Republic Reborn: Against the Stars and Stripes
Chapter 121: Todo Claro
CHAPTER 121: TODO CLARO
Our small assault team was further divided into two squads—mine and Guzman’s.
As always, I was at the head of the snake. My squad would lead, while Guzman’s would be the tail. For that reason, Medina was with me—to fulfill his role as our guide and also to provide skilled firepower.
I looked at the determined faces in my squad before we crossed over. They were mostly young men—some had never even bedded a woman. Yet they looked older now, grizzled and hardened by the smoke, dirt, and grime of battle. The chaos in Kasily and the fighting over the past hour had aged them more than any peace-time soldier’s career ever could. This was experience—bloody, terrifying, and real.
I had chosen the best men for this task.
Finally, I ordered us to move. We crossed the barricade through its leftmost part, where a pile of broken chairs had been temporarily moved to make a path.
We kept to the wall, rifles up, eyes fixed ahead toward the cluster of houses on the eastern side. If anyone spotted us before we could make a break for the presidencia, it would be someone looking down our alley from the opposite side.
To our surprise, no one had noticed the Cazadores switching sides. Perhaps Vicente and Cristobal were laying down enough distracting fire. Or maybe it was the fences, the scattered carts and crates, or the dimness in the alleys that shielded our movements. Whatever the case, we were still ghosts in the street.
The wall we were leaning against was stained with old, dried blood—now brown and flaking—and peppered with fresh bullet holes. Some of the blood looked recent, almost crimson. This must have been where members of the principalia had been cut down. The splatters, the spray patterns, and the drops on the ground reminded me of what we’d seen in the huts of Gasan. Machetes had done their grisly work here.
We had killed enough pulajanes to know what they were capable of. I was no longer afraid—only angry. Angry and eager to return the favor.
Less than a few meters to the south stood the two-story presidencia municipal building. The windows and doors were wide open, but Medina’s report seemed accurate. The building was not busy. It looked like a house hastily abandoned with all the clatter—but it wasn’t.
At the left-side window on the ground floor, an armed fighter leaned on the windowsill. He clutched his rifle close to his chest as he worriedly looked across the presidencia’s southern flank, where Dimalanta was giving them a taste of biblical fire and brimstone. I wouldn’t even be surprised if his men breached the defenses in no time.
But we did not have the luxury of waiting for the uncertain. Who was to say no one had slipped through early in the fight and gone to Torrijos to inform Paras of the attack? If reinforcements came, that would be an additional headache—one I wasn’t sure we could handle.
I glanced at Guzman, who was at the opposite wall—not quite at the edge—keeping to the shadows in case someone from the presidencia was watching.
We exchanged nods. Slowly, he walked out of the shade, hand on the trigger.
Then I glanced at my squad. There were five of us, including Medina.
"After you, Don Martin," assured the Teniente.
I reached for the bolt handle and then remembered I had already chambered a round. So instead, I gave myself a moment to brace for yet another charge that a little misfortune could turn into my last. I comforted myself with the thought that this might be our final charge for the day—if all went well.
If I were to listen to my body, I’d love to take a nap. There were too many excuses not to do it. I was old. I was injured. I had done enough. I could just wait.
But mind over matter.
Taking my own arms and legs by surprise, I sprang away from the wall and beelined toward the presidencia. The thump of boots behind me assured me I had not charged alone.
I almost halted, my tongue going bitter and my skin crawling, as I saw movement from the corner of my eye. Two Pulajanes fighters from the southern flank were also running for the presidencia, carrying an ammo crate—perhaps to resupply.
Gunshots rang out from Sargento Guzman’s squad, and the two were cut down before they could figure out what was happening.
The Pulajanes fighter by the window scrambled to aim, loudly cursing as he did so.
"Putangi—" Medina got to him first, squarely hitting his forehead. He tumbled away from the window, leaving a cartoonish splatter of blood against the wall behind him.
Before I knew it, I was inside the dim interior of the principalia. My eyes darted from corner to corner, rifle up, ready to fire at any movement.
The municipal building mirrored the town itself—small, neglected, and barely furnished. There were only two rooms on the ground floor: a conference room that doubled as a reception area, and a storeroom at the far end. At first glance, the conference room seemed empty.
