The door kicks in.

“The French just got back. They got a truckload of bodies, come on.”

“Why?”

“Might as well. It’s our job.”

It’s their job. I’m not French.

“Okay.”

Only covered by a blood soaked tarp is a mass of once-people. The tarp is thrown aside by an officer with a clipboard. I don’t see the faces anymore it’s just a conglomeration of flesh and blood, dried by the hot winds on the drive back.

“You ever see this before?”

Yes. Please let me sleep.

“No. What’d they do?”

“They thought they could fight back.”

The accent isn’t there. The movies said it would be. The movies said a lot of things.

“Nice work.”

All that remains sits in the back of this messy pickup truck.

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