His hands wrapped around the staff tightly; he was out of bullets. His pistol was lodged deep in the skull of a rotten corpse that had outlasted its kin. Several speedy strikes at 7/8ths speed collided brutally at the joints. His training took over, delivering crumpling blows with extreme prejudice. Several more rushed in and were dismantled faster than they could comprehend.

  Sickening bone cracks filled the air as he moved. The heavy hum of the staff singing through the air filled his ears. Behind him, the corpses of the revenants remained standing, suspended in time from the sudden, brutal display of his combat sense. He remembered what he had to do: Move in. Grab the bird. Send it out. Move in. Grab the bird. Send it—

  Something heavy hit between his shoulder blades. The pain traveled up and down his spine instantly. His knees gave out without protest, sending him to a meaty stop on the ground. The only cushion was the snow under his knees, the numbing cold blunting the agony that would have followed. He looked forward to see men in the treeline. Mutants glaring back at him with snarling teeth, bark skin, and ugly horns sprouting from their heads.

  Grant stood back from the illusionary smoke projected from the Investigator’s folk wizardry. “What, it just… stops there?” he asked incredulously.

  The worn man looked up at Grant and nodded. “You burnt every other wisp of lore here. You’re lucky I got this much. As far as I know, ain’t none of you know smokelore either.” He said in an indignant tone.

  Grant chuffed at the remark. His eyes rested on the dissipating smoke that leapt from the man’s hands. “Can you gather anything from the burn pit—?”

  “No, Grant, I can’t. I told you this already. All I see is you burning the bodies.” He said flatly. “Do you have any other scraps, or—” He reconstructed the scene one more time. “Do you have that pistol? Maybe that might work.” He indicated the gun lodged into the head of one of the rotting revenants.

  Grant shrugged. “I’ll go look again.” He sighed and turned to see several men from town securing the logging camp. Dan looked pleased with himself, and Silas seemed upset at the youth’s victory. He sighed once again and started toward the old curmudgeon.

  Silas saw Grant’s approach and shook his head. “Damn folk magic,” he said derisively. “Boy’s folk tricks might’ve saved our hides, but they won’t last against what’s coming next.”

  Grant snorted and looked at Silas. “You remind me of Sideon Willow.” His remark was equal parts cold and teasing.

  Silas’s eyes widened at the jab, taking offense. “Nuh, don’t you dare,” he said coldly.

  Grant nudged him. “Don’t be a fool, Silas. Dan saved you and me. You should go over and thank him for it. Besides, there’s a good chance he’s gonna be on your roster this hitch.”

  Silas raised an eyebrow. “Whaddya mean?” he asked incredulously.

  Grant shifted his stance. “Even if you cleared out his F.O.B., Mr. Bramwell don’t take too kindly to… well… Wirebacks.” Grant lifted his hand to direct Silas’s gaze to the horse he rode in on.

  Silas looked at his mount. He was an experienced beast just hitting his stride… or so the merchant had claimed. Silas knew better—the old Wireback was eyeing retirement, maybe one or two more years without injury. He glanced back at Grant. “I don’t—”

  Grant shook his head. “They’re gonna run you out of this job if you keep buying bad tools, Silas.” Grant muttered bluntly, eyeing the horse. “I don’t see it lasting this hitch.” Grant kicked a tuft of dirt.

  Silas sighed and placed his hands on his hips. “Ain’t that easy to just buy a new horse—”

  Grant shook his head, interrupting. “Silas, it ain’t about the horse. It’s about preserving the man on it. That’s why Bramwell won’t give you a raise or a promotion. He likes your tenacity—we all do. But you just won’t buy tools that’ll last.” He said it more firmly, his gaze steady.

  Silas huffed at the dig, his eyes flicking to Grant’s new purchase. “I don’t see you getting far with that half-breed either,” he said dismissively.

  Grant smirked as he looked over at Finch, almost instinctively Finch looked back at Grant. “Naw. I think this one is a good Horse. Knows me like I raised him.” He said confidently. Remembering his task he turned to Silas. “You ain’t happen to see a pistol lying around, would you?”

  Silas shrugged. “Think I’d tell anyone if I did? A free gun? I’d say it was mine.”

  Grant nodded. “I’m not looking for a thief. It was Lucky’s.” Grant paused as he heard what he said, letting the irony pass, he spoke again. “We need to find it and get it back to the investigator.”

  Silas nodded. “Sure, but you sure do like all of this ‘We’ talk.” Silas mumbled. Grant saw him start walking around the camp.

