A Dimly lit porch, But I could still see His eyes.

All at once we were around a table, the intruder had been caught and was bound to a chair on the porch of the compound. The gang beat him to hell, his face was bloodied, and he had forgotten the meaning of pain. The rain was so heavy the punches just sounded like more mud being lapped. It all came together as the sound of rain.

I was one of two men holding guns at the time, being that myself and Artcher had just chased the bound and beaten bastard through a good half mile of jungle. Artcher had turned out to be a surprisingly well placed shot. Having had perfected his use of the Ruger No.1 that was in the manor when we came upon it (what we by this time were referring to as the compound), he had decided to adopt a sidearm, a S & W No. 3 .44 caliber godamn antique. It was marked as being from 1877 and there wasn't any doubt in my mind that this were true. Everyone was shocked when it actually fired. I had picked up a 12-gauge," Benelli Montefeltro- The rifle for the wing-shooting purist" read the small sign beneath the display I had ripped it from. I was lucky my house was 2 blocks away from a sporting shop when shit went down. 

Id only fired the thing twice up untill this evening; once in warning as I crossed paths with a group of youths with shivs and bats, Being a bandit was one way to go. And once to kill a dog we had found, 2 days into our hunger. We had to pull shot from our teeth every other bite but it might have been the best meal I have ever eaten.  Tonight I shot to kill, or stop. For us, it didnt matter at this point, it was a resource war and this sonofabitch had made off with a box of Pain killers, ( Very valuable when everythings gone to shit)  Two radios, some food stuffs, and 12 shells for my damn rifle. It was Dyrells watch , about the middle of the night, when he saw from outside looking into the kitchen, a complete stranger rummaging hastily through the containers we kept our vitals in. Thinking quick, or maybe not at all he fired two rounds from his 9- one hits the faucet and bounces twice around the room, the other clips the bastards elbow  and sends him flying out the closest exit, about 2 meters from Dyrell.( Upon looking in at the kitchen later, he didn't appear to drop anything atall.) "DROP THE SHIT ASSHOLE!" Dyrell shouted firing another round passed the fleeing theifs head. Now in the light, it was clear to see this man had once been in the military, United States get up, probably one of the splinter groups independently occupying Cambodia, our new home. He wasn't behaving as though he were a part of any organized group however. He wasn't armed, had no help, and was unshaven and filthy. The Paramilitary groups usually maintained some sort of civility. Order. Wed given up on trying to look presentable. They kept Kampong Thum clean,well, atleast they kept it calm. Long enough for us to get out and find a plantation to squat on.

Dyrell began to shout and within 3 shouts the hole gang was up and running. Artcher and I usually kept our shooters close for just such and occasion, it wasn't common but it was far from unthinkable. "Oh hell no they aint gettin' away with our -" Artcher shouted untill another gunshot rang out and we were out the door. 

My eyes almost immediately locked on the tan uniform bouncing into the tree line, much brighter than its surroundings, no attempt at camouflage , he was alone. "Artch! Right down there lets go!" I shouted jumping the 4 feet off the porch into a pool of mud and vine. The rain had just let up and had made sure we wouldn't forget it had payed a visit. I managed out of it quick enough, Artcher avoided it and we hit the tree line side by side. The thief had made good pace and gotten pretty well ahead of us but he was still visible. the terrain was getting worse every few meters, more climbing, jumping, often having the slide sideways between trees and bush. It feels foolish speaking of them as  two separate entities seeing as they had all grown together into one giant weave, almost impenetrable by foot.  The chase moved on as far as it could, about a half mile to the west bank of the Phumi sre veal. The last stretch of a large estuary into inner Cambodia. We caught up to him fast and saw him begin to throw the things he'd stolen down the first lip of a small canyon that lead down to the river. We both fired shots toward him, tearing up the greenery in every direction, sending it flying. A HIT! Artcher send a .44 round through the Thief's right shin, undoubtedly breaking it. He went straight to the ground without even a scream. I think he was in too much pain...

Now we had a prisoner. Our first threat to the compound. The trial was all that was left...

To be continued