Chapter 7 Night Raid

The next week or so, Damien spent every waking moment in his garden, or training in the barracks. The rest of the squad left him alone. They didn’t know what had happened - but they knew something had happened with Emma, and that she was gone, and they all agreed that it was best to give the young man some space in the meantime. The only one who stopped by the garden on occasion was Bob. who seemed unaffected by Damien’s grim demeanor. He would come and watch the young man with his plants, and sometimes help - he seemed to know what he was doing, even though Damien had never taught him. “You’ve done a great job with these rustatoes, m’ boy. I never thought anyone could grow them here!” Bob was holding up a chunky rustato he had dug up from the patch. “We could even make a stew out of these. A little salt, a little spice: hearty and warming. Just what we need.” 

“Sounds good.” 

Bob looked at the garden ruefully. “If only I had your green thumb, son. We’d be drinking coffee in no time.” 

“It’s much harder to grow coffee than rustatoes.” 

“You’re right, but this - this is a good start.” 

“Yeah.”

Bob sighed, and smiled. “Take heart in what you’ve done here, Damien. Not all your plants have taken root. But you’ve made an impact on this place. That’s more than a lot of people who drift through here can say.” 

Damien had a feeling he wasn’t talking about the garden, but he wasn’t quite sure how to respond, so he changed the subject: “You know how to make Rustato Stew?”

“Know how to make it?” Bob grinned. “I practically invented it! My recipes are popular all across the region I’ll have you know. Nothing beats a Bob’s Campfire Rustato Stew!” 

“Let’s cook it tonight.” 

“Great idea! We’ll invite everyone. It’s been a while since we all sat down and had a meal together.” 

“Looking forward to it,” he said, although he wondered if that was really true. It would be hard to stomach the group meal without Emma...Sofi. But he supposed that he had to pull himself out of his funk eventually. Who knows? Maybe it would help.

Bob left the garden and went out shopping while Damien harvested all of the rustatoes that were ready. He went back to the barracks. Petar was nowhere to be found, but Schertling was reading the newspaper, lying on his bunk. He folded it - the latest edition of the Agurts Times - as Damien came in. “Hello Damien. You’re back early, and with a sack of goodies as well. What have you got there?” 

“Rustatoes. We’re going to make stew tonight, a break from the shit they serve in the mess. You in?”

He smiled. “Of course. So you have stew in this sack, yes?” 

“In a way. We need to peel these rustatoes.” 

“Peeling rustatoes? Ah...why is Petar never around when there’s real work to be done.” 

The two found a place in the barracks courtyard, got a couple of stools, and peeled the afternoon away, rustato by rustato. 

“How’s school going?” Damien asked.

“Oh well enough, I suppose. Good kids, bad kids...mostly normal kids.”

“What do you teach, anyway?”

“Mathematics.”

“Ugh. Math.”

“Not a fan?” 

“You could say that.” 

“I think there’s a kind of beauty to it. The way the equations work out. It’s a link we have to the Old World, you know, one of the few unbroken chains…,” Schertling dropped another rustato peel in their bucket. “Apparently someone in my family, back then, before the Collapse, was some sort of mathematician. So we have always studied math in our family.” 

“Huh...I never knew that. That’s pretty cool. To have that history.” 

“It is special. Both a blessing and a curse in some ways. Sometimes there’s pressure, you know.” 

“I can imagine.” 

“What about you, Damien? Farmboy, yes? What history for your clan?” 

He thought about the Ballast family. According to family lore, they had traveled from somewhere in west Europa down to the area around Fierla...sometime before the Collapse. Or maybe it was during the Collapse. At least that was what his uncle had said once at a family dinner. While he was very drunk, Damien remembered. “Honestly, not much.” 

“Well, when you get back home, perhaps it will be something to ask about.” 

Back home. Maybe he should go back home after his tour of duty was finished. He had signed up for a year and he was what - five or six months into the adventure now, including training? He could always go back. But he still felt as if he had nothing to show for it. He didn’t want to just go back and learn the history of the Ballast family. He wanted to contribute to it. “It’ll be some time before I get home.” 

“Do you write your family? They must be worried about you.” 

He hadn’t, even though his mother had made him promise he would. It was, he had to admit, a good idea. After today though. Tonight was going to be their stew feast that would revitalize him. Tomorrow would be a new day, and a new start. 

