* * *
He was wrong about there being no one left alive. Several hundred meters down the hill, a young Afghan was walking away, keeping out of sight in the waving fronds of poppies. At the same time, he was talking urgently into a satphone. Opium was big business, and the men who run that business were careful men. They'd never leave a valuable crop without a watcher with a satphone in his pocket. The boy ended the call and started walking. He had a small motor scooter hidden under a canvas tarpaulin in a clump of bamboo bushes. When he reached the place, he pulled out the machine from cover and pressed the starter button. Nothing.
He cursed. It was an old cycle, made in China. He'd told them countless times he needed a new one. They always laughed, cuffed him over the head, and told him he was lucky he didn't have to ride around on a donkey. Privately, he considered a donkey could at least be more reliable, although he didn't tell them that. They didn't take kindly to backchat.
The problem was the primitive Chinese-made carburetor. It frequently clogged with debris from the cheap, unfiltered fuel they gave him to use. It meant he had to strip the engine, clear the blockage, and reassemble, a task that would take him several hours. He sighed, knowing there was no way he'd complete the task before nightfall. Out in the countryside, he'd be lucky if he didn't freeze. He took out the Makarov pistol they'd given him to defend himself against marauders, placed it on the ground, and opened the canvas bag of tools.