The man kept the knife lodged in the woman’s throat for a few seconds more before he eventually pulling it out. It was a clumsy process; the notches on the blunt end did a very good job of keeping its victim dead. He lifted himself off the ground, mopping the blood off his blade from both sides on the woman’s face. Her peaceful expression was short-lived as it was sullied by her own mangled flesh, dripping blood across her pale cheeks.
He then took a glance around the road. He peered at the valley peaks and across the road through his motorcycle goggles. Nothing, aside from dust, dust, and more dust. He then kept a close eye on the woman, making sure no miracles were to happen before his eyes. After half a minute he was sure. He pushed open his coat. Tied against his waist was a fat, leather sheath. Carefully, he aimed the edge of the blade into the open hole and fitted it in.
Holding onto her legs, the man dragged the woman’s corpse towards the dead man with the metal arm, tossing her beside him.
The man dropped down to a crouched position over the bodies and began patting on their clothes. The man started with the dead man with the metal arm. He looked around his bloody clothes, which had since then dried to an almost crispy texture. He found nothing on him. He looked into the bag beside him instead. He opened the bag beside him. He tossed everything that wasn’t related to a firearm out of the bag and slung it over his neck. He switched over to the woman and began undoing her vest.
“Would you be enjoying that?”
In a jolt, the man jerked his head up to the carriage and pulled out his knife, sheath included. In his panic, he failed to take notice of the voice’s tone. It was faint yet clear enough to make words out. It sounded feeble and weak but chock full of confidence and assurance at the same time.
Standing over the edge of the carriage was the old woman, hunched over her shoulder and drenched in red from head to toe. Many forms of torn bodily matter scattered across her appearance but she didn’t seem to mind. From the looks of it, she didn’t seem too bothered by the icky bits of intestines sticking onto her ragged clothes.
The man slowly got up to his knees, his knife still pointed towards the old woman.
“Why,” she said, “A knife to an elderly like me? That isn’t so respectful, is it?”
The man still kept his knife up.
“At least help me down from this mess, will you?”
The man hesitated for a second, then released his grip on the knife. He extended his arms towards the old woman. The old woman looked down to his hands and sighed and shook her head. The man still held the blade, now lightly dangling off to the side of his palm, suspended under his thumb.
“You wouldn’t expect an old lady like me to bend my knees, would you?”
The man hesitated for another second before he eventually relented, stuffing the knife back under his coat. The old woman churned her wrinkled skin to the best of its abilities and made a smile. She turned her back against the man and, to his horror, starting falling backwards.
In a split second, the man swung his foot to the side and caught the old woman in a princess carry. She was so small and shrivelled that his palms ended up catching her head and her calves, leaving her waist suspended under his elbow. Surprisingly, she was lighter than he expected. With great ease, he laid her gently to the ground, returning the old woman to her hunched posture soon enough.
The old woman turned to meet the bodies on the ground. With slow, small steps, she walked towards the dead man with the metal arm. The man followed her with his gaze. The old woman crouched down, adjusting his arm back into his shoulder. She turned to the side. With a gentle nudge, she pushed the dead woman’s back to an upright position, closing the ripped wound on her throat the man managed to tear wider as he dragged her there.
The old woman looked towards the man.
“Would you be a dear and bring the other bodies down?”
The man stood there, unresponsive as he stared blankly at her.
“And the men that attacked us; them too. Lay them where I tell you.”
The man remained stationary; his gaze still stuck on the old woman.
“Please?”
Slowly, the man climbed onto the back of the carriage. His actions seemed hesitant, but not the kind evoked by reluctance. He seemed willing enough to do the old woman’s bidding, only held back a little by the absurdity of her request.
The first body he managed to pull out was the bandana man, who was the closest to him. As he pulled him from his arms his head came rolling off the carriage. His neck had been stomped to a flat, sticky red. The old woman managed to catch the head before it dropped onto the dead woman’s breast.
“Just lay him parallel to the others, please.”
The man did just that. He went back to the carriage and pulled out two more dead men. The man with the missing finger soon joined the bandana man. The bandaged man came much later, as it took a great deal to keep his head upright after he was slammed to the carriage’s wooden walls at such a high velocity that the wound was further wrenched halfway across his neck. When the old woman came to twist his head back in place, she could vaguely see the white gleam of his spine sticking out from within.
He then brought the timid man out. His clothes were soaked from within. A cavernous mouth opened from his abdomen as his insides spilt out in tangled knots. As he did with the old woman, the man brought him down in a princess carry. The old woman herself oversaw the process, making sure the timid man remained as whole as possible when he was laid on the road.
Then the man brought the robed woman. She was relatively easier to deal with than the others. Her body was almost intact and virtually untouched by the chaos that happened within. As if a miracle, her robes had only been stained around the sleeves where her head laid. Or rather, once laid. Everything above her neck was blown clean off. If anything was left of her head, it was irretrievable. What remained of it could only be found from scattered, minute chunks splattered on everybody’s clothes.
“What a pity,” the old woman commented as she straightened out the dead lady’s robes, “She was quite the looker.”
Then she looked back up to the carriage and sighed, “Oh no.”
The next person the man brought was the bald girl. Her ragged clothes, like all the others, had been stained red. The only difference she had among everyone else was her face, which had been dyed to a faint shade of purple, with spots of red permeating her face. Her appearance was relatively unharmed, but she was far from responsive. Her pupils had partially rolled up to her eyelids, with her mouth ajar and fuming with the funky smell of saliva.
“Set her down to me,” the old woman reached out towards the man, “Gently.”
The man crouched down and handed the girl to the old woman from the carriage. The old woman examined the bald girl in her arm, peering at her neck and her face through her wrinkled eyelids.
“She couldn’t breathe under the bodies,” the old woman lamented laid her down next to the timid man’s corpse, “Shame.”
Then the bald man was brought down, along with the man with the flask. There was no helping it. Their heads, unlike the robed woman, were still partially intact, only on all the wrong places. Things spilt out no matter which way the man tried to pull them out. All he could do is move their bodies down the carriage, go back inside, scoop up whatever dropped out on the way and pour it back in. In the end, both dead men had their clothes stained redder than before; from the blood they tracked on the way off the carriage and partially because the man kept wiping his hands off their clothes.
The old woman made her final adjustments to the corpses and asked, “Is that everyone?”
The man turned behind towards the carriage, looked back and nodded.
“Thank you,” the old woman said, “Now come here beside me, and don’t step on the bodies.”
The man tip-toed across the bodies and joined the old woman on the opposite side. The old woman then put her two palms together, made a bow towards the file of corpses and muttered something under her breath. The man only watched from aside.
The old woman noticed his gaze and asked, “Aren’t you paying your respects?”
The man kept his gaze on the old woman.
The old woman asked, “Have you ever made prayers before?”
The man tilted his head, only to shake it a few moments later.
“Well, I don’t blame you,” the old woman said, “I’d be surprised if you told me God’s been listening.”
She took a long, solemn look at the bald girl next to the timid man.
“Or if there even is a god in the first place,” the old woman said as she clasped her palms together and made a bow again.
The man still held a look of confusion, but he copied the old woman nonetheless, clasping his palms and taking a low bow towards the bodies before him.