“Hey Damien, hey Schertling, what are you two fine boys up to?” Petar waved to them as he came over. 

Schertling gestured him to sit down. “Come over here and peel some rustatoes, we’re having stew tonight.” 

At the sound of the word “peel”, Petar’s eyebrows pricked up, and he stopped moving forward and went into reverse. “You know, I just remembered I have-Sarah wanted to-actually, no, it was the corporal, she had a special mission-”

Schertling gestured threateningly with his knife. “Get over here, you lying thief monkey!” 

Petar took off running, Schertling in hot pursuit. Damien laughed. He may have been far from home. But it didn’t feel like it. 

When Bob got back from the market, they had decamped from the barracks courtyard back to the garden. Schertling had eventually captured Petar; between the three of them, they got the work done in no time. Then, with some help from Djemai, they had scavenged an old pot from the kitchen, as well as borrowed some cutlery. Sarah had come over on Petar’s invitation and even brought a small lamp from Harper’s so they could sit and relax even after the sunset. Petar, Damien, and Schertling were throwing the rustatoes in the pot as Bob put his shopping bags on the table. “This has been long overdue! Where’s Djemai?” 

“She forgot something at the barracks, she’ll be back in a minute.” 

Bob turned around as if he heard something. “Speak of the devil - there she is now! And she’s brought a date! It’s-” suddenly his tone changed “-Sergeant Han.” 

Han and Djemai were running up to the garden entrance, and neither of them looked happy at all. They arrived panting and out of breath, and Han signaled to them to come over. “I’m sorry,” he said. “To cut this meal short before you’ve even eaten, but we’ve got a situation. Rioting in the eastern suburbs.”

“Rioting! Why?” Bob asked.

Han shook his head. “We aren’t sure, but we think someone may have kicked the hornet’s nest. It’s no secret the eastern suburbs are loosely maintained at best. Captain Carline has taken charge to make sure the entire quarter doesn’t collapse. He’s mobilized the whole of the ZBP. We need to move now!” 

They dropped their things at once, all of the ingredients for stew lying forgotten upon the garden table. 

The barracks was a hive of activity. Petar had pulled Sarah along with them, and with her in tow they made their way to their room. Once inside, Petar quickly locked the door. “It’ll be safe, so stay here and don’t come out for anyone but us, ok?” Sarah’s eyes were wide and her mouth was quivering. She seemed on the verge of a breakdown. “Please don’t go.” It hadn’t been that long since the encounter with the cannibalistic Labinnah cultists.

Petar looked at her, then looked at Damien and Schertling hopelessly. Damien was grim. “You have to go, Pete. Han will court-martial you if you don’t.” 

“Can’t you cover for me?” 

“We could, but you risk losing everything.”

“Ugh…” Petar sighed. Then he smiled at Sarah. “It’ll be ok. I promise. I do. Ummm…,” he fished out a ring from his pocket and gave it to her. “This is my family ring. I have to have this, otherwise my father will kill me. So...I’ll come back for this. Come back for you. Ok?” 

She held the ring tightly to her chest. “Ok. Be safe, Petar.” Then she hugged him and gave him a passionate kiss. Petar’s eyes opened wide before embracing and kissing her in return. Damien and Schertling turned away to give them their moment, getting into their gear. A few minutes later Djemai knocked on the door. “You guys ready to go?” 

“Yes corporal!” 

“Then let’s go. Bob’s already outside. We’ll be coming up from the south side, and we’ll be going in hot. Get ready.” 

“I wish we had those SAs,” said Schertling. 

“We’ve radioed the 88th for support. They said they’re on their way. We just need to hold out.” 

Damien checked his rifle and sidearm. He was as ready as he would ever be. 

“Let’s move.” 

They arrived in the eastern suburbs to darkness and quiet. Further to the north, they could see the red glow of flames and smoke, and hear distant yelling. Petar looked around nervously as their truck drew to a halt. They were the only team in this district. “What’s going on? All the fighting’s obviously up north of here,” Petar whispered, not wanting to break the silence.

“Don’t be so sure,” said Bob, scanning the streets around their car. “Just look at it here. Totally dead. Not a person to be seen anywhere, and lights darkened. There’s something wrong here. Hold position for now. I’m going to check things out. I’ll be back in a flash.” 

