The reconnaissance vehicle barrels away from the Howling Dark, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. The six-wheeled, heavily armored truck is a necessary requirement for any ship out here. For example, let’s say the ship is going down. No man wants to be stranded in the desert, of course. Without recharging, the cooling systems in the armor will shut off in thirty-two hours, leaving the unfortunate soul inside left to wither in the heat. When all else fucks up, that vehicle is the beast that lugs us all back north. That’s why most men have simply nicknamed it “The Camel.”
I stand at the bow, observing in the distance a thin wisp of smoke floating like a snuffed-out candle. We should reach the crash site in a matter of minutes, but the storm is dispersing and I don’t want to lose any guests.
Who is to say one of them won’t succumb to their injuries by then? I can’t allow them to escape their fate that easily. The fuming crew around me appears to agree.
Many pleaded to me for the opportunity of capturing the survivors; it was quite difficult picking just seven from an ecstatic bunch. Those that remain onboard crowd around me on the bow, eagerly awaiting the arrival of our special guests. Everyone wishes to get the first glimpse of The Camel coming back to the ship. They stare at the crash site like hyenas surrounding a corpse, laughing and chittering in anticipation.
I grasp my hands behind my back and contemplate how exactly these Scavengers could be punished. A sanding is the simple way, but I have already done so many sandings. Alright, one will be sanded, but the rest I want to experiment with. We have a few more days before the Descent anyway—might as well have some fun. I examine my metallic arm, imagining it being driven into the eye sockets of one of them. Such an image of them grasping at their bloodied face fills me with a primal, carnal flame of ecstasy.
Chants for retribution from my crew fill the air, thick as the dust churned up by the treads. They are rightfully furious, because they were almost obliterated by a cowardly attack. I’ve never seen a ship come this far to hunt for cargo. Sometimes farther south they will try to pick off lone ships, but never those coming right out of the Descent.
“Have you heard anything yet, sir?” one of the men, a grizzled veteran with a rusting brown arm, asks me. Others cheer at this question. They are awaiting the confirmation from The Camel that they have found survivors.
“Not yet,” I declare.
I can hear the buzzing of chatter inside of my helmet. The Camel is in direct communication with our radio channel. When they reach the crash site and find any survivors, we’ll know.
“What are you going to do to them, Ansel?” the collected voice of Ulric asks me, cutting through an inferno of angry chants.
“I don’t know yet,” I respond, lost in a pool of my own imagination.
My brother’s silvery figure glides next to me, joining in the observation.
“Does that mean you are unsure of what their punishment will be, or does that mean you are unsure of how you will kill them?”
“Is that not the same thing?” I ask, confounded by such a question.
“The first means if you think you will kill them, and the second means you made up your mind.”
“Why would I not kill them?” I chuckle at the absurdity of his rhetoric. “They tried to kill our crew, they tried to kill you.”
“Now hear me out. I think this could be an interesting opportunity,” Ulric theorizes, like an old scholar. “The Knights have always wanted to study on live subjects, but well, you all kill them.”
“I don’t like where you’re going with this.”
“I’m just saying, we would bring them back to Germania, in chains of course, and the Knights might like to study them.”
“Study them?”
“I know Knights that could experiment with them in a controlled space. See what their IQs are, observe how they think, and then, after we are done, maybe dissect them and look at what is going on inside those Scavenger brains.”
“Don’t see the use there is in that,” I spat, “They’re savages, they’re like flies, remember? How much is there to learn from them?”
“Science about the different races was largely lost after the Reclamation. We don’t have much data on how much the Scavengers differ from Aryans, psychologically of course. Today, we barely have the chance to secure a live specimen to study. Sailors simply kill them before they head back to shore.”
“Yeah, because letting a Scavenger back into the Reich is suicide and nobody wants that burden on their head,” I suggest in a tone of annoyance. How could he be thinking of such a thing? There doesn’t need to be much research on why Aryans and non-Aryans are different.
“They’d be in a military prison, of course,” Ulric attempts to reassure me.
“Sounds like mercy to me,” I mutter.
“I can assure you it isn’t that,” he pleads.
“We already have limited supplies and it is for our own men,” I argue, maintaining my calm demeanor in the presence of the crew. “Let me see how many we pick up. We’ll bring them aboard. I’ll decide what happens to them.”
“Just give me, one. That’s all I’m asking,” Ulric pushes. “It will give me something to do on the ship at least.”
