There, amidst the stars, he saw the looming halo that lit the night sky beautifully. Those silver rings that sparkled occasionally in the dark, those ambiguous jewels of the ephemeral plane. Often he thought of how to reach that world, so far away in the vast emptiness of the night. If only he could lift his hand to pluck one of those twinkling jewels, to seize the bright flash and hold something valuable for once. He could see it, his hand. It sat disembodied in the mud next to him. The fingers were disjointed, and the wrist bled a slow trickle of crimson beads. He blinked once, then again, then he didn’t.

  A strong chemical smell was what woke him, followed by a deep bodily cold. The wind licking at the edges of the bright brown fabric above him. It was cool in here, it’s what woke him. The strong need to pull a blanket over himself drove his hand to look for another blanket. The sheets were wrapped tightly around him, he realized he might need to grab another blanket if he was to sleep in.

  “You really just don’t know how to give up without a fight.” Came a familiar voice.

  He sat still, hoping that the voice wasn’t addressing him.

  “Yes, I’m speaking to you.” The voice said, more firmly this time.

  He knew that to address the voice he thought was speaking to him would mean the end of the illusion. To fully reinherit responsibility for his actions. Fields of Green he didn’t even know how long it’d been. But the long cold rest of death was the better bouts of rest he could rely on. It was a darker realization he’d come to some time ago.

  A hand came and pinched his nose, breaking his trance like state.

  “I saw you fidgeting, you know.” The female voice said.

  “I want to stay like this a little longer.” Grant muttered.

  “No, sorry. We need the spot for people who’re truly injured. Get your ass out of the sack.” Mercy Smiles said in a bitter tone.

  His eyes languidly met hers. He broke the tension he had on the sheets, sitting up from his cold revival. His clothes were ruined, his pistol was bent, his staff was- “Where’s- “

  “Shut up. It’s here.” Mercy said, tossing the heavy martial weapon into his lap. “You were still holding onto it when we dragged you here.”

  Grant lingered, trying to warm his feet before moving.

  “I said get!” Mercy brandished a broom now, more determined to vacate the bed.

  Grant sighed, standing to full height and began his stride. His time in the service being the last vestige of restraint he had for the miracle workers. Sure, they were a cheery bunch, but they were literally miracle workers. It’s hard to argue with those who could revive the dead.

  The sun was bright, capturing his sight wholly in that familiar blinding light that rocked your world when absent of it for long enough. Then he started to process other feelings as they returned to him. The clothing around his arms, legs and back all clung to him. “Couldn’t have even give me clean clothes?” Grant asked with a vile sneer. A heavy thud slammed into the back of his head, throwing him forward. He stumbled, catching himself on a picnic table. He felt something soft flop down his back, followed by two soft thumps as fabric hit the ground. ‘Wonderful.’ He remarked in a flat mental tone. Turning, he saw the light blue default replacement clothes Bramwell so generously offered as a replacement to injured or killed men in the field. It would be just so unprofessional to allow your people to die for you and not receive new proper fitting clothes after literally selling their lives for your company.

  Grant closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as he corralled all his negative thoughts. He was, one, alive. Two, he was able to return home with a bonus for being alive. Grant opened his eyes, bitter now. ‘Services rendered, pay ordered and sent.’ He muttered, feeling now more than ever like some piece of merchandise than anything else.

  He knelt and nabbed the change of clothes he’d been eyeing now for a minute. It was an awkward waddle to the nearest changing tent, blood making thick the clothes he wore. Straight cuts and punctures cooling the skin where they sit exposed to air. He was an open book in this regard, or a plain receipt for tallied goods. He felt the languid eyes of the recovered men here glaring at him. The recovery camp was the most secure in the Bramwell operation, open air views of dense forest surrounding them on all sides. Plenty of spots for men to take a leak in the tree line for privacy, the camp sitting in a local depression. Grant closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. ‘I think this is my last year here.’ He mentally spoke, sighing at the realization. ‘I can’t keep dying like this, I have a child at home. More importantly, this was my favorite shirt.’ Grant lamented the loss of a valuable item, one of sentimental value.