Before he could entertain any arguments to the contrary, he had leapt out of the vehicle and disappeared into the dark. Damien watched the old man quickly fade from view, then he stood up. “Let’s not wait here like sitting ducks,” he said. “Let’s at least make a perimeter around the truck.” 

“And who made you corporal?” Djemai noted seriously. He looked at her with embarrassment, but could make out a wry grin in the dark. “But it’s a good plan, and one we can all agree on. Me and Schertling to the left, you and Petar to the right, just like usual. Signal if you see anything.” 

“Yes ma’am!” They said and jumped into action. They moved into position swiftly and easily. And there they waited. The minutes ticked by. Damien stared out into the darkened streets. It was difficult to make out much of anything in the gloom. He looked over at Petar. His partner was fidgeting. “Nervous?” 

“I’m just worried about Sarah, to be honest.” 

“Ah. She’ll be fine in the barracks.”

“You don’t think the riots will get to the center of town?” 

“No way.” 

“Hmmm…” He looked around. “Don’t you think it’s strange we were sent here? It’s so quiet.” 

“Yeah, but we should-” 

He was saved by no merit of his own. As he would reflect over many sleepless nights, he simply got lucky. He heard the whiz of the bullet pass just in front of his face, and immediately moved into cover behind a nearby street pole. “We’re under fire! Petar! Djemai! Schertling!” Petar crouched low and moved quickly behind the far end of the truck while more bullets began to scream past them. Once he got to the truck, he positioned his rifle and shouted to Damien: “Come on man, I’ll cover you!” Damien counted - 1, 2, 3 - and sprint-crouched for the truck. Once he was behind it he panted for breath. “Can you see where they’re shooting from?” 

“Somewhere up ahead of us! Damn...I can’t get a clear shot on them!” 

Schertling and Djemai came up next to them, faces drawn. “Our driver has disappeared,” Djemai said sourly. “I didn’t see who was driving but when I get back to the barracks, they’ll be hell to pay.” 

“With all due respect, Corporal,” Schertling said, his voice tight with anxiety. “We need to get out of this situation first.” Their truck was being shot to pieces. 

“How many of them do you think there are?” said Damien. 

“I counted at least six or seven, maybe more,” Djemai replied. 

“Outmanned and outgunned,” Petar pointed out. 

“Let’s take cover over there,” Damien jerked his head at the darkened entrance of an apartment building next to where their truck was parked. “We can make our way to the upper floors and guard the stairwells, control the chokepoints.” 

“What if they have grenades?” Schertling asked.

“Let’s hope they don’t have grenades,” Damien responded dryly. 

“Enough talk!” Djemai yelled. The truck was getting torn up under the hail of gunfire. “It’s not a great plan, but good enough! Go, go, go!” 

They went.

Even though it was night, Bob moved from shadow to shadow, keeping to only those pools of utter darkness. What was going on? He couldn’t be sure. He usually kept tabs of things happening in Zamaii through his network of old contacts. Even though most of them were in the west, he had a few friends out here in the east, and they had said nothing of riots. He supposed that the Minotaurus Migration had passed through recently, there was always a chance some ruffians had dropped off into Zamaii and started causing trouble - it certainly wouldn’t have been the first time. But to bring the whole suburb into such chaos? Something rubbed him the wrong way. This felt like a coordinated assault. Omanga perhaps? He racked his brains as he moved cautiously through the empty streets. He was sure he was missing something, something blindingly obvious. Suddenly, an instinct, a half-noticed flash of light, caused him to throw himself back against the wall. The bullet bounced off the road behind him and ricocheted off into the gloom. His wandering mind steeled itself. All potentialities fell away: there was only the here and now. The bullet had come from somewhere high up, either a rooftop or a window of a nearby building. He couldn’t risk peering around the corner, but he couldn’t stay here either. He decided to fall back and see if he could locate his assailant...or assailants. He pushed himself off the wall and turned down a narrow alleyway. He found a door and tried the handle. Locked. He moved down the alley onto another dark street. Could he risk leaving his cover? He had no way to know where they were. He decided against it, and turned back to the alley. Then, at the other end, he saw three shades - the merest outlines of figures - move past the entry. One shade stopped and looked down towards him. He wasn’t sure if he had been seen or not, but he couldn’t wait around to find out. He started running.