“I’ll think about it,” I respond. It is a convincing argument, as much as I hate to admit. Having Ulric away from the Bridge for once would be a relief.
“Thank you, Ansel,” he says, reassured. His violet cape ripples in the desert wind.
“After that sneak attack though,” I continue on, “I doubt the crew will let him stay alive for long.”
Before Ulric can say another word, the radio crackles inside my helmet and I put up a finger to signify that he should be quiet.
“Howling Dark, this is Camel 1, we’ve reached the ship,” a muffled voice announces through the static. “We’ve spotted a few Scavengers clinging to the ship. Some are running away. We’re in pursuit.”
“Understood,” I swiftly respond, not wishing to waste any time, “proceed with caution Camel 1.”
I attempt to tune out the wails and whoops from my men behind me. They are a jumbled collection of oxidized metal and tattered cloth. Under each and every helmet is a man anxious for revenge.
They laugh as they see the vehicle barrel toward the burning mess of steel and flames. Dark ants scatter away from The Camel as it punches its way through the crowd. The clang of armor, rifles, and boots resonates from the radio.
I assume this is the troops exiting the back of the Camel. There is an indecipherable exchange of commands, followed by silence. I tensely await a response.
“The ship is intact,” the voice murmurs in an effort to remain unheard. “The outside vicinity is clear, we’re moving up.” More scuffling.
I notice little flashes coming from the ants. Suddenly, a wild howl bursts forth inside my helmet as the radio buzzes with the crackling of passing bullets. Screaming, then commands, then more shots. Gunfire.
“One of them is firing from behind the ship! Return fire! Return fire!”
The next half-minute is an orchestra of gunfire. Even without the radio, we can hear the echoes of this exchange, which catch the interest of the crew. The earlier jeering has now been replaced by rumbling confusion.
“What’s happening, Captain?” another man asks.
“Quiet,” I bark at him, dedicating my entire attention to the radio feed.
“He’s down,” another voice confirms.
“Was anyone hit?” I ask.
“No sir,” the main voice responds. “Enemy hip-fired at us, by luck only hit the ground around us. We’re moving into the ship, the back of it is blown out.”
“None of our men were hit, it was just one fucker who couldn’t shoot for anything. He’s down now,” I announce to the awaiting crowd, which explodes into celebratory cheers.
I listen further, as the voices from the radio ascend sharply into a fury of blaring commands. They yell at something, and the something yells back.
“HANDS UP. GET OUT OF THERE WITH YOUR HANDS UP.” The command is repeated over and over by our men. I picture how terrified the battered and injured survivors must be inside that ship. Such an image makes me chuckle with satisfaction.
“Five Scavengers are alive sir. They tried running to the ship, but we got them. Most are battered and bruised but appear alright. They surrendered and we’re loading them onto The Camel now. HANDS UP.”
“Good work Camel 1, looking forward to the package delivery,” I congratulate them, and then spin around to the crowd of twenty or so helmets, each glowing visor peering at me. All they need is the news. My arms are outstretched in a grandiose display, the metallic one glinting in the sun. I howl loud enough for all to hear.
“We’re having guests over, men!” I shout. They cheer.
After The Camel arrives back, I order over the radio for the prisoners to be taken up to the deck. So that no Scavenger is unceremoniously bludgeoned by an enthusiastic sailor, I tell each and every man to stay calm when the captives arrive. If there is anything that can taint this day, it’s the boring effectiveness of mob justice. This had to be a theatrical affair. Entertainment for all on such a long journey. For the rest of the day, this ship will be the Coliseum—we the lions.
“Bringing them up now sir,” a voice confirms.
“Understood,” I respond back.
The hatch in the central deck springs open, and the crowd becomes restless. I bellow for calm, and their voices die down. From the hatch comes the first one of our men, armed with a rifle and clad in his armor, a red cloth slung over his right shoulder. He barks down into the hole, pointing his rifle before proceeding forward. In his wake follows a group of five small, brown creatures, all chained together in a line. Each stumbles onto the deck.
The Scavengers’ eyes are wide in shock. The whites of their eyes contrast like the full moon in a night sky against their charred complexions. I’ve never seen them so up close before. The man in the red cloth jabs the one in front and the line hobbles faster toward the bow of the ship, where I await them. Jeers and insults permeate from the crowd; however, by my orders, nobody else lays a hand on them.
“Remember that we can study them,” Ulric says in a last effort.