  He finally lumbered into the changing tent. Left open to anyone needing to disrobe and ready for a long hot bath. Grant carefully peeled the clothes off himself, the shirt and pants coming off with a painful yank. It was speckled with dirt, blood, and thorns. ‘Oh, some souvenirs.’ Grant rolled his eyes and allowed the shirt and pants to stand on their own in the corner of the tent. He picked up a nearby towel fresh from the lavender, hinting notes of fresh ash-soap. He ignored it, slipping his boots off and slowly walking out into the bone chilling air. The heat of the small fire for the tubs radiated, its slight warmth bathing the area intensely to him. He knew the small fire heating the copper coils under the cast iron bathtub was going to boil him alive like a pinchbug. He bleakly realized that he must’ve been dead for a day or so, maybe longer if he was this cold and put on ice. Another bitter thought. ‘Kept on Ice’ He lowered his eyes to the tub and knew the searing pain that awaited him there. His eyes swept the area around him. He had some peace to settle in at the center of the camp, isolated by cheap semi-transparent privacy curtains that certainly weren’t picnic table coverings.

  Grant felt the light shirt catch the wind of the spring fresh air, letting it wick the heat he’d braved in the tub away from him. ‘Cant even give us winter clothes after dying.’ He languished on the now sore thoughts. Grant closed his eyes and centered himself again. ‘I need a drink, this is too much to bear alone.’ He turned, ruined clothes and staff in hand, made his way to the commissary.

  The path was lined with some simple stepping stones, it registered with him then that he lost Finch too. ‘Fuck. Me.’ The realization rocked his world. He stood baffled at the thought of losing such an expensive crossbreed.

  Grant got to the tent that was the commissary, seeing the same stockman who worked the counter going on twenty years now. “Hey James, How’re you?”

  James looked up from his scruffy eyebrows and nodded. “Better than you were just a few hours ago.”

  Grant sighed. “Yeah, I s’pose.” He sat his things down and rubbed his eyes. “Do you have any alcohol or whisky before I rotate off?”

  James nodded and knelt down, leaving a small flask of liquor on the table. “Don’t let Bramwell see. He’s been cracking down on drink since last week.”

  Grant chuckled in an ambivalent, morose, tone. “Why is he doing that?”

  James shrugged. “I think it’s because one of the other crews got into the store house at Hamhock Hill.” James leant against the tent support, his hands occupied with cleaning the same trinket Grant threw into the fire. “I saw a massive new order by riverboat for beer and whisky pass through the other day.” He took it and gently set it back down for Grant to pick up.

  Grant saw Jame’s eyes linger on the bloody shirt, the man’s furtive moments slowed as he looked to be on the edge of a question. Grant pulled the small chime device and pocketed it.

  “What… what is it like to die, Grant?” James asked quietly.

  Grant stood there, confused. “What?”

  James cleared his throat and spoke a little louder. “What is death like?” He held Grant’s eyes for what felt like an eternity.

  Impact. Sprint. Speed. Cold air over a dim field in the middle of a farm. Then total blackness.

  “I…” Grant thought on it, trying to remember the eight… No. Nine separate times he’s departed now. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

  James frowned. “C’mon, try to remember. I know it’s not pleasant to think of it. But Nobody else wants to tell me.” He leant down and bobbed back up, setting another flask of whisky on the table as if to bribe the answer out of him.

  Feet slamming down hard. Breath sawing in and out like a mill. The tree line drew in faster than he could reason. His staff met another, then blackness.

  Grant sat there quietly, glaring down at the man. He let the calm officer routine slip for a moment as he dug- really dug to remember the instances he died. “I… I think it depends on how you die.” Grant said quietly. “You have a range of different emotions day to day, hour to hour. Y’know?” He mulled over it, pushing back the bribe James left on the table. “I distinctly remember the last thing I see each time I die. Assuming I still have eyes.” Grant walked around the table and took a seat on a barrel. He took out his flask and took a sip, offering some to James.

