The Red Jungle Part II

A Story by George Dowling

Continuing the journey of Anton Malakhov

The cool morning was the only time Anton could find to refocus himself. The work in Libango was growing increasingly mind numbing. He had transferred most of his own authority to the city’s ruling council and occupied himself with training the new recruits. He quickly found that young african men made up for their lack of discipline with fiery enthusiasm. He worked with classes of twenty at a time while also teaching his young aide Martin Conteh how to lead in his stead.

Each morning, before the sun burned away the last of the cool air, Anton carried out his physical training regimen. That particular morning, he overslept by ten minutes. He punished himself with more pushups, more pull ups, and a long run with a backpack filled with stones. He could not discipline his men if he could not discipline himself. He jogged in his brown fatigues, the same kind he wore in Afghanistan, and combat boots but went shirtless. Anton forced himself on a run through the city under renovation. All around him, scaffolding lined the streets and in a few short hours, they would be too crowded for Anton to be able to breath.

While carrying out his self imposed punishment, he lost track of how far he had run and had to kneel to prevent himself from collapsing. He slid the backpack off his shoulders and found himself remembering the beatings he would get from Drill Sergeant Porechenkov while training to take on the Mujahideen. It was still early in the morning and the only people out were the street merchants setting up their carts to sell their goods ranging from food to tribal trinkets. The central district’s real buildings, as opposed to the mud huts, gave Anton plenty of shade to choose from. He turned a corner and leaned against a building to cool off.

And the words left him again.

Aneesa stood across the street with her dozen students behind her like a duck following their mother. She wore a vegetable fiber dress and had her hair wrapped in the same hair wrap from the last time he saw her. Rather than shy away in fear like they did when he visited their classroom, they pointed at him with big smiles and yelled his name, or at least tried to, with Anton almost laughing at some of the horrible mispronunciations. He crossed his arms to cover his chest, feeling embarrassed that the children could see him shirtless. Compared to the men he led, Anton was of a lean frame but possessed a wiry strength that he developed working on a Soviet kolkhoz and wrestling with other young men. He wondered if Aneesa found him too small, and maybe she did, but she would not find him insecure or weak.

He rose to his feet and saluted the young african children. The rising sun made their teeth shine against their black skin. At seeing the students thrilled by the Russian’s acknowledgement, she tilted her head and a smile spread across her face as Anton rushed across the street, to the excitement of her class.

“What do we have here, sister?” Anton asked, realizing then how strange it felt for him to call these people brother and sister. It was one of Laurent’s doctrines that the peasants and workers see themselves as brothers and sisters regardless of tribal or ethnics lines. The Africans took to it almost overnight, but to Anton he still sometimes struggled. In Russia, blood family is all.

“A very excited group of children, Brother Malakhov.”

“And what will they be learning today?”

Aneesa gave her class a loving glance. She put her arm on the shoulder of one of her smaller students.

“I have planned that today they will start writing. We have been at work all month on learning the letters and to read them. Now they must write them.”

“You sound like you truly enjoy what you do.”

“For them, I do. They are smart children, but no one cared to teach them.”

Anton nodded, “Well I am glad that you’re here for them now.”

“And I am glad you came.”

Anton choked on his words as his stomach began to flutter.

“Thank you…Miss…,” he said with hesitation, having not known her name yet.

“Aneesa. And I must get these children to class. I hope to see you around, Malakhov.

He cleared his throat, “Anton.”

Aneesa smiled and looked into his eyes.

“Anton.”

He pushed the last of the dirt pile onto the shallow grave. The sun was falling and the cool air beginning to bite. The woman he saved was on the ground still whimpering with her knees hugged against her chest. She hadn’t stopped since she saw four large men drop to the ground like dead cattle. Anton had stood over them holding only his knife. They could have easily killed him. A single strategic thought in their heads would have overpowered him easily, but they underestimated him. Now they were dead and buried in an unmarked grave in a country the rest of the world didn’t care about.

The cold winds turned the beads of sweat running down Anton’s back into tiny knives. He stood up straight to relieve his aching body. He wiped himself off with one of the shirts taken from one of the corpses. He turned to the whimpering woman who was beginning to shiver. To her, it was scathingly cold, but the African nights held no real competition for the Russian winter. After another frosty gust made her squeak, Anton took the blanket he kept on his motorcycle and draped it over her shoulders. He kneeled down in front of her and met her traumatized eyes.

“Got a name?” he asked

“Ma…Ma…Mahalia.” she muttered.

“Mahalia, I know how you must feel right now, but I need to ask you a few questions.”

She took a deep breath and nodded with her eyes closed.

“Where did you come from?” Anton asked.

“Village. Not far from here.”