“I told you we will see,” I retort, my temper reaching a boiling simmer like this desert heat.
The line of hunched-over captives navigate through a parting in the crowd. Some hang their heads low toward the metal deck; others look around in confusion at the situation before them. All wear tattered and bloodied clothes. The red-cloaked man points his gun again and gestures for them to kneel. They understand that gesture and comply.
I raise one hand up and my men go silent. Only the rumbling of the treads and the whistling of the desert wind can be heard. I ponder what might be going through their minds at this moment. Are they terrified? Are they confused? Do they even understand existence like a human, or are they reacting more on instinct like frightened cats? Fuck, maybe Ulric had a bit of a point.
My mind wanders to how this situation might appear from their perspectives. Every man is covered in rusted armor. We tower over them all. The visors of our helmets are alight with the colors of red and blue. What a sight that would be to them.
They all are sweating profusely. Each armpit is soaked with perspiration. Being exposed to the Kiln’s heat for so long must be an agonizing experience. We’re in a basin, a cooker. The heat is incomparable to anywhere else. Not even wildlife can adapt to it. After a few minutes the hallucinations will set in, after thirty minutes comes heatstroke, and after an hour follows certain death. However, these savages won’t be lucky enough to live that long.
As I contemplate this, I hear through the silence a desperate, hushed voice and turn my head to the Scavenger farthest to the left. His head is pressed deep into his chained arms, and he is whispering a series of strange words. I can only make out a few…something about…a yasue…an Ala?
With a heavy stomp of my foot, I stroll slowly toward him. He is shaking, though he does not lift his head. What is he doing? I stand over him, his head just above my knee. I imagine stomping on him with one solid crunch, yet convince myself not to do it. Instead, I simply kneel down, reach out my metallic arm, and grab him by his coarse black scalp.
He lets out a cry and stares right into my dark helmet.
“HE…PRAYING!” a ragged voice desperately blurts out beside me…in broken German.
The sound cuts through the ship like a rock, and the crowd goes truly silent. A few gasp, and whispers spread like fire. I stay crouched down, confused at what I just heard. Did I just hear German words? I turn to face a grey-haired one, leaning forward with hands outstretched, staring right back at me.
“He is…what?” I angrily mutter, straightening up.
“He…praying. He… scared…” the greying Scavenger pleads. He has the pigment of bark from a tree. Years in the desert surely have done their work on the wrinkled skin and baggy eyes of this old man.
I turn to Ulric, confused. “How the hell is this Scavenger speaking German?” Before Ulric can respond, I bark to the old man.
“How are you speaking German?” I repeat to him. He recoils at the sound and holds a hand up to his face. Pathetic. What is this?
“I…study…from…books…” he croaks.
“Books? What do you mean books?” I ask, with the inflection of a python’s hiss.
“Books…they…come…from…big…towers…”
Eagle Nests, he’s talking about Eagle Nests. How the hell did he get books from Eagle Nests? Did he steal them? Did he kill women and children to get to them?
“He’s a fucking thief, cut his head off!” a voice yells from the back of the crowd, which responds in agreement.
“Wait!” Ulric pipes up, quickly moving toward me.
“He stole books from an Eagle Nest, he might have killed our own,” I conclude.
“Keep him alive, we could find out something,” Ulric pesters in a hushed voice.
“What if this is a trick?” I retort.
“How is speaking our language a trick?” Ulric whispers, confused, “and even if it is, we can get information from him. Study him.”
“How did you obtain the books?” Ulric asks the quivering Scavenger.
“How…books?” he mutters in puzzlement.
“How did you get the books?” Ulric simplifies himself, making a gesture of holding a book.
The man continues his nervous shaking, and his eyes dart from one helmeted face to another.
“Bought…from market…merchant said…book…for children in…big towers…”
“A German schoolbook for kids,” Ulric says to me.
“Yeah I can connect the dots,” I say. “So they steal our stuff and sell it to their own people, the thieves.”
“We need to keep him alive, keep him captive.”
“No, Ulric.”
“You don’t understand how much of a waste it would be, imagine how much we could gain from knowing their twisted psyche? We could find out where they hid more of those trinkets. Keep him isolated and I’ll talk to him.”
“Are we killing them or not?!” another voice rattles out, and the men grow restless.
“Hold on I’m fucking thinking about this one,” I shout back, pointing an armored finger to the kneeling Scavenger.
“So what do you say?” my brother asks me.
