That morning, Ortiz had finally received the message. The telegraph's message read clearly: "Ya está." There was one thing to do. He had to leave the camp. It was a cold morning. The fog was so heavy, it rendered visibility null. There was no other option but to send a patrol team outside to check the perimeter.

"Round up!" screamed Ortiz at his men.

"As you can see… visibility is not in our favor. I have no other option but to send some of you out there."

 The men of the camp looked at their captain in worry. A few days ago, a confrontation had decimated a well-trained unit.

"I know that many of you are worried about who may be out there… So instead of taking a larger group, I will be going out myself. Accompanied by one of you. This will allow for a low profile security measure."

"Sir! Don't you think it’s too dangerous?" said one of the older soldiers.

 "If many of us go out there, the noise will let them know that we are there."

 A moment of deep silence crept into the camp. The only thing to be heard was the wind flapping the shirts hung to dry. The shirts never seemed to dry. They hung there, constantly filtering the fog carried by the wind.

 "Tyson! You come with me! Ready two horses."

 "Yes, sir!"

 Tyson moved quickly. Ortiz had just stepped into his tent and Tyson had readied for departure.

 "The horses are ready!"

 "Let's go."

"Sir, don't you think that taking your poncho would be a good idea?"

 Tyson was right. In his worry regarding how the future events would transpire, Ortiz had forgotten his poncho. Without it, he would not be able to withstand the cold and his weapons would be visible to anyone they would encounter. Forgetting it, was a rookie mistake.

 "You are right." Said Ortiz while laughing nervously.

 They both stepped outside. Got on their horses and ventured out to the mysteries of the fog.

 "Captain, the fog is dense." Tyson said.

 "Do not worry. I know my way around these grounds. I grew up not a few kilometers away from here."

 It was not far, indeed. The village was not existing. Destroyed by the proxy war between those who allied with the Soviets and those who allied with the Americans. The times had changed. Ortiz remembered his childhood. The son of a wealthy coffee producer, he used to be surrounded by laborers of all the corners of the land. From the "indios" to the "negros," they all lived in peace. Farming that forsaken land for countless generations. It was said by the locals that before the Spanish made it there, the corn men respected it as if it were a god.

"So tell me Tyson. Why did you join?"

Tyson was much younger than Ortiz. Barely a man. His lack of facial hair disclosed that he was from the native population of Guatemala. This kid had grown during the war. He did not know of the time where the greatest decision of a kid was which soccer team to support and not which guerilla faction to join.

"Captain, if I can be honest with you. I joined the cause because there was nothing else for me to do. My mother was raped by the federales and left for dead in the river. When I knew this the natural thing was to join the communistas. But that was a long time ago. Things are different now."

A silence crept. The only thing to be heard was the birds on the trees singing their morning songs and the hooves of the horses coming in contact with the wet ground.

"What about you?"

"Tyson, it was such a long time ago. Twenty years makes things irrelevant. I don't want to remember."

Ortiz did not want to remember. To remember when all went to shit after they killed "El Negro." El Jefe did not like El Negro’s communist comments, so he got rid of him. After that, everything changed. The plantation became a warzone. Torn by the flames of battle. All lost. The promised future died along with his father. As a child, Ortiz had no other option but to join the communists to survive. Who knew that children of war become men?

The reality was that neither of them would have picked that life if given a choice. That made no difference now. They were far from the camp and Ortiz had a chance to escape from that hell.

It was then that Ortiz, in a single motion, reached for his knife and slit the other horse's throat. Without realizing what had happened, Tyson was on the ground, his leg under the horse, crushed. Ortiz jumped out of his saddle. Placed his hand over Tyson's mouth to prevent the kid from screaming.

"I'm sorry about this. I really am. It's not your fault." Ortiz said to Tyson while breathing heavily. Ortiz disarmed the boy. Tyson screamed out his lungs: "¡Maldito perro!"

Ortiz got on his horse carrying all of Tyson's weapons and his own. Started riding to the east. There, in the banks of the Caribbean coast, he would find one hundred thousand lempiras waiting. That was his chance for a new life. A life of a business man and not of a war dog. The only thing he had to do was to betray a cause that had already betrayed him.

He kept on riding, listening to Tyson screaming in pain. What the boy did not know was that his screaming would not save him but doom him and all of his comrades by warning the federales that the captain was out of the camp.