by Sylvia Anna Hiven
Some of the bodies, a corpse runner ain't ever gonna return home.
It's not that I don't got compassion at the sight of the dead soldiers in the ditches. Honestly, I don't give a damn if they've got a leg blown off by the sonic cannons, even if it's gonna drip blood all over my wagon. It won't even matter if they got on the gold uniform of the West, or the crimson one from the East, because I make corpse runs both ways. All that matters is if the identification chip is still readable, and beneath that uniform, be it gold trimmed or crimson lined, is there a tin locket around their necks.
That locket, see, that means they got someone left behind at home: someone who threw their arms around that soldier's neck, whispered words of love and devotion into their ear, and gave them a sweet memory to hold on to when they went off to crawl through mud and the blood of their brothers.
There's a loved one, that locket says to me when I find it around a lifeless neck, and a loved one's gonna pay.