We have changed. All of us. We’re not mere civilian survivors anymore.

“Good job,” I say. “Now sweep through this and secure it. Do a search.”

They stand around me, looking at me in a way that they’ve never looked at me before. Maybe they’re just as horrified by what I’m doing as I am. Maybe I’m not the only one who doesn’t recognize myself anymore.

I swallow a lump in my throat. “Move it,” I mutter.

I turn away. I know that they can see the tears streaming down my face, but I don’t care. If I didn’t cry for this, I would be afraid that I’d lost all sense of humanity.

I slowly lower myself down, sliding on mud and grime. I crouch near the first dead figure. It’s one of the men that I shot. There’s a hole in the dead center of his head. I shudder, disgusted, and turn him onto his back. His entire body is clothed in black. His hands and fingers are wrapped in strips of black cloth. A black bandana is tied around his forehead. The only visible piece of flesh is the skin around his eyes — tiny slits on his facemask. I pull the facemask off. He’s an average looking man. Maybe thirty years old. Uriah, Manny, Vera and Derek arrive at the scene, checking the perimeter.

In all, there are eighteen enemy ambushers.

“Who are these people?” Derek asks, kneeling next to me. “They’re not Omega, and they’re not militia.”

“They’re rogue,” I shrug. “They probably wanted to steal our gear.”

“Or they’re mercenaries,” Vera states.

I bite my lip. It’s possible.

“Search their uniforms for any kind of identification,” I say.

My dad used to call this pocket litter. Clues to someone’s identification. I go through the dead man’s pockets, unbutton his jacket and search the lining. Nothing. There aren’t even clothing tags. Everything is clean. No clues whatsoever.

“I don’t like this,” Andrew murmurs. He’s sitting on the edge of the ditch, staring at the militiamen searching the bodies. “People have lost their minds.”

I take the gun off the dead man’s shoulder and unbuckle his ammo belt. I remove the ammunition and weapons, sorting through the valuable items — and the items that we don’t have room to carry.

“We can’t find anything,” Vera reports. “They’re clean.”

“What’s the age demographic?” I ask.

“Twenties to mid-thirties. No women. They’re all in good shape, too.”

“You might be right. Mercenaries.”

Andrew stands up. “Which means they were working for Omega,” he says. “And when they don’t report back, they’ll send out a search party, find their dead bodies, and then they’ll start tracking us.”

“Then we should get moving,” Manny suggests. “This isn’t the most relaxing rest stop I’ve ever taken, anyway.”

“We have to hide the bodies,” Vera tells me. “They’ll find them eventually, but if we make them search, that’s extra time that we can buy ourselves to hit Los Angeles before Omega starts looking for us.”

“Good plan,” I approve. “Let’s move.”

The militiamen find a spot in the woods that could pass for a pit. With the manpower of twenty-five, the eighteen dead men are moved into the hole and covered with leaves and shrubbery. Under normal circumstances, I would suggest that we burn the bodies. Leaving them to rot in the woods is morbid — and I don’t believe that it’s humane, even if these people were trying to kill us. But we don’t have the time. So we remove traces of our presence in the woods and backtrack to the ditch, clearing away brass and footprints. By the time we’re finished with it, no one would be able to tell that there was a firefight here. Not unless they were looking really hard and they knew what to look for.

“Okay, we’re good,” I say. “Nice work, boys.”

The words taste bitter in my mouth. Congratulating people for hiding dead bodies is not something I thought I’d be doing. Ever.

“The horses have been tended to,” Manny announces as we walk towards the woods again, “but they’re jumpy from the gunfire.”

“They’ll get used to it if they hang around us,” I say.

“True story,” Uriah comments.

“A little gunfire now and then builds character,” Manny adds.

I laugh. It feels good, considering what a depressing night it’s been.

“Shall we move on, my girl?” Manny asks.

“Yes,” I reply.

I want to get as far away from here as possible.

The next morning, exhausted, we stop and rest the horses again. I stroke Katana’s nose, fighting tears. How many militiamen died last night? Three. Good men and women, volunteer soldiers just trying to do what’s right and defend the things they believed in. They were under my command. I’m responsible for their deaths…aren’t I?

I press my cheek against Katana’s neck and stifle a sob.

I can’t let anyone see me cry. Not now.

So I take a deep breath, blink back the tears, and try to force it out of my head. Someday, when this nightmare is over, I’ll be able to stop and let the emotions roll in — if I’m not an emotional zombie by that point. But today is not that day.

Vera walks around the front of Katana and stands there in silence. I don’t look at her.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she says suddenly. Harshly.

I stare at her. My eyes are red.

“It was,” I reply. “They were my men.”

She crosses her arms.

“We all volunteered for this, and we all know it’s a suicide mission,” she continues. “You’re the one who keeps pointing that out. For the love of God, Cassidy, just do your job.”

She exhales rapidly — as if she were holding her breath for the entire conversation — and stalks off. I blink a few times and smile. Bewildered? Yes. Confused about her intentions? Sure. But she has a point.

This is a suicide mission.

These militiamen and woman are here voluntarily.

If people die, it is not entirely my fault, is it? It’s horrible, yes, but it’s the price of war. The price of fighting for something you really believe in. The ultimate sacrifice.

The realization that I must carry their deaths as a burden for the rest of my life is harrowing. The price of leadership.

I close my eyes and scratch Katana behind her ear.

“We’ll make it through this,” I whisper.

She shakes her head, nickering. I laugh.

“You doing okay over here?” Manny asks. “I could have sworn you were talking to yourself.”

“I was talking to the horse. Remember, I’m a horse whisperer.”

“Ah, yes,” he says. “A woman of many talents. I remember.” He pauses and assesses Katana. “Your horse likes you.”

“I get along well with animals.”

“So I noticed. But what about people?”

“I can take them or leave them.”

Manny’s weathered, wrinkled face dissolves into an amused grin.

“I’ve often felt the same way, my girl,” he says, “but in the end, it’s not animals or trees or the universe we’re fighting for. It’s people.”

“Yeah,” I mutter.

“People aren’t all that bad,” he counters.

“I beg to differ. Omega is nothing but a bunch of people, and they suck.”

He laughs.

“That, my girl, is the truth,” he says. “We should talk more often. Your philosophy is entertaining.”

“No more entertaining than yours.”

“Oh, now I could debate that. The things that I’ve seen—”

“—Are probably things we never want to hear about,” Uriah interrupts. His National Guard baseball cap is pulled low over his black hair. His left cheek is scraped up. He looks at me. It’s an intense gaze — then again, when is it not with Uriah? “How far are we from the perimeter of the city?”

Manny answers, “Two days. Maybe three. Depends on if we get caught in any more firefights. Those always stretch the arrival time.” He winks. “What I’m more worried about is Mad Monk Territory.”

“Excuse me…what?” I demand.