A few years from now, in the face of a global pandemic, spreading famine and growing class divide, a violent wave of civil unrest erupted across the entire continent of South America. Riots quickly broke out, major cities were turned into war zones, and the lands were plagued with pillaging, rape and murder. In the chaos that followed, countless politicians were assassinated, governments were overthrown and tyrants rose to power in their place. It was a time of natural selection; the only law that existed on the turbulent continent was that of the gun and the blade.

Fearing that this escalating state of disorder might continue to spread further north, the governing bodies of the outside world worked in collaboration to construct a military blockade along the Colombia-Panama border, sealing off the entire continent. Air and sea patrols were also formed to ensure as few outsiders as possible went in, and that almost nobody could get out. This newly abandoned portion of the Americas, left without any official form of governance or order, soon developed a new name: the Lost Continent.

After nearly two decades of war and infighting, the powerful leaders of South America's largest drug cartels filled the void of fallen governments, rising to the top of the food chain on the Lost Continent. The cartels ruled all of the major cities with their wealth, using their influence to form their own armies, expand their established empires and bring some form of governance to the lands. However, the cartels were constantly at war with each other, forever trapped in a mad struggle for more resources, land, power and money.

The Guerreros, as they came to be known, were an unofficial class of warriors who were forged during this era of bloodshed on the Lost Continent. They were men highly skilled in all forms of combat who lent their services to the warring cartels as hired guns. Although it was a particularly dangerous occupation, those that survived were paid exceptionally well. Guerreros were easy to recognize through the gun belts they carried, similar to those once worn by the gunfighters of America's Western Frontier in the 1800s. A Guerrero's gun belt was equipped with a Colt Peacemaker revolver and a 12-inch Bowie knife, which were considered the most basic tools of a warrior's trade. Almost single-handedly the Guerreros come to dictate the balance of power on the Lost Continent by way of assassinations and through their bravery out on the battlefields of the bloody cartel wars.

However, as time went on, Guerreros were becoming increasingly difficult for the cartels to keep acquiring. Their numbers were dwindling; only the very best of them remained in active service for very long. And often it is what one desires, yet cannot acquire with money, that he himself seeks to create…

SAN LORENZO, PARAGUAY, SOUTH AMERICA

Joey Rico could hear his captors' footsteps approaching his holding cell. They were coming back for him, and this time they were not alone. It was just as he feared; the savages had found his family's hiding place. Any leverage he may have once had over them was gone. They were now holding all the cards.

Gagged and bound tightly to a strong wooden chair, Joey could do little more than watch as three men wearing ski-masks dragged his wife into the room first. Susana Rico was kicking and thrashing wildly at first, but then one of the captors put a knife to her throat to tame her. The gesture had the desired result. A second later Joey's seven-year-old son, Sierra, was also hauled in.

Joey's heart was hammering out of control as the two most treasured people in his life were forced down onto their knees in front of him, handguns pressed up against their temples to keep them still.

One of the captors knelt by Joey's side in a menacing fashion. "If we take that gag out of your mouth, are you going to behave yourself, Joey?"

Joey nodded as the captor removed the gag, his eyes bulging like a cornered stallion. As soon as his mouth was free, he looked at his wife, nearly choking on his own saliva as he fought to refill his depleted lungs.

"Suzie, Sierra… don't worry… everything will be okay," he slobbered as he tried to speak more quickly than his body would allow him to. "They just want their money. That's it. Once they have it, they'll let you go." Joey suddenly stopped then as another captor entered.

There was something very different about this man. He carried a terrifying aura. Unlike the others, he was unmasked. He had a bulky build, razored black hair, unshaven face, and he was dressed in an expensive purple silk suit.

"Hector," Joey gasped, veins pulsing in the side of his neck. He knew the man well; almost everyone who lived in San Lorenzo did. Hector Chilavert was the head of one of the most powerful drug cartels on the continent. He was a tyrant who had amassed an army of followers soon after the Lost Continent had formed, using them as his muscle to claim the city of San Lorenzo as his own. His men followed and feared him like a god of war.

