Low tide peeled the wetlands open.
Water clung to stilts and roots in slick, rainbow-sheened pools. The air carried a sharp, oily tang that burned the back of the throat. Children stood coughing near the walkways, faces wrapped in cloth that did little to help.
"Don't step there," an elder warned. "That patch leaks."
A woman waded into the shallows anyway, panic cracking her voice. "My son, "
She dragged the boy out seconds later.
Black oil streaked his calves. Blisters rose where the slick touched skin, angry and fast.
"It burns," he cried.
"Don't touch it," another woman shouted.
"It was clean last season," the mother said, shaking. "We drank from it."
"We filed reports," an old fisherman muttered. "They filed us away."
A government notice flapped loose from a post, ink already bleeding from damp air.
Tax due.
Relocation pending.
Aid under review.
Upstream, a low mechanical hum rolled through the reeds, steady and approaching.
Someone whispered, "They're back."
No one argued.
____________________________
"They're early," a young man murmured from the reeds.
"Let them in," an older voice replied.
"We'll wait."
The convoy crawled forward, engines whining as tires chewed into marsh paths never meant for machines. Inside the lead trucks, fair-skinned guards with sun-paled faces lounged at ease, boots propped on dashboards. Blond and light-brown hair caught the glare, eyes pale, blue, gray, hazel, scanning the wetlands with detached curiosity.
"Smells like rot," one sniffed.
The first charge detonated beneath the lead truck. Metal screamed. The vehicle pitched sideways, axle snapping clean.
"What the hell?"
Smoke bloomed, thick and choking. Another engine coughed once, then died. Nets snapped taut across the path, biting into axles and legs alike, yanking men off balance and into the mud.
"Down!" someone shouted, panic cracking through command.
Figures rose from the reeds in silence, faces wrapped, feet sure, movements practiced down to the breath.
Hands struck wrists, rifles were wrenched free, radios torn loose and flung aside.
The guards found themselves standing empty-handed, blinking through smoke that did not belong to them.
"No killing," a woman ordered sharply.
Hands went up.
Fear did the rest.
In less than a minute, it was over.
The fighters melted back into the wetlands, footsteps swallowed by water and grass.
No supplies taken.
No cheers.
No pursuit.
Only one thing remained.
A warning carved deep into a wooden post, fresh enough to bleed sap.
_____________________________
They gathered later where lantern light barely reached.
Names were spoken once.
No surnames.
No titles.
"We tried waiting," someone said. "It killed the land."
"They sold the water first," another added.
"Then the soil."
An elder leaned on his cane. "We are not rebels."
"Nor criminals," his wife added.
"Nor Patriots," finished a young man with oil-stained hands.
Silence held.
"We are what remained," the leader said evenly, "when the state left the south to drown."
A runner arrived breathless from the outer creeks.
"They're talking," he said. "Village to village."
"About what?" someone asked.
The runner swallowed. "Staying
neutral won't save anyone."
The lantern flickered.
Across the wetlands, the message spread without paper, without decree.
By morning, everyone would know.
Neutrality was no longer protection.