  Remembering the photo, Grant started tracing the last thing he remembered from the smoke lore. Stopping just inside the gate, nearest to the north tower. He looked around and saw nothing lying in the dirt there. His mind playing back the images the smoke made. He remembered as the creature was oriented behind the replay, placing the lodged weapon closer to the main building inside of the walls.

  Grant turned and began his walk to the inside of the building. Still wary of the mess that was still inside. However, the added comfort of additional guards that hadn’t been affected by the Glamor was a sigh of relief in this nightmare. “Never thought I’d still be doing this kind of shit outside of the Army.” Grant mumbled, retracing his steps back inside.

  His eyes adjusted to the damp must the building had become. Sitting dormant over winter tends to do that to a building. The smell of decay and dilapidation tend to make a place smell musty and rank. Even more so if initial decomposers start moving in, forming a secondary ecology within the building. Grant shook his head and chuckled as he remembered snippets of his post-secondary education. His eyes traced along the length of the hallway, unsure even if a revenant could stumble inside a building after so long a period revived. Hell, he wasn’t even sure the creature would still be in camp. The hex the druids placed on this building are broken now. There’s nothing binding it to the location anymore.

  Then he saw it. A long green-black streak of slime sliding lengthways down the wall. “How the hell…” He muttered, remembering distinctly clearing this hallway. “More Glamours. Of course.” His hand felt comfortable on the grip of his pistol, and his new stamped steel containers weighed around his belt just enough to remind him of his discipline. Cautiously, he walked into the hall. ‘If I wasn’t attacked the first time. The Glamour must have been holding… something back. This… blood? Wasn’t here before.’ His mind raced, analyzing the possibilities as he looked at the mess. It rounded the corner deeper into the building. He slid up against the wall and drew his pistol. Remembering his breaching tactics. In a fast, efficient slide, Grant rounded the corner to see the hall empty, aside from a corpse he had missed. A corpse with a familiar looking pistol. Not taking a chance, Grant emptied his pistol into the creature. The dark hall lighting up in brief flashes that pulverized the dead thing further, pulping the head and releasing the pistol.

  Satisfied that the creature would be inactive, or at the least hampered and would need time to regenerate if it was still functional. Grant walked forward and retrieved the firearm. A sickly twitch followed, stunning Grant. He shot out a sharp kick and punted the desiccated corpse to the corner of the hallway. He quickly gave it several yards of space, but just enough room to react if in case it started to rise and attack. It didn’t though, Grant’s gaze lingered until he heard multiple footsteps walk into the room, breaking his concentration. He turned to see several men dressed in the fine blue of the town’s Sentries. “Sorry. There was one last… thing here.” He pointed his thumb back behind him. “Excuse me.”

  The investigator held out his hand to receive the pistol from Grant. “I see you have it. Good.” The pistol had been rusting in the revenant’s head for a winter season, that was evident of the rust pattern on the weapon. A clear dark line of very dark rust and green ichor etched into the weapon. The smoke weaver started his small fuel cake on fire once more. He set some colored glass around it and began to weave. His hands curled around the warmth the fire offered, quietly channeling the smoke into shape and color. Before long a clear image formed. Several minutes later the smoke began to move in color.

  The forest was gloomy grey and white, rushing past in a quick blur that disoriented the viewer. From the perspective of the runner, motion sickness could take hold in anyone who wasn’t moving while seeing the image. The view panned in a panicked flash back to the tree line. Those jagged human silhouettes once more popped through the snow and vertical stands of trees. Large beasts sat lurking in the shadows behind them. Their homunculus shape dominating the frame behind the druids. The view turned faster as image sped up through several minutes of running. The compound came back into sharp view once more. Men fighting the abominations of the woods for survival, their wretched forms were clawing the sides of the walls. Those same claw marks, the gnarled wood that imposed over a man were… fresh then.

  Grant shook his head as he thought about it, seeing the abominations the druids unleashed upon him and his fellow countrymen. He felt his blood boil at the ancestral enemy as they decimated and devoured. The blood curdling screams piercing the eerily quiet snow rattled the image. He relived the last moments of Lucky as he was hit in the back with a heavy club and dragged off. A large half bear, half bird, mutant gripped the struggling man in its paw. With a horrendous wet pop Lucky’s neck slid into an impossible angle. The images don’t still, but they aren’t clear either.

