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not militia.”
    “They’re rogue,” I shrug. “They probably wanted to steal our gear.”
    “Or they’re mercenaries,” Vera states.
    I bite my lip. It’s possible.
    “Search their uniforms for any kind of identification,” I say.
    My dad used to call this
pocket litter
. Clues to someone’s identification. I go through the dead man’s pockets, unbutton his jacket and search the lining. Nothing. There aren’t even clothing tags. Everything is clean. No clues whatsoever.
    “I don’t like this,” Andrew murmurs. He’s sitting on the edge of the ditch, staring at the militiamen searching the bodies. “People have lost their minds.”
    I take the gun off the dead man’s shoulder and unbuckle his ammo belt. I remove the ammunition and weapons, sorting through the valuable items – and the items that we don’t have room to carry.
    “We can’t find anything,” Vera reports. “They’re clean.”
    “What’s the age demographic?” I ask.
    “Twenties to mid-thirties. No women. They’re all in good shape, too.”
    “You might be right. Mercenaries.”
    Andrew stands up. “Which means they were working for Omega,” he says. “And when they don’t report back,they’ll send out a search party, find their dead bodies, and then they’ll start tracking
us
.”
    “Then we should get moving,” Manny suggests. “This isn’t the most relaxing rest stop I’ve ever taken, anyway.”
    “We have to hide the bodies,” Vera tells me. “They’ll find them eventually, but if we make them search, that’s extra time that we can buy ourselves to hit Los Angeles before Omega starts looking for us.”
    “Good plan,” I approve. “Let’s move.”
    The militiamen find a spot in the woods that could pass for a pit. With the manpower of twenty-five, the eighteen dead men are moved into the hole and covered with leaves and shrubbery. Under normal circumstances, I would suggest that we burn the bodies. Leaving them to rot in the woods is morbid – and I don’t believe that it’s humane, even if these people
were
trying to kill us. But we don’t have the time. So we remove traces of our presence in the woods and backtrack to the ditch, clearing away brass and footprints. By the time we’re finished with it, no one would be able to tell that there was a firefight here. Not unless they were looking really hard and they
knew
what to look for.
    “Okay, we’re good,” I say. “Nice work, boys.”
    The words taste bitter in my mouth. Congratulating people for hiding dead bodies is
not
something I thought I’d be doing. Ever.
    “The horses have been tended to,” Manny announces as we walk towards the woods again, “but they’re jumpy from the gunfire.”
    “They’ll get used to it if they hang around us,” I say.
    “True story,” Uriah comments.
    “A little gunfire now and then builds character,” Manny adds.
    I laugh. It feels good, considering what a depressing night it’s been.
    “Shall we move on, my girl?” Manny asks.
    “Yes,” I reply.
    I want to get as far away from here as possible.

Chapter Six
    The next morning, exhausted, we stop and rest the horses again. I stroke Katana’s nose, fighting tears. How many militiamen died last night? Three. Good men and women, volunteer soldiers just trying to do what’s right and defend the things they believed in. They were under my command. I’m responsible for their deaths…aren’t I?
    I press my cheek against Katana’s neck and stifle a sob.
    I can’t let anyone see me cry. Not now.
    So I take a deep breath, blink back the tears, and try to force it out of my head. Someday, when this nightmare is over, I’ll be able to stop and let the emotions roll in – if I’m not an emotional zombie by that point. But today is not that day.
    Vera walks around the front of Katana and stands there in silence. I don’t look at her.
    “It wasn’t your fault,” she says suddenly. Harshly.
    I stare at her. My eyes are red.
    “It was,” I reply.