“I say you’re an idiot. But I admit I’m a bit curious as well. This better not fucking backfire on me.” I argue.
“Thanks,” Ulric says. “Do with the rest as you want.”
“I plan on it. Let me ask him one more question,” I conclude, turning to the Scavenger.
“Why did you attack us?”
He looks at me with worried eyes and stutters attempting to conjure up the words.
“We…we…attack…because…” he blubbers out, looking at the floor, crestfallen.
“Thank you for that confirmation,” I say. “We’ll take care of your friends and you can stay with us. Take him away.”
I motion for the red-cloaked guard to separate him from the group. The old Scavenger looks around, confused and shocked. I think he caught on to what I was saying. He screams in a foreign, blistering tongue to the rest of his kin, who begin to wriggle around, attempting to escape. They cry out in panic and anger, staring at my helmeted crew with dagger eyes.
With a swift motion, my fist connects with the closest one, his jaw cracks, and his head spins sharply away. Blood and teeth ooze from his gaping mouth. The rest of the prisoners quiet down, their brows now narrowed in anger—most are still shaking.
The old man is dragged away by the guard, and Ulric follows. The crowd parts for them and closes once again, hiding all three from sight. I have four culprits left before me who must pay for their crime. They cannot speak German; they are of no use to me.
“What should I do with them, men?!” I call out toward the mob, which meets this cry with a barrage of colorful suggestions.
“Gouge their eyes out!” one suggests.
“They can’t shoot a gun without arms,” rallies another.
Not recognizing our language but comprehending the tone of the crowd, some of the culprits wriggle uncomfortably in their chains. One of them looks at me with a sullen face. He seems perhaps Witzel’s age, but his young face is engulfed in a ragged curly beard. One of his eyes is swollen shut and even though his skin is dark, large parts of it are bruised. As I face him, his expression evolves into one of pure contempt, as he growls under his breath in a string of incomprehensible gibberish. The message is clear, however—he is cursing at me. I guess we’ll start with him.
“Unchain this one,” I say to another crewmember who came from The Camel. His orange cloak trails behind him, fluttering in the wind. He unlocks the handcuffs from the young Scavenger and, with a forceful lift, he pulls the savage up onto his feet. As this happens, his friends’ heads swivel from side to side. Some attempt to spit on me, while others plead in words I can’t understand.
I grab the small neck of the Scavenger and yank him toward me. He pitifully attempts to jab at my armor with his fist, but instead grabs onto it in pain after colliding with my chest.
My hand tightens.
“I know you cannot understand me,” I speak in a plain, calm voice down to the pirates, “however I still feel the need to tell you all why you are here today. You are thieves. Leeching off of the efforts of civilization, meagerly and cowardly scarfing down table scraps like dogs. You cannot survive on your own without us, so you cling to our borders. You pillage our people, rape our women, and children and slaughter our men. I’ve seen your barbarity.”
When I was a young man in the military, I remember storming that Eagle Nest to retake it from an infestation of Scavenger raiders. By the time we arrived it was already far too late. Most of the Nest had been depopulated. These creatures murdered a healthy colony of innocent people. That sickness I felt observing the hundreds of mutilated remains surges back into my stomach. They showed no mercy toward those children, and I will show no mercy today.
“Men,” I speak to the crowd, “we aren’t just punishing these things for their attack on our ship. We’re avenging the countless lost in the raids on our people. Look at these Scavengers, some are old, imagine how many times they’ve attacked women and children. They have gotten away with their crimes for far too long.”
I face the Scavenger whose head is at my chest. He is struggling to get away, perhaps jump over the side of the ship to safety, or what he thinks is safety. I lower my voice to only speak to him. He glares angrily into my glowing visor.
“Crimes do not go unpunished.”
And with that I take his hand, the one that struck me, and contort it slowly and methodically, like the turn of the treads. On instinct, the Scavenger’s body moves with it, trying with all its might to bend along with the force I am exerting on his limb. Bone crackles and his mouth goes agape as he is wracked with pain. My grip closes around the hand. There is tension as the bone tries everything to hold, but it is to no avail. It gives out. His hand jerks backward with a sharp distinct snap, followed by an animalistic wail of pain. My crowd explodes into whoops and hollers. The pirate leaps away, clutching at a dangling hand now only barely connected to his forearm.
