The answer is immediate: just beyond the flames, I see two vehicles, and four men. They open fire immediately, forcing me to take cover behind the immolated skeleton of the driver's seat.

Fucking murder squads. Always showing up when I least want them to, always blowing the shit out of my slightly-used-but-still-serviceable jeeps. And the thing is, it never ends well for them. They'll set a few fires, get a couple good hits in, maybe force me to use a syringe or two, but in the end, they're the ones who end up dead. 

I stop and listen for a while. Judging by their panicked chatter, my friends the fuckbags clearly weren't expecting my jeep to explode quite so ... explosively. The flames are spreading, and now they're not sure what to do. Sensing an opportunity, I toss a Molotov cocktail out the front window of the bus, causing the conflagration to spread even further.

Uh-oh. Seems they're getting a bit freaked out now. One of them, a shirtless white guy with cargo shorts, has managed to catch on fire. He runs around a while, yelling and screaming and cursing and whatever, but then he stops, and drops, and the only noise he makes thereafter is soft crackling.

His buddy, a stringy black man dressed in fatigues and armed with an AK-47, is a bit smarter – he runs back toward his jeep. Unfortunately for him, though, being smart enough to run away from fire isn't the same as being smart enough to dodge a sniper bullet. His head explodes with a satisfying squicky pop.

Now where are those other cockwits? Ah. There's one. He's trying to get into the back of the other jeep and use the attached machine gun. Click-clock-click. Bang! Not any more he isn't. One more left to go.

Nuts. Looks like this guy's going to be a prick. He's shooting at me from somewhere ... I can hear the pings as the bullets hit the bus ... but fucked if know where exactly. I leave cover and do a quick scan of the surrounding area, but a few wet thoks and flashing red force me back into hiding almost immediately.

Fucking fucking fucking fuck. I hate when this happens. These faction pricks must have bionic eyes or something because they always – always – know exactly where I am, even when I have absolutely no goddamn idea where they are. Like the other night, I raided a camp and some dickhead shot me in the chest with a shotgun from 100-metres away, in pitch black, while I was hiding behind a bush. That's more than annoying, that's just fucking absurd.

Okay. Fine. Time to go hunting. Keeping low to the ground, I take out my Desert Eagle and – followed by a hail of bullets – move out of the bus, finding cover behind a nearby boulder. When dickface finally stops to reload, I risk a quick peek to see where he is, and am instantly rebuked with another burst of gunfire.

Ha! Got you now, you bastard! I saw where that muzzle flash came from!

I wait again for him to empty his clip, but this time, as he's reloading, I run out and let fly three 50 calibre rounds in his general direction. A hit! My former assailant drops to the ground, clutching his shoulder and yelping desperately for a medic. I stroll over and casually jam my machete into his stomach, thus bringing the battle to a close.

Told you it wouldn't end well for them.

FINAL SCORE: One bottle of malaria pills.