The last song of the ancestors

The helicopters of the Fourth Estate, in an aerial ballet, bombed Kinyua's mansion. No one was inside. It was a way of preventing the Central Command from using it as an operations center or refuge. The Ch'ilifīti I pilot saw a line of fire forming from top to bottom of the slum.

A group of drug traffickers retreated to a second line of defense. The weapons operator was impressed. The militiamen's shock troops had been taken by surprise. The defense organization wasn't as powerful, but it had proved efficient so far. There were barricades, ambushes and five lines of defense in exponential depth.

Coordinating the attack with Ch'ilifīti II, the pair unloaded their machine guns on the fugitives. The projectiles tore their bodies apart. Limbs fell mutilated along the way. The desperation of the escape prevented the victims from understanding their mortal stage. It was a way for the mind to protect itself from the misery of the body.

Many died without realizing it. The bodies kept running and shooting. When they reached cover, they collapsed epileptically to the ground. Chromo's forces soon became aware of the militia's air support. They exchanged fire with the aircraft. The pilot of the Ch'ilifīti I maneuvered the aircraft, but the pilot of the other helicopter was no more agile.

His tail rotor was hit by a hand-held rocket launcher. The aircraft began to spin in the sky, but stabilized. The armored cowling emitted grey smoke from the rear, but the small propellers remained active.

"Pilot, this is Ch'ilifīti I. Your aircraft has been hit hard. Approach flights not recommended, over."

"Affirmative, pilot. We'll withdraw to the rear and give air support to the infantry."

The weapons operator informed the pilot of the Ch'ilifīti I that Commander Ata had contacted him.

"Air support, report situation."

"There was little resistance from hostile forces, sir. The first line of defense has been broken by the shock troops of the Fourth Estate. They are overcoming the curtain of flames formed by the homemade bombs. Light infantry and artillery are advancing, sir."

"Incompetents! How did they get caught in such a trick? We're in the Kill Box. The box is open, just blow up everything inside. It's a bloody slum, we've dealt with enemies more powerful than these."

"Positive, sir. They're minor embarrassments in our campaign, but we'll beat them."

"Have you seen my brother on the battlefield? Tell me you saw him, pilot?"

Glup! The pilot was silent. He turned to the weapons operator in the seat behind and above. The fellow nodded.

"Negative, sir. After the infiltration, we didn't see him again."

There was a silence in the communication. A silence that spoke more than a thousand words. The breathing on the other side of the communicator became heavy. As if the air was coming in, tearing through his lungs and stubbornly refusing to go out. Finally, in a deep, almost animalistic voice, Ata ordered:

"Bomb the Emergency Care Units, the schools and the nurseries."

The pilot was paralyzed. His body stiffened in his seat. His fingers loosened on the stick. The aircraft became a little aimless. The dashboard showed slight turbulence. The weapons operator in the back kicked the seat to snap him out of his stupor.

"Are you crazy, pilot, do you want to kill us?"

"Sorry."

The Emergency Care Units, or ECUs, were public health centers. They provided preventive care and family health. Basic health units were scrapped, with a shortage of professionals, poor or unfinished structures. They lacked medicines, professionals and equipment for medical procedures and basic tests.

They were crowded every day, always exceeding their maximum capacity. Inside those institutions, there were only people too weak to fight or run away. Old people, children, pregnant women and those admitted on stretchers and even in the corridors.

Epidemic diseases were recurrent in the slums due to the lack of basic sanitation and education integrated into the hospital networks. Many children barely had the habit of washing their hands before eating. Chrome Hill experienced a health crisis during rainy periods, due to flooding from the streams, and in summer due to pollution and dehydration.

The pilot of the Ch'ilifīti I, a former member of the Ilu Nla Armed Forces and now a militiaman in the service of the Fourth Estate, was familiar with the situation. Most of the lower-ranking soldiers came from the lowest rungs of society in the great metropolis. He didn't know how to respond to his commander's order.

"Pilot, did you hear your commander's order?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then carry out my order, now."

"Sir, I'm flying over one of the health centers now… a nurse has left the unit. She's waving a white sheet… they're just civilians, sir…"

"Don't be naive, pilot. Enemies often use their allies and hostages as human shields. The Central Command traffickers will use these places for refuge and ambushes. You are as experienced a military man as I am. I recognized your expertise in military campaign flying early on. Don't let me down right now. Blow up those fucking hospitals now, that's an order, pilot! Either you do it, or I'm going to bomb you in mid-air. Make your choice. Choose well…"

The helicopter flew over the health center. Other professionals got out. They waved their hands. Even a child in a wheelchair with a bandaged leg was brought out to show which people were inside.

"Attack the health unit, operator."

"Positive, sir."

Cabummmm. The warheads hit the ECU. Pieces of building flew everywhere. The roof collapsed, crushing the building's supporting pillars. The people who had agitated for the one-sided ceasefire died engulfed in the burning flames of the weapons.

A dark red stain colored the room like a tasteless painting. Those who weren't killed by the bombardment met their end buried. Those who had survived the attack dragged themselves mutilated through the streets. One man held on to his torn arm and walked from one side to the other in bewilderment.

"Well done! Pilot. I heard those sons of bitches screaming from inside the biped tank. If you keep this up, I'll promote you up the ranks. You even deserve a medal, hohohoho. Now, to close the lid on the coffin, kill the survivors."

The militiaman positioned the aircraft so that the weapons operator could finish the carnage. With the machine guns, the rest were killed. What had once been a mass of people moaning and wandering around became a huge pile of bodies torn apart by bullets. The aircraft was parked in the air.

Inside the helicopter, only the sound of instruments and rotors could be heard. The machine gun was sucking its last projectile from the bullet belt. It continued to spin its barrels for a few seconds, then stopped static. The pilot wondered how much hunger that thing still had to kill.

"That's right, pilot. Bravo, very brave what you did. I couldn't have done better."

"… Affirmative, sir."