"You want your money," Joey said rapidly, short on breath. "Let my family go and you'll have it, Hector. I'll pay you triple what I owe!"

"Come on, Joey, you could never afford that." Hector Chilavert reached into his coat, drawing a 12-inch knife from a sheath he had concealed there. "Besides, I'm not a greedy man. Your life will be more than sufficient."

"Hector, please, you can't do this!" Joey turned to his wife and son, tears of helplessness forming in his eyes. "I served you for years. And my family… they need me!"

Chilavert turned away from his captive with a snort of disgust, looking down at Joey's son for the first time. The two locked eyes for a moment and a slight grin crept across Chilavert's face.

"Nice kid," Chilavert said. "He's got his papa's eyes and his mamma's nose. What do you call him?"

"Sierra," Joey barely got the name out between sobs.

"I see. And does Sierra know how greedy his papa has been lately?"

"Come on, Hector, he doesn't need to hear all this. He doesn't even know what I do for a living! I'm the one you want! Me! It's not fair you punish my family too!"

"Isn't it?" Chilavert glanced across at Joey's wife. The woman's chest was heaving, her entire body trembling in the grip of her captor.

"You know something, Joey, maybe you're right," Chilavert shrugged. "Why should this whore you call a wife have to suffer just because it was your limp dick that knocked her up? She doesn't need to see any of this. I tell you what, I'll let her go right now. Call it a favour, for old time's sake; you were always one of my favourites. Don't say I never did anything for you." The tyrant walked up behind Susana and cut away the rope that was binding her hands.

Joey breathed a sigh of relief, tears of gratitude spilling down his face. "Thank you, Hector, thank you. You won't regret this, I promise you."

"No, I certainly won't." Chilavert's eyes suddenly darkened and he grabbed Susana by the ruff of her hair, jerking her head back towards him. His blade sliced across her throat and a geyser of blood erupted, spraying all over her son's face beside her.

"Susana!" Joey cried at the top of his lungs, his face red with strain as he thrashed wildly in his chair.

"There, you see, papa Joey, I let her go." Chilavert turned back to his captive with a sudden gleam in his eyes, raising his blood-soaked blade for another strike. "And now I've decided to let you go too, you greedy small-time piece of shit!"

The tyrant's first blow was aimed low, between Joey's legs, raising his screams to another level of agony. After that the blows kept on coming, and they only got worse from there.

On the floor, Sierra Rico watched silently as Chilavert's knife slashed and stabbed at his father's torso again and again. He wanted to scream, but he could not; his body was frozen, the breath trapped in his throat. All he could do was watch as his father's screams gradually softened with each bloody strike. By the time Chilavert had sheathed his blade, Sierra Rico's eyes, much like those of his dying father, had transformed into two wide, lifeless abysses.

"Toss his remains to the dogs," Chilavert said when he was done, using a towel to wipe his face and blood-soaked suit. He turned back to his men. "And find me another suit to change into. Something fancy. I've got a date tonight."

"And the boy?" one of his men asked. "What do you want us to do with him?"

Chilavert looked down at Sierra with a smirk. "Bring him with us."

***

The old, single-storey building was in San Lorenzo's inner city. Of the several people who happened to be walking past it that day, not one stopped; the screams emanating from within went ignored. That was how things worked in San Lorenzo; nobody had the courage to involve themselves in the business of Hector Chilavert and his cartel. The tyrant had made slaves or corpses out of the entire population.

Inside the building, Sierra Rico had little sense of anything going on around him. His body was bloated with swelling, his face a puffy mask of blood as his two captors dragged him down the building's long and winding corridors. They hauled him inside an empty cell. The smell of death was all around; the scent of bodily decay, rotting flesh and excrement filled Sierra's nostrils. It made him gag. He collapsed to the floor as his captors released him, coughing to clear the blood and bile in his throat.

"This kid's tough," one of the captors said. "He takes a beating like a fucking prize-fighter. I think you were right about him, Hector."

