The rebels crouched in the scrublands outside Hargeisa, their breaths shallow, the night air sharp against their skin. Ahmed, 21, gripped his rifle, its cold steel grounding him as dread coiled in his chest. Yusuf, a jittery 17-year-old, hunched beside him, whispering, “He’s late, Ahmed. Tishworth’s never late. What’s he doing?” His voice quivered, eyes darting to the shadows like a hunted animal. Ahmed shot him a hard look. “Quiet down,” he muttered, though his own pulse thumped loud in his ears. Leyla, older and wiry, sat a few paces off, dragging a whetstone along her spear with a rhythmic scrape. “He’s coming, Yusuf,” she snapped, her tone cutting. “Always does. Stop acting like a scared kid.” Her hands trembled faintly, though, betraying her words.

  Farah, the lean scout, smirked as he cleaned a looted dagger. “Boy’s got a point,” he said, voice low and sly. “Tishworth’s a snake—likes to slither in when you’re not looking. Maybe he’s watching us right now.” Leyla glared at him. “Shut it, Farah. We don’t need your ghost stories.” He chuckled, twirling the blade. “Not a story if it’s true. Remember Merca? He waited till dawn, then gutted us.” Mahad, a hulking figure from the Ogaden, lumbered over, his voice a deep rumble. “Enough yapping. If he’s late, we use it—rest, plan. Stop jumping at shadows.”

  Ahmed nodded. “Mahad’s right. We hold steady.” Yusuf’s lip trembled. “But what if he’s not coming for us? What if he’s hitting somewhere else?” Leyla snorted. “Then we’ll hear the screams. Now shut up and watch.” Hours bled into the night, the wind clawing through the brush, carrying no sound of boots or gunfire. “Something’s wrong,” Ahmed said, his voice nearly lost in the rustle. “Tishworth doesn’t vanish like this.” Yusuf’s breath hitched again. “Maybe he’s circling us—waiting till we’re tired!” Farah grinned darkly. “Or maybe he’s bored of us. Found softer targets.”

  Leyla surged to her feet, spear flashing. “I said enough! You’re all like chickens waiting for the knife!” Her eyes flickered with doubt, and Mahad grunted. “Sit, Leyla. You’re as jumpy as the kid.” Dawn crept in, gray and merciless. Tishworth never came. The rebels trudged back to camp, exhaustion warring with unease. “He’s toying with us,” Leyla muttered, her voice bitter. Farah shrugged. “Or testing us. Wants to see if we break.” Yusuf lagged behind, whispering to Ahmed, “I don’t like this. It’s too quiet.” Ahmed clapped his back. “Quiet’s better than dead. Keep moving.”

  Two weeks later, the truth sliced through the fog—smuggled newspapers from Berbera and the static-laden voice of "The Whispers," the rebel radio. The camp gathered tight around the set one night, the crackling voice cutting through the dark. “Barawe’s gone,” it hissed. “Tishworth torched it—hundreds dead, kids included. Shot anyone who ran.” Ahmed’s fists clenched, nails biting his palms. Leyla spat. “Not a war. A slaughter.” Yusuf stared at the ground, voice small. “My cousin was in Barawe. You think he’s…?” Mahad cut in, gruff. “Don’t ask what you don’t want answered, boy.”

  Farah leaned closer to the radio, eyes narrowing. “Listen—they’re saying he’s only hitting towns against the Rowlatt Act. Barawe spoke out last month.” Ahmed frowned. “So he’s picking his fights?” Leyla nodded, grim. “Making examples. Shows the rest what happens if you resist.” Yusuf’s voice cracked. “Then why not us? We’re the ones fighting!” Mahad rumbled, “Maybe we’re too hard to chew. He’s starting with the soft meat.” Farah smirked. “Smart bastard. Keeps us guessing while he carves up the weak.”

  In the villages, people whispered as they stacked grain and hid knives. “Worse than last time,” an old man rasped to Ahmed, hands shaking. “The Act—he’ll kill us all with it.” A woman nearby, clutching her child, added, “Hargeisa’s next. Barawe’s smoke was a sign.” Ahmed met her gaze. “We’ll be ready,” he said, the words hollow. She shook her head. “Ready for what? He doesn’t fight—he destroys.” A younger man, barely older than Yusuf, joined in, voice sharp. “Heard he strung up kids in Barawe—left ‘em hanging for the birds. That’s what we’re facing.” Ahmed’s jaw tightened. “Then we stock up harder. No surprises.”