  The ground was cold, snow was falling on you and dying pink. A glinting axe buried in your chest. There wasn’t pain, just pressure. Unsettling pressure in all the wrong spots. Sickly pops that filled your ears. Disembodied terror followed by a few intimate moments with the man that ended you. Eye to eye. Those primal seconds where life fled your mind and body, eyes heavy. Blackness.

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  James nodded and took a sip, passing it back. He looked horrified, too stunned to speak.

  “I’ve been shot, blown up, mauled more than once… Immolated.” Grant took a sip, trying to remember the other times. “I was whipped to death, that sucked.” Grant looked down into the flask and shrugged. “Tortured once or twice, or a dozen. Torture doesn’t really count though. They tend to keep you in between.” Grant angled the drink in his hand, looking at the black liquid catching glimpses of light shining through the tent. “You never forget your first time.” Grant rose his eyebrows, as if remembering distinctly what happened. “Running in the mud and the blood. Charging for God and Country. Then, nothing.”

  James shuffled uncomfortably, trying to weather the storm of discomfort that Grant fared too easily. “…What happened..?”

  Grant sat there for a moment, deciding how to phrase it. He settled on shrugging. “I was told I was hit by artillery. But that never made sense.” He adjusted himself in the seat. “There was no artillery in our sector then.” He took another sip, as if the action could coax out more answers. “We were sent ahead of the main unit to destroy forward observers for a land assault. I had to cross an open field at night. I don’t know how I died. I just remember seeing a farmhouse and field. Then I woke up looking at the underside of a tent.” Grant kept his eyes glued to the neck of the flask letting his thoughts flow. “I guess you could mimic it by getting piss drunk. I mean, there’s a chance you die like that too. But it’s the feeling of…” Grant shook his head, trying to process the after memory of adrenaline.

  James nodded. “If its too tough to remember-“ He almost said for himself more than for Grant. Realizing that his curiosity might have been larger than his ability to stomach the visceral violation violent death was in war.

  “You’re fighting for your life. Trying to accomplish your duty. Then reality sets in and you’re stuck with an axe in your chest. Except you cant feel the axe, and closing your eyes feels so natural.” Grant lifted the flask to his lips again and stole another sip, fully remembering now. “Or looking up at the night sky with your broken body littering the ground around you.” He said more bitterly.

  James nodded and placed a hand on Grant’s knee. “Grant.” He said more firmly now, confirming Grant’s thought that he couldn’t stomach the secondhand experience.

  “Sorry. I don’t get a chance to talk about it much. I wish more people had the stones to ask.” Grant stood, feeling a slight buzz and the weight of the past sloughing off in ribbons. “People assume I’m just in good shape for my age. Just because I’m not missing a limb or have a scar across my face leads people to believe I’m not a veteran.” Grant admitted bitterly, walking out of the commissary tent.

  James saw him walking towards the exit and furrowed his eyebrows. “Grant, wait.” He said, leaning over to set a leather bag on the table.

  Grant turned and looked at the pouch. “I wont need it any- “

  James shook his head. “Yes you do, Grant.”

  Grant frowned. “My horse died James.” Grant said in a more serious tone.

  “No, Grant, you’re wrong. I guess you don’t remember everything when you die, eh?” He said with a slight smile.

  Grant smiled back. “I don’t believe you, James.”

  James gave a wider grin, flashing his teeth. “Go check the stables. Finch should be fresh to ride now.”

  Grant felt something again. Those small slices of dried apples rustled on his hip through the walk back to the stables. He felt the weight of them, back then they were just another line item to add to the ruck. Another few pounds he had to lug for the morale of someone else other than himself. They were heavy now, as if the act of remembering them weighed the bag more.