  The images remained dark for a while, until three clear faces stood over the corpse. His corpse was moved into a pile along the tree line. The first face peered into the dead eyes of Lucky. Grant saw the occluded milky eyes appraising the corpse with this preternatural care. The image was accompanied by approximate hallucinations of what might have been happening in proximity to the image. In simple marks the investigator extended the smoke to show the likely Druidic drawings that they had carved into the flesh of the corpse. The second man who peered into the corpse started setting fuel around the body. Preparing it for a sacred rite of reanimation. The image was hazy as the man went about the work. Pulling old impressions off of a gun was hard, and getting harder as the investigator pulled harder and harder with dwindling fuel.

  The second man was younger, likely the son or a relative of the first man. Dark brown eyes assessed the corpse of Lucky as he worked, pointing out something in one of the carvings and speaking in druidic. Grant closed his eyes as he tried to pull the language from memory.

  "Da'v... shay roonz doon't loo'k rhy't. Fwy?" The second man spoke to the first.

  "Nah fush oo'vur it. Thay'r nah maynt tuh lahst lohng'r. Soh way cah'n yooz dif'runt roonz f'r poh-w'r." His tone sounded dismissive, as if they were speaking over dinner.

  "Fwy? Doon't thuh vahn tayl us tuh pruh-zurv awl thah-t iz nahch'rul?" He spoke in an upward inflection.

  "Yehs, moh buh'oy, buht thays thihngs ar'n't nahch'rul. Loo'k uh-lohng thuh behl-ee, thuh poht behl-ee. Thah-t ihz nah't uh nahch'rul dy'ut this mahn lihv'd ohf uv. Hay lihk'lee suhf'rd grayt'lee frum ee'ting oh-vur'lee stahr'chee foo'ds." He asserted firmly, quietly assessing the corpse before him.

  "Oh... Uh-kay." The second man continued his rites, working the fuel into long curly sections along the perimeter.

  The third man came into view shortly thereafter, his hair was grey and falling out. His hands were pockmarked by burns, the skin on them grey and sallow. His eyes were filled with torment, and those windows spoke only of hell and torture to the souls he worked on. He did not speak as his hands lifted into the air, quietly he took a small piece of burning wood and started to light the fuel around them. The background of the men began to swell with looming figures. Reanimated corpses holding tools and weapons. Several holding old axes lilted from side to side as they shuffled. A couple held staves, likely recovered from a repelled fight against the first wave. And one peculiar revenant with a firearm lodged into its skull. Silently watching the Druids with their grizzly task.

  Grant nodded as he saw the smoke fade, the images of Lucky’s death and transmutation now seared into his mind. “At… at least I can pick them out from a crowd now.” He sighed.

  Two Sentries walked in with a heavy bucket of black sand, offloading it through the narrow entrance of the gate. They took handfuls and began sprinkling it across the land, as if to spread holy sacraments. One of them, a higher ranking man, spotted Grant inspecting his troops and started to walk towards the two men looming over the Investigator.

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  “You repelled the Druids, right?” The man almost accusingly asked.

  Grant nodded. “I cleared the camp of revenants, but it was Dan’s work that got message out that the camp had been attacked.

  Silas nodded curtly. “Aye, he did. I’m witness.”

  The investigator nodded along as well. “I can confirm they did speak of that while I was scrying this area Chief.”

  The Chief Sentry looked back at Grant. “I cant imagine. I hear they’re getting craftier now days.” He panned his sight across the courtyard. “Sorry to hear Lucky’s gone. Bastards took my brother too.”

  Grant, for all of his achievements, failed to remember the Chief’s name.

  Silas nodded. “Waste of good men. But we can’t just leave the place ready for druids to occupy every winter. These walls get stronger when they start using this witchcraft to bring the walls back to life.”

  The Chief Sentry nodded in agreement, seeing the misers point. “Too many people died here. We cant even revive them.”

  Grant spoke up to quell the argument. “Can’t, and wont, assist in reviving anything tainted by Folk-Weave. Sorry investigator, I don’t mean your smokelore. Druid weave is too dangerous to try to revive the tainted dead with. It wouldn’t matter anyway. All the corpses were beyond resurrection.”

  The Chief Sentry sat quietly and pondered on what to do next. He looked up to see grant in the eye and nodded. “You did a hell of a fine job. Thank you.”

  Grant returned the nod. “Glad to help.” He said in a stern but accepting tone.

  Silas turned to Grant and nudged him. “What’re we doing now?” He asked almost poignantly.

  Grant chuckled. “We get to work Silas.” As if the thought had just occurred to him, Grant turned and started to strut to his pack. “I want to write this down for Mr. Bramwell when he receives news of this.” He turned to look over his shoulder. “Im sure you know what you need to do to get started on this Hitch Silas.” Grant kept walking, preparing to get set in early on his work.