They made it into the building, although Petar practically fell on top of Schertling as he brought up the rear in a nervous rush. Damien scanned the interior: a carpeted hallway leading to a wooden stairwell. There was a small door beside the stairs going up: Djemai rushed to it and threw it open - a storage closet. She huffed in frustration and gestured with her rifle. “Up we go!” They didn’t need any encouragement: they could feel death behind them. Djemai went first taking the stairs two at a time, with Damien hot on her heels, Schertling breathing down his neck, and Petar holding the rear. As he reached the first landing he heard Petar yell: “AH!” He stopped for a second and looked back, but Petar was already motioning him on. “It’s fine, they missed, but I got one! Keep going!” Djemai was trying the doors; most were locked. “Go!” she yelled. They climbed up two or three more stories, hearing the sound of pounding footsteps right below them. Damien’s breath was coming hot and fast, but the adrenaline was keeping him going, even though they had run up - four, five, six flights of stairs. At the top floor, Djemai tried a door, and it opened up into a small and empty apartment. “LET’S GO!” She screamed at them. The boys ran in and the corporal ducked behind them and slammed the door. Damien ran to the window and looked outside; maybe one or two of them? On top of that, the fiery glow from the north - as well as an undercurrent sound of fighting - seemed to be getting louder and brighter. Was the fighting coming down this way: were these rioters who had been pushed to the south side of the district? “DAMIEN!” Djemai yelled. He whipped his rifle around and pointed it at the door, which was kicked open. A figure appeared with a gun; he was squeezing the trigger when - “FIRE!” The corporal ordered. They unleashed a volley, then another, and another. The figure fell down dead, and then the one behind him let out a fearsome shriek of pain. He lay there writhing on top of the body of his compatriot: “I’M GOING TO DIE! HELP ME YOU FUCKS! HELP ME PLEASE! I’M DYING-” A bang from outside the room, and the dying man was dead. They kept their guns trained on the open door that was now blocked by two corpses, but no one appeared. Then: “You’re trapped!” Came a voice from outside the room. “Give up now and we’ll let you live!” Djemai laughed. “Come out and fight you coward, and I will teach you how we treat liars here in Zamaii!” 

The only answer was silence. 

Bob sprinted across the road at full speed into another alley. He made it about halfway down before he heard the pounding feet behind him. He didn’t hear the gunshot, but he heard the bullet fly by his head. Silencers, he thought. They were using silencers. These men weren’t rioters. They were assassins. Suddenly he felt very cold. Argus’ words came back to him in a flash: Stay safe, Commander. He ducked down yet another alley, and pulled out his sidearm. Then he stopped, took a breath, and reached down to his belt. He found what he was looking for, and ripped out the pin. “Always carry an extra, just in case,” he whispered to himself. “Thanks, Steel.” He tossed the grenade out behind him, then started sprinting again. Behind him he heard a grunt of surprise, followed by a much louder explosion. He smiled. One down. Then he looked back to his front: another figure had run in front of the alleyway, and was training a pistol on him. He didn’t have time to think; instinct took over - he dived forwards, rolling under the man’s shot and crashing into his legs, then performing a somersault to be on his feet in an instant. He was out in the open again, he didn’t have time to deal with the groaning man he had charged into. He saw a building with large windows, some sort of store selling sundry goods: it might work. He ran forward and shoulder charged through the windows and moved quickly towards the back of the building, where he pulled out his rifle. He checked behind him. Looked like a sturdy locked door; he would hear them if they tried to get around the back somehow. All the windows to the store were in the front, so they had to come through there. He grimaced: flying through the window he had gotten some glass nicking his skin open. He was also breathing more heavily than he would have liked. But he didn’t think he was seriously wounded. Outside, the man on the street attempted to get up. Bob put an end to it. So they were hunting him, were they? Well, so be it: let them come. He would show them that Commander Bob of the Bucks Team was not so easily killed.

Back in the apartment building, Schertling stood guard at the window, while the others had their rifles still trained on the empty doorway. Blood from the two dead men piling up the doorframe was slowly trickling across the floor. Schertling whispered at them: “There’s people approaching. I don’t know if it’s ours or theirs, but I don’t think it’s ours.” 

“We can’t stay here forever,” Petar said, his voice barely a hiss. “We need to do something!” 

Damien grit his teeth and continued to stare at the doorway. If the man outside appeared, they could easily shoot him. But as long as he remained in cover, it was hard to get out without being shot, not without risking their lives. In saving themselves, they had cornered themselves.

Djemai stood unmoving. Then suddenly, she said: “Damien.” 

