fact I'm not sure if your government system allows you to, but think it over and see if there is anything you don't agree with. If you would like me to leave. Now, just ask." He writes down a number. "This is a frequency on the radio I constantly visit to talk to troops, you can reach me there just about whenever." He smiles. " and again, sir, thank you for seeing me and thank you for your time."

Before Coleman can leave, Nixon quickly grabs him by the arm. He stares deeply into his eyes. "You say there is another nation to the North... This... Consulate of Ruperts land? I would like to come with you, and see who these people are. I want to see if they are a threat, where they are exactly located, and see if they have any Tim Horton's." At this last line, Coleman looks confused, and starts to ask a question before Nixon cuts him off. "Of course, I won't go unguarded. I will be taking my personal guard with me. MEN!" At his call, 4 men wearing old world Marine's field gear walk into the room, bearing old world M4 assult rifles. They stand at attention, awaiting further command. "Oh, and one more thing. Larry," Nixon turns to look at the man who had come in earlier in the NCR officer's uniform, "This is top secret. No one in the other houses are to know about this. Tell them I'm on vacation." "But sir-" Larry starts but is stopped by Nixon, "Larry shut the hell up and listen to me. This could mean the difference between our deaths and our prosperity. I don't want those old asses in the houses to screw this up." "Yes, sir." Larry responds. "Good lad. Now," Nixon turns to Coleman, "Shall we begin?"

Outside Kinshasha

Upon the low slopping incline of the slopping hills outside of Kinshasha was the bed of jungle forest. Though trimmed, and not wild. Cut and parted by wide avenues the landscape of the outer-most edge of the Congolese capital was home to a sprawling network of estates and compounds. The broad sprawling residences that composed the Congolese metropolis hearkened back to the seventies, and the plastered walls and facades of the villas bespoke of an old well-do fruitiness with the bright colors and equally rosy tiled roofs. Leafy palms grew up above the cement walls that enclosed the buildings beyond from the cracking cement or knotted dusty, clay avenues.

Birds chirped and squawked from all around as a single lone white travel broke the lazy peace of the mid-afternoon. Much of the Mont Ngafula commune had been abandoned for economic reasons through the 20th and on into the next century, as a stark foreboding reminder of the Congo's decline during Mobutu's later reign. Between then and the surge in private security contractors in the years before nuclear war, Ngaula was the home of squatters. But now in the post-war it was the realm of the most affluent higher-ups – those who did not choose to live at the city's heart - and the GSA's distant head.

Coming to a stop, the lone white traveler stopped at the entrance of a gated compound. Guards behind the compounds black wrought-iron gate stood to attention at the arrival of the quest. They saluted the man as he came forward.

“Captain Spskorzky.” saluted one, his caramel skin was beaded with afternoon sweat and even under the beaked brim of his cap he squinted through the harsh African sun to see the officer standing just outside.

“Brothers.” Spskorzky answered, coming to lean on the gate's irons. The heat of the sun-baked iron throbbed dully through his uniform as he looked between the two men. “I have an appointment.” he added. His accent was thick, but mutated to the region. A thick powerful Russian tone dominated the very base of his voice, but there was a soft curvature of the words inflictive of French, and even a sort of Yankee casualness. Parted from his homeland and his mother tongue had sapped the original strength of his accent until it had become washed out.

“We were told, but to be honest we never expected you'd come in the middle of the afternoon.” the caramel-skinned guard responded. Taking the keys from his belt he went about unlocking the gate, “Zubata has been waiting.” he added with a tired voice as he opened the gate.

“Thank you.” Spskorzky nodded with a smile, “Anything I should know about today before I go in?”

“Paston's here.” the other guard said. A black native. His unbothered composure suggested he wasn't nearly as drawn out over the heat as his comrade.

“Fucking hell.” the captain swore.

“I thought the same,” the black guard commented, “it's in neither of our position though to ask why he's here. So we can't tell you anything but he's here.”

