Engines sang a low moan.

  Minutes died as frozen mountainsides raced past under the dimly lit, green-yellow sky. The snow was painted a rotten greenish hue, reflecting the contaminated light. Tobacco smoke, kerosene, machine oil, and burnt gunpowder—the imaginary smell of burning flesh dominated all else. His eyes struggled to stay open, fighting to peel away from the instrument panel. His hands were the only part of his body that did not commit treason; they held Glass. They would kill anyone or anything that denied them their home.

  None spoke a word.

  Bugeyes never blinked; she would not stop staring at Geiger. Her fingers fiddled with the safety switch of her pistol, still in its holster. Semtex’s sight shifted between Needle and Geiger, unable to decide.

  Needle’s eyes were locked shut, his trembling palm still holding Zyklon’s ghost. He had already consumed half a packet of cigarettes. The pain was unlike a gunshot wound; it was not acute. It was rotting; it was terminal and slow. Every passing second felt numb; every second killed his senses little by little. Taste was the first victim, the first to die. Decay invaded his smell, sight blurred, and touch struggled to differentiate between present and past. Hearing was the most resilient; it was trained to follow orders.

  Semtex's eyes finally settled on his mate. She was alive; she was not maimed. He softly pulled his mate’s hand from her pistol. Bugeyes recoiled, punching his hand away.

  He reached for her again.

  “Fuckin' quit it!” she elbowed Semtex, eyes never leaving Geiger.

  “Shut up, Bug!” Her gaze left Geiger; it was now trained on her assigned mate.

  “I would also do it, Bug,” Needle whispered.

  “Have you gone lame?” She jerked her arms away in vain.

  “Eat shit.” He let her go. He snatched a cigarette from Needle’s packet and lit it.

  Needle reached for his armored rig. He reached for Zyklon’s letter, squeezed between two loaded magazines. He pulled it free; a magazine clung on as the letter left the pouch. White paper stuck between feed lips and live rounds.

  Needle yanked it free.

  The magazine clattered on the frozen fuselage floor; it had taken half of the letter with it.

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  Geiger peeled his eyes from the instrument panel at the sound of the impact. Now they rested on the magazine on the floor. Ripped paper held captive in steel, trembling at the vibrations of gas turbines and rotor blades.

  He knelt and picked up the magazine; half of the letter clung to it. His eyes fell on Zyklon’s words: March on, don’t look behind. He set both items on the seat next to Needle, avoiding everyone’s gaze.

  Needle pulled the paper free and connected it to its other half, duct-taped them together, and stared.

  He left the loaded magazine behind.

  No words. As his eyes traced the letter, he folded it neatly and placed it in an empty pouch. It would not share the same space with ammo again. Then he grabbed the mag and shoved it in his pocket.

  Geiger kept brushing Glass’s hair; he held her close. Her heartbeat was growing stronger, her shivering weaker. Her tongue flicked; a smile almost warmed her face. Her palm reached for his; it was pitch black. Nails were uselessly quivering. Eyes shut hard.

  Geiger pinched her fingers. No response.

  “It’s alright, Glassy.” He pushed up her sleeves.

  Right hand: dead up to the wrist. Left hand: only index and thumb were not necrotic.

  Geiger carefully pried her gloves off. The left one came off; the right one took dead skin with it. Glass did not feel any of it.

  Geiger undid the knots on her combat boots and carefully removed them.

  Pale, alive skin—still untouched by death.

  Geiger exhaled.

  Glass whispered his name.

  They embraced.

  Synthetic leather groaned as steel left the scabbard. Geiger put himself between her and the sound.

  Semtex had pulled out his combat knife; he stood up and started rifling through his rucksack. He produced a small whetstone and a miniature gas burner. Geiger looked away. He kissed her forehead.

  Steel protested as it was forced onto the whetstone. Gas hissed, a Zippo lighter answered; a flame roared to life. Blue and orange fire; none felt its warmth.

  Glass’s eyes opened. Her lover was the first she saw. Geiger shielded her from the sight of the knife. He forced a wider, warmer smile; Glass saw right through his lies. She hissed and tried to shake herself free. In vain.

  Venom dripped on the floor; her tears soon joined them as Geiger held her still.

  The steel stopped moaning. It was plunged into the fire.

  “No!” Her voice sounded like a POW, not a biological weapon.

  “I am here, my Glassy!”

  Needle passed him the knife; his hand shook, then his shoulders.

  Semtex pushed the 122mm mortar base plate under her arm.

  “No, Geiger! No!” They held her down.

  “Do it.” Semtex looked away.

  Needle pulled out an empty mag and pushed it in her mouth, muffling her screams.

  Geiger had never seen Glass weep.

  Morphine jabbed in her thigh, tourniquets fastened on the threshold between live skin and rot.

  My Glassy.

  Knife forced on flesh.

  Agony.

  Their eyes met. A question was asked before she lost consciousness.

  He did not know the answer.

  “Was your cripple worth our fuckin' fuel, Commander?!”

  Semtex spat on the floor, moved to a different seat, and started cleaning his knife. Needle unfolded the letter in front of him and stared at Geiger.

  “Yes, soldier.”

  Semtex saluted Geiger, Needle nodded, and tossed him the almost empty cigarette packet.

  We are worth more than fuel.