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That’s when she saw the dead people.
So many dead people.
Orcs and . . . others. Some of them simply dead. But it wasn’t actually simple, was it? No, she told herself. This was wrong in a lot of very bad ways.
The corpses were tied to posts, straight poles with crossbars that stood all of the dead up like a grove of scarecrows. The corpses were in horrible shape. Emaciated, starved; their faces marked by their screams and suffering. She turned to see them, to see all of those faces. Every one of them had died hard out here. Many had been fed upon, with parts of arms and faces and bodies eaten away. Others slumped down in final, total defeat; unmarked by bites but clearly dead. On some of those, Rachael could see single post-mortem wounds from where someone had quieted them. A small mercy. A very cold comfort.
Then she saw two figures lashed to crossbars who were still alive.
God, she hoped they were still alive.
Jason.
Claudia.
Covered with blood. Strung up like scarecrows. Like sacrifices in some bizarre and perverse ritual. Other people—townsfolk—were finishing the process of tying their arms and legs.
“They look pretty,” said a voice behind her. “Don’t they?”
Rachael turned her head, which was enormously painful to undertake. The two men who’d carried her stood there. One was coiling a length of rope. The other was lighting a cigarette. He grinned at her through the smoke.
“What the fuck are you doing?” growled Rachael, but it came out hoarse and weak.
“Maintaining order,” said the man. He took a deep drag and exhaled blue smoke into the air. “You and your friends could have had it all. Clean beds, food, shelter. Instead you had to go and piss in the punchbowl. You’re too stupid to even know when you’re on top.”
The man with the rope smirked. “I’d like to be on top of her,” he said.
The other man took the cigarette out of his mouth and pointed to the other four townsfolk. “You do that shit again, Kyle, and they’ll dime you out to the mayor. Miss Van Sloane doesn’t like it when we get grabby and you damn well know it. Or do you want to spend another week shoveling shit alongside the helpers?”
“Might be worth it,” said the second man, eyeing Rachael. “Look at the cans on her. Bet she be—
”
Rachael kicked him in the balls.
She kicked him as hard as she could, and he doubled over, eyes bugging, a thin whistling wordless howl bursting from his mouth. She wanted to kick him again, harder, but a wave of dizziness and nausea slammed her back onto the dirt. The other four townies turned and came hurrying over, demanding to know what happened. The man who’d been kicked was entirely unable to manage a single articulate word.
The guy with the cigarette waved the others off. “It’s nothing. Kyle was making a joke and this little slut tried to get cute. Come on, help me get her up.”
They left Kyle on the ground and the five others crowded around Rachael, swatting aside her attempts to punch and kick, howling and cursing when she slipped one in. They slapped and punched her and finally dragged her by sheer force to her feet and as a group hauled her over to an empty post. She screamed and tried to bite them, but there were five of them and one of her, and they won.
Rachael never stopped fighting, though. Not for a moment.
— 28 —
THE SOLDIER AND THE DOG
In stories about heroes the good guy is often hamstrung by a moral dilemma. He knows he should kill the bad guys when he has a chance, but he has this code. Like Batman and the Joker. Batman’s supposed to be a champion of moral behavior, his being a violent vigilante notwithstanding. He won’t kill the Joker even when that psychopath tells him he should. Instead, he locks him up in Gotham’s prison or in Arkham Asylum, both of which are notorious for the frequency of super villains escaping. And the result? Batman feels smug about making the good moral choice, and then gets to wallow in self-absorbed angst when the Joker breaks out and slaughters a shit-ton of people. I bet some comic book scholar actually took the time to tally up how many people died because Batman didn’t use the razor edge of a batarang to end the reign of terror. Numbers are likely in the five digits. And don’t get me started on Superman.
Me . . . ?
I’m not Batman or Superman.
Once I had all the information the Rovers were likely to give me, I killed them. I did it quick and efficiently. No torture. Just a flip of life’s fragile little switch. They begged, of course, but aside from not being a superhero, I’m not a judge or jury. They were making a plea to the hangman.
Any twinges of regret? Sure. I’m not inhuman. But I did the math and decided that, thin as the human population was right now, we didn’t need them in the gene pool. Call it preventative surgery. Call it whatever. I had regrets because I’m still moral; but there was no hesitation because I’m practical and this was a war where the good guys were badly outnumbered.
I used the cut branches to hide them, and completed the extra step necessary to make sure they wouldn’t reanimate. The bikes were potentially useful, so I hid two on the other side of the road behind some dense bushes. The third one had to be sacrificed, though, because I figured I might need a grappling hook if I was going to sneak into the town. I busted it apart and used part of the frame to make a sturdy hook, tying it securely with rope from my pack. Be Prepared, that’s my motto.