“It's probably for the best.” Spskorzky admitted, trudging up the long central path to Zubata's private Congolese villa.

The building itself was tall and imposing. Two stories tall with the faint suggestion of a half-attic above, the compound looked to be trying to make it to be as much a palace as what was allotted to it on its miniature parcel of land. And in contrast to the otherwise flat-faced structures that stood so much lower around it, the facade of the house made a more distant, grabbing claim to a more idealized, romantic image of Europe.

White trimmed window framing with decoratively keystone arches lay contrasted against a vibrant cerulean blue plastered face. Pillars reached up to the overhanging roof, meeting it with knotted and inwardly rolled fisted knots of flowers and vines. Perched atop the low tiled ceiling tropical songbirds watched the approaching captain. They stayed for as long as they felt safe, before flying for the cover of palm fronds or the boughs of fruit trees that so made the colonial front yard.

What would have been the ire to the regime that made this district, this house most triumphantly paid homage to the French riviera than to Africa itself. It would have been the last thing to have been seen by Mobutu or his mid-ranking cronies. And most important: it was a complete building.

The rich tropical wood door was a frame to thick tinted glass. In the dark sheen of the glass panes the walls, garden, and street behind was cast in a ghostly reflection. And Spskorzky in the same. The captain was not a man of faint sickly demeanor, he was a man corn-fed and experienced; and it was shown in his face. Vibrant blue eyes shining from underneath a heavy, powerful brow. His face squared, and crowned in short springy blonde hairs.

Pressing his lips thing as he sighed reluctantly, he reached out and knocked on the door. The sound of his knuckles raped heavily on the thick door and he waited. It was a moment before it opened. A man from the Mahgreb in the far north stood in the open door dressed in a suit from the turn of the century. “Asaalaam alaiqum.” he greeted in a faint voice, he was an older man with heavily wrinkled sandy and sun-scorched skin.

“Good afternoon.” Spskorsky greeted, “Zubata is expecting me.”

The Berber nodded, stepping aside. “Master Zubata is in his upstairs study.” he said with a low bow. Spskorsky stepped into the affluent marble foyer. Inside the bowing butler's suit jacket he caught sight of the handgun holstered within.

The air inside was cool, churned by fans running in the ceiling. The home relied on open windows and moving air to relieve the discomfort of the tropical heat that dominated the country through all seasons.

“Let m-” began the butler.

“There's no need, I know my way.” Spskorsky interrupted knowingly, “I'm sorry, but I know you might have more important things to do.”

The butler nodded, giving the captain a relieved and repressed smile. “As you say.” he replied, disappearing through a door off to the side as Spskorsky began the climb up the stairs opposite the door.

The carpet and wood groaned as he climbed. It had not been the first time he had been in Zubata's home, and it wasn't the first briefing he received in his study. The journey through the halls of the home was one of knowing as he passed through a cavern lit by the rarity of dimly flickering electricity, of floral wallpaper, and portraits and photographs of the world before the war. Of men in jeeps, hunting lions and cities clad in the glimmering silver of progress against a backdrop of the Savannah. Scenes of the south, scenes of Zubata's homeland.

But he was not wholly foreign, the Zulu of his native ancestry was not far removed from the Kongo. In learning the language, the songs, and becoming respected as the commander of the GSA it was enough that this African foreign national could pass as a man of authority. Although not universally, his political gymnastics could do the rest, Spskorsky was as much a tool of this as the man's hand and voice, and he had no trouble with doing so.

His mind briefly danced to the thoughts of which jungle tribe, or urban leader he and his unit would be dispatched to visit as he opened the tall doors of reckoning that was the entrance way to the upstairs study. He felt the soft breath of additional fans meet his face as he stepped inside.