  It was a pinch to collect his things and pack Finch up. Now he knew he was up against Druids, he could plan around them. While it was hard to get the drop on them in their own forest. It was easy to completely negate their weave with iron filings. Cheap and abundant from the rivermen, black sand functionally operated in the same capacity as actual iron filings. Grant had collected his tools and set out for some small tasks he needed to do for Nesico. It was going to be a long Hitch, Grant could tell already. Plenty of time to score and collect tree sap. Working in a clockwise rotation, Grant started scoring the tree trunks. It was a few parts welcome distraction, one part revenge, and another part calming. The forest always called out to him and to hear the soft sounds of wood being scored always lifted his spirits. Either in collecting sap, or in hearing men fell trees.

  He had worked until the late day when he heard a large cart rolling into the improvised town. By now it had started to fill in more with the foremen and work gangs. The state carriages rolling in behind Mr. Bramwell’s own personal carriage. Grant turned to go and see the boss himself.

  The carriage was a massive black coffin built of sturdy wrought iron, solid Stoutfather wood, and fine silver inlay. At the head of Mr. Bramwell’s carriage were four stout beasts called ‘Oxblood’s’. Grant was always amused with the miniature locomotives strapped to Mr. Bramwell’s carriage. They were maybe 13 Hands tall, but their bulk was in their chest and legs. Stout, imposing, and bread to haul artillery and logistics carriages of war.

  The vehicle came to rest as a small man in a fine pressed servant’s attire stepped out. He tipped his hat to Grant and leant to open the door for Mr. Bramwell. About as stout as his Oxbloods, Mr. Bramwell was a short fat man. Time had not weathered him well. His choice of diet didn’t do him any favors either. Despite his choice in health and self care, Mr. Bramwell was always well dressed and a very clean man by nature. He looked around from the inside of his Carriage and snorted. “Who let you louts rip up MY camp this way?” He snorted derisively.

  Grant smirked, shifting his weight with axe in hand. “The Druids Sir.” He remarked calmly. Knowing Mr. Bramwell was quick to anger with poor jokes. When Grant first started, Mr. Bramwell was that enigmatic boss who looked down on the low rungs of his own business.

  Mr. Bramwell snorted at the quick remark from Grant. Other men, Silas, John, Gribbs, and Eli stood around the camp in various states of readiness. “What do you mean Druids?” He asked incredulously.

  “Your winter post was wiped out. Druids were trying to renaturalize the place.” He remarked simply. “Nobody was able to send out pigeons. We were all late because of that. So, we’re starting set back by…” He looked at the ground kicking a lump of dirt. “A week?” He looked around at the group to see various nods and grumbling.

  Mr. Bramwell cleared his throat and quickly started barking out orders, keeping his team leads close while organizing the Government prison labor alongside the sharply dressed Sentries from the local state penitentiary. Grant remembered them wearing a dark navy-blue outfits trimmed in gold at one point. Now they’re wearing… grey and black. Grant leaned in and nudged Mr. Bramwell. “Hey, look at that. They traded their blue’n’golds for Prison grey.” He followed one with his eyes. “Guess they’re dressing for the job they love. Bending over backwards to keep the chain gangs satisfied.”

  Mr. Bramwell’s snort rolled like his gut as he chortled. “Heh. Careful Goodmin. Keep talking like that and I’ll have you over my ledger to tally up the overtime. These sentries aren’t the only ones getting railed by the state.”

  Grant let a low chuckle out as he pulled out his pocketbook. “Keep it in your pants, its just a notebook.” He pulled out his notes to run Mr. Bramwell down the camp’s current situation. The mirth goes over well to smooth the rolling pace.

  Grant let out a little bit of his childish side whenever the boss was around. The site usually got very tense with incarcerated men working long hard hours. He noticed that some jokes and good treatment went a long way. Grant had no control over the rate at which they’re paid. That is a temporary solution anyway, usually is just an issue of respect that makes men get violent. Something else struck him as he saw the Sentries and chain gangs moving about. Most of these men were of a grey complexion and had clipped ears. Grant was trying to pinpoint where these men came from as one of the Sentries came up to him.

  “Evenin’. Looks like we’re workin’ together.” The man offered a stiff hand towards Grant.

  Grant inspected the man as he approached, his knees were slightly bent, the Sentries eyes were wide cast and yet focused. The low center of gravity and predatory stride the man made rung loudly to him. Grant smirked a toothy predatory grin. “Army?” He asked almost immediately. Forgetting to speak his name at first.

