05-28-2015, 10:41 PM
Town of Kamakwie, Sierra Leone
Warlord Shakespear's truck rumbled to a halt in the parking lot of Kamakwie Wesleyan Hospital. It was a large town, as far as such things were measured in Sierra Leone. The last census indicated some 20,000 people, and it was host to the esteemed Wesleyan hospital, although much of that reputation was thanks to foreign doctors who volunteered their time and services. Young doctors mostly, new to the trade and seeking the experience that would help them land high paying jobs in richer lands.
Their kind disgusted Warlord Shakespear. Arrogant foreigners, offering false hopes and bringing their ridiculous beliefs. Foreign educations were dangerous things; educated people questioned, dreamed, hoped. That was a dangerous precedent, one that thankfully hadn't seemed to quite take root in Sierra Leone, despite decades of relative prosperity.
Worse, they brought their needles and medicines. The world had sought to help Guinea decades ago during the Ebola outbreaks. Doctors and aid workers, religious missionaries, great works of modern medical science. On most fronts, the virus had been beaten, at least for a time. In the Wests' desire to help, a vaccine had been prepared and sped through the testing process. Hundreds of thousands received the vaccines, and the virus had been beaten for a time. But viruses evolved. And vaccines had side-effects.
In clinical terms, those side effects were Alzheimer, dementia, and the like. Psychotic episodes became increasingly common in the years after the vaccines, and while no studies were done to prove the source of those problems were the early, barely tested Ebola vaccines, but it wasn't a hard stretch of the imagination. But to the people of Guinea, the science of it was quickly lost. Evil spirits, curses, angered gods. A resurgence in the traditional religions, in the practicing of witch doctors and tribal shamans. Of traditional 'medicines.' Of a hatred of 'Western' educations, 'Western' beliefs.
Foreign education was dangerous, so it was up to good people like Warlord Shakespear and his loyal soldiers to encourage a good and proper education. One that taught people to do as he said, to not resist, to give him what he asked. Complacent, respectful. Heads kept low when he passed, no resistance to his reasonable requests. Moving into Sierra Leone had proven a wise idea on his part.
As Warlord Shakespear climbed out of his truck he was quickly surrounded by some two dozen of his men; a handful of adult fighters with groups of young boys and teens mostly struggling under the weight of their rifles. The people of Kamakwie had actually tried to resist Shakespear, the short length of spear he carried under one arm still had a bit of skull and hair stuck about the blade. They may well have succeeded had one of his rivals not attacked the city first. It had been a costly failure for the other Warlord, so much so that in the week that followed most of that group had joined in with Shakespear's crew. The Kamakwie militia hadn't stood a chance, and bodies still littered the streets. The hospital was over flowing with the wounded from the first attack, and had been overlooked by Shakespear and his men in the two days since they had taken the town.
The staff of the hospital had been gathered in the parking lot of the hospital by more of Shakespear's soldiers. They had resisted at first; there were critical patients to be cared for, and always more arriving at the hospital that needed their help. They had learned to agree with Shakespear's demands once a few of those critical patients had been killed. Some of those doctors and nurses' uniforms were still spattered from the spray off their machetes.
As Shakespear approached the corralled hospital staff, five of them stepped forward to meet him. They wore biohazard equipment which still reeked of decontaminates. Young, foreign doctors. The ones that brought their viral, destructive ideas.
The doctors offered pleas and arguments. That their work was important, that they had no interest in his conflict, his war. They were impartial, neutral, there only to help preserve life. Lies, all of them. Their very presence in his lands was an insult, an invasion. Good Sierra Leoneans had been tainted by their very presence, and by their vile drugs. Their 'vaccines.'
Then they begged. They had rich families, important families. They could send money. Supplies. Their taint had spread far, as Sierra Leonean hospital staff stepped forward, begging for mercy. The panic spiked when they saw the smoke rising from the vaccination clinic down the street. Screaming, crying, praying.
Warlord Shakespear dropped the tailgate of his truck, and six of their newest recruits were led over. Boys, the oldest no more then ten, their pupils dilated from drugs, wearing old camouflage tunics that were too big for them, were lead over to stand, wavering and jittery as they waited for their leader's gifts.
Shakespear pulled six machetes from the bed of the truck, and turned to face the boys with an honest smile. Justice would be done, the danger abated before it could soil the youth of Kamakwie. "Conscience is just something that cowards use, meant to keep the strong weak. You are strong. They are weak. They hide behind money and honeyed words, and spread their poisoned thoughts and needles. You are soldiers. You shall keep your children safe from their evil. We shall cleanse our Mother of their taint, and their blood will end the droughts, appease the spirits. You will be heroes, you will be powerful, you will be my family!"
The quote was, loosely, Shakespeare.
