Author's Notes: Thanks to __fallen for looking it over; written for the Genre challenge at ds_flashfiction (genre = war story).

Story Notes: Warning: violent, disturbing content.

Ray fell to his knees, ears ringing, as his stomach turned over. He spewed vomit into the dust until nothing was left but bile. The noonday sun beat down and he spat out the foul taste, wiping his watering eyes, his dripping nose. Someone handed him a wineskin and he aimed a jet of it into his mouth, swished, and spat again.

"Didn't I tell you to get off the line, Kowalski?" Ray set his jaw and steeled himself for an argument, but Welsh had already moved on, shouting, "Come on, men, get it together! Huey, take that side. Fraser, get over to the eastern