Zubata he immediately found, he stood at the window, looking out into the afternoon light as the sun laid across him a robe of golden afternoon glow. Even in the regal, warming glow of the sun the commander was looking old. The process of years of command was quiet truly an impatient agent, pulling Zubata through the years faster than a man should be allowed. Still, he retained the imposing strength of a military officer, shoulder back and spine straight. He gave a stiff look to the side as the officer entered.

Paston however was a much more difficult creature to spot. But he reclined in a cushioned chair just behind a small reading table. Spskorsky had never seen the man's face, and now was not the moment he would. The ghost of a man sat wearing an ivory mask that hid his entire face from view, safe for two holes cut for eyes. The American doctor's gaze was quick to seal itself on Spskorsky, measuring him from toe to head with his dark reading eyes.

“Sir.” the captain called, snapping to attention and saluting both men, sitting or standing.

“At ease.” Zubata demanded, and the captain relaxed, “I have a request.” the XO added, turning from the window.

“Me and my men are ready for anything.”

“As they are needed. I'll put it to the point: we got a beast that needs to be put down. One threatening the far eastern communities we serve. It's already killed three villages, and is coming to threaten hundreds along the shores of Lake Kivu.

“I know it's been just two weeks since you and your unit has had to kill a Ufiti last, but we got a new one.”

“Why us, sir?” Spskorsky asked in confusion, he felt honestly bewildered that after a similar job, they would be called to another the same. He felt his heart shrink that it wasn't some uppity tribal militia to shake down, disarm, and disband, “Why not Coran's unit?”

“Mathiew Coran is hardly the best man, nor does he have the best men for this sort of job.” Zubata retorted with a dry snort, “Someday they may be, but after reviewing the specifics of this case and being briefed myself I am of the opinion he'd be too easily swept aside by this particular Ufiti.”

He turned to Paston, “Can you explain the situation? You're the expert on this.”

The doctor gave a curt nod from the comfort of his borrowed seat. He rose on his cane and looked up to Spskorsky with his faceless eyes. “The information I have received on this suggests this isn't some normal jungle ape mutant that shambled out of the trees.” he said, his voice muffled and softened from behind his plastic, white mask, “This is a big one, a bigger specimen.”

Paston hobbled from around the desk on his cane. His entire body was covered, either with suit or with gloves; in the case of his hands. “We're looking at a specimen one and a half to two times the weight of a normal Ufiti, that you might be used to hunting. Its got almost unnatural strength, we can assume. And it's not just simply accidentally attacked a village, but has been going after several.

“That last concern is what has us worried, soldier. This fucker's thinking. Or it's learned. And it's got the cognitive ability to fucking plan this out we believe. It's repeatedly attacked settlements, and from the data we've collected it's got enough planning fortitude to fucking do it at night, when everyone's sleeping; including animals.

“This isn't some wide-mouthed ape that happened upon a cattle herder with his cattle or goats at day, or a farmer or his help in the field. It's found out where lunch lies. And you know as well as us that these bastards do not stop eating.”

He drummed his cane against the floor as he paced, “It's been elected we need the best to put it down, and you're the best. Know that?”

“Yes sir.” Spskorsky responded.

“Terrific. So with your ego fortified we need that beast put down. But then I – not we – want it back here. In one piece, and not decayed.”

Spskorsky answered Paston's requested with a snorting laugh, “Impossible.” he said with disbelief, “They always rot before you can move the body somewhere. And I doubt anyone has a freezer to hold one.”

“Well I got a theory and did some experiments on tissue samples.” Paston grumbled. He shot Spskorsky an annoyed look, “And I think butter's the currently viable matter. Somehow I think there's some metabolic or bacterial process native to the Ufiti that drives this mechanism, and could be the answer to the question of why they eat. But the later is the question for me to answer. What I want you and your men to worry about is getting the corpse of this specimen into the butter.”

“We'll be providing the truck with the butter.” Zubata said, though as he may have wanted to sound confident in the plan, he could not help but sound distraught and annoyed with the plan; as if told a bad joke that he was the butt of, “Along with the normal transport and covering the typical costs of this mission.