  He saw a couple others he knew, Silas, Dan, Jimbo, and Bob were all lingering around the camp’s many tents. Grant’s stride slowed as he saw them, a strange confusion to their presence hit him as he made his way back to his horse. He made a mental note to check back in with them after moving through the area.

  Grant pushed past a man who’d tried to speak with him. He almost shoved a man onto his ass as he tried to stop Grant. Then, there in the stable, he saw that bright attentive look Finch first gave him back home. He stopped, chuckling. The overwhelming urge to sob took him but held back as he made eye contact with the animal. His hand found the apple slices as he strode towards his horse. Now did it only register that the other men were trying to stop him because Finch was panicking. The horse calmed down, seeing his master.

  “C’mere boy. I know- “ Grant smooshed his face into Finch’s neck, patting the creature down the shoulder. “It’s alright. I’m here now.” He felt Finch’s head lay over his shoulder, as if he was receiving a hug back.

  The men around him settled down, seeing the animal was calm.

  “The hell was that all about?” A vaguely familiar voice pierced the confusion of the camp.

  Others turned as they heard the old voice of Sylas ring out, a couple men stepping away. “Grant, was that your horse there trying to raise the dead?”

  Grant stood back and turned to see his coworker. “Yeah, sorry. He gets a little antsy when I’m not around.” Finch walked forward to close in with Grant once more, nudging his shoulder for more apple slices.

  Silas chuckled at the insistent horse. “He’s quite needy. You sure he isn’t broken in?” He walked in close to pet Finch too, really starting to register the animal now.

  “I’m sure he is Silas, he just likes his apples.” Grant ran his hand alongside Finch’s shoulder.

  “Glad you’re back, Grant, It’s been a shitshow.” Silas whispered, trying to convey so much in so little. “Damn druids cut down everyone in my camp.” Silas sighed and stood back from Finch.

  Grant nodded. “I know, we must be close to one of their nests if they’re pushing so hard. Our camp was overrun with wardens.” Grant remembered flashes of sonic movement, he remembers cutting down six of them before being slain.

  “I don’t like it. I’ve been fighting with Bramwell to just burn the damn place down.” Silas remarked in a bitter growl. “We’re not in the service anymore dammit.” He rested his hands on his belt.

  Grant rose his eyebrows at Finch, trying to process what happened. “No, we’re not. I feel like I still am though. Were you smeared?”

  Silas nodded. “I was, yeah. I’ve got an agitated canker that’s been festering on my thigh. It was made all the worse when they revived me.” He sighed. “I might have to get a DNR tag.”

  Grant sneered at the thought. “It’s that bad?”

  Silas nodded. “Found a lump some fifteen years ago, Kid.” Silas frowned. “Gets worse every time I come back.”

  Grant sighed. “I’ve seen it before. Its probably the worst way to go.”

  The two sat in silence as they processed the intimate moment, Finch soaking up as much attention as he could in the mean time.

  “I don’t know how much longer I have here too, Silas.” Grant spoke under his breath.

  “Aint that the truth.” Willis said, his feet softly announcing his arrival. The two men looked him up and down, clean and in the default blue shirt that the company offered.

  “The state can’t even offer you a new uniform?” Grant asked.

  “No.” Willis bluntly remarked.

  Grant sighed, remembering Willis’ blunt nature, he turned and gave Silas an unamused glare. “Silas, this was my partner this Hitch.” Grant said in a flat tone.

  Silas nodded and offered a hand. “Silas, Nice t’meet ya.”

  Willis nodded and shook the man’s hand. “Willis.”

  The three sat awkwardly, Finch quietly huffed and pawed the ground.

  “Oh, you hog!” Grant said in a more amused tone, pulling out some more apple slices to feed the insistent spoiled rotten horse. Grant smiled, thankfully, he had something to smile about now.

  Silas grunted his amusement and spoke. “I may have been wrong about Finch, Grant.”

  Grant scrunched his face, trying to remember what Silas was talking about. Remembering then what the old codger said. “Eh, it’s fine.”

