Artyom Dereschuk - Hate the Sin

“Hey you!” The kids froze when a boy in his late teens called them over. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, and the characteristic yellow-brown tone of his teeth betrayed the fact that he smoked too much crack. “The General was looking for you! Where the fuck have you been?!”

Corpse Eater tensed up, ready to fight off the potential assailant. Though the creature in front of him was a man, the same rules applied as in the wild: his bleeding lip made him look like easy prey. From the corner of his eye, Corpse Eater noticed Homewrecker’s hand going toward his AK’s trigger.

“What’s that?” the older boy suddenly asked, reaching out and forcibly taking Corpse Eater’s hand away from his face. “Somebody sacked you? Did ya pay him back?” he inquired, his eyes getting wider and wider and his face coming closer and closer to the younger boy’s.

Corpse Eater nodded but, as much as he wanted to avoid that, he also looked away. He hoped that the older man wouldn’t notice his hesitation, but luck wasn’t on his side. The man in front of him had been preying on weakness his whole life. His nose was finely attuned to it.

“You see this?” the methhead asked, pulling his pistol out of his holster and sticking its barrel into Corpse Eater’s left cheek, right beneath his eye. Corpse Eater’s nostrils caught the fresh scent of gunpowder, and the hard steel that was pushing against his cheekbone was still hot. “This is the power in these lands. This makes you invincible. That’s why nobody fucks with me, boy. Because this is how I pay ’em back.” The gun suddenly clicked and the shutter jumped back, but there was no shot and no shell jumped out. The pistol was not packing.

The methhead slowly withdrew the gun from the boy’s face, seemingly confused by the fact that it did not fire. Then he turned around and threw it in the bushes, losing all interest in the boys in the process.

“Let’s go,” Homewrecker whispered to his friend, who was still rubbing his cheek. “I don’t wanna be the last one to arrive.”

General Malaria was the only one who had a personal tent and, just as usual, a long cord stretched from the nearby building like an overgrown plastic snake to provide electricity to an old used fan—the only means the brigade possessed to somewhat cool the General’s temper. So, even though it was not necessary, Corpse Eater made a big leap to clear it.

The General was sitting on an improvised throne that consisted of a plastic chair with an old rug thrown over it for decoration. While it was a measly attempt to make General’s presence more imposing, you could tell just by looking at him that, to him, appearance played an important role.

His head was covered by a red beret with an insignia of an unknown organization—most likely, a trophy from the battlefield. Had their Revolution Brigade of Liberia been larger, like the Liberation Front of Liberia, or the Independent People of Liberia that they were frequently in war with, the insignia would have been custom-made. Unfortunately, they lacked the influence to make the locals decorate their attire, and the General wouldn’t force them to do that with threats. Killing civilians was one thing, but forcing them to work? They had to uphold the reputation of the people’s brigade.

His attire was quite usual for Liberia—cargo pants, a green sleeveless military shirt, unbuttoned to expose his flawless muscles. Corpse Eater had no clue what he did to keep them in that condition with their irregular diet, and he never saw the man exercise, but he definitely saw what those muscles were capable of. The bulging bicep of his right arm was covered in ritualistic tribal tattoos—a throwback to the time when the only people the General had led had been the superstitious folk of his tribe.

The man was fiddling with a few rough diamonds in his hands—holding the entire budget of their operation in his palm. Playing with it as if it was a toy.

In any other part of the world, a man of his age wouldn’t accomplish much, but in Liberia, “the land of the free,” he was already a general at the young age of twenty-four—a feat unattainable in “less free” parts of the world. Their country sported a unique kind of freedom—the freedom to do and to be anything and anyone you wanted, with no repercussions.

The General knew that, and he relished in that freedom with every fiber of his body. Surrounded by his bodyguards, leisurely plastering himself over his less-than-prestigious throne, he radiated an unfathomable confidence. It was not his strength that made the soldiers follow him; it was his way of showing others that he was the one to be followed.

Corpse Eater had always hated his guts for that, and he prayed for the day when the man’s reign of terror would come to an end. He had been catching rumors that the war in other parts of the country was coming to a close, and that the new year of 1996 might be the year when peace finally returns to Liberia. The General had forbidden such talk under the penalty of death, stating that those were the sentiments of weak-willed cowards, and that war was the natural state of humanity. Yet still, Corpse Eater would sometimes overhear the soldiers whispering to each other about how another warlord had met his end by being publically hanged or mauled by an angered crowd. He hoped to see the day when the name of General Malaria would join their ranks.

The General was in the middle of explaining something to Tsetse, so he did not pay any attention to the newly arrived—a fact for which Corpse Eater was thankful.

“…so it is very important, Tsetse, that you keep your soldiers in check at all times, you understand? When you tell them to do something—they do it without hesitation. When I tell you to do something—you fucking do it in the blink of an eye. What are you going to do if we get attacked? Go looking for your soldiers? You should know where they are at all times.”

The General threw an angry glance in the direction of the children, who were still arriving, and Corpse Eater’s guts tied into a knot when the man’s gaze passed him. He recalled the things General did to his subordinates when he was angry at them. Luckily, the man turned his attention back to Tsetse.

“Come over here.”

Tsetse obeyed without hesitation, and General clumsily unraveled a map on his knee, pointing to some point on it with his knife: “This is our meal ticket. Our supplies are running low, and I need you to gather the troops and go get us some more. You got that?”

Tsetse silently nodded, eyeing the map. Like a beast stalking his prey.

“And remember”—General raised his finger—“you have a responsibility for your soldiers and for your seniors. You don’t come back empty-handed, you got that?”

Tsetse nodded again, locking eyes with the General. The older man smiled and shook the boy’s shoulder: “I like the look in your eyes, boy! Making me real proud. Now go. Do your thing.”

After that, the General lost all interest in the boy and waved for another man to come closer.

Tsetse turned around and, signaling to the other boys to follow him, he walked outside. Once there, he looked over his troops: fifteen or so boys, ages ten to fourteen. Some of them scared, other completely indifferent to what was going on.

Tsetse raised his hand and pointed toward the horizon: “There’s a village there,” he said. “The General wants us to go there and bring back all the food those villagers have.”

“All of it?” somebody asked. Tsetse nodded.

“All of it,” he confirmed. “Enough for everyone in our camp.”

Corpse Eater felt his guts clench again; there was no way they’d be able to carry back so much. As for the people in the village…

He caught himself thinking about them with odd indifference. Sure, they were probably going to take the last scraps of food from them, but those villagers were doomed the moment the General laid his eyes on their village’s name on the map. They would go to sleep with empty stomachs regardless of Corpse Eater’s opinion on the matter, and they would even be considered lucky since that sleep wouldn’t be their last one.