“The monster is stalking the area of Lake Kivu. You'll deploy to what's left of the city of Goma and establish your communications center there, keep a link with us in the west here, and organize tracking and isolated this beast around the lake. All resources are open to you, and all methods. But we're not dealing with militia insurgents, so you're not allowed to be violent.”

“The communities basing themselves around Kivu now are those that settled the region to replace those originally killed when the lake underwent a limnic eruption, soldier.” Paston said in a lecturing tone, “The nuclear war in the north created enough geologic instability as Russia and swathes of Europe were torn apart, and even a few bombs fell scattered across Africa that the water was forced to overturn and release its carbon-dioxide and methane stores. Millions died there, Spskorsky and the people who live there now are our internal migrants and the external migrants that tried to seek sanity when they came to us from the north.

“They're not native, and I doubt they don't want to feel like they're not wanted there.”

“I understand.” Spskorsky acknowledged, “Hearts and minds.” he nodded, repeating the old cliché.

“Fantastic.” Zubata smiled, “I want you and your men on the road as soon as possible. Report it to them, and move out. Re-establish communications in Goma as soon as you arrive and connect with the local operations there and confirm your arrival. Then begin your hunt.

“Good luck soldier, and God bless.”

Vancouver, 1200 hours.

John Harrison trudged through the snowy ruins of what was once his home, every step was an effort, and his frilly robe wasn't exactly meant to block the cold. The roar of distant machinery was the only sound he could hear, the silence total after the extinction of many bird species. John sighed deeply. "I miss the birds lieutenant, I miss their songs, I miss.... sounds. You don't realize how much you kinda enjoy the annoying noise a dog makes when it's locked outside until it's gone." The lieutenant remained stone faced, the cold didn't bother a former US navy seal... although that title seemed more and more worthless as the days went on. "The troops sing marching songs, if you'd like that, we would." Harrison kept walking, wrapping his robe around himself. "I'd like that." Lieutenant Darrens turned to the rest of the men walking behind. "You heard the man, Rupert's legacy it is. Execute mission cheer up Harrison!" A mass giggling went out, before the men started singing.

"Oh I was a boy in twenty two, I held on to this country the best I could do,
the hard rain falls and then it's gone, that's just how the world goes around! HEY!
Oh I march for my family from the west and that is something I know best.
A romp and a stomp and we march on!... For the legacy of Prince Rupert!
AYE!"

The men rang out in a chorus of stomps that would have woke every person in the town if there was people. Harrison smiled, continuing on his walk. "I truly have the most dedicated men on this hunk." Harrison whispered, the next verse of the song beginning as he finished, and Harrison sang along to the best of his ability, though he knew none of the words.

Yukon Territory, 1215 hours

General Madeline Seymour sat in the rumbling tumbling APC, though this thing was as much an APC as a fly was a bird of prey. Made from a Combine Harvester, the blades on the front were covered in barbed chain, turning them into somewhat of a large chainsaw, Though Yao Guai hunting usually didn't use the chainsaw, the 50 cal up top was much more useful, still, there was a reason that there was two more "APC"s behind them, Yao Guais tear through vehicles like a hot knife through butter... Seymour then realized how many analogies she was using in her thoughts, then she realized that she was daydreaming, and she gave Harrison flak for doing that! Harrison did do it more though... She thought. "YAO GUAI AHEAD!" The private's cracking voice took her out of her dreaming. Seymour stood up and climbed the ladder to the 50 cal, The Yao Guai stood facing her. It was larger than any Yao Guai she had ever seen, about the size of a small car, and looking about twice as heavy. "Mutated polar bear, large male looks like." The Yao Guai stood on it's hind legs and roared, a deep roar, but still sharp and painful to the ear. Seymour didn't flinch, staring with furrowed brow at the beast. "Hungry too." The Yao Guai ran at the APC, and the 50 cal opened fire.