After the battle, Shook drops his weapon and flops to the ground. He stares blankly at the shattered wall ahead. There are parts everywhere, bits and pieces of things and people. Somewhere nearby, someone is moaning awfully, wetly.
Cloister is hunched over near the breach, praying, a piercing declaration. Through the numbness, Shook feels a stab of hot, white anger, and almost, almost walks over and strangles the son of a bitch. Instead he starts to cry dry, slow tears.
The wind hisses through the trees, and the sky eddies back and forth, and the grass dances and whisper-laughs.