THE WOLVES.

i. WILL YOU REMEMBER?

ONE, TWO, THREE.

     Nancy counts slowly. One boy and two girls. They had been stacked on top of one another, crushed in between the other bodies. When Nancy found them, their eyes were still open. No one thought it to be necessary to close their soulless eyes. No one thought to let them rest in peace. They are in Boston, however. There is no rest for the dead here.

     Nancy studies the children. Their hair is matted, lumps of dirt hitting her fingers as she runs them through their blonde curls. Their clothes are tattered and dirty. It must've been the very same clothes they came in. She looks for moles and freckles. She records the number in her head. Memorabilia, she thinks. Facts about these dead children. They will not be forgotten.

     A FEDRA soldier blows into her whistle.

     One, two, three—she grabs the boy first. Nancy holds him as if he is her own flesh and blood. It's second nature to her at this point. She's been a mother to a child that's not hers for a long time. She cradles his head as she did to her sister when she was younger. He is too small, too young, to be dead in her arms. She hopes his life wasn't too torturous. That he and the other kids still had their mother or father. Nancy hopes that they knew what a home was and that they had one. She wonders if they've seen the Atlanta sunsets. Nancy hopes they did.

     The FEDRA soldier blows their whistle again.

     Nancy presses a kiss to the boy's forehead. "Stay safe. I will remember."

     One, two, three—into the fire he goes.

It is a quiet affair. The purging of bodies has never caused an ordeal. At least not here. In the Atlanta QZ, they live in a strange limbo. When it comes time to burn the bodies, people gather around. Nancy used to think people were only drawn to it because it was an attraction. There are a lot of sick people here. However, she's realized that most people are simply here to watch. She doesn't think they pray or anything of that sort. (What's truly there to pray for after all these years?). They're just there. Another person to remember.

     She gently drops the last child into the growing fire with her ash-ridden hands. Nancy steps back and stands with the others. Those who are not soft anymore, too consumed with what has become of the world. Each with their arms crossed over their chest, nursing their losses and grief, adding fuel to a never-ending fire that grows in their souls. 

     Suddenly, the flames get bigger and the bodies get consumed.

     In Nancy's eyes, innocent souls are saved from their impending doom.

     The charred bodies never get easier. Their smell is unpleasant. Nancy covers her nose with her black shirt, but it doesn't work. The stench of death is the QZ's signature scent. It is mixed into the very fabric of their militant society. Nancy drinks and feasts on the bloodshed and the death. The smell lulls her to sleep because if it is not there, she knows that danger lurks around.

     She may be desensitized from all the horrors, perhaps. Being tough and hard, not allowing her softness to seep through her bare and open hands, came easy to her. Her dad didn't like to see her cry or laugh or be human. Nor girl. (She brought shame upon him, apparently). Tears were not welcome in that home, and Nancy thought that her dad's words were just tough love for a while. She thought that if she allowed him to love her like a dog, that the respect would come after. That they'd finally be everything she wanted them to be.

     How could she forget that her father was allergic to dogs?

     One, two, three—the bodies are black ash now. The FEDRA officer blows their whistle again. People are beginning to leave. Three women, however, get on their knees and jump on the hot ground. Using their covered arms, the women begin to scoop up the ashes and put them into a bag. They are crying and wailing, just like they do every time they burn the bodies. That is why people leave after they blow the whistle. They can't take it. Nancy can. They will not be forgotten. This is not a new sight to behold. They are women who have lost their loved ones. Mothers who now attempt to scrape up the few pieces of the fallen. They choose to remember. They commemorate, even when nobody had the courtesy to do the same for them.

Nancy looks to her right and catches sight of Joel, an infamous smuggler. He has his gun around his waist. His face holds no emotion. Yet, he always stays. Never helping. He just watches. Like Nancy. She wonders if he feels the same as she does when this happens. He's never seemed like the type to pray for another day.

     Another day is another day alive.

     Nancy sighs before turning on her heel and walking away. She can't tell whether this is her salvation or doom.