The boys took the machetes with some goading by their handlers, and were turned on the now cowering foreign doctors. Some were more eager then others, but eventually six children stood with machetes dripping dark red blood onto the paved parking lot, panting and weeping over the butchered remains of six doctors, their remains held eerily contained within their ruined biohazard suits.
The remaining hospital staff, all African, most Sierra Leonean, wept in horror or shook with barely contained anger. And then they fell silent as one of the worst of the Ebola-infected patients was dragged out to the parking lot by more of Shakespear's men. They wore no protective gear, for they had no fear of the virus. Shakespear's witches ensured their protection from the disease, from the angered spirits that spread it.
From another of Shakespear's trucks came one of his witches. A girl in her late teens. An albino, one arm hacked off at the elbow by her matriarch, long before her own powers were known. Shakespear's father had eaten that arm. And the witch's eye, the empty socket partly open where the stitching had failed to seal it shut as a child. The witch carried a Catholic censer, a hollow gilded metal ball on a length of silver chain. Once, it had carried incense or holy water.
The witch approached the patient, who was strapped to a gurney and barely able to move under his own power. She crossed over to the dying man as Shakespear approached the crowd of hospital staff. "The spirits are angered with your perverse beliefs. You rely on the poisons of the West, poisons which tear at our Mother's body, spoil and rot our children, drive them to the cities. Traditions will save us. Family will bring us together. To save the young, we must purge the tainted. Some of you may yet return to the fold though. The spirits will choose who are worthy."
The dying patient let out a weak, gurgling scream as the witch sunk a knife into the man's belly, then thrust the censer into the bleeding wound. She walked towards the crowd of hospital staff, and began flicking the chain towards them, causing the ball of the censer to whip and spray blood across the crowd. One man, an orderly, turned to flee and was shot on the spot. Others panicked and tried to run at the gunshot, and more shots ripped across the crowd. But some cowered and sat, unmoving as the patient's blood was sprayed across them.
Some wept and begged for forgiveness, promised to be believers of the old ways, a desire for the old traditions, a hatred of all things of 'the West.' That they only worked at the hospital to see the enemy's perversions first hand, to know the enemy, to await the coming of a true prophet. Little did any of them know the blood was clean; the witch had purged it of the virus before even cutting the man open.
The test had worked; the weak had been culled, and those that remained would think it was indeed the spirits that had spared them. They would be tested still; the witch would poison them, some would die, but most would live, thinking that Shakespear had been right all along. And they would be loyal. And their example would convince others without the need of such a bloody display. And the world would fear him.
Warlord Shakespear's truck rumbled to a halt in the parking lot of Kamakwie Wesleyan Hospital. It was a large town, as far as such things were measured in Sierra Leone. The last census indicated some 20,000 people, and it was host to the esteemed Wesleyan hospital, although much of that reputation was thanks to foreign doctors who volunteered their time and services. Young doctors mostly, new to the trade and seeking the experience that would help them land high paying jobs in richer lands.
Their kind disgusted Warlord Shakespear. Arrogant foreigners, offering false hopes and bringing their ridiculous beliefs. Foreign educations were dangerous things; educated people questioned, dreamed, hoped. That was a dangerous precedent, one that thankfully hadn't seemed to quite take root in Sierra Leone, despite decades of relative prosperity.
Worse, they brought their needles and medicines. The world had sought to help Guinea decades ago during the Ebola outbreaks. Doctors and aid workers, religious missionaries, great works of modern medical science. On most fronts, the virus had been beaten, at least for a time. In the Wests' desire to help, a vaccine had been prepared and sped through the testing process. Hundreds of thousands received the vaccines, and the virus had been beaten for a time. But viruses evolved. And vaccines had side-effects.
In clinical terms, those side effects were Alzheimer, dementia, and the like. Psychotic episodes became increasingly common in the years after the vaccines, and while no studies were done to prove the source of those problems were the early, barely tested Ebola vaccines, but it wasn't a hard stretch of the imagination. But to the people of Guinea, the science of it was quickly lost. Evil spirits, curses, angered gods. A resurgence in the traditional religions, in the practicing of witch doctors and tribal shamans. Of traditional 'medicines.' Of a hatred of 'Western' educations, 'Western' beliefs.
Foreign education was dangerous, so it was up to good people like Warlord Shakespear and his loyal soldiers to encourage a good and proper education. One that taught people to do as he said, to not resist, to give him what he asked. Complacent, respectful. Heads kept low when he passed, no resistance to his reasonable requests. Moving into Sierra Leone had proven a wise idea on his part.
As Warlord Shakespear climbed out of his truck he was quickly surrounded by some two dozen of his men; a handful of adult fighters with groups of young boys and teens mostly struggling under the weight of their rifles. The people of Kamakwie had actually tried to resist Shakespear, the short length of spear he carried under one arm still had a bit of skull and hair stuck about the blade. They may well have succeeded had one of his rivals not attacked the city first. It had been a costly failure for the other Warlord, so much so that in the week that followed most of that group had joined in with Shakespear's crew. The Kamakwie militia hadn't stood a chance, and bodies still littered the streets. The hospital was over flowing with the wounded from the first attack, and had been overlooked by Shakespear and his men in the two days since they had taken the town.
