The Collapse CXXXI: Aftermath

27 June 20XX+1

My Dear Lucilius:

The post-battle let down did not arrive immediately – even as we had removed the immediate threat, there remained the third group which was assumed to have remained at the building be used as a base, as well as any roving bands. Any chance of surprise was gone at that point, washed away in a hail of gunfire and shouting. It was apparent, even to me, that if the third mission – the commando with the Captain – had failed or even been late, there was still a difficult boil to lance that would be beyond our abilities to do easily.

A group under the Colonel – perhaps twenty or so – continued up the mile or so of road to reach the remains of McAdams. The rest of us at our station, perhaps 5 or so remaining, faced both West and East for a threat we did know would come. Then, from a distance, we heard three short horn blasts, as if from an air-compressed horn.

The Leftenant, who remained with us, slumped a fraction. That was the signal, she said. The mission was successful.

We remained on heightened guard until we saw figures approaching with armbands, the Colonel and that team returning. He and the Leftenant spoke for a minute or two as the walked by, then they carried on.

We received our next set of orders: strip the bodies.

I am assuming (after the fact of course) that those remaining at the decoy had started to process there and, as the saying goes, many hands make light work, even at such a gruesome task at this.

Someone passed around a box of Neoprene gloves, the proverbial “one size fits no-one” – bloodborne pathogens, we were reminded. Then small groups of us assembled around the bodies strewn around and began salvage operations.

I have seen a dead body or two in my time, mostly relatives that had passed away. Their skin was an odd feeling to the touch, their eyes staring wide into the great beyond. This was different: the bodies were holed with bullet wounds, pieces of muscle and organ and bone exposed. The odor of blood and some undefinable scent I can only characterized as “body insides” filled the air.

Moving as quickly as we could, we pulled shoes and boots from bodies – the clothes were almost completely a loss. Pockets were emptied, any jewelry pulled off, weapons and bullets put to the side as next to each body an inventory of goods collected.

The irony of Looters reduced to piles of items that had likely been looted was not lost on me.

I suppose that in some places and times it would be of interest the sorts of individuals that had become Looters: what did they look like, what did they evidence about themselves as we reduced them to their constituent elements? I honestly did not pay attention Lucilius, as it did not matter. Call it exhaustion, call it disgust, call it war weariness. The bodies looked like bodies. Dead bodies. More, I cannot recall.

And then, in one of those moments of immediate understanding, I suddenly grasped the difficulties of post-battles events throughout history. I was exhausted as to some extent was everyone, likely: even with the last year of practicing using our bodies much more than before, none of us likely were soldiers. There were the bodies here; there were likely bodies where the decoy was – even more, by all accounts. The thought of digging holes or even a single hole for them was tiring just to think about, let alone having shovels or even other equipment to do it.

A motorized rumble startled all of us from our stripping – it was the Looters truck, now driven by our side, an Toyota Tacoma that slowly ground up and to a halt.

Into the back the bodies went.

10 bodies is a lot for a truck bed (in case you were wondering), so the truck ended up making two trips. As we waited between the first and second, the items were pulled into bags, the weapons distributed out for carrying.

On the return trip, most of the remaining group came up with the truck, a small rearguard waiting for the decoy to return. I was thrilled – as thrilled as one can be, exhausted – to see Young Xerxes in the group uninjured – in fact, beyond some bandages from what seemed to be flesh wounds, there seemed to be no-one else significantly injured. The surprise apparently, was complete.

The faces looked exhausted as well, with looks of exhaustion or disgust or even the thousand yard stare on them. We were retirees, ranchers, former small business owners and workers, mechanics, graphic artists and technologists.

Now, we were all blooded militia. And it showed. Even Young Xerxes looked haggard and almost did not recognize me for a moment, until he suddenly came to and gave me an uncharacteristic hug.

While this reunion was happening in small groups, the Colonel pulled some men over. Before long the sound of shoveling filled the murmuring air, a slow sound that had a mournful cadence all its own.

The hole was dug to this side of the small bridge at the stream bed where we had made our stand and where Blazer Man had fallen. We gathered around as Blazer Man was carefully placed into his grave, arms folded and eyes closed. The Colonel bent down and from where I could see, placed two silver coins, one over each eye. He got out; someone – I had no idea whom – prayed. Two men remained behind to finish the burial as the rest of us slowly marched back to McAdams, leaving Blazer Man on Eternal Guard at the bridge.

Of the rest of the day up to this entry, I can tell you little enough Lucilius. I was as tired as I had ever been in my life and barely remember entering the palisade of cars or finding a place to cast my sleeping bag. I crashed as soon as I hit the ground, waking only twice: once at the urging of Young Xerxes to eat some soup, and then to wake up to write this in the waning evening light. After this, I will sleep again, the Leftenant having excused me from any guard duty this eve.

My dreams were strange, Lucilius. In them Blazer Man was alive and we sat as we had that day, talking of history as if we were two old friends merely out on a day’s hike.

I would say I slept the sleep of the dead – but having seen the dead that day, I know theirs to be a different kind of sleep.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca