Order and Chaos

signal flare

This was too much for me to handle alone. I needed help. I scrambled into camp and searched through the nearest tent for a signal flare and firestarter. I was trying to be quiet, but I was all sweaty and clumsy dropped my sword into the dirt. For a second, I thought I had gotten away with it and returned to my furious searching.

"...Commun?" said the man awoke by the loud clang of the dropped sword. Fuck. "What are you doing in here?"

"I, I, I, I needed a signal flare and firestarter so I came in here sorry," I stammered at a million miles a second.

"Okay, okay, slow down Marx. Why did you need a signal flare? What went wrong? Why are you naked, did you burn up your loincloth?"

"No, no, sorry, uh, I put it on the sword so it wouldn't fall out of my hands from the sweat but well you see where that got me I'm very sweaty and besides if I had a burning loincloth then I wouldn't need the firestarter now would I sorry that was rude of me anyway uh it's all gone to hell in a handbasket they killed Malcolm and Malcolm killed like a billion fucking gods and now they're all pissed at us and I thought we could maybe like impersonate Malcolm but he died in his armor so that's off the table and apparently the world's ending and we're dead, we're dead, we're dead, we're worse than dead, oh gods," I said. (I might not be PRONE to panic per se, but give me a break here.)

"Holy shit," he said. "I can kinda see why you're panicking here, but you should still calm down. It does us no favors." I nodded. He was basically parroting me from better days. "The signal flare thing is... who were you trying to signal? Our enemies?"

"We had to... warn... people... I don't know! I'm not thinking straight." I collapsed onto an empty bed. This dude had the whole tent to himself.

"Okay," he said, "I know you're technically first-in-command right now, but can I have permission to warn everyone, then plan and execute a retreat? I think I know enough languages."

I nodded. "Go ahead..." I passed him my sword. "...general."

He grabbed the sword, nodded, and rushed out. He ducked back in through the flap a split-second later, with a disgusted look on his face.

"You can keep the loincloth," he said, and then dropped the incredibly sweat-damp garment onto the dirt floor. Ew! At least laundry was a much more manageable goal, especially for me, Commun Marx, the economist. I started searching for his washboard and bucket and soap and a wire to dry and his canteen for the water...

About a half-hour later, I had finally assembled my materials and plunged my loincloth into the bucket when my new general popped back into the tent with a salute. "Sir, the troops are assembled and the camp is broken down," he said. I would have been impressed with the speed if I wasn't so frustrated.

"Ugh!" I threw down the washboard and stood up. "It's almost winter, I'm gonna freeze to death without a clean loincloth," I grumbled as I left the tent.

I stood on a crate in front of the troops, who were in a large, disciplined, rectangular formation with all their gear. "Um," I said. "...March?"

Nobody moved. Was it the language barrier? My general whispered past my shoulder: "They need to know if you want to go over the mountain pass or back down the road we came. You're gonna have to point."

Oh. I coughed and nervously pointed to...