Medina approached the long table, swept the hidden side, and gave me a quick shake of the head. Clear.
Then a sudden noise.
I flinched and turned my rifle instinctively. The sound had come from the storeroom. Both the inner and back doors were open, perfectly aligned in a straight line.
A figure sprung from the side, clumsily toppling woven baskets and shattering jars. He careened toward the backdoor.
He was an easy target, his silhouette clearly outlined by the outside light. I pulled the trigger and he stumbled forward, hit the ground, and then tried to crawl toward the exit, which was only a few feet away.
Estrada put him out of his misery, firing from beside me. The gunshot caused my left ear to ring. The soldier looked at me with an ear-to-ear smile, as if asking for approval. I immediately extinguished his smile with a shake of the head.
Against the light pouring from the backdoor, it was clear we had just shot an unarmed man. He wore no red bands, no blade on his waist. He wore the simple attire of a worker. Maybe just a servant.
"Clear the storeroom," I ordered Estrada.
Perhaps eager to correct his mistake of firing near my ear, he immediately obliged. I watched him approach the storeroom, eyes on the sights of his rifle, shouting louder than necessary. Inside the principalia’s old-fashioned, thick stone walls, the gunfight outside had been slightly muffled, allowing internal noises to be somewhat audible.
I was not entirely surprised when we heard enemy gunshots again. The bullets hit the floorboards—just inches behind Estrada’s boots. The gunshots came from upstairs. Long shadows danced on the steps. The horrified soldier immediately pressed himself against the wall.
I immediately realized what we had on our hands: a pain in the ass. With the defenders at the top of the stairs—and now with ammunition—we could be stuck in a standoff. It was no different from a tight alleyway. Once again, this would’ve been easier if we had grenades.
Guzman and his squad had just reached the building. But this wasn’t a task that could be solved with numbers. Technically speaking, it could be—but two or three soldiers, maybe more, would have to sacrifice themselves before we could get a shot at the defenders.
To make matters worse, I didn’t have the luxury of time to think of a better solution. Out of desperation—maybe even out of hubris—I thought of leading a charge upstairs and hoping that my superior soldierly instincts would be enough to overturn the defender’s advantage.
"Tengo una idea..." Unbeknownst to me, Medina had been watching me for a while.
"¿Qué es?" I asked. He stared at me for a few moments, lost in thought.
He suddenly snapped out of his daze. He chambered his Mauser and fired toward the storeroom. The corpse of the servant shook as it was hit by a third bullet.
Without answering my question, he shouted, "¡Soy yo... Medina!"
No one spoke a word for a moment.
"¿Qué pasa, Teniente?" a voice answered from upstairs. And I was surprised in more ways than one. Firstly, I did not expect a Spanish reply, especially from uneducated cultists. Secondly, the voice sounded awfully familiar.
I exchanged glances with Guzman.
"A few soldiers breached our perimeter. But my men took care of it," Medina replied, still in Spanish.
We held our breath as he approached the foot of the stairs. Contrary to my pessimistic expectations, he was not immediately gunned down as soon as he exposed himself.
"The comandante says you should stay in the presidencia, Teniente. Have another officer lead your men at the barricades," the familiar voice replied.
"Está bien," the Teniente answered. "I will come up."
Medina had performed beautifully—natural, but not too casual. But I doubted his acting skills alone were enough.
He disappeared upstairs.
Guzman walked to my side and whispered, "You think he betrayed us?"
I chuckled. The sergeant really didn’t trust the Cazadores. Maybe Guzman had fought against them in Luzon during the revolution there.
A moment later, we heard gunshots and other clangorous noises.
"¡Traydor!""Please don’t kill me!""I’ll kill you!"
These were shouted passionately among thuds, grunts, and heavy footsteps.
Instinctively, we made our way to the stairs. Teniente Medina was skilled, but only in movies could one man survive against many.
Midway up, the noises stopped.
I halted and aimed upwards, watching the landing.
A head emerged, and I nearly shot it.
Medina appeared—sweating and disheveled, blood on his bayonet and clothes.
"Todo claro," he reported, between heavy breaths.