The staff of the hospital had been gathered in the parking lot of the hospital by more of Shakespear's soldiers. They had resisted at first; there were critical patients to be cared for, and always more arriving at the hospital that needed their help. They had learned to agree with Shakespear's demands once a few of those critical patients had been killed. Some of those doctors and nurses' uniforms were still spattered from the spray off their machetes.
As Shakespear approached the corralled hospital staff, five of them stepped forward to meet him. They wore biohazard equipment which still reeked of decontaminates. Young, foreign doctors. The ones that brought their viral, destructive ideas.
The doctors offered pleas and arguments. That their work was important, that they had no interest in his conflict, his war. They were impartial, neutral, there only to help preserve life. Lies, all of them. Their very presence in his lands was an insult, an invasion. Good Sierra Leoneans had been tainted by their very presence, and by their vile drugs. Their 'vaccines.'
Then they begged. They had rich families, important families. They could send money. Supplies. Their taint had spread far, as Sierra Leonean hospital staff stepped forward, begging for mercy. The panic spiked when they saw the smoke rising from the vaccination clinic down the street. Screaming, crying, praying.
Warlord Shakespear dropped the tailgate of his truck, and six of their newest recruits were led over. Boys, the oldest no more then ten, their pupils dilated from drugs, wearing old camouflage tunics that were too big for them, were lead over to stand, wavering and jittery as they waited for their leader's gifts.
Shakespear pulled six machetes from the bed of the truck, and turned to face the boys with an honest smile. Justice would be done, the danger abated before it could soil the youth of Kamakwie. "Conscience is just something that cowards use, meant to keep the strong weak. You are strong. They are weak. They hide behind money and honeyed words, and spread their poisoned thoughts and needles. You are soldiers. You shall keep your children safe from their evil. We shall cleanse our Mother of their taint, and their blood will end the droughts, appease the spirits. You will be heroes, you will be powerful, you will be my family!"
The quote was, loosely, Shakespeare.
The boys took the machetes with some goading by their handlers, and were turned on the now cowering foreign doctors. Some were more eager then others, but eventually six children stood with machetes dripping dark red blood onto the paved parking lot, panting and weeping over the butchered remains of six doctors, their remains held eerily contained within their ruined biohazard suits.
The remaining hospital staff, all African, most Sierra Leonean, wept in horror or shook with barely contained anger. And then they fell silent as one of the worst of the Ebola-infected patients was dragged out to the parking lot by more of Shakespear's men. They wore no protective gear, for they had no fear of the virus. Shakespear's witches ensured their protection from the disease, from the angered spirits that spread it.
From another of Shakespear's trucks came one of his witches. A girl in her late teens. An albino, one arm hacked off at the elbow by her matriarch, long before her own powers were known. Shakespear's father had eaten that arm. And the witch's eye, the empty socket partly open where the stitching had failed to seal it shut as a child. The witch carried a Catholic censer, a hollow gilded metal ball on a length of silver chain. Once, it had carried incense or holy water.
The witch approached the patient, who was strapped to a gurney and barely able to move under his own power. She crossed over to the dying man as Shakespear approached the crowd of hospital staff. "The spirits are angered with your perverse beliefs. You rely on the poisons of the West, poisons which tear at our Mother's body, spoil and rot our children, drive them to the cities. Traditions will save us. Family will bring us together. To save the young, we must purge the tainted. Some of you may yet return to the fold though. The spirits will choose who are worthy."
The dying patient let out a weak, gurgling scream as the witch sunk a knife into the man's belly, then thrust the censer into the bleeding wound. She walked towards the crowd of hospital staff, and began flicking the chain towards them, causing the ball of the censer to whip and spray blood across the crowd. One man, an orderly, turned to flee and was shot on the spot. Others panicked and tried to run at the gunshot, and more shots ripped across the crowd. But some cowered and sat, unmoving as the patient's blood was sprayed across them.
Some wept and begged for forgiveness, promised to be believers of the old ways, a desire for the old traditions, a hatred of all things of 'the West.' That they only worked at the hospital to see the enemy's perversions first hand, to know the enemy, to await the coming of a true prophet. Little did any of them know the blood was clean; the witch had purged it of the virus before even cutting the man open.
The test had worked; the weak had been culled, and those that remained would think it was indeed the spirits that had spared them. They would be tested still; the witch would poison them, some would die, but most would live, thinking that Shakespear had been right all along. And they would be loyal. And their example would convince others without the need of such a bloody display. And the world would fear him.