Stripped of their armor, ammo, weapons, and any hooded overcoats that were not ripped to rags, the bodies of the Hospitallers were piled on a wagon like freshly slaughtered pigs, about fourteen bodies in total. They would be burned on pyres come morning. Meanwhile, Haldane and his men picked over the dead insectoids with vulturous zeal. Whether the bodies were relatively intact or wet, chitinous scraps, they collected them all into a different wagon that was hauled to the nearby butcher shop. They always handled the thorny heads with care, using the ragged overcoats of their fallen comrades to wrap up the disease-laden mandibles. Pyrik stared at one of its dangling maws, almost comically ajar. Bits of flesh were still stuck on its teeth. Her lips turned down in disgust. She wrapped it up in an overcoat and tossed it in the wagon.

Captain Cutter was helping his men out with the bodies. He spoke softly whenever he dealt out orders, if at all. The Hospitallers moved about with an eerie chore-like routine. Their dead comrades were handled with a sort of apathy, as though the bodies hefted onto the wagon were in actuality just sacks of flour. One of them slopped on a mess of intestines like soggy rope, wiped their hands on their hooded overcoat, then packed tobacco into their clay pipes for a quick puff after work. That made the hairs on her nape prickle unnervingly. Not as though there was a cognitive divide that she could not cross, but rather that she could easily see her in his place, nonchalantly puffing on the pipe. The voice inside agreed. Fighting and dying was exhausting work that dulled the senses.

Pyrik reached for her blunderbuss, grasped nothing.

Of course.

The gun was dropped when the breach happened. Sifting through the dirt and muck was less than appealing at this hour, however, she never slept without a loaded weapon. Most of the bodies were cleared out though, so it only ate a little of her time to find the blunderbuss. She nearly missed it on her first pass. A dead Hospitaller had fallen on top of it. She would have passed it if she had not noticed the distinct notches on the stock. She had to roll the body over to retrieve her gun. Its head flopped to one side, revealing the crater where the bullet passed through the helmet.

“Will you help me with that?” It was Captain Cutter, already picking up the body by its feet.

The bullet hole appeared to stare at her like an abyss trying to suck her in. Hesitantly, Pyrik picked up the other end by the shoulders. The head was heavy.

“You fight remarkably well, Jaeger,” Cutter said with some reluctance.

Pyrik did not reply.

The captain eyed her for a long moment. It was not cold, though it was not warm either. The neutrality appeared purposeful, like the ornate armor he wore for protection. Within a blink the look was gone.

"What did Haldane offer you for your services?" Cutter asked.

"I would like a horse." She replied after some consideration.

He scoffed, clearly amused. "Do you see any horses around? The stable was the first place those insectoids attacked."

"Oh."

"How about enough gold to covet a horse then."

"How many pieces of gold would that be?"

The corner of his mouth twitched, suppressing either a grin or a look of disdain. She could not tell. "Five pieces."

"Ten pieces."

"Ten?" The dam broke, a grin spilled out. "You have quite the gall, you know that?"

"Like you said, I fight remarkably well."

"Aye, for a Jaeger."

"And when I find a way for your men to enter the red forest, you'll be glad that I'm not asking for the price of ten horses."

Cutter sucked air through his teeth. "All right, fine. Ten pieces it is."

Pyrik smirked, pleased as a lizard in the sun.

“Where did you stumble upon Haldane, anyways?” His grin had disappeared.

“At the rotten wheat field.”

“Doing what precisely?”

“Burning bodies.”

The frown was subtle, his brow only scrunched slightly. “He should not be out there, or taking civilians to the red forest. You are fortunate that you did not get lost in there. Monsters may lurk among the canopy.”

“Beasts do lurk among the canopy, and in unknown numbers at that. I know that the path Haldane proposes may not be the most practical, but it is the proper way.” And the only way for her to venture into the red forest safely. Pyrik might have considered entering on her own since she was immune to its effects, however, after the night attack, there were too many unknown variables to consider to properly prepare for such an expedition. She needed the protection in numbers from Hospitallers as much as Haldane needed her to crack the cipher in obtaining immunity.

“Ah yes, the Hospitaller’s way. Fire and light and all that. Haldane was far too delighted to remind the men and I. As though I have somehow forgotten it. Any person can speak of our sacred creed, even you with a little memorization. Following it though, that is another matter. Light may reach far and wide in illuminating the unknown, though sometimes it reaches too far for our mortal hands to grasp.” Carefully, they laid the body on the wagon. “Fire may be destructive and its reach too short, however, sometimes that is enough. I have seen enough on the campaign to know that. Haldane too. Yet it only wetted his appetite.” Something stirred in his eyes, like flashes of clashing steel. Horror.

