I woke up in yet another cramped and awkward position.

This time instead of loamy earthy smells, the gentle sounds of nature, and damp rocks pressing against me I was being jerked around from side to side and harsh, crude fabric formed a hard and uncomfortable bed. Something was digging into my side and I was sure there would be a bruise there when I checked later.

That harsh and crude fabric canvas itched where ever it touched. And it was touching in more places than I expected it to. Where the itch wasn’t, fresh air was. The air was warm and felt nice, even somewhat comforting.

I wanted to move to a more comfortable position, but my body refused to move. So I lay there looking up at the comforting vivid blue sky overhead, doing my best to ignore the stabbing pain in my side and the uncomfortable pressures in back. My stomach was empty and constantly let me know it was so. Worse than that, my mouth was uncomfortably dry.

Trying my best to ignore my bodily sensations, I stared up at the vivid blue sky. It was vast and all-encompassing and, this time, wasn’t obscured by any branches or leaves. That all-encompassing vastness gazed down upon my naked child’s body. Other than my healthy body, there was nothing which hinted that I had been a noble not long ago.

A rhythmic dirge was being sung by many voices. It was somewhat tuneless and tuneful at the same time. Despite the tunelessness it was in remarkable rhythm. Not that the simple dirge was anything but easy to sing:

We all march,

‎ We all march,

‎ We all march,

‎ To our deaths.

We all sing,

‎ We all sing,

‎ We all scream,

‎ Out in pain.

There we go,

‎ Here we march,

‎ There we fight,

‎ To obey.

Life is theirs,

‎ None is ours,

‎ F’ward we go,

‎ To the grave.

In the quiet moments between verses or lines, there was a counterpoint of sobbing and screaming. Slowly, grey clouds gathered in the sky.

A chill wind started to blow.

The warmth of the sun faded

The longer I lay buffeted and stabbed by the hard things hidden beneath the crude and itchy fabric, the more the air felt chilly upon my naked flesh. As the flesh grew colder, my hunger and thirst grew increasingly harder to ignore.

A drop of rain fell. It splashed in near my eye. I blinked it away, at the same time opened my mouth, eager to drink whatever life-giving drops of liquid fell upon me. More drops fell. Faster, harder. My entire naked body was soaked. Still, my thirst wasn’t quenched, but my mouth felt better. After who knew how long I had enough of trying to catch rain with my wide open mouth, so I did my best to turn my head away from the rain, closing my eyes. But there was no place to hide from the rain. Even the crude itchy canvas was soaked, causing my body to shiver from the cold dampness it was forced to lay on.

Even as the rain fell hard and fast, the buffeting of what I lay upon remained steady and even.

That rhythmic dirge was sung in the same way as it always had, neither speeding up nor slowing down. The only change was another verse was added onto the end.

Through the rain,

‎ Through the mud,

‎ Through the wilds,

‎ We march on.

Just as my shivering body couldn’t keep up with the chilly air, cold rain, and the damp crude fabric under me, the dirge ended mid-verse. As the dirge ended, the buffeted of the hard, wet surface I was on stopped too.

Then, with a slight drop, it was lowered to the ground. It was then I saw eight soaking wet bald men wearing patched and mismatched clothing which was plastered against their bodies. All of them held one of two thick and long poles which had been holding the platform I was currently laying on. With regimented precision, they lowered the poles onto the ground and stood up. They all looked inward at each other. One quickly glanced at me, winked slightly, but then straightened up and locked eyes with the person on the other side.

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Without a word being said, they then turned to face the platform, with me on top.

‘Time for you to move, lad,’ the person who winked at me said. They were in their mid-teens, his bald scalp show signs of hair growth and a single semi-healed cut which disappeared over the back of his head. ‘That potion effects should’ve faded by now. Even if they had to give you twice the amount as normal.’

I tried to move, but my body didn’t react as I wanted.