  Silas chuckled. “Might as well go claim my shit from the retrieval camp.” He turned on his heel and started walking.

  Grant lead with Finch off to the opposite side of camp, passing familiar looking men huddled around fires. He was cold again, but thankfully not the bone chilling cold death that settled into a man. It was a few minutes of waiting in line with other men he hardly knew, men he knew were on payroll. Men who’re getting the real work done around here. Grant slumped at the thought, aching for the opportunity to work with them.

  He saw the cart that was retrieved by the riverboat team. Small flecks of blood coated some of its parts, mainly the dashboard and the seat where some of the prisoners must have tried to escape to. Grant saw the gnarled wood and sneered quietly, remembering the chaos that unfurled that night. It feels like it’d only been a night ago, but this blood was already dark brown. Although Grant remembered that you couldn’t always rely on the discoloration of blood for a timestamp.

  He looked inside and saw some of the remaining belongings he had left in the cart. He pocketed them and saw Silas doing the same in the cart next to him. “Where’re you going to spend your check Silas?” Grant mused.

  Silas shrugged.

  “You don’t want to talk about it?” Grant pushed.

  Silas nodded. “No. I don’t.” He turned and started walking towards the edge of camp before Grant could say or do anything else.

  Grant slumped his shoulders and turned his thoughts inwards again. The rest of the day he spent in relative silence as he worked to rotate off shift.

  The camp went quiet then, as Finch was loaded up with the barrel of sap that Grant had promised to Nesico.

  Creak. Singe. Crash.

  Grant cocked his head to get a better angle on the sound, the distressed nature of it caught his attention. He looked around, spotting a billowing cloud of white smoke he didn’t see prior. He felt his hackles rise as he saw it, trying to reconcile the nature of the smoke. Grant then strode towards the center of camp. Maybe Rosa knew what was going on.

  As he stepped towards the center of camp, his eye caught the motion just in time. The wall buckled, blackening, bowing inward. For a terrified moment, Grant saw the sound of it alert the rest of camp. Everyone inside turned their heads towards the noise, trying to gauge what the hell was going on. Grant saw the flaming antlers that rose slightly above the wall. He knew what this was. Or, well. He knew what to do. Grant turned on his heel as fast as he could and made a mad dash towards his gear.

  The wall splintered, revealing a dark burning monstrosity that bellowed black flames and yellow bile. It charged inside and erupted in a billowing fireball that consumed everything around it. Grant threw himself as the shockwave carried him further than he’d expected. He felt splintering pain shoot up and down his back, the familiar sting of injury peppering his body as he hit the deck and rolled.

  Years of experience guided his next actions as the familiar dull ache of adrenaline kicked in. No fuel. A staff. Caught off guard. He pulled himself up and assessed his surroundings. Rocks, splinters of flaming wood, terrified pedestrians, and a small handful of veterans reliving their moments of terror. Grant knew this was going to be a slaughter the moment it registered they were under attack. He drew air into his lungs, and raised his hackles as he bellowed. “ATTACK!”

  He cannoned his legs towards the squealing beast, pushing as hard as he could to interpose himself and the monster. The ground blurred as he thwacked the butt of his staff hard into the creature’s… torso… Or what he imagined the torso on this thing was. “GO! RUN!” He ducked under an uncoordinated swing. As if the beast had no eyes and it was trying to use its body to swat a fly. Grant saw, only in flashes, innocents in the camp fleeing to safety. He heard a piercing shot ring out from camp accompanied by a powerful slap of… flesh? The creature bucked, lilting forward then correcting. It stumbled towards the source of pain, and the source of sound. Grant ran in and threw his staff between its clumsy legs and watched the beast tip forward and dig itself into a fiery grave. Before he could retrieve his martial weapon the beast swelled immensely, twice or three times its size and burst. A hot, bright, blue-green fireball of stinking matter blossomed up into the sky. Grant flung himself back from the heat alone. The fire peeling out in all directions as black burning bile bubbled caustically.