Everything was on fire.
Lukala frantically slapped at the fire as it crawled into his hut, thinking, “Wow, this material catches fire really easily and we knew that. Why did we construct our homes out of it?” He also thought it was weird that the gods would be cursing their village this early in November. They usually did it quarterly.
A feminine scream snapped Lukala out of his thoughts. It was his father, immobilized in his palace hut. Frank blew rapidly at the flames to keep them at bay, which would have worked if the flames were someone with a sense of smell.
Lukala’s future empire was glowing orange and red, crumbling to the ground piece by piece. His people were doing as instructed and gathering at the ‘safe spot,’ which was also completely engulfed in flames. The roar of the flames muted Lukala yelling at them to stop, so they died. They were brave, loyal idiots until the very end.
A dozen or so villagers ran off into the purple jungle, refusing instructions. This is who Lukala would be left with- the intelligent cowards. It’s kind of similar to how America was formed.
Weyland sat at the jungle’s edge wondering where the fire had come from. What were the chances of another arsonist being on an island with so few people? In the last 48 hours Weyland had been in a village fire, survived a plane crash, and murdered a police officer (that happened before the story began so I didn’t mention it).
From the corner of his eye, Lukala caught his father chin-dragging himself out of the hut, his body engulfed in flames. From the corner of his ear, Weyland could hear American voices deeper in the jungle, but he lost interest when he saw Lukala stomping at the fire engulfing Frank. Weyland assumed Lukala was trying to smash Frank’s skull open, so he ran over to help.
Weyland stomped aggressively, but Frank couldn’t feel it past the fire, though he was assuredly breaking bones. Luckily it made it appear as if Weyland had been helping. Lukala glared at Weyland, which made Weyland immediately blurt out, “Whoa, I’m not like that, buddy.” Lukala thought that Weyland had meant that he wasn’t responsible for the fire, when he was actually implying Lukala was a homosexual.
Weyland didn’t feel like fighting Lukala, plus he still had multiple stab wounds, so he didn’t take a swing. Instead, he followed him.
With Frank hoisted on Lukala’s shoulder, they ran through the jungle towards the cowards. At least they would all be safe together. Little did they know that the cowards were hiding in the bushes from a duo of masked soldiers. As cowards do, they said nothing, and the three men ran right into the masked men.
The masked men aimed their guns at them. Weyland shouted, “Shoot them, not me!” Lukala looked at him with a confused look, to which Weyland whispered, “Don’t worry. I have a plan.” (The plan was for the two men to shoot Lukala and Frank.)
One of the masked men, obviously the leader because of his patch that said “leader” on it, told them to get on their knees. They did what he said as best they could given that between Frank and Weyland they had every injury you could think to have. The leader watched the three of them very closely, and nudged Frank with his gun, “What happened to him?”
Lukala coldly replied, “A misunderstanding.”
The leader turned his gaze to Weyland, “and you?”
Weyland promptly replied, “They did this to me. Kill them.”
Lukala and Frank gave him a “What-the-fuck” look, to which he again whispered, “I have a plan.” The plan was still to have the men shoot Lukala and Frank.
The leader scanned Weyland with a serial killer’s gaze, “Are you American?”
The other masked man trudged over to Weyland and hoisted him up. Weyland acted like dead weight, and the man pulled something in his back that would give him problems for the next few days.
“We’ll kill these two,” commanded the leader, nudging towards Lukala and Frank.
Weyland looked at Lukala and Frank, who were all but resigned to their fate. Their entire village was destroyed except for the cowards, who were still watching from 10 feet away in the bushes. The machine gun’s cocking click echoed through the forest, only masked by the dying roar of flames. The gun raised to their heads, as if the soldier had done this a million times before. It was actually his first time and he was very nervous, but he’d always lived by “fake it ’til you make it.”
“Wait,” interrupted Weyland, “I want them for myself.”
The masked men looked at him, giving Lukala the chance to wink at Weyland. It was absolutely true though. Weyland wanted to kill them himself. To finish the job.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” demanded the leader.
“Weyland Grauman, like the theater. I’m a marine for the United States army,” which wasn’t true at all, but he’d used it so many times he wasn’t even sure it wasn’t true anymore. It was surprising how seldom he had been called out on it, although it does help when you’re openly bleeding from wounds that should have killed you, which was surprisingly often for Weyland.
“What do you want from me?” asked Weyland, now feeling like he was in with the group.
The lesser masked man leaned into the leader and whispered something in his ear, to which the leader sharply replied, “I know. Let me handle it,” and he shifted his gaze back to the three men, “You’re all coming with us.”