“What did you see? How many were there?”

Mahalia shook her head, “Nothing. I was getting water from the river when they came. They took me before I can run to my village. I only heard shouting,” the tears began to build, “the screaming…they kept my head wrapped when they…when they…”

The sobbing burst forth like a gunshot. Anton flinched before letting his arms go and embrace the woman. It was what Aneesa did for him when he spoke lovingly of the motherland and his homesickness. He thought maybe it would help her a little too. She sobbed against his chest for what felt like a painful eternity. Time he could already be spending on his mission. He gently pushed her arms off of him and put his hands on her shoulders.

“They’re gone. I made them pay.”

She shook her head, “it still hurts.”

Anton shook his head. He didn’t have time for this.

“It is not safe here. There are more where I came from and I am going where you came from. They will press north and take the country. We can’t stop them.”

“But…Brother Laurent…and the revolution…”

“The revolution is over. Head south. I can’t promise it’s safe but it’s your best chance. If you stay here, the next group of soldiers will find that grave and what happened to you before will have been pleasure.”

Mahalia gulped as she nodded.

“Go now. Warn anyone you see.”

He helped her to her feet. She took the blanket from her back and held it out but Anton shook his head.

Anton knew the village Mahalia came from. It’s population was barely more than a few large families and there not lay an underground pipe for miles. It also served as a hiding place when Malakhov arrived in the Kongo with Laurent. The Royal Police were searching the countryside for the two rebels and the villagers gave them shelter. With the exception of a few nkulunta, no peasant was a friend of the Manikongo.

The motorcycle was hidden in the brush and Anton moved forward on foot. He minded each step to make sure no twigs snapped under his feet. The sun was almost completely set. The darkness concealed him from the two Confederate soldiers standing guard near the road, awaiting unsuspecting travelers. If Anton had taken the bike straight through, they would have been able to surprise him.

Anton observed them both for a moment. It would be easy, he thought to himself, to kill the first one and subdue the second for information about what was happening. A knife to the jugular is all it would take. It was the easiest way, but it wasn’t the right way. Aneesa taught him better than that.

“You may be a soldier, Anton, but you are not a murderer,” she told him one night.

He sighed. For now, the two soldiers were not a threat like the Stonewalls were, especially since it seemed that they were too wrapped up in their own conversation to notice him slipping by. They were just sentries, he told himself, easily fooled. But he needed to know what was going on. Why were the villagers disappearing?

He had no choice but to follow the bright lights set up in the village ahead. He stayed low in the bushes and between the trees as he inched his way closer. Judging from what he could see, the Americans weren’t expecting anything to happen this deep into the territory they controlled.

Anton took cover behind a barricade set up between two huts. The bright flood lights, powered by electric generators from the Confederate States, illuminated the entire village down to the smallest detail. The effect of the light was so powerful that it blotted out the star filled sky and cast the village under a black dome. It was occupied by no more than fifty troops. Groups of three and four stood around guarding stacks of supply crates. He now felt vindicated in his decision to spare the sentries. Even if the bodies weren’t found right away, it would still put the village on high alert. It may have also resulted in more Stonewalls being deployed.

He moved along the perimeter of the village. The moonless night, combined with the contrast against the floodlights, shrouded him in darkness as he kept his light footed trot. Then he heard a familiar sound. Anton’s ears perked at the unmistakeable sound of flesh hitting flesh, flavored by the cracking of bone. He followed the sound to one of the huts that the lights didn’t shine as brightly on. He crouched under one of the windows and listened in.

“Alright, wanna tell us how many other negroes are hiding in these jungles?” a clearly American voice asked.

“How would I know?” a thick african voice answered. Anton covered his mouth as he gasped. He knew that voice.

“Hmm. Well let me explain it to you in a way your negro mind can understand. Our boys are getting mighty irritated when bullets start coming from places they can’t see. I think it would be best for both of us if your guys just surrendered. If you can’t tell me where to find your commanding officers, then I’m afraid you’re of no use to me.”

“I wouldn’t tell you even if I did.”

“So what you’re saying is that you are of no use to me?”

“I’m saying you can go f**k your mother.”

Anton heard a spitting sound, followed by an american curse and the cocking of a pistol.

“You stupid n****r, you don’t talk about a southern boy’s momma that way.”

Anton groaned. It was typical Martin Conteh, the brave young soldier who would rather die than give up a fight he clearly lost. He joined Laurent’s movement when he was barely more than a hotheaded teenager. Before the rebellion, he was a hunter and used his knowledge of the land to help Laurent’s guerrillas. When the movement grew into a true army capable of defeating Royal forces in pitched battle, Malakhov took the young Conteh as an aide and began grooming him for command.