A skinny lad, shorter than the rest, probably only just in his teens, reached forward, grabbed my leg and yanked me off the fabric. Some of the fabric came with me, the rest of me ended up on wet grass. It wasn’t the comfortable soft grass of a well-maintained garden. Instead, it was long and rough, the kind of grass found in wild meadows or forest clearings—I guessed, not that I knew. The grass poked and prodded me as I lay on it.

‘Sorry, lad,’ the nice winking elderly teen said as he unloaded boxes and other items from the platform. ‘He is right, though. We need you to move. Otherwise, our unit might not even make it to our patrol area.’

As I lay on the mud and the long, wet grass, I did my best to get my body under my control.

‘Unit Six-One,’ a voice barked out. ‘Why is your new recruit not helping with his chores?’

The short, skinny lad went to stand in front of me and placed his fist over his chest. He opened his mouth and pointed in, before pointing to the taller, elderly teen.

Beyond the short skinny lad I saw a man, who was wearing a thick waterproof cloak with a hood, which kept the rain off of him and out of his eyes. All I could see of him was his stern eyes and disapproving mouth.

I guess more than just me wished we could wear something like that to keep warm and dry and away this cold wind and rain.

‘Speak.’ The voice barked out.

‘We were not informed of any new recruit in our unit. We are already at our max of eight. Yesterday they punished us with the carriage of another piece of cargo, as we were the slowest to get our camp ready.’

Without saying anything else, the hooded, cloaked figure turned around and walked away.

I lay there, seemingly forgotten, as the others worked around me. One of them pulled the canvas away from under me, forcing me to roll over and land face down into the muddy grass. One particularly annoying stabby blade of grass was doing its best to stab me in the eye. With an increasing capable body, I pushed my body over onto my back again. The incessant cold rain falling straight down onto my face was better than being blinded by that stabby blade of grass or suffocated by the mud beneath it.

Finally, four of them came over and moved the platform away from where I was lying.

‘Okay, lad, it’s time to square away the last bit of cargo.’ The elderly winking teen said. He picked me up. As he did so, I saw a tent, using the canvas I had been lying on, with the base of the platform as its floor. The flap of the tent was down, keeping the rain from getting inside.

He carried me inside. The centre of the tent was packed with boxes. Between them lay a narrow passageway leading to the other side. On this side of the boxes were three people. One of who was the skinny, short lad. The winky teen lay me down right on the edge of the tent. As the tent flap closed behind us the tent grew dark.

‘Please forgive him,’ the elderly winking teen said, pointing to the skinny young teen. ‘Six-One-One, or One as we call him between ourselves, cannot speak. They removed his tongue just after he became a member of the Disposal Troop. Since then, he’s been one lucky fella. He’s survived, what, four campaigns?’

One lifted his hand up and raised five fingers.

‘Ah, five, if he survives this one, he might be lucky enough to get a chance to take a break before coming back.’

‘I’m Six-One-Two, or Two, within our unit.‘ He said with a smile on his face. ‘I was an old soul before I joined the Disposal Troop. This is my second campaign. A rival in love managed to get me sent here, just because he caught me sneaking out of her room. Even though it’ll cost me my life, it was still worth it.

‘Three there, was sold by his parents so that they could try for another child. Four, got caught stealing some scraps of discarded food after his parents died in a famine. This is their first campaign.’

I rolled myself over so I could see them. Only when the wind blew the tent flap open slightly, chilling my back, and coating it with a layer of rain, did a touch of light enter the tent. In those moments of light, I saw that the others were attempting to go to sleep, or staring into the darkness with lifeless eyes.

‘Cargo, why are you joining the Disposal Troop? Why did they feel the need to drug you?’

‘The goddess cursed me, removing six of my slots. My House—’ I didn’t know what to say, so I shut up.

‘Damn, a once fancy brat. Not often do we have folks like you. I’ve heard stories of two. Ah, thanks One, three folks like you. But being cursed and losing slots, never heard that happen before.

‘Still, you cannot fall any lower than you can with us. So lad, just remember we are the Dead who are marching towards our grave.’