Bodies

Keats almost never dreamed of the war.

Some people thought he was lying when he said that those memories didn't haunt his sleep; others assumed he'd never been there, that he hadn't seen the worst of it. Only a scant few knew where he'd been, where he'd been captured. He kept it close to his chest, real personal-like, and most of the time those days let his sleep be. When he did dream of the war, though. . .it was bad.

Some things were almost certain to bring the memories to the surface, to send Keats quiet and somber. Death--especially violent death--was one of 'em. And Billie. . .

. . .well, it wasn't as though he was close to her, particularly speaking. She'd seemed a nice enough sort, but he'd never really got to talking to her, never really got to know her. So when he'd seen her lying there, dead and bled out on the floor of the cargo bay, his first thought was one of relief. It wasn't crew, wasn't Lexi's red hair splayed across the floor or Shen's tiny body lying there broken. Wasn't Rae. . .

And then his stomach clenched as he felt the emptiness, the lack of. . .something in the body. Keats couldn't explain it--he never could--but it felt off. Wrong. And it was wrong of him to be relieved when someone was dead.

It didn't matter how wrong it was. There was still work to be done, and maybe only two folk on the crew fit to do it. And the Doc did enough already.

He waited until most of the crew had gone to sleep or otherwise retired, then snuck his way back into the cargo bay, carrying a bucket of warm water and a bundle of clothing. He opened the locker where she'd been stowed, brought her out. Her body was still covered in blood, still had the shot wounds. and dirt on her. Biting back his fear, he placed a rag in the bucket, then wiped it across her face, cleaning the skin. He did that over the whole body, changed her clothes while he did it. His clothes weren't a perfect fit--he'd chosen his loosest, largest ones, unsure of how they'd fit a woman's form--but they were clean, and dignified. Or, at least, better than a sack of rags.

Keats removed a knife from her back, noticed the familiar crook to the blade. He remembered that Rae had mentioned Billie being hit by Lexi's knife. Slowly, almost reverently, he cleaned it, dried it, set it aside. He'd give it to him before he went to bed.

From his pockets, he produced a small, thick-bristled brush, and did what he could to straighten her hair, to remove the blood that had matted against it. After two hours of work on her skin, hair, and wounds, she looked more presentable. More peaceful. Not at peace--Keats knew better than that--but not covered in gore. He placed her back in the hold, took the bloody clothes and folded them into a pile, placed them at her feet before he shut the door.

On his way back to his bunk, he filched a medium jug of Blue Sun whiskey, carried it back and took out an old canteen. He poured a small measure inside, let it swirl around the metal interior before drinking it, refilled it and let it burn through his body before he stood up, holding the knife, ready to return it. . .

. . .and then it was night, and he wasn't in his bunk. He was in a valley, filled with bodies, talking to them, listening to them scream and wail, listening to the shells falling around him, one racket indistinguishable from the other, till all he heard was a rushing roar.

He was running through a field, could see men falling around him, could feel his own legs pump and his body dodge and weave, somehow missing the mines, the enemy bullets, until he was far away and completely alone. The canteen that lie at his sleeping side was now in his hand, blood smeared, as he stumbled across the field, throat parched and barely able to stand. He remembered faces, haggard as his, all hope gone. Then everything flashed green and bright, and he was hauled up, was running again, could feel his death in the footsteps following him, in the fists flaying him, felt the crack of a gunbutt against his head as he lay on the ground, staring into the empty eyes of another soldier, knowing--

--and then he was sitting up, drenched in sweat, head turning around in a vain attempt to see before he realized it was night, the lights were off. He felt someone in the bed next to him, rested his hand lightly on her back and felt her deep, even breathing. Rae. They'd--he'd spent the night. He was here. He was safe.

And yet, in the abject darkness that was only found out in the black, he found himself shaking, the beginning of tears in his eyes as he flopped back on the bed, reliving the adrenaline rush of images over and over in his head, waiting for morning.