As he raises his head away from his wound, I elbow him in the face and he collapses to the ground, raising his mutilated arm in defense. Some of the pirates struggle to writhe out of their chains, but they can’t get free. Blood flows like a fountain from the nose of the kid. The crowd laughs as he attempts to crawl for the edge of the ship, yet I descend on him before he can do so.
With a heavy blow of my metallic arm, I split his leg in half at the thigh; the lower half of his ruined leg springs upward in an unnatural fashion. More wailing, more angry cursing from the pirates, more hollering from my men. The kid has stopped crawling now, holding onto the stump of his mutilated leg with his only good hand. I walk over and stomp his jaw with the heel of my heavy boot. Blood sprays onto the deck and flows into a puddle. Before he can spit out his broken teeth, I follow through with another kick, then another, and another—a pendulum in a way.
He sobs like a woman in that annoying tongue, white eyes bulging against a canvas of crimson. I raise my foot high and bring it down with all my weight onto the kid’s head. A final satisfying crunch. My boot sinks into brain matter before I lift it out. Blood has stained my soles. The kid goes limp. His arms collapse onto the floor, outstretched and broken. That face is entirely concave. The skull is a bowl of blood and flesh, his features no longer recognizable.
His comrades go quiet, except one who begins to sob deeply. I grab the tattered scruff of the kid’s shirt, and heave the limp body toward the edge of the ship.
“He wanted to escape, everyone. So let’s allow him to escape.” I announce in a theatrical manner, tossing the mangled mess over the edge of the ship. It falls like a stone into the cloud of dust. Out of sight.
As I turn around I notice Ulric has come back to join us after delivering his little friend to the holding cell. The men around him hold up knives and guns in celebration of the kill, yet my brother simply watches me. I wonder what is going on inside that helmet.
He walks over to me, keeping his voice down low.
“What the hell was that?” he asks.
“It’s called retribution,” I hiss, wiping off the blood from my armor.
“Aryans aren’t supposed to be capable of that. He was a kid.”
“Who attacked us. Who attacked Aryans.”
“So you act like a bloodthirsty savage? How can you be capable of doing that? We shouldn’t be able to do that as civilized people.”
“They are savages. They did this to our own kind. Step aside.”
“We shouldn’t stoop to their level,” Ulric whispers to me.
“You don’t know how things are on this ship. This is how we deal with enemies.”
“Deal with enemies? You did something similar to that German girl in a bar,” he says.
“She was a thief, just like these four. This is how I deal with criminals.”
“This is just a game to you isn’t it,” Ulric mutters in disgust. “This place is your personal playground to act how you want. Forget it.” In a defeated fashion he slinks through the confused crowd and disappears from sight.
First he says we should spare them for experiments, and next he says we should end them quickly. What the hell is going on with my brother? Before I can ponder this any longer the crowd chants for more justice to be done and I meet their demands, taking out the knife that I keep on my belt.
I analyze its beautiful golden finish on the handle. The detailed eagle and swastika that are engraved on it. It is long, serrated, and gorgeous, and I drive it into the neck of the closest pirate I see. This man, his head as barren as this desert, looks off distantly as his eyes begin to redden. He lets out a few quiet gargles before I pull the knife back out, and he collapses onto the floor. His two remaining comrades attempt to distance themselves from the ever-growing pool of blood. One appears to be in his thirties, and the other is as bruised as a fallen apple.
“This is what you have been doing to our people every day, every month, and every year since the Reclamation. You try your fucking best to attack us and now you try to cower when the same treatment is given to you? Pathetic,” I hiss to the three still-living captives, kneeling over the convulsing body of the one I just stabbed. “Perhaps my brother is right, we shouldn’t drag this out. We’ll have all of you out of sight in no time.”
“Let’s have ourselves a sanding!” I laugh to the crowd, who immediately know what to do. They all rush toward the two remaining Scavengers and hoist them up. We all begin strolling away from the bow, toward the back of the ship.
“How are things up there, Volker?” I ask from inside my helmet.
“Everything is on course sir. Since we sustained no damage from the attack, stupid bastards couldn’t even get a hit, we’re still on course to arrive at the Descent in three days. How much longer are you going to be playing with your food?” Volker says.
“We’re going to sand them now,” I announce.
“Damn I never get to see those,” Volker complains.
“Next time I’ll let you do the theatrics,” I joke.
I trail behind the mob dragging the struggling Scavengers. I breathe deeply and take this moment to watch the vast flat landscape we are leaving behind. Somewhere, a crashed aircraft remains, which will only be swept up by time.
