10-27-2014, 09:04 PM
Medina-Dula, the failed state of Guinea, Shakespear Fabron's compound
The original town of Medina-Dula, some thirty years ago, sat square against the border between Guinea and Sierra Leone. That town had been burned to the ground during the Ebola outbreak of the early 21st century. The Medina-Dula of 2045 had been rebuilt a kilometer back from the border on the other side of the hills and out of sight of the Sierra Leonean military checkpoint that guarded the highway crossing.
The town was owned in all senses of the word by one of dozens of warlords that claimed to control various bits and pieces of the country that had once been Guinea. Shakespear Fabron was one such warlord, and certainly far from the most powerful in the region, but he was young, and youth often came with a dangerous lack of caution.
Hardly into his seventeenth year of life, Shakespear sat with his feet propped up on an old shipping crate stenciled in faded Russian and still sporting a half dozen AK-74s. Weapons so damnably common in the region these six had never even been fired, but served well as a foot rest.
Three girls, triplets, hardly into their teens, sat at his side. Two were giggling in a drugged daze as they played with dolls, but the third lay behind the other two, sickly and breathing shallowly, the faint smell of infection and rot hanging about her; her sisters had weathered the storm, but she was likely going to die of female circumcision. All three wore ill-fitting clothes and their bare arms showed the scars of routine heroin use.
"So the soldiers have left?"
Shakespear sat forward on his chair, a stained and moldering old La-Z-Boy, and fixed his men with an eager expression, a moment of clarity that burned through the drug-fueled haze that usually tainted his expression.
"Fled to their homes, I think. The checkpoint is empty, and the gate ain't even locked boss."
A fourteen year old boy clearly labouring under the weight of the AK with grenade launcher he held in his arms, a rusted metal helmet sitting askew on his head.
Shakespear slapped his hands on his knees and stood, the sudden gesture causing both the girls beside his chair to flinch and shrink in on themselves for a moment before realizing that he wasn't even looking at them, and then both started clapping their hands eagerly; whatever made Shakespear happy made them happy, after all.
"Excellent! Get the trucks."
Shakespear grabbed a silver rod from where it was stabbed into the arm of his chair, wrenching it free to reveal that it was indeed a small spear, and shook it over his head. His name was less inspired by the long-dead British author and more just a stupid play on words. "We're goin' to war boys!"
-----
There were dozens of tiny villages in the north-east regions of Sierra Leone. Predominantly Temne, and so far withdrawn from the larger population centers that the conflict raging across the country was a distant thing. Women, children, and the elderly remained, the men and older boys having left already to join the fighting against their Mende oppressors.
The distant sound of trucks on the road was met with interested, and the villagers quickly started to gather in the streets, eager to see their husbands and brothers and sons returning home for a visit.
The vehicles drew closer, but they realized too late who they carried. The sounds of weapons fire and screams filled the jungle air. Shakespear's 'soldiers' killed indiscriminately. Women and children ran for their homes, to their fields or the tree line. Some escaped, many didn't.
Those that didn't escape or die were raped. Children were taken, homes burned, the elderly mutilated. The town was pillaged, and what couldn't be carried away was burned. Bodies wrapped in garbage bags were pulled from one of the trucks, the men carrying them wearing painters masks and rubber gloves. The bodies were dumped into the town well, rocks tied to them that they would sink into the deep waters and go unseen. Ebola was still a problem in Guinea, and would soon be one again in Sierra Leone.
All along the borders with what was once the country of Guinea, similar stories were beginning to become common place; the Sierra Leonian military had been charged with the duty of securing the country's borders, and had done so through stiffly manned checkpoints and roaming patrols. With the coup, those outposts sat empty, leaving the roads to Guinea wide open.
The original town of Medina-Dula, some thirty years ago, sat square against the border between Guinea and Sierra Leone. That town had been burned to the ground during the Ebola outbreak of the early 21st century. The Medina-Dula of 2045 had been rebuilt a kilometer back from the border on the other side of the hills and out of sight of the Sierra Leonean military checkpoint that guarded the highway crossing.
The town was owned in all senses of the word by one of dozens of warlords that claimed to control various bits and pieces of the country that had once been Guinea. Shakespear Fabron was one such warlord, and certainly far from the most powerful in the region, but he was young, and youth often came with a dangerous lack of caution.
Hardly into his seventeenth year of life, Shakespear sat with his feet propped up on an old shipping crate stenciled in faded Russian and still sporting a half dozen AK-74s. Weapons so damnably common in the region these six had never even been fired, but served well as a foot rest.
Three girls, triplets, hardly into their teens, sat at his side. Two were giggling in a drugged daze as they played with dolls, but the third lay behind the other two, sickly and breathing shallowly, the faint smell of infection and rot hanging about her; her sisters had weathered the storm, but she was likely going to die of female circumcision. All three wore ill-fitting clothes and their bare arms showed the scars of routine heroin use.
"So the soldiers have left?"
Shakespear sat forward on his chair, a stained and moldering old La-Z-Boy, and fixed his men with an eager expression, a moment of clarity that burned through the drug-fueled haze that usually tainted his expression.
"Fled to their homes, I think. The checkpoint is empty, and the gate ain't even locked boss."
A fourteen year old boy clearly labouring under the weight of the AK with grenade launcher he held in his arms, a rusted metal helmet sitting askew on his head.
Shakespear slapped his hands on his knees and stood, the sudden gesture causing both the girls beside his chair to flinch and shrink in on themselves for a moment before realizing that he wasn't even looking at them, and then both started clapping their hands eagerly; whatever made Shakespear happy made them happy, after all.
"Excellent! Get the trucks."
Shakespear grabbed a silver rod from where it was stabbed into the arm of his chair, wrenching it free to reveal that it was indeed a small spear, and shook it over his head. His name was less inspired by the long-dead British author and more just a stupid play on words. "We're goin' to war boys!"
-----
There were dozens of tiny villages in the north-east regions of Sierra Leone. Predominantly Temne, and so far withdrawn from the larger population centers that the conflict raging across the country was a distant thing. Women, children, and the elderly remained, the men and older boys having left already to join the fighting against their Mende oppressors.
The distant sound of trucks on the road was met with interested, and the villagers quickly started to gather in the streets, eager to see their husbands and brothers and sons returning home for a visit.
The vehicles drew closer, but they realized too late who they carried. The sounds of weapons fire and screams filled the jungle air. Shakespear's 'soldiers' killed indiscriminately. Women and children ran for their homes, to their fields or the tree line. Some escaped, many didn't.
Those that didn't escape or die were raped. Children were taken, homes burned, the elderly mutilated. The town was pillaged, and what couldn't be carried away was burned. Bodies wrapped in garbage bags were pulled from one of the trucks, the men carrying them wearing painters masks and rubber gloves. The bodies were dumped into the town well, rocks tied to them that they would sink into the deep waters and go unseen. Ebola was still a problem in Guinea, and would soon be one again in Sierra Leone.
All along the borders with what was once the country of Guinea, similar stories were beginning to become common place; the Sierra Leonian military had been charged with the duty of securing the country's borders, and had done so through stiffly manned checkpoints and roaming patrols. With the coup, those outposts sat empty, leaving the roads to Guinea wide open.