I.
Everyone was dead. Everyone. There were bodies scattered all over the camp. Bodies in the water on the way up. Bodies at the Cove, stinking. Lying sprawled in pools of blood. Dismembered bodies. Unrecognisable, all interchangeable, except by rank. In the tent on the hill, fragmented bits of burnt flesh carpeted the room, and burn marks covered the little fabric that was still intact.
It wasn't supposed to happen this way. He felt a wave of nausea and the urge to sit down, but he couldn't sit down in there. He stumbled through the tent flap and dropped onto the dry grass. He sucked in a lungful of cold air. It was all over, and he had missed the entire thing.
The Courier sat at the bar, alone. She held the pages of a book open with one hand and a glass of scotch with the other. It was quiet. Every now and then, her eyes drifted from the book to her drink, and she smiled.
It was only a moment before he was up again, pulling bottles of water from blood-soaked pockets and looking for a decent machete to take. Walking past the Brahmin pen, he heard a whimpering. It sounded like a child. The slave kid, he thought, and kept moving.
He walked quickly. He wanted to run, but he knew he couldn't run without being spotted by anyone hanging around. The Legate's camp was not far, but it was far enough that he couldn't be sure of what might happen along the way. He wished he had brought binoculars. It was getting late now.
As he got closer, he stuck close to the side of the hill. He listened for activity. There was silence. The flickering orange light of a flame danced around the gate up ahead. He braced himself for the worst.
As the gate creaked open, there was no one. No sign of anyone. They were all gone.
He sat down again.
The Courier closed the book. She couldn't concentrate on the text. She left it on the bar and walked over to the wall of glass. Sipping the warm scotch, she looked to the east. Beyond the glaring lights of the Strip, everything was dark.
The fingers of his right hand found his temple. Where to now? He thought of Picus at Camp McCarran. Would he know what had happened? Would he even still be there?
He felt frustration claw at his throat, and he stood up quickly. Pressing his fingertips into his forehead, he tried to make a plan. He thought about going to Freeside. There was sure to be information there. He could pass Camp McCarran on the way. How long had everyone been dead for? It couldn't have been long. Surely. He would have heard something. It had been a day, maybe. He'd been alone since just before dawn. It couldn't have happened before that morning. Had anyone deserted? If they had, they couldn't be far.
He closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his palms into them until a green light speckled across his vision. He walked on.
As the light of dawn came through the windows of the cocktail bar, the Courier felt a pain behind her eyes. She had been drinking since nightfall. She rubbed her face with her hand and stood up. Taking the bottle of scotch with her, she stepped into the elevator and rode it to the Presidential suite. There wasn't much left in the bottle. She downed it, and filled it with cool water in the kitchen sink. She fell into bed, trailing droplets of water from the kitchen to the bedroom.