“Yeah?” 

“If something happens, you’re in charge.” 

Before he had time to respond, she took a running leap and dived through the air headfirst through the doorframe. There was a squawk of surprise from outside, and the sound of scrambling. Djemai followed through the dive, turning it into a somersault. She came up on her feet, pointed her gun, and pulled the trigger. It was over in seconds, and their erstwhile captor was dead. Petar’s mouth had dropped wide open. “Corporal! That was amazing!” 

Djemai stood up and smiled. “You didn’t think they made me corporal for nothing, eh? Bob taught me that move. Come on. There’s a ladder here. We’re going to the roof.” 

They rushed out the door and back onto the landing and found the ladder Djemai was talking about. It was an old rusty iron ladder that led to a trapdoor to the roof. Schertling looked up at the trapdoor. “It’s locked. 

Djemai cocked her rifle and fired, blasting off the lock. The trapdoor squealed in protest, the force of the shot lifting it up slightly. “Now it isn’t.” She started to make her way up. 

They made their way after her, emerging onto the flat concrete surface of the building’s roof. They had a better view of the suburbs from here, and through the clear air they could hear the sounds of fighting approaching their area. There were figures running through the streets in the dark below, but none seemed focused on pursuing them for now. Djemai sat down. Damien could make out sweat beading her forehead. “Let’s keep quiet up here. It looks like we’re safe enough for now. I’ll radio the Sergeant and let him know our situation.” 

The others nodded. Then Damien’s eyes widened in sudden realization. “Where’s Bob?”

“Shit,” cursed Djemai. She looked over the edge of the roof. “There’s too many down there, and we don’t know where he is. It’s best to just sit tight. We can signal him if we see him come near the truck.” 

Damien grimaced. Even the experienced veteran couldn’t take on so many at once. But maybe he had found a place to hide away? Schertling put a hand on his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Damien. The old man knows how to handle himself.” 

He had killed two other assassins who had come to investigate the body of their companion. There were one or two others skulking about who had come and gone down the street too fast for him to get a clean shot. He wasn’t sure where they were running to. He wasn’t even sure if they knew where he was or not. He let out a deep breath and rolled his shoulders to shake off the exhaustion he was feeling. He just needed to hold out. The rest of the ZBP would slowly press downwards into the rest of the district and pull him out of this. Then he would figure out what happened: he would find who was trying to kill him. He chewed on his lower lip. Perhaps accepting his exile had been a mistake. Maybe it was time to get in touch with the rest of the Bucks, reform the old team, and lead Agurts once more…

There was no sound to alert him of the assassin’s presence behind him. No shadow. It was instinct, and long experience. He whirled around just as a knife attempted to plunge into his back. The rifle he was holding knocked the blade off course, but the assassin was no slouch - following the rotation of Bob’s body, he pushed the gun out of Bob’s hands, then in the next second reversed his blade and slashed diagonally across Bob’s face. But the veteran did not move back - he moved forward, grabbing the man’s arm and twisting so he had no choice but to drop his weapon. In response, the assassin punched Bob - hard - in the belly, and the two separated. Bob quickly kicked the man’s knife into the darkness and for the first time sized up his combatant. The man was large and muscular but moved like a gentle breeze. He was wearing a cloth mask that completely covered his face, and his body was swathed in a black cloak. Only his eyes were visible; they glowed a faint green, almost as if he had spent too long in an irradiated Gray Zone. The man was watching Bob silently. Bob smiled. “You’re good, son, but not good enough.” 

No response. 

“You know, it’s not polite to ignore people.” 

“...Why talk with the dead?” The man muttered. Then he came on in a sudden blur of fists and kicks. But now Bob was ready. He settled into the rhythm of close quarters combat. He had always thought it was a kind of dance, with music only he could hear. Even King, the Bucks team’s premier CQC expert, had never been able to best Bob one-on-one. It was always surprising to him: couldn’t the others understand? A duck here, a feint there, and - but the man opposite him was giving as good as he got. And while he hadn’t managed to get past Bob’s defenses, nor had Bob managed to land more than one or two hits, neither of them clean. He felt sweat dripping down his forehead. How long would he be able to keep this up? The assassin was obviously younger than him, and prepared. He began to feel the cold pangs of fear clawing up from his gut. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the assassin’s long knife lying on the ground. Suddenly he took a punch that caused him to groan in pain. He stumbled backwards. The assassin came on, unrelenting, with a front kick that pushed Bob back on his heels for a moment. The black-cloaked man then pulled Bob forward by his shoulders and slammed his knee into Bob’s belly. He couldn’t breathe - the air had been knocked out of him. He staggered to one knee. The assassin prepared an overhead blow to crush Bob’s head. But the blow never came. His arms dropped down to his sides as he stared at his own knife protruding from his chest. 

