CINCO (Five) [On Indefinite Hiatus]

Chapter 6: Grip Of Terror

“CINCO”

 Chapter 6: Grip of Terror

***

No one made a move to arrest the captured indios who were once in the Spanish army. They knelt on the ground, hunched, some with hands in the air in surrender, some quaking, some silent as they waited for death.

Death was indeed all around them.

They were on a field of crimson, which had once been a cradle of rich, brown soil and lush greenery. The air was filled with the metallic smell of blood and fear.

Macario stood frozen and powerless as he watched Emilio make his way back to where Andres was. An instant beeline was made for the youth by gawking, nerve-wracked Katipuneros. None found any mind to speak or even react openly upon realizing that their first battle had been won by one man, and one man alone.

But Andres was far too unsettled to feel any sort of fear or paralysis. As soon as Emilio were but a few paces away from him, Andres advanced at his friend, and without warning, he struck Emilio across the face hard enough to topple a grown man down. The sound of the blow reverberated against the wind.

“What were you THINKING?!” growled the Supremo, half-realizing that his assault, which he poured nearly all his strength into, failed to render the youth to the ground. Instead, he grabbed Emilio by the collar. Dark anger overtook him. He tried hard not to choke in his words. “You were risking your life and the lives of our men needlessly! What if you didn’t pull through? NONE OF US, none of us will have been alive!” He shook Emilio again, but the young man seemed not the least flustered by Andres’s indignation.

Emilio let this go on for a bit longer before he finally replied, but there was little emotion in his voice. “But I did pull through,” he said. He paused for a moment to throw the sabers, rust-colored and shiny with blood, on the grass. “And you are all alive.”

Andres felt helplessness claim him and the anger dissipate as he released Emilio from his grasp. He felt a thread of trepidation as he met the younger man’s eyes. “What has gotten into you?” he hissed sharply.

The mounting tension partly melted away when Emilio lowered his gaze, as a gesture that he still acquiesced to the Supremo’s authority. “Andres, make sure the prisoners are safe. If any of them escape, let them be. But they are better off in our company, believe me, than they will be among their former masters.” The sun had begun to set; soon the men would need shelter from the night and the cold. “Let’s return to the base,” continued Emilio. “I’ll tell you what I now remember.”

Andres felt the need to be stern and unforgiving. “You have made a sore ripple upon the peaceful waters of our resolve, Pingkian. I will hear your story. Otherwise, I could order a court martial and you shall be detained.”

Emilio offered a faint nod. “Very well.”

But there was nothing in his voice that indicated any apprehension, any apology, or any regret.

 ***

Their base in the mountains of Balara—lit by a circle of torches and lamps that hung on hinges of thatched three-walled nipa huts—fell into a frenzy of silent activity. The Katipuneros and their prisoners even mingled in the gloom, bound and bonded by what they had witnessed that afternoon. Some were having a meager dinner; others smoked tobacco, rolled between their restless fingers. Others talked in hushed tones, but like a pact among them, spoke neither of Emilio nor the massacred Spanish soldiers.

“Andres,” Dr. Pio attempted to appease his commander. The physician was among those left to guard the base with a handful of men as the rest went off scouting. “Ilyong’s hurt. Perhaps you could allow me to see to his wounds before you start interrogating him.” They were in the only hut that was closed off by four walls, especially built for the officers to hold their meetings in. Dr. Pio, Andres, Emilio, and Macario were the only occupants of the makeshift headquarters at the moment.