More images flash through your mind – graves, bodies, tombs, ditches, piles of dirt, burials. "I'm gonna go ... go back. And get the sheets. I'll cover them up."
"I know. But I can't just leave them here like this."
Valerie hums, almost in an amused tone.
"Right."
You walk down the hall, using your arm-light to show the way. Empty brass casings clink against your feet. The bullet holes in the wall let a few flickers of your arm-light through, creating temporary glimpses into abandoned nothingness. The sign above the stairwell states "FLOOR 2". Below, a watery grave. Above, shrouds for the dead. You head upwards.
The hallway on Floor 3 is much like the one below, though lacking the blood trail. The door of the room you were in is still open. A large chunk is missing from the door, which swings lazily in the wind. Howling wind, from the smashed window. You put your back up to the wall, edging up to the door frame, and carefully peek inside.
It's like how it was before, though with glass shards on the floor. Piles of clothes, wrinkled bed sheets on the fold-out couch, and the various trinkets you scavenged from the kitchenette.
"Thanks, Val."
Deep breaths.
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Another burst of lightning, and you spot a glint outside the window, across the street. The sniper is still there, but they haven't spotted you peeking through the door. You glance at the floor. Maybe if you crawl, they won't spot you.
You get on your stomach and crawl in, taking care to brush away any glass in your path. So far, so good. You slip your backpack off and unzip it, shuffling to the table. You wait for lightning.
A flash.
Nothing happens.
The moment it's dark again, you sweep your hand up and across the table, knocking all the supplies you found to the ground. The utility box, can of soda, bottle of alcohol, knife, bottles of water, beef jerky, and crank flashlight. You shove it all into your backpack, though you keep the knife so the next time you stuff your hand in your bag, you don't get a sharp surprise.
Once you've gathered everything, you pause and wait again. Your heart is beating right out of your chest. An eternity passes. Cold air from the broken window washes over you, but you don't dare move, not even a shiver, lest the sniper see you.
Lightning.
Nothing.
You scramble over to the fold-out bed and remove as many sheets and blankets as you can, bundling them up under your arm. You pull your backpack over your shoulder, grab your gun and knife awkwardly with your free hand, and bolt out of the room. There's a muffled pop, and a chunk of the wall nearby is turned to splinters. But it's too late for the sniper, as you're already in the safety of the darkened halls.
Your heart is still beating, and your face is slightly damp from the moist wind.
"It's the least I could do," you reply.
You're not sure, to be honest. You jog to the stairwell, shrouds in tow, thump-thump-thump down the stairs, and head to the scene of death. The bodies are still there. You're not certain whether this is good or bad. Maybe if they weren't there, you could brush this off as a bad dream. But the corpses lie still, waiting patiently for you.
Carefully, you tug on their feet to pull them from their sitting position, lying them down on the floor. Your stomach squirms, but you pull their legs straight and put their arms at their sides. More images flash through your head. Death, shrouds, burials, bodies. Yes, of course. Their eyes, frozen in a stare up at nothing. You close them. Rest now, o weary eyes, that your gaze into blackness becomes a limitless sleep in the void.
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"It's just... the right thing to do. I don't know how to explain it."
You unfold the sheets from under your arm and lay them out over the bodies. They flutter slowly, obscuring the two forms. Something still doesn't feel right. Before, yes, they were awful to look at, but they were people. Who are they now? Vague lumps under a dirty stained sheet? What were their names? Their stories? Their goals, and reasons for being here? Who will remember them?
More images flash through your mind. Gravestones, eulogies, obituaries. These thoughts, obtrusive and unwanted, but relevant and needed. Every flash of an image is another layer of innocence stripped away.
You look at the pool of blood on the ground. It's still somewhat wet, though clumpy. You kneel down, open your bag, and pour out some of the half-empty water bottle onto the blood to get it moist again. Then, you dip your finger into it. Upon the sheet, you begin to write. And as you get to the last few letters, you pause.
"What year is it?"
Valerie then crackles. It isn't her usual hum of thought, but something different.
You do not respond, and finish what you are writing. You stand.
REST IN PEACE
TWO UNKNOWN SOULS
?? -- 1350 XE
You say nothing. What is there to be said? The silence of the bodies is far louder than any words you could utter.
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You let out a breath and head out of the room.
"So... what's this 'Xerxian' thing?"
"That ... that doesn't sound healthy."
"So what are the other planets?"
"Why would we steal from them?"
You glance back at the room, where the two bodies lie. "Do people on Earth have any sort of ... way of handling death? Surely it's not all somber."
You wince. "Please... don't call them 'corpses'."
"Mm."
You're not sure what to do. Celebrating during this somber moment feels... wrong. But so does not doing anything. You're also not sure if you should keep mulling over this situation, rather than hunting down the sniper.
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Images, again. Alcohol, pouring, oceans, not drinking, but still lost. You pull out the bottle of alcohol. Right, some people pour it out, respectfully. Your hand hesitates, about to unscrew the cap. No, no, you can't. More images. Pain relief, anti-septic, washing wounds. Alcohol, yes. It's useful, beyond drinking. Soaking bandages. Rubbing away infection. The bottle proudly states "80% alcoholic content". You presume that's a lot. It's more useful as a medical tool than as a throat-scorcher.
You look at the shrouded bodies. Whomever these two were, they were probably scavengers. They were practical people. Their last words were instructions, a warning scrawled in blood. Their last actions were carrying it out. If they found your body here, they wouldn't drink to your death. Not because they wouldn't respect you, but the opposite. They'd respect you enough to save their liquor, their gear. They'd take your bag, they'd salvage your supplies, they'd heed your warning. They'd leave you in peace, and put your gear to better use than your body ever will. They wouldn't waste liquor on a corpse.
You hope.
Maybe you're projecting. Maybe you're hoping they were just as kind as you're being right now to them. The images in your head are cold, emotionless, and scientific. A scalpel, cutting deep to find exactly what you need, and handing knowledge to you without a second thought. But these things you're feeling. You just know a word, 'kindness'. But the feelings are not like the images. They're messy, warm, imprecise. But they feel right. And that's all you can hope for at the moment. Feeling 'right', whatever that means.
You slip the alcohol back into your bag.
"Sort of, but probably not in the way you're thinking."
Valerie hums.
"I ... I can't explain it. I don't know how."
You pause. "Do you?"
Valerie hums, but does not respond. You decide not to press the issue anymore.
There's nothing more to be said for these two people. You head out of the room, adjusting the backpack strap on your shoulder. You notice that the backpack strap has a stretchy band on it. Carefully, you slip the knife into the band to hold it in place. There, now you don't have to awkwardly hold the knife and the gun at the same time. Alright, think. Time for your next step towards getting out of here...