Gray and brown mottled the air in all directions. The viewpoint bobbed and spun as the recorder ran around the circumference of the rough circle that the dozen small huts formed. The wood and thatch structures oozed smoke like blood from wounds. Two still blazed here and there. Three boys and a grown man with blankets and fire extinguishers methodically exterminated the remaining flames.
Boys milled about the edges of the clearing, rifles in hand, awaiting orders. All were chewing something and occasionally spitting long streams of brown juice. Bodies covered much of the central area. Many moaned and writhed on the ground; some never moved.
The large man from the earlier scene walked into the square and motioned to a boy, the tall one who'd been second to hit the prisoner. The boy jogged to him and snapped to a loose-jointed attention. In the Saw, any non-com or officer would have seen the movement as insolent, but the man acted as if the boy had executed a perfectly crisp salute. "Corporal, get your troops to clean up this mess," he said, "and then we'll have more root for everyone. And dinner! The storage hut here is full of provisions from the government. We'll dine well on Tumani's stores tonight."
The boy answered so quietly I couldn't hear him. He walked to the nearest body still moving on the ground, aimed his rifle, and shot the man in the head.
At the sound, all the boys dropped and looked wildly around, their weapons at the ready.
"You heard the Sergeant," the tall boy said. "The sooner we finish, the sooner we eat and have more root."
A murmur swept through the boys. They spread evenly around the perimeter of the area. At a nod from the tall boy, they advanced in a line, one step at a time. After a step, each boy stopped, kicked any body on the ground near him, and if it moved, shot it in the head. Some fired at bodies that didn't respond. By the time the boys reached the center, some of the prisoners had received three or four shots.
The boys spread again to the edge of the clearing and paired up. Each pair grabbed a corpse by its arms or legs, whatever was convenient, and dragged it into a small clearing in the jungle on the opposite side of the village from where the large man watched them work.
"The wind will only be with us for another hour or two," the man said, "so stack them and light them quickly. We don't want their stench interfering with our meal."
The boys picked up their pace, soft curses providing a soundtrack to their efforts as they struggled to move the dead weight of the adult bodies.
One pair broke from the group and ran out of view.
Those two returned carrying two large jugs, which they opened and poured in small lines here and there on the bodies already stacked in the jungle clearing. I'd seen the same motions from children using ocean water to paint images in beach sand. These boys spread the liquid precisely but quickly; they'd done this before.
Satisfied his troops would hit their target timeframe, the large man turned and left.
The boys kept at it, their rhythm the slow and steady pace of soldiers on a long march, men who knew that to work too slowly was to court their commander's fury but that to move too quickly was to risk exhaustion.
I knew the rhythm all too well.
The recording winked out, and I sat again in blackness.