Jacques awoke amongst scattered bodies. His head throbbed where the mace had struck. Nearby, a crow alit on a dead soldier’s chest, plucked an eyeball, just like Laura would pluck vine-ripened grapes. His hand squeezed bloody muck. He envisioned the rich soil of his farmland. He grabbed limbs of the dead, pulled himself forward. He’d crawl back to Laura.
A boot stepped in his path. “Where you heading, mate?”
“Please,” said Jacques, touching the boot.
“Got a live one ‘ere, Sarge,” called the boot.
“Cap’n said no quarter.”
“Sorry mate,” said the boot, grinding Jacques face into the muck.