  Back at camp, Mahad barked orders. “More grain, more bullets—move!” Farah smirked, leaning against a crate. “Stocking up won’t stop a madman.” Leyla snapped, “Better than sitting on our asses waiting to die.” Yusuf piped up, hesitant. “What if he knows we’re here? What if he’s just waiting?” Mahad glared. “Then we make him regret it. Stop asking stupid questions.” Abdi paced nearby, her one eye burning. “He’s not just killing,” she growled to the group. “He’s erasing us—every spark of fight.” Ahmed watched her hands tremble—she was their steel, but tonight, she looked brittle.

  “You know him, don’t you?” Ahmed asked, voice low. She stopped, glaring. “More than I want to.” Yusuf edged closer. “What’s he like, Abdi? They say he’s a devil.” She snorted. “Worse. He’s human—and that’s the scary part.” Farah tilted his head, curious. “You’ve seen him up close, haven’t you? What’s his game?” Abdi’s lip curled. “Death. He plays it like a kid with a toy—slow, deliberate, enjoying every scream.” Leyla crossed her arms. “Sounds like someone we need to gut fast.” Mahad grunted. “Easier said than done. He’s got an army.”

  Later, under a sky pierced with stars, Ahmed found Abdi alone on a crate, a gin bottle dangling from her fingers. Her scarred face was taut, her gaze lost in the void. He sat beside her, the silence thick. “You’re scared,” he said softly. “I’ve never seen you scared.”

  She laughed, a harsh, jagged sound, and took a long swig, gin dripping down her chin. “Terrified, Ahmed. The Rowlatt Act—it’s my fucking nightmare crawling back.” Her voice dropped, raw and jagged, as if each word cut her throat. “World War I, Mogadishu. I was 15. Ramadan, the last prayer before Eid. My family dragged me to the masjid—my mother fussing with her hijab, my father pulling me by the wrist, my little brother Jamal clinging to her skirts, my grandmother hobbling behind with her cane, muttering about the old days. The streets were alive—hundreds of us pouring into that masjid, shoulder to shoulder, a sea of faith. Kids giggled, chasing each other between the rugs; old men whispered duas, their voices trembling with age. The air was thick with incense, sweet and heavy, mixing with the sweat of bodies pressed close. We thought it was a night of peace.”

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  Ahmed leaned in, his voice barely audible. “What happened, Abdi?”

  Her eye darkened, her grip on the bottle so tight her knuckles whitened. “Tishworth happened. He was a new general then, fresh-faced and vicious, eager to carve his name in blood. The British had just clamped down with the Rowlatt Act—arrest without trial, death for dissent. They’d marked our masjid as a ‘rebel hub’—some bullshit about whispers of resistance. It was dusk, the imam’s voice rising in the call to prayer, a sound that used to mean safety. Then—boots outside, heavy and fast. Shouts in English we couldn’t understand. Before we could react, they sealed the doors—wood splintering as they nailed them shut. Soldiers stormed in—dozens, rifles raised, bayonets gleaming, flamethrowers slung over their shoulders. No warning, no mercy—just Tishworth’s voice barking, ‘Fire!’”

  “Flamethrowers?” Ahmed’s voice cracked, his eyes widening.

  “Yeah,” she spat, her voice trembling with rage and grief. “But first, the guns—machine guns spitting bullets like hail, tearing through flesh without care. My father shoved me behind a pillar, shouting, ‘Stay low, Abdi!’—then a bullet ripped through his throat, blood spraying my face, hot and sticky, soaking my hair. He fell on me, choking, his eyes wide and empty. I saw my grandmother stumble, reaching for her cane—a rifle shot split her skull, brains splattering onto the prayer rug, her body crumpling like a rag. Jamal—eight years old—screamed for my mother, running to her skirts. A soldier grabbed him by the hair, smashed his skull with a rifle butt—once, twice—until his head caved in, blood and bone splashing across her legs. She lunged, shrieking his name, clawing at the bastard, but another drove a bayonet through her gut. Her intestines spilled out, steaming in the cool dusk air, slick and shining as she collapsed, still reaching for Jamal’s broken little body.”

  Her words came faster, her voice a jagged sob now, tears streaking her face. “Then the flamethrowers—fuck, Ahmed, you can’t imagine it. They opened up, jets of fire roaring out, hitting the walls first, then the people. Flames caught robes, hair—women burned alive, their screams so high and sharp they cut through the gunfire. A mother near me clutched her baby—five months old, barely weaned. The fire hit them, and that tiny thing wailed as its skin blistered, bubbling up red and black, peeling off in strips while she tried to shield it. The flames ate through her arms, her chest—she fell, and the baby rolled free, still alive, its little body charring, flesh splitting open, fat sizzling as it shrieked, a sound no human should make. Another kid, maybe a year old, crawled toward the door—fire caught its legs, melted the skin down to bone, its cries choking off as its lungs burned from the inside.”