A chill shot through the boy's body as he heard Chilavert's footsteps enter the cell and approach him. He closed his eyes as tightly as he could, willing the devil to stay away.

"And when was the last time I was wrong about anything, Ernesto?" Chilavert looked down at the boy, seemingly unimpressed by what he saw. "Get him up! Let's have a better look at him."

Sierra gasped as he was suddenly hoisted off the ground then forced onto his knees, his captors bringing him face-to-face with the tyrant who had slaughtered his parents just a few days earlier.

"That's more like it," Chilavert smiled, staring long and deep into the boy's eyes. "Kid, I'm not sure if you realize this or not, but your eyes tell me everything there is to know about you. They tell me that deep down you've got a real ruthless streak in you, just like your papa did; that when backed into a corner you could kill just as easily as you breathe. So, I guess today is your lucky day, kid, because the man I see you becoming is exactly the kind of guy I like to employ. Of course, I could be wrong about you, but I certainly hope not, for your sake at least."

Chilavert reached inside his coat and drew his knife. The very same blade he had used to kill Sierra's mother and father. "And now, Sierra, let's find out together just how tough you really are."

***

Sierra Rico's frail body spasmed in time with each and every jolt of electricity that was blasted through it. Sparks flew off him like tiny shooting stars in the night, their blurry blue tails lighting up the dark confines of the chamber. He was hanging upside down from the ceiling, suspended in steel shackles, and had been dangling there for the past half hour. The small electrode devices that were shocking him were scattered over his body, connected by wires to a large, flickering switchboard across the room, which was sending surge after surge of electricity through him.

Even though every inch of his body was wracked with pain, Sierra did not make a sound. Through his own experience he had come to learn that when he kept his emotions in check his daily dose of torture would be concluded sooner; the extremity of his suffering always depended on how he reacted. In a sense, slowly but surely, his body was being conditioned to take the pain, and to take it quietly.

"Okay, that should do it for now," Hector Chilavert announced as he entered the chamber. The tyrant's presence filled Sierra with relief; it signaled that his torture was over, for another day at least.

Sure enough, the man by the switchboard turned off the power and the electricity was cut off, ending Sierra's suffering.

"How did he do today, Henrique?" Chilavert asked as he moved closer, circling Sierra's dangling body.

"He didn't make a peep, boss," the man named Henrique said.

"Good. He's finally starting to learn what I want from him."

"Maybe. But don't you think he's still a bit too young to be taking this sort of punishment?"

"No, Henrique, I don't. I suffered far worse when I was his age, and look how I turned out."

"Yeah, but he's not strong like you. And there's a good chance he'll die if we keep this pace up."

"Shit happens. We can always find another."

Chilavert drew his knife from his coat and looked deep into the boy's glazed eyes. As he did so, a smile appeared on the tyrant's face. He nodded to two of his henchmen and they went to work unshackling Sierra from his restraints, laying him down on the floor face-up.

"Sierra Rico," Chilavert crouched by Sierra's side, his hands behind his back. "Right now you're hurting more than you have ever hurt before. But this need not continue. This pain can end now if you want it to; just give me what I want and it will all be over."

Sierra rolled his head to face the tyrant. Their eyes met, but Sierra did not speak; he had learned it was best not to open his mouth in the tyrant's presence.

"The way I see it, kid, you've only got two real choices here," Chilavert took out his left hand from behind his back and held it in front of Sierra's eyes. In it was the knife he had used to butcher Sierra's parents. "One: you swear loyalty to me, and you do whatever I tell you to do, from now until the day you die."

Sierra's eyes studied the blade.

"Or two," Chilavert's other hand contained a small section of a chain, just like the one used to string up Sierra during his torture. "You can go back to your cell and face this same treatment tomorrow, and every day after that, until either you change your mind or you expire; whichever happens first."

Sierra took a moment to consider each of the items in the tyrant's hands, his pupils shifting rapidly between them.

"So? What's it going to be, Sierra?" Chilavert asked. "Obedience or death?"

Sierra raised his arm, his fingers resting gently on the knife in Chilavert's left hand. Obedience.

