An army of ghosts marched on the ridges and valleys of the land, covering many square feet of land. For it must have been an army of ghosts, no gathering of beings could have achieved such a uniformity of look and form. They were staggering forward, haggardly, their feet bumping against invisible steps in the mud. Mud was what they were made of. Each member of the army looked the same, tan layers of muds plastered all over their arms and legs and bodies, hiding the drab short tunics they wore, of the same color as the mud. The mud kept its march upwards, crawling up their neck, covering their face and their heads, entering into noses and ears, there was no plastering of hair, just the whites of eyes shining in the drab tans. None of the ghosts had hair. Many of them had rounded bellies swollen with more ghosts, who would be born covered in mud. Once in a while, one of them staggered forward or backward more than usual and fell in the mud. Some of those got up again, a layer of wet clay added onto the layers that already weighed on them. Those that fell splayed tended not to get up again, sometimes laying where they were, breathing the mud through their mouth and nose and eyes. The other ghosts would just walk on them in their march forward. The yielding bodies offered a dry foothold for a little while, until the combined weight of the walking army burrowed their bodies further into the mud and they were no more than funnel-shaped depressions marking the lives that had been.
Over and behind the ghosts, clouds rolled over the horizon, ominous clouds rumbling in the distance. The mud ghosts would slow down once in a while and quickly look over their shoulder and up at the sky, assessing. If the clouds were far enough they would keep trudging ahead, pulling their feet off the mud with a smacking sound before plopping them down again in the sinking softness, exhausting themselves in an endless pas-de-deux that brought them closer to a final fall. When the clouds approached, the ghosts would run to the sides, sliding across the vast field of mud, trying to scurry away like an army of ants on an oily surface, before the skies opened in a hail of laser beams and bullets that haphazardly found their mark. Whoever was flying those attack planes was doing it in a lazy, desultory way, not so much looking to exterminate as to push the herd forward, to keep it moving through the mud, to wrangle the ghosts in a unified direction. That direction was taking them away from large rectangle buildings that burned far in the distance behind them, sending clouds of billowing black smoke up in the air, where they obscured the planes.
The mud fields ended at a river, more a gathering of flat shallows than a true river worth its name, but a river nonetheless. The mud ghosts who tried and crossed the river were mowed down by hidden guns on the other side. So they huddled at the edge of the river. More and more ghosts joined their ranks, all made of the same mud, until the army of ghosts actually became an army. The planes did not pursue them all the way to the river and the guns did not bother to pick them up on the other side. The mud marshes were a no-man's land where even the mud ghosts did not want to land. They waited until there was enough of them for a village, then a community, then a small town. And when their number became too large and they would be pushed into the wet shallows anyway, they crossed the water in gushing waves of bodies, clambering over those in front that were felled by the guns, their numbers too great to fully annihilate, until a portion of them reached the other side. And then the guns would be still and the mud ghosts would disappear in the surrounding vegetation, while another army of mud ghosts congregated at the edge of the river behind them.
In a spot at the top of the no-man's land, two mud ghosts were quietly whispering. The rounded edge of the shorter one spoke of a young one to be born. The taller one had the angular curves of skin and bones. Only their eyes shone.
"If we cross the river, we will be perceived to be the other side again. We will end up in the same situation, except that our captors will be our former cellmates" The taller one was saying.
- What do you suggest we do?" the smaller one was visibly exhausted, both from the weight of the fetus and from the fatigue of the muddy escape.
"The Nitns are pushing all of us into Ritumfa territory. We do not belong to either." the taller mud ghost turned its head, looking at the river of shallows as it bent around a corner, a short distance away. "We can follow the river upstream instead of going where they are trying to lead us."
"Do you know where the river comes from?" the short one asked plaintively.
"I do not recall it showing up on the maps. It must have been a secondary geographical feature. But the maps showed that the Narmkafehrs also share the delta. The river may lead to their land."
The short mud ghost sat on its haunches in the mud, Asian-style, belly perched precariously on her knees. "And how do we know it's not going to be worse than what we have been through," she asked.
"We do not, Ensign" the tall mud ghosts answered, "but we do know there is a high probability we will get killed if we proceed forward. We are exchanging a certainty for possibilities."
The short one nodded. "So what do we do?"
"When the next group rushes the other side, we will take advantage of the general confusion to follow the river upstream," the taller one said. She looked down to where the shorter one was crouching "How are you doing, Hoshi?"
The shorter mud ghost laughed, a short harsh laugh "How about I tell you once we get out of this mess, Commander. Perhaps by then I'll actually know."