  She paused, gulping air, her hands shaking so badly the bottle slipped, shattering on the ground. “The air was hell—gunpowder, charred meat, blood so thick I gagged on it. I crawled through the mess, slipping in gore, my hands coated red and slick. A girl beside me—ten, maybe—got trampled, boots cracking her ribs, her eyes bulging as she drowned in her own blood, choking out pink froth. The flamethrowers kept going—old men’s beards ignited, their faces melting like wax, mouths open in silent screams as their tongues cooked. A pregnant woman tried to run—fire hit her back, her dress flared, and she fell, her belly splitting open from the heat, the unborn thing inside spilling out, blackening in the flames. Tishworth stood at the entrance, laughing, his voice loud over the chaos—‘Leave no one! Burn them all!’ Blood pooled so deep it soaked my knees, my mother’s corpse above me, her dead weight crushing my chest, her blood dripping into my mouth, tasting of iron and death.”

  Ahmed’s stomach churned, his voice a whisper. “How’d you survive that?”

  Her eye was glassy, lost in the memory. “They stopped eventually—thought we were all dead. The masjid was a slaughterhouse, bodies piled like trash, some still twitching, others burned to husks. They dragged survivors out—girls mostly, me included. I was half-alive, drenched in blood and ash, my lungs raw from smoke. They took us to a camp—weeks of hell. Soldiers beat me with belts till my back was raw, burned me with cigars, passed me around like a toy. I screamed until my voice gave out, prayed for death that never came. One night, a guard got drunk, left his knife out. I grabbed it, slit his throat—watched him choke, blood gurgling as he clawed at me. I ran, barefoot, bleeding, into the bush—starved and stumbled till the rebels found me.”

  Yusuf, lurking nearby, gasped, his voice shaking. “Allah… how do you even live after that?” Leyla, joining them, muttered, “She’s tougher than us, that’s how.” Farah tilted his head, voice low. “Tishworth did that? He’s worse than a devil—he’s a plague.” Mahad growled, “Makes me want to rip his guts out slow.”

  Abdi wiped her face, her voice hard again. “He’s the same bastard—same smile, same cruelty. The Rowlatt Act’s his excuse again, and I won’t let him take me twice.” She grabbed another bottle, hands trembling as gin splashed her lap. Ahmed caught her wrist gently. “You’re not alone, Abdi. We’ll fight him together.”

  She yanked free, her eye blazing. “You don’t get it, kid! You’re brave, but you haven’t seen this. He’s a monster—he fucking loves it!” Her voice rose, sharp and accusing. “Every night, I hear Jamal’s skull crack, smell my mother’s flesh burning—I’m only here because I’ve got nowhere else to die!” She softened, her gaze locking on him. “But you—you believe. That’s why I trust you.”

  Farah smirked from the shadows. “Trust’s a big word, Abdi. Sure he’s worth it?” She glared. “More than you, snake.” Mahad rumbled, “Leave her be, Farah. She’s earned it.” Leyla nodded. “He’s green, but he’s got fire. Maybe enough for her.”

  She lunged, kissing Ahmed hard, her lips crashing into his, tasting of gin and despair. He froze. “Abdi—” “No,” she rasped, pulling him closer. “I need you.” Her hands tore at his shirt, nails drawing blood. He gave in, kissing her back, fierce and desperate. She shoved him down, stripping her tunic—scars crisscrossing her flesh, a map of survival. “Fuck me like you mean it,” she growled, freeing him and taking him with a savage thrust. He gripped her, their rhythm brutal, her nails carving his skin.

  “Harder,” she demanded, biting his neck. He flipped her, pinning her, driving deep as she clawed his back. “Yes—make me feel it,” she gasped, legs locking him in. Their mouths met, bloody and bruising, until she shattered with a cry, pulling him with her. They collapsed, panting. She traced his jaw. “You’re mine now.” He kissed her forehead, holding tight.

  Dawn broke, cold and harsh. Ahmed woke alone, Abdi’s warmth gone. Her story clung to him, a suffocating weight, but Tishworth’s threat loomed larger. The war was closing in, and this fleeting peace wouldn’t stop it.