Interlude: Man in the Long Black Coat

Bodies lie twisted and still in the scrub grass, dead long enough for the blood to blacken. Flies crawl in and out of their mouths and gather on their cloudy eyes.

63’s shrapnel-pocked face throbs as he studies them. A strange sensation; he has never felt pain before.

He started tapering off the day 74 ran. A tactical decision, supported by regulations. But now that he is on a one-third dose he has also become aware of a blister on his left heel and something else he suspects is hunger.

63 marches back to the circle of smouldering wagons. The lone survivor kneels, sobbing, black hair loose in her face.

“West,” he says. “You saw them.”

The woman nods frantically. She holds up her hands in a silent plea for mercy as he shoots her through the temple.

His remaining Regulars do not react. They’re disciplined; he will only have the best. Six were lost at the river. 86 and his entire complement are dead too, left in the dirt like refuse.

63 suspects the sudden vascular tightness he is experiencing is anger. He takes his pulse and finds it elevated.

How odd.

He gathers his men and moves west.