***

The hole had been dug hours before in the lush, open countryside just outside the city; a grave without a tombstone or a corpse to call its own. Sierra Rico stood beside the hole, staring down into the dark, disturbed earth without blinking.

"Always remember, a gun is no toy, kid," Hector Chilavert said as he walked over and kneeled beside him. "It is a tool for taking life. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a fucking idiot. With a gun in your hand, one holds the power of a god; the power to either grant life or deliver death." He took out a Colt Peacemaker revolver from his coat and held it out for Sierra to see.

Sierra's eyes widened as he studied the weapon in the tyrant's hand.

"Now tell me," Chilavert said. "What do you think it is that separates the strong from the weak in this world? And no, I'm not talking about guns."

Sierra's face remained blank. He was not sure if he was expected to answer or not, so he chose to remain silent for now.

"It's all up here," Chilavert tapped the side of Sierra's head with his index finger. "It's the driving impulses that run through a man's head when the shit hits the fan and it's either kill or be killed. For the weak, the mind either freezes with fear or is clouded by sympathy."

Sierra felt obliged to nod.

"But if you become strong enough, such impulses cease to existent," Chilavert said. "Those who are strong have the ability to do whatever it takes to stay alive; to kill, and to keep on killing if need be. In this fucked-up world, the equation is simple: If you're strong you live, if you're weak you die."

Sierra nodded again, even though he was not quite sure he understood.

"So, what are you, Sierra? Strong or weak?"

"Strong," Sierra responded immediately, desperate to keep his master happy.

"Good. And that wraps up today's lesson, kid." Chilavert stood up. "Now for some homework, just to make sure you were really paying attention." He signaled to one of his men, who was standing by a rusty-red pick-up truck out in the field behind them.

Sierra watched on as the three bound and hooded captives were suddenly thrown from the back of the truck and dragged over towards them. Two of the three captives were pushed into the hole in front of Sierra. The third was forced onto his knees on the grass beside him.

"Henrique," Chilavert nodded to his nearest henchman. "You know what to do."

Henrique jumped down into the hole, pulling the two captives to their knees, ripping their hoods off.

Sierra felt his heartbeat quicken as he saw their faces. The first one was a woman, probably in her late thirties. The other one was just a girl, no older than four or five. Both of their mouths had been gagged with duct tape.

Henrique climbed out of the hole and approached the third captive, taking off his hood. This one was a boy, no older than Sierra. His head had been shaved. His brown, teary eyes were wide and filled with terror.

Chilavert's hand rested firmly on Sierra's shoulder and he held out the Colt Peacemaker. Sierra looked up at the tyrant, unsure whether or not to touch the weapon.

"Go on, these two are your enemies, Sierra," Chilavert pointed to the captives in the hole. "They are the weak, and you are the strong. Surely you know what needs to be done, don't you?"

Sierra didn't respond. His brain wouldn't let him.

Chilavert pointed across to the other captive, the boy kneeling beside him. "If you can't do it, Sierra, then this kid will, and he will take your place. It's up to you."

Sierra looked into Chilavert's eyes and slowly took the weapon from his hand. It felt heavy as a brick and cold as an ice-block. Such a simple device, and yet with it one could hold such destructive force.

"Remember, in this world it's kill or be killed," Chilavert said, noticing Sierra's reluctance. "I'm not doing this to be a sadistic son of a bitch, Sierra; I'm doing it for you. You need to learn how to survive, just as I learned back at your age."

Sierra looked at the weapon, then back at the two captives in front of him. His heart hammered. Although he tried to hide his fear from the tyrant, the weapon was shaking in his hands.

"Ten seconds, Sierra," Chilavert said. "Don't you dare disappoint me."

Sierra's hand tightened around the grip and he levelled the weapon's sights at the woman in the ditch first. Her eyes locked with Sierra's, bulging with horror as she stared down the barrel of the Colt Peacemaker.

Chilavert's words began repeating over and over again inside Sierra's head: If you're strong you live, if you're weak you die. Then came that horrific image of Chilavert slicing open the throat of his mother, her blood splashing right across his face. If you're weak you die!

