Chapter 10: The Quiet and the Reposed

The sun was setting. That is, the orange glow behind the ash is low on the horizon. Rachel rubbed her numb hands, blowing in her palm. She watched the dozen or so sets of feet ahead of her, the black boots stomping in the ash-filled dirt. She was no longer pointman. It wasn't a demotion, no one had punished her. Pvt. Dalton hadn't told his soldier buddies, no one had radioed OpCorps, nothing. It was a self acknowledgment of her failure to protect Crombley. He was carried, a shoulder was lent to him so that he could walk. It was not easy - not because of his weight but more so his pride, which was unflinching and resisted such attempts to help. The sergeant didn't share what happened in that room. He was darkly humorous about it... "What was the first thing when you shot those spics?"
"The recoil of my rifle", Dalton replied. They laughed, enjoying the dark humor. Rachel couldn't care less about Crombley's word choice - societal norms seemed pointless here. Most of the company laughed. All of the company was white. She tried to understand the mannerisms of soldier men, and knew it was at heart a denial of guilt.
Her intense thought was comforting, to be separate from the grim and gruesome surroundings. In a way, Pvt. Grassfield always wanted to see Manhattan, the famous, beautiful city, glorious and dangerous, and wider than life. The thing it was now, though, was something so grotesque and awful it had cost her her soul.
The pointman raised his hand, in a stop signal. The company knelt, pulling their rifles to their hands. A few sets of eyes glowed at them from the darkness, ahead of hunched, aloof figures. The pointman made a movement, a grabbing hand gesture that goes down the face. Ventilators.
Dociles. Rachel heard about them, degenerates of a type. They had been hurt, some form of radiation. They weren't hostile like the degenerates that attacked Crombley, but were like dull puppets, they just wandered, following some unknown incentive. It was a superstition among the soldiers, that this condition could be caught.
Either way, Rachel pulled the gas mask from one of the many large bags that hung off of her gas mask. There was a panic ahead. Rachel stared and listened. "What the fuck happened to this mask?!"
"I'm sorry sir, its not..."
"I don't give an ass, fix it!" Their volumes escalated. "Shh!", Rachel whispered. They had been caught up in the masks, and forgot the actual danger. The dociles stayed as silent as ever. She clicked the seal button on the mask, which began pumping the fresh air. The filter was dirty, the air tasted of sand and ash. The alley was closed in, the dociles blocking their path. The hesitation and suspense in the air hung as heavy as the ash did. "Fuck it." The sergeant made the hand motion, and the rifles came to life, cracking and spitting lead. The embers of the dociles' eyes burned hot and then were extinguished as the metal tore through the air. They ceased, aiming their rifles cautiously. The pointman gestured for them to stand. "At ease", Crombley said, authoritative and leading despite his circumstances. They proceeded. The Rehabilitators flipped over the clammy bodies, investigating them. Rachel looked away. There was things here she didn't want to take home.