hips; he bore seals of past ownership. Beaten into submission, he became sheep among lions. His hands stop moving for a moment again to look at the girl—an enforcer notices and extracts him from the field. They never see each other again.
He’s kicked to the ground—then kicked towards a tree. Two others bind him to the trunk; the whip blares down, ripping flesh from bone and mangling skin. The girl watches in horror but makes no moves to assist, nor does she show distress. Calm, cold, collected—their way to survive is to remain passive. Every bone in her body shouts and screams with each crack of the whip—her heart struggles through beats too fast to keep calm. Unable to take it anymore trauma, she cries out. An enforcer turns around and puts a bullet through her skull.
“Anyone else got a problem with the way we run things around here?”
No one says anything. No one stands up—they continue on. The man bound against the tree lets a tear trickle down his cheek, but it’s not from pain—it’s for her.
“You cryin’ boy? You had ‘nuf yet—because I’m just gettin’ started.”
The enforcer keeps his promise, but the man is too badly wounded to recover. He cut the beaten man down before finishing him.
“You’re like a dead damn dog. Last words, Sonny?”
“See you in hell.”
“What?”
The man reaches for the knife used to cut him loose off the tree. First shot misses, knife in hand—he throws it; the enforcer shoots again. Both hit their target—neither survives.
***
First eyes meet. Planes soar overhead, sirens scream and machine guns fire across the battlefield—bombs explode, shrapnel shatters as bullets scatter. He’s lying on the ground with a fatal gut wound; she’s cradling his head in her arms during his last moments. They hadn’t met before this moment, but a sense of familiarity resonates between them. He looks into her eyes, she into his; for an instant they almost seem to recognize one another—glimpse past, before she could speak—before she could even acknowledge their déjà vu moment, she watches the life flutter out of his body through his eyes.
Again she was alone. How many more have to die—why does she feel bad about this one? She did all she could.