  “Freshly released. You?” The man spoke quickly in a clipped tone.

  “Staff Sergeant Grant Goodmin, Third Scouts. Yourself?” Grant retorted in remembered rote, taking the man’s hand firmly.

  The man stiffened as he heard the rank. “Lance Corporal Mercer Jay Willis. Willis works fine sir.” He saluted Grant quickly.

  “Hah! Good. Good to work with another ditch digger.” Grant chuckled, his eyes swept across the men he was charged with taking care of this Hitch. “What’re they all in for?” Grant asked quietly.

  The man dropped the tone of his voice and replied in a clipped tone. “Most of them are timber poachers. Some of them fought Folk with us, deemed too far gone in how they did it Brass thinks.” Willis sighed as he sized up the men. “These were a troubled bunch last year. I don’t think you got the easy bunch.”

  Grant paused as he heard it, momentarily surprised by the admission from Willis. He hid his lapse a moment later, reaching into his pocket for some tree sap he had and popped it into his mouth. He liked the taste of fresh tree sap occasionally. “Great.” He remarked sarcastically. Grant’s eyes inspected the men he was to oversee for the next several months. He sighed as he walked towards them.

  “Gentlemen.” He remarked cautiously, knowing the first introduction was always the most important. “Welcome to Kingwood Logging Camp. This is our fourth facility.” His eyes panned to the left, then to the right. A plethora of human diaspora played before him. Healthy men freshly incarcerated and chaffing at their chains. Their dark grey work uniforms blotchy and storied from prisoners’ past. Old men chiseled into living shambling revenants of their past. Older work uniforms describing the living history on display in these veterans. Grants eyes flew over each of them for a moment, and made note of the youngest and oldest. Ten men stood before Grant, watching him as if he held the whip. “I will be your foreman and lumber agent. We’re still restructuring after the Druid attack and we’re low on foremen.”

  Grants eyes kept sweeping watching their reaction carefully, their attention on him felt almost adversarial. He dug into his gut and pulled a firm but understanding tone. “You are here because the State determined you fit to work. That work will help cleanse you of the sins you all had committed against the Covenant. With any luck, and a lot of hard work, you will set yourselves free.” Grant shifted his weight from the left to the right, affirming his tone. “I will not tolerate assault and battery against any of your fellow inmates. In the army Discipline was handled quick and without remorse. Its measured in lengths of my arm. Pray you not need learn the level I am willing to come down upon you.” Grant nodded and continued.

  “From the size of our group here, I would not be surprised if we’re working the deeper section of our logging expedition. We’re likely going to be laying down path and marking out viable trees for harvest for the next couple weeks. Are there any among you who can read and write?” Grant asked firmly, knowing that the two skills aren’t a common occurrence among inmates.

  The panoply of men before him shuffled, grey uniforms moving as four of the ten rose their hands. Pools of sweat stained the uniforms brown as they lifted their hands. Dark grey skin contrasted against the light grey of their uniforms. Grant took note and nodded his head. “Good. I’ll have some tests handed out to make sure if any of you are lying to me.” He turned and looked at Willis. “Go retrieve some literacy tests from the back. Take them with you while I retrieve our gear and mounts.” Grant saw them move off before taking his mount to the commissary.

  Finch’s shoulder twitched at the flies that felt it necessary to bother the beast. Grant swatted at them with a light flicker of speed to clear the pests from his prized mount. Patting him, Grant dismounted and walked to the man at commissary. He was a stocky man, free from field duty now.

  “Grant.” James said in a gruff tone. “You need gear this year, don’t you?” He asked.

  Grant nodded. “Yeah, looks like I’m pulling chain gang duty.” Grant muttered.

  James nodded with a half chuckle. “I’m not surprised. We let go two more crews this year.” The stocky man snorted and spit on the ground, not out of derision, however.

  “Another two crews?” Grant asked in shock. “We’re going to be overrun by prisoners at this rate.” He sighed, rubbing his face.

  James nodded. “Bramwell’s getting’ greedy, or he’s losing money. It’s hard to keep up with slave labor.” The man scratched his neck as he looked over a gear manifest. “Anything in particular you want added to your usual list?”

  Grant nodded. “Yeah, I need to build a new one this year. Looks like we’re going out into the Ironround range this year. We need deep kit.”

  James sighed and took a notepad, flipping it to a fresh page. “Ready.”

