Celly   fIred   as   the   wraith—always, always so like a girl—stepped through the break in the cemetery’s fence, just as the tickling started in his mind, bending what he knew as reason and purpose to softness. He knew the feeling for the harbinger it was. He hardened, squinted his eyes and tapped the trigger gently, as his coding ensured. The shot swung her around and slammed the small body against a fencepost, hard. He paused a moment, holding his breath, but the wraith never moved again—simply lay, still.

He turned to his left. Up the hill he could see the black-clad figures, heads bowed, mourning still in progress. The Rector stood alone at the head of the fresh grave, skeletal in his black cowl, hands before him, reedy voice just audible—a low chant. The carbine fired silently but the impact made a sound, just enough to be heard over the light breeze. The entire village circled the fresh grave, faces down, a tight knot of black. Not a single head had turned. Another wraith down as though nothing had happened.
As it should be.

“They’re getting braver,” Zoran whispered through the transceiver.

Celly would have preferred silence until they moved the body, but he nodded. “Aye. Or more foolish.”

“Braver,” Zoran repeated, and Celly grinned. No soldier, Zoran, but all Celly had now since the Captain and his Brothers…departed—but he would not entertain that thought. What could have been—ah, what could have been. He had no will to argue with Zoran, either, his comrade in past times both better and worse. None of the villagers were ever meant to be soldiers, no, that was his lot—and besides, arguing with Zoran was an exercise in futility. Stubborn. From behind the thin wooden marker that shielded him Celly could see the old man packing up his gear, barely hidden behind his own cover on the far side of what had once been a gate. Celly knelt and did the same. He snapped out a woven fabric bag and carried it in one hand, pack in the other, then moved down the hill.

The mongrel, red and light gray mottled thing, rose on thin legs and followed him.

The wind stopped and the chanting filtered through the still air, holy and eerie simultaneously. Zoran gazed back at the mourners, a look of longing on his face. Celly echoed his sentiment—both men wished to be with the mourners rather than here. Celly felt a rush of anger against the wraiths that he had to do this now, at a time when the community should be together. He had no love for this work, but it had become urgent and necessary—and the Rector’s order. Celly, coded to obey. He stood over the body a moment, seeing it and not seeing it at the same time: tanned skin, bright red hair, firm features, small but well-fed—better fed than the village by far. The shot perfect, the beam killing bloodlessly. He thrust the corpse inside the bag, amazed, as always, at how little and light they were. Vaguely human, if he let himself admit it—which he couldn’t, and do his work. He sealed the bag and rose, lifted it to his shoulder—so, so light. He and Zoran walked back to town together, the old man limping slightly.

Celly never looked back. He didn’t give a second thought to anyone noticing them.

No one ever did.