For a man who openly and loudly spoke in favor of the investigation, he looks as though he can hardly stomch the decision. Why then?

Pyrik did not speak her mind, though. Kept it cautiously quiet. The red forest was not the only place rooted with unknown variables. Discretion appeared to be the wisest choice for now. She adjusted the strap on her blunderbuss, turned to leave.

Cutter stopped her. “Be careful, Jaeger. Always have that gun at your side. Check that it's stuffed with a shot, powder in the pan.”

“This Jaeger has a name, you know.”

“Just be careful." That invisible visor lifted, a glimpse of worry showed. "You are but still a child.”

If only that is all I am. I would want nothing more.

As Pyrik walked away to find Haldane, she looked back at Cutter. He was still at the wagon, muttering some words over the dead.

…

The butcher shop was fashioned into a sort of field laboratory. There was the usual clutter of books and papers scattered on a table, glassware used to measure and mix samples and chemicals, and surgical instruments that mingled indistinguishably with the butcher knives. A dead insectoid laid on the butcher table, its torso cracked open and peeled like flower petals, insides hollowed out. Its innards were divided on to separate glass jars that stank of formaldehyde. There were other bodies around the butcher shop on display, dissected into every way imaginable. On the cluttered table was an insectoid head that was cross-sectioned like a cake, revealing looping coils of brain.

The stink in here is beyond nauseating.

That did not draw her eyes, though. None of the dead insectoids did. She had her fill while gathering the bodies for Haldane. No. Next to the insectoid on the butcher table was a human body, dissected in the same way for autopsy.

“The woman was succumbing to the disease. She was kind enough to offer her body for me to study,” Haldane said as he struck a match to light the kerosene lamp.

Light washed over the woman. She had long dark hair and a curved, lilting nose. The color in her eyes had faded some time ago. Her expression was placid, fixed to the ceiling. Pyrik could have mistaken it as peaceful, though her death had to be anything but. The rigor of death had frozen her mouth in a permanent scream.

“Do you know who she is?” Pyrik asked, looking away.

Haldane hoisted the dissected insectoid onto a hanging meat hook, then replaced the butcher table with a fresh slab. “I can’t recall her name, though I know she’s a mother. I believe you’ve already met her child in the Common House.”

The little girl.

Prior to the attack, Pyrik had given her coat to the girl. She thought that she could offer some small comfort amongst the horrors outside, however, knowing what she did now, she realized that the girl had a far greater wound than any bandage could mend. Only time could stitch it closed, though a scar would always remain. The most Pyrik could hope for was that the girl would one day trace the scar, and not cry upon remembering those tragic days. At least the girl was fortunate enough to have memories of her mother. Pyrik never did.

Pyrik found a chair and started to reload her blunderbuss, to stuff it with a shot. “What do you think is in the red forest?”

“Don’t know.” Haldane dipped the nib of his pen in some ink, opened a book and started writing. “There can be countless discoveries lying in wait, or none at all. We won’t know until we venture inside.” He scribbled down another word, went for another, pen hovering over paper. Ink dripped from the nib. “There is plenty of work in the southern territories. You could have passed this settlement, and yet here you stay. Why?”

“I want answers as well. There is something in me that I want to understand.”

Haldane nodded, as though he understood the struggle. “There is a curiosity in me too. Something insatiable. The world before was already shrouded in so much mystery, and after the age of Judgement… our world is submerged in so much darkness. I dread to be subjugated by it. Helpless in the face of the unknown. Never again.” He resumed scribbling in his book. “Get some rest, Pyrik. There will be much to do come morning.”

Like pyres to feed.

The stink and sights were becoming unbearable, anyways. Pyrik tapped some powder into the pan and closed it shut. Stood.

“Oh hey,” Haldane called out for her. “Don’t forget about your coat. It’s still with that girl. Tonight will be cold.”

“I’ve slept in colder weather. I think the girl will need it more than I do.”

He shook his head, then offered his hooded overcoat. “Take my overcoat then. I’ll likely stay the night here. Don't worry about me, I have the wood stove to stay warm. You can take my place in the house, Potash will show you. So please take it. I don’t want you to catch a cold when I need you in the morning.”

Pyrik took the hooded overcoat. It was a size too large, too roomy around the waist and arms. A draft crawled up the sleeves, raising gooseflesh on her skin like skittering bugs. It could always be worse, though. It always could.