No, Sierra didn't want to die. He wasn't ready. Not yet.

With a cry from his quivering lips, Sierra pulled the trigger and the muzzle of the weapon flamed, recoiling violently in his hands; the woman in the ditch was struck in the face and her body collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been severed.

If you're strong you live! Sierra shifted his weapon over to the second captive just as the roar of the weapon faded into the countryside, the gun wavering slightly in his grip as he lined up her face. The little girl was sobbing, tears and snot pouring down her face and running off her chin.

"I'm sorry..." Sierra whispered. Then he fired again.

***

"Ssh, it's okay, Tania," the boy whispered into his little sister's ear. "It'll all be okay. He won't find us here, I promise." He was as much talking to himself as he was to her.

"I'm scared, Henry," his sister sobbed.

"I know. So am I. But we are safe now, just as long as we stay here and keep quiet."

The two of them sat tucked in the darkness of their parents' closet. Henry held onto his sister tightly. His hand clamped around her mouth to suppress her whimpers.

Everything was silent outside now; the screams of their parents had finally ceased. Henry could feel his sister trembling in his arms, and the feeling was contagious. He started to shiver, barely able to breathe. Tears began to slip from his eyes, but thankfully they were hidden from his sister by the dark. Being the elder sibling, Henry knew he had to remain strong for the both of them.

At last, after working up some courage, he sat up and peered out through the narrow wooden slits in the door. Outside, the bedroom floor was strewn with broken chairs, torn bed sheets and shattered glass. The old floorboards were covered by an expanding pool of fluid and the moonlight streaming in through the broken windows highlighted a red tinge. Blood.

Henry felt his heartbeat quicken. He had never seen so much blood. Then he saw his parents. They were entwined and motionless in the middle of the expanding blood pool, their limbs contorted at horrible angles. And there, standing over their corpses, was the killer, only just a child, barely older than Henry.

The killer's face was a mask of black, his entire outline a blur as though he was one with the shadows. The long, silver knife-blade in his hand glowed in the moonlight, red dribbling down like a leaking tap from the weapon's razor-sharp edge. The killer took a step forward into the light streaming in through the window, and at once the darkness around his face seemed to dissolve, revealing his lifeless brown eyes, short black hair and dark olive skin.

Henry watched him closely as he stood there, looking around, his eyes scanning the room, searching for anything that seemed out of place. Then the killer's sights rested on the closet door and Henry felt his breath catch in his throat. He looked away, praying that he hadn't been spotted to a god he didn't even really believe in. His body began to shake and he felt his sister bite into his hand as she desperately tried to keep herself quiet.

Suddenly, Henry felt something wet and sticky touching his feet and he glanced looked down. It was blood; the pool had started to seep in under the closet door. Then his eyes flashed back up, and every last nerve in his body froze in horror. The closet door was now open, and standing in front of him, with eyes chillingly bland and a blood-coated knife in his hand, was the demonic child who had just murdered his parents.

Henry's sister clawed her mouth free from her brother's hand, screeching like a panic-stricken bird, but Henry barely noticed her; all he could hear was the sound of his own heart, and all he could feel was the sickening shortness of his breath. He stared long and deep into those strangely emotionless eyes of the killer, and they stared straight back into his.

"I'm sorry," Henry thought he heard the killer whisper, but in his state of terror he could just as easily have imagined it. Then, just as abruptly as he had appeared, the killer turned and walked away.

By the time Henry and his sister found the nerve to drag their way out of the closet the killer was already long gone, disappearing into the night.

The children stood hand-in-hand over the bodies of their parents, and from that spot they did not move. Not until long after the sun had risen and eaten away all the darkness. And it was there, with the light of a new day streaming over them, that Henry turned to his sister and swore to her that somehow, some day, no matter the cost, he would find the monster responsible for this cowardly act and make him suffer, just as their parents had suffered. And on that the vile beast's cold and bloody corpse he would carve the letters of their family's name: O-R-T-E-G-A.