  Grant cleared his throat before he spoke, pulling from memory of failed deep kit in the past from better men. “Twelve pairs of heavy boots, reinforced toe and heavy sole. Heavy canvass work coats. Cold weather underlays, I need those as wool not cotton. I need twenty pairs of rawhide leather gloves. Twelve wide brim work hats. And… Make it two boxes of unscented soap bars.”

  James wrote quickly, using shorthand interpreter script neatly found in the courthouse. “Tools?”

  James nodded his head as he thought. “I need twelve single bit felling axes, and twice that in replacement handles, Breakstaff handles. I need about twenty-four steel wedges for felling. Six wooden mallets, the rest we can make out in the field. Twelve sharpening kits and their accoutrements. I will need about eight rolls of hundred-foot field rope. I’m thinking… four crates of mixed gauge iron nails.”

  James wrote the needed items down his handwriting neat and fast as Grant waited. “Food, administrative, and miscellaneous?”

  Grant thought about it, shifting his weight. “I need six large canvass camping tarps. About forty-eight tent stakes. I need lanterns and all their extra bits and bobs. I want about six five-gallon fuel containers of lamp oil.” Grant rubbed his chin as he moved onto food items. “I need four crates of hard tack. Four barrels of salt pork, or salt meat. Whatever we have. Four sacks of dried beans. We’re going to need about six barrels of fresh water. I know Bramwell doesn’t have this, but I want to get a crate of chocolate and two crates of whisky, and... Lets say five pounds of black sap grounds.”

  James kept writing quietly, taking notes on who he could speak to. “The chocolate might take some time to get to you. But if you’re willing to pay for it out of pocket, I don’t see why we couldn’t get it to you.”

  Grant nodded. “I’ll also need Black iron sand. I’m thinking six containers worth covering and some extra in case we run into issues. Chain repair links, one crate worth. Spair restraint sets. I’ll also need slate boards, charcoal sticks and wax markers, paper bundles and oil skins. Oh, and I want my staff.”

  James nodded, most of those things would take maybe two hours to acquire and have loaded. “Your staff is in the back, let me grab that for you right now.” The man disappeared into the back for a few minutes, leaving Grant to the sound of men working to get the logging camp back into speed. He returned shortly, a thick heavy quarterstaff in hand. “Here you go.”

  Grant smiled with it in his hands and gave it a twirl. It felt as if it got lighter in his hands. “Thank you. I’ll be going now. Send a runner when all the gear is ready, I’ll have my gang load it. I’ll take one of your narrow carts too. We might run into tight corridors in the woods. A two wheel will work best I’m thinking.” He said in a concerned tone.

  James finished the list and turned deeper into commissary.

  Grant looked back at Finch, and mounted. Trotting to the gang. He felt the trod of the powerful beast as he made his way over, appreciating the powerful build the creature had. As if on que, finch looked back at Grant. He gave a half smile and ran his hand down the length of Finch’s mane. “Easy there...” He said carefully. Grant took the time to appreciate the beast before he heard something distinct. Looking up, he saw one of the prisoners doubled over, clutching his stomach. Grant groaned and strode over, seeing the commotion.

  “I won’t tell you again.” Willis spoke with a vile tone. “Move. Or you will be moved.” His rifle sat in a reverse grip in his hands, the butt of the weapon lingering near the man’s head.

  Grant lifted his eyes at the distant wood line, knowing that if he shows concern now, he would just undermine Willis’ authority here. “Our gear is getting collected. How did the literacy tests go?” Grant asked almost as if it were an afterthought.

  Willis lifted the papers to Grant. “Only two of them can read proficiently. This one is the best of the four.” He remarked a thin man wearing glasses. “Looks the type too.”

  Grant sized up the thin man before him, his hands bound around his waist, tied to the shackles around his ankles. “What’s a rail thin man like you doing out here with thugs, murders, and military pariahs?” Grant leveled his gaze at the man, as uncomfortable it might be for it to land on them.

  The man looked up and squinted his eyes, the sun beaming into them directly. “Fraud, sir.”

  Grant snorted. “Couldn’t keep your hand out of the cookie jar?” He said with a snark.

  Willis smirked too at the exchange, relaxing at the man’s charge.

  “That’s right. Give or take anyway.” The prisoner said, with a half grin.

  “What’s your name, prisoner?” Grant mused.

  “Jéru Elro. You can just call me Elro.” He said smugly.

  “Well, Elro. Looks like you’re going to be keeping track of our inventory, don’t fuck up.” Grant reached down and handed the man a copy of the list he had.