One Second After

Next to them was a woman in her early twenties, shaking, so terrified that a trickle of urine was running down her leg, pooling at her feet. The next was an old man, eyes vacant, crazed, and beside him was a Hispanic kid, lips moving, the Spanish all but unintelligible but now obviously praying a Hail Mary.

“Kevin.”

Malady came down to John’s side. “Get out your knife.”

Kevin looked at John, hesitated, but then obeyed.

The eyes of one of the three defiant men widened. “Shoot me and be done with it,” he said coldly. “But not the knife, man.”

“Cut their bonds.”

“What?”

“I said cut their bonds.”

Kevin stepped behind each and cut their hands free. None of them moved.

John looked back at his students, his neighbors, his friends. “It’s over,” he said.

There was a murmur of complaint from the crowd. “What’s to prevent those bastards from coming back tonight and trying to cut our throats?” John shook his head. “I was wrong.”

“For killing them?” someone shouted.

“They killed our wounded without mercy!” a girl cried, one of his students, a girl who had been a Bible major long ago.

“And we have killed theirs. Washington and I ordered it because there is not even a fraction of the supplies needed to take care of our own.”

“Cannibals!”

John nodded.

“Yes. Some undoubtedly yes. I won’t bother to ask these, because they will lie to save their lives.” He wearily shook his head.

“I’m stopping it because I started to love it. I hate them. I hated that bastard hanging there more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my life….

“But I will not become him…. I will not let us become them. Because God save us, we are on the edge of that now, here at this moment.”

He did not wait for a reply but turned back to face the prisoners.

“I’m not going to go through some bullshit ritual of you swearing to me that you will leave, never return, and repent.”

The Hispanic boy started to nod his head, went to his knees, and made the sign of the cross repeatedly.

“Remember what you saw here. Don’t ever come back. All of you, if you survive, will carry the mark of Cain upon you forever for what you’ve done. If you come across other bands like yours tell them what happened here, and tell them they will face the same defeat.

“I ask but one thing. We’ve given you back your lives. Do not take any more lives, for then you surely will be damned forever.”

He started to turn away. Go!

Six did not hesitate; they simply turned and ran. The boy on his knees looked up at John wide-eyed and moved as if to kiss his feet. He backed away from the boy and motioned for him to get up and leave.

“Gracias, senor.” He turned and ran off.

The young woman who in her terror had urinated just stood there, unable to move.

“Go,” John said softly.

“Where?”

“Just go.”

“I’m sorry. God forgive me, I’m sorry. I don’t know if I can live now with what I’ve done. I’m sorry.”

Sobbing, she turned and slowly walked away. John turned and faced the crowd.

“Cut those bodies down,” he said, then paused. “Except for their leader. I want a sign under him. ‘Hung as punishment for leading the gang known as the Posse, murderers, rapists, and cannibals. May God have mercy on his soul and all who followed him.’”

John holstered his Glock and walked back to the rest, his soldiers, his neighbors, his friends parting as he passed, many with heads now lowered.

“You were right, John,” someone whispered.

His soldiers. He looked at them as he passed. Some were now beginning to break down. Postbattle shock, perhaps what had just happened here as well.

Some started to cry, turning to lean on one another for support. Others stood silent. More than a few were kneeling, praying, others wandering back now, stopping to roll over a body, then collapsing, crying, hugging a fallen friend.

John felt weak, sick to his stomach.

“John, let me take you back into town.”

It was Makala, who had come up alongside of him, slipping her hand into his.

He stopped and embraced her.

“Thank you for stopping me,” he whispered. “I was out of control.”

“It’s ok, sweetheart. It’s ok.”

She leaned up and kissed him, the gesture startling, for so many were walking by him now, seeing this and respectfully not looking directly at them.

He suddenly did feel weak, as if he was about to faint, and had to kneel down.

“Stretcher!”

He looked up and shook his head.

“John, you have a concussion. You’re suffering from shock; you need to lay down.”

“I must walk out of here. Just help me.”

He leaned against her, walking across the battlefield.

A battlefield, he thought. Memories of photos of the dead at Gettysburg, bodies lying in the surf at Tarawa, the dead and wounded marines aboard a tank at Hue. Always photos, but never in a photograph was there the stench.

The battlefield stank not just of cordite but also the coppery smell of blood, feces, urine, vomit, the smell of open raw meat, but this raw meat was human, or once human. Mixed in, the smell of vehicles burning, gasoline, rubber, oil, and, horrifying, burning bodies, roasting, bloating, bursting open as they fried.