“...damn,” he said in a tone of disbelief. Then he collapsed. Bob too, lay on the floor for a minute, then two, then three. He needed to catch his breath. This night had been rough. But it had to be almost over. It just had to be. 

It was close to dawn. Damien could spy the black turning ever so slightly gray in the east. They had gotten orders from Han to stay put. 

“You survived that?” He had asked incredulously, when he had heard the details of the assault. “That’s...well, it’s a testament to your abilities. Fighting’s been heavy over here...the Captain’s been badly wounded. But we’re pushing them back.” 

“Who are they, Sergeant?” Djemai had asked. 

“No idea, Corporal. We’ll need to conduct a full investigation once this is all over. Hang tight for now.” 

“Yes sir!” 

And so they had hung tight. To be honest, after the initial assault was through, they hadn’t had much trouble. The other bandits or marauders or rioters or whoever they were had moved on as a group. Where they had gone, none of them knew, or wanted to find out. And as the sun rose, they finally made out the flag of Agurts on top of a ZBP convoy driving down the road. Petar smiled and flopped backwards onto the roof. “Alive! We made it!” 

Damien, Djemai, and Schertling all looked at each other. Where was Bob?

“I’m going to look for him,” said Damien. He was already on the way down. Djemai nodded. “I’ll tell the Sergeant. But you shouldn’t go alone. Petar…?” 

Petar sat up, his face a picture of disappointment. “Of course I’ll go with you-”

“No,” Schertling cut him off. “Get back to Sarah. She needs you. I’ll go.” 

Damien peered up at Schertling from the bottom of the ladder. The bodies on the landing were starting to smell. “You don’t have to do this.” 

“But I will,” said Schertling, as he touched down from the ladder. “We Schertlings, we look out for each other. For our family.” 

The point wasn’t lost on Damien, who nodded. The two men briefly clasped hands, then exited the building at a running trot, hands raised waving to the convoy to make sure they didn’t shoot them by accident. 

Eventually, Bob had gotten up. He recovered his rifle and slung it over his shoulder. He tucked the knife into his belt - although he suspected he wouldn’t use it again soon. The fight had taken a lot out of him. Too much. He coughed again - still a little blood. Would he have to go to hospital? Maybe...he could see the sky graying. It seemed as if dawn was finally on the horizon. He exited the building, scanned the streets. No one. He began to move slowly in the direction of where he thought he had left the others. Then he felt a sudden explosion of pain in his legs. He cried out, and collapsed to the pavement. He tried to sit up and look at what had happened, twisting where he fell. He could see that there were pointed knives and stars that had taken him right on the back of his legs at his knees and below. He took hold of one and attempted to pull it out, then clenched his teeth in agony at the burst of pain. His head was swimming as the sun crested the horizon. He looked into the sunrise and saw a woman’s figure silhouetted against the light. She approached him calmly, steadily and took a hold of his shirt, lifting him up to face her. He was in no position to fight back; he could barely hold onto consciousness. He looked up at her. The bottom half of her face was covered in a black cloth mask, much like the other man’s had been. He saw her sigh. 

“Nothing personal, old man.” 

He coughed. “Everyone has their own mission…,” he said. He watched her. She had a blade in her hand. He felt panic well up in his breast. But she moved quickly, and professionally. A precise, clean cut. All went dark, as if night had fallen, even as the dawn arrived. 

Damien and Schertling were jogging through the streets. The sun was up. They hadn’t much to show for their search. Then Schertling pointed at a lump in the road. They jogged over to investigate. As they got closer, Damien broke out into a sprint. He flipped over Bob’s body. The old man’s throat had been sliced open. His eyes were closed. He looked almost peaceful. A welling of emotion gripped Damien from all sides - he felt as if he was being ripped to pieces from within, hundreds, thousands of hands and claws tearing at his insides. Hot tears stung his eyes. He let out a roar of sadness. 

Not that his emotions made a difference.

Bob was dead.