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The man wouldn't move. "I will, I will... I can't, I can't. Can't!" the man stammered.
"Oh, balls", the Bear said. He and another each took an arm and they lifted him.
As they carried him he sputtered something about being really, honestly sorry. Why wouldn't anyone believe him that he was sorry?
At the midpoint of the bridge two prisoners were waiting, one in a bloodstained militia uniform; the other looked like a truck driver thanks to his ball cap with rolling cooperative emblazoned on it.
Quislings and Bears, exchanged sets of keys. Valentine noticed that the harnesses were identical. While this was going on, a bottle moved west, a thick roll of newsprint east.
"You shouldn't be doing that, Bongo", a Bear chided his mate.
"I like to read their funnies", the one evidently called Bongo replied. "Don't read nuttin' else".
"Don't or can't?" the chained militia woman asked.
"Shut down, you", the leader of the column warned.
The exchange done, the Bears accepted the two and immediately unlocked them. One of the Bears threw the harnesses' across his shoulder, presumably for the next midnight exchange. Valentine listened to the two Bears who'd carried the lead man talk quietly as they walked away.
"The one in the back, ain't he a Bear?"
"Think so. Seen him in the uniform at Fort Drizzle, anyway".
"Do they know that?"
"Like I care".
"Is it just me, or does this side of the river stink?" Valentine asked.
"It shakes in front, shitting himself", a female officer in charge of the Quislings said.
"Better you than me, pard", the man at the back of their file added.
The man at the front, who had perhaps feared a glowering Reaper at the other end of the bridge rather than a group of Quislings, was able to walk the rest of the way. Valentine suspected he had shit himself, as he was shaking something out of his trouser.
"Don't feel too bad", Valentine called to the front. "Those fellas back there do it all the time when they fight".
"Yeah, takes a lot of guts to gun down women and kids", the Quisling at the back said.
They were loaded into an old brown delivery van. Much of the front paneling was missing or cut away, along with the skirting. Whether this was for easier maintenance or a security precaution Valentine couldn't tell, though he knew collection vans were frequently wired with explosives. Duvalier had said something or other along those lines when they saw one in Kansas.
The Quislings rolled the door shut and locked it, leaving them in darkness. Valentine heard the engine start, half hoped for an explosion.
This was it. The last ride. Valentine was a little surprised at how calm he was. It was over, no more worries, cares, regrets about Malia and Amalee. What would Blake turn into, a fallible human capable of empathy, or a cruel, instinct-driven automaton?
He'd had a good run. Duvalier always said Cats never lasted. He'd done more damage than most. If every human piled into a van could just take one enemy to the grave ...
The blank nothingness that yawned before him, a forever of oblivion, the world spinning along and he'd exist as a memory or a story or one of his many signed reports buried in some archive. He hoped his legs wouldn't fail him at the last - maybe he could stamp on the Reaper's instep - or would his bowels give way ?
The militia woman pressed up against Valentine.
"Hey, buddy, can you work your fly?" her voice breathed in the dark.
"Pardon?" he said.
"Let's do it, right now. I can slip out of these pants".
"You're kidding, right?"