“B’lyad!” Anton forced through grit teeth as he drew his pistol. He popped up to the open window and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the American in the ear and he hit the ground. Martin was tied to a chair and sat with eyes wide open as Anton stood frozen in the window. He heard some Americans standing outside joking about what they thought was Martin’s dead body.

“Brother Malakhov!” he whispered loudly. Anton pursed his lips tightly while holding a finger over his mouth. Anton climbed through the window and cut Martin’s restraints. Martin, seemingly unfazed by his busted lip and swollen eye, shot up from his seat and appeared to be in mostly good working order.

“Can you run?” Anton asked. Martin nodded, and as if reading his mind, jumped through the window Anton came through. Anton heard footsteps coming close to the hut. Before the uninvited party could come in, he dived out of the window.

Martin was waiting for Anton behind a tree in the darkness. He was only able to see him when he opened his mouth to speak.

“Brother Conteh!” Anton whispered.

“Questions later, Commander, we must go quickly.”

Anton nodded as he heard the village come to life behind him. After fighting the instinct to take off running, the two men dropped to the ground and began crawling through the foliage. If they ran, they would easily be picked off by any eediot with a rifle.

He could hear the sounds of the footsteps hitting the dirt. Anton held his breath and Conteh seemed willing to follow his lead. Until they heard barking. Anton gave a sharp eye to Martin.

“Run.”

The two men pushed up and took off dashing. The barking was close behind. Anton could have outrun them, but Conteh’s torture was becoming more evident. His run rapidly turned into a limp. Anton turned about and faced towards the pursuers.

“I’ll take care of the tail. Find the motorcycle. It is just a little farther down. Don’t wait too long.”

“I stay and fight with you, brother.”

“You have no weapons and if I threw a left punch you wouldn’t see it coming. Go. That’s an order.”

Martin gave a frustrated look as he took off into the darkness. Anton drew his knife as two german shepherds were rocketing towards him with glimmering canines ready. Anton sighed at what he would have to do. He liked dogs and used to play with the ones his uncle kept at the Smolensk militsiya. But these hounds didn’t come to play, and neither did Anton, as the first one found out when it lunged towards Anton’s throat and felt a knife slash it’s own. Anton threw the dying animal aside as he took aim and fired a single shot down the throat of the second leaping dog. The hound hit the dirt lay whimpering on the ground in horrible agony. The Russian fired a second shot into the animal’s head to end it’s misery.

A squad of six soldiers came running with through the trees towards were their beloved dogs now lay dead. Anton ran at the cracking sound of gunshots from the Americans. The dark jungles prevented them from seeing exactly where he was, but it didn’t stop them from firing aimlessly into the night. He crawled behind the thickest tree closest to him. He could hear his heart beating between the cracks of the bullets. He slowed his breathing to be able to hear the positions of his pursuers. They knew he was nearby, but weren’t sure exactly where he was.

Returning fire would give him away. Even if he hit one of them, the others would be able to empty their clips into him. One would fire to keep him in his cover and the others would make their way around to shred him to bits. He took a deep breath while deciding what to do next. He risked a peek, and saw the soldiers were spreading out in different directions. Anton still had the advantage of the night. One was coming right towards his hiding spot. Anton kept his back against the tree while he wait.

The muzzle of the rifle entered his peripheral vision. He held his breath as the soldier walked past him. This one strayed to far from his friends. Anton took the risk and lunged at the soldier. He twisted the rifle out of the soldier’s hands and wrapped a wiry arm around his neck.

“Stay quiet and you live.” Anton whispered into his ear. The soldier grunted and struggled in his grip. Anton felt the American pressing his chin into his forearm, trying to bite him. Anton groaned then kicked the soldier’s knees out from under him and hit him in the back of the head with the stock of the rifle. The American dropped but Anton stopped him from hitting the ground hard. He strapped the rifle around his back and took off into the jungle.

He ran through the darkness for sometime before finally finding the motorcycle leaning against a tree. He spun around but Martin was nowhere to be seen. The instinct to yell for him was stopped by a painful bite to the tongue. He felt an impact hit him in the side. He turned to see Martin standing out of breath. They were far from the village now.

“Are you alright?” Anton asked.

Martin nodded, “you saved me.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because you were in trouble. Why wouldn’t I?”

Martin stood in silence for a long moment, “because I failed you. You trusted me and I failed you.”

Anton sighed, “we’ll talk about that later. Let’s get out of here. They may still find us.”

He wheeled the motorcycle from the tree and threw his leg over the seat. He revved up the vehicle. Martin climbed onto the back and wrapped his arms around Anton’s waist. The rifle sat snug between the two of them as they took off into the night.