Eventually we all reach the stern. It is an area caked in sand. The air is thick from the cloud that trails behind us. It rises like a volcano erupting beneath our very feet. For all of us with helmets we don’t quite mind, but the Scavengers begin to choke and cough from the dust-filled air. Their eyes water as particles fly into their eyes and open mouths.
It is time to begin.
“Get the ropes on them,” I order. Two men bring out a long pair of old tattered ropes. Sandings are a long tradition in the Kiln. Being exposed to the elements is the ultimate torture. The sun becomes a welcome friend as it quickly cooks the skin and overheats the body. Like I said, an hour until death. Yet sailors over generations have found crafty ways to make that pain last far longer. It turns out that the best shade in this desert is the cloud we leave behind. It blocks the sun just enough that the heat doesn’t cause instant death.
Say a man is thrown overboard with a rope tied to his legs. He’s lowered with his back to the ground down to the desert floor, nicely under the safety of the cloud. It’s important to lower the man just enough that he drags along the sand. The ship continues on its way, and he goes along with it. Now, sand is a coarse material. Millions of those little rocks rubbing against the skin can have a nasty effect. After days it can even begin to grind, and eat away at the flesh, strip it down to the muscle and finally…the bone. The crew can sometimes hear the screams and moans from the unfortunate victim. Those are always the best sounds. Often sandings are used for disobedient men, or for traitors to the Reich. In this case, a special sanding is now in order for the savages who attacked us.
“Tie them on their legs, make it nice and tight,” I say, and it is done. The Scavengers attempt to bludgeon one of my men, but it only seems to hurt his hand when he strikes the armor.
“These men are a people of the desert,” I announce, holding my hand out toward the two pirates being tied up at the legs. “I feel we should reunite them with it. What do you say men?” A series of agreements permeate the crowd.
“Fantastic!” I say. “So let’s begin.”
One of the pirates quickly begins begging. He attempts to kneel and plead, his still-chained hands outstretched as a sign of obedience.
“I require a pistol,” I order, and one of the men who captured the culprits leaps to fulfill my wish. I thank him and check the gun. It has a fine handle as well. It isn’t gold like my knife, but the finish is very attractive. It will do nicely.
One pirate is still holding out his trembling hands, while the other has his head down in what I assume is prayer.
“Thank you for making this easy,” I mock. “He has his hands right out. What a kind gentleman.” The crowd laughs.
I walk to the side of the begging man, and hold out my pistol to his head. His arms defensively go to his face and I am annoyed.
“Somebody grab his arms,” I demand. One of my crew forcefully jerks the pirate’s hands away from his face. That’s better.
I aim my pistol again to his head and take in the fear that the creature is displaying in this moment, the very end of his life. Only now does he truly understand how those innocents felt when his kind, perhaps even he himself, struck them down without mercy.
With a smooth motion, I aim away from the skull, and fire three rounds at his hands. They shatter upon the impact of the bullets, turning into a pulpy mess. The pirate lets out a shrill scream and flails about in agony.
“Now he can’t untie the rope,” I conclude in chuckling satisfaction. “Throw him over.”
Two men lift the writhing pirate up by his shoulders and drag him to the edge of ship. The Scavenger has only enough time to glance down at the cloud behind him before his body is flung over the side. The rope tied to him is attached to a solid steel pole, conveniently located at the edge of the stern. Right now it is short enough for him not to fall directly to the ground below. That is too merciful. A sanding is not a short process.
He falls through the cloud, leaving a puff upward in his wake. The rope snaps straight and we hear the signal crack of bone even through the churn of the engine.
The last Scavenger seems not to take in the events around him. His head is still bowed. I assume he has accepted his fate. I slap his head and he raises his arms in defeat, still not looking me in the eye. Grabbing his face, I force him to look at my helmet, yet his eyes look up into the sky. Very well.
I shoot three more rounds into this one’s pair of hands and order the men to throw him over as well. Without a scream or a cry, he goes over. Another snap is heard and then silence.
The men untie the ropes, loosen them up, and then retie them back up, allowing the (what I would hope are) alive pirates to be lowered into the desert below. With arms raised in celebration, we all cheer at the justice we have done. Deep down, I know that I am not truly happy with this experience. For a moment, however, I should try to enjoy it and not ruin the festivities with the knowledge that more of them are on the edges of the Reich, waiting to strike.