Nikolaus watched the truck driving up the road. The grey dust it raised was tinted purple in the evening light; now he could see that there were men in the back, many of them.
He could see their AK-47s.
Since the death of the dictator, the country had slid from bad to worse. Under the old man's iron fist the secret police quickly disappeared anyone who said anything that could be construed as denigrating his rule. There was no question about what happened to them; in fact, there were no questions at all. But at least there was peace in the countryside. Criminals were executed even more swiftly than dissidents.
Then he had died. His replacement had tried to run the country just as the old man had done, but lacked the stomach for true repression, and after five years was assassinated. Since then, the swiftly-changing parade of men who had run the country had been inept, weak, corrupt, or all three. The army, the police, the courts, had all become simply pawns in the hands of their bickering chieftains, used against each other, protecting no one. So now, the entire country was overrun by bandits such as these.
Nikolaus watched them driving towards him. Had he been paying attention earlier he would have been able to hide. By the time he did see them, it was too late. He berated himself for his foolishness. Just because this part of the country had seen little of the lawlessness... if anything, that made it a more tempting target to those who lived by theft.
His fear grew as the truck approached; but if he ran, they might shoot at him just for fun. If he remained where he was, just another shepherd boy tending just another flock, they would probably ignore him. It was not as though he had anything worth taking. So, although his blood chilled a little, he stood on the hillside, and watched them drive towards him.
He was not lucky. As the truck rattled by below, he saw an arm stab out of the cab at him. A man in the back pounded on the driver's side door, and the vehicle slowed. He did not run; if he did, they would surely shoot him.
That they were bandits was clear. Their vehicle was a thirty-year old Datsun, and they were in no sort of uniforms. Baggy pants, stained shirts - workers' clothing. Their AK-47s told what trade they were in.
"Boy!" One of them shouted. "Come here, boy!"
He walked down the hill, hoping that his sheep would not follow him.
"Sir?" he asked.
The man hopped off of the truck. He was wearing a greasy red shirt, and his chest was crossed by double bandoliers of rifle ammunition. Behind him, the half-dozen men in the back talked to each other, laughing roughly. Men secure in the power of their violence.
"Boy," the man said again. "Is that the Krotini house?" he asked, pointing a dirty finger towards the villa sillhouetted on the skyline.
Nikolaus nodded, eyes wide.
Apparently, this was not enough. The man turned to look at the house, then turned again suddenly, arm lashing out to cuff Nikolaus to the ground.
The men in the truck laughed.
"Answer me when I speak to you, boy!"
"Yes, sir," Nikolaus barked through his stinging lips. The upper one was broken, blood tasting coppery on his tongue. "Yes, that is the Krotini's house, sir."
The red-shirted man hawked, and spat. "Good," he said. Then he grinned. "Want to come, boy?"
Nikolaus stared at him, then realized his mistake as the man's face darkened.
"No, sir! I am just a shepherd, sir! I would not be able to help you!"
The anger receded. "You can carry a gun, can't you boy? Surely you don't want to be a shepherd your whole life." He pointed. "Look at them. Rich friends of the dictator. He settled them here, you know. This was the district all his friends retired to. Bureaucrats and parasites. Think of the wealth they have."
"Please, sir... I'm just a shepherd."
The man's face twisted into a frown again, and he spat. "And that's all you'll ever be. I'll waste no more time on you." Turning, he leapt into the back of the truck, rejoining his laughing friends.
"Tonight we eat on crystal!" Nikolaus heard him tell them, before the truck roared back into motion.
Giving up a soft prayer of thanks that he had suffered only a single blow, Nikolaus returned to his sheep. He was not angry at the bandits. Not angry, because it was foolish to hold anger for dead men.
He walked slowly up the hill. The truck had almost reached the courtyard, and he squinted as he attempted to see in the gathering darkness.
The Krotini had indeed been friends of the dictator. And, like so many of his friends, had retired here. Perhaps one could call them bureaucrats.
But the bureaucracy they had worked for had been the Ministry of State Security.
Nikolaus watched. The flash from the twin heavy machine guns just inside the gate was almost immediately blotted out by the fireball of the Datsun exploding. He blinked, and turned away. Small arms fire stuttered for a few seconds, then fell silent.
The sun was down. There were a few more shots, single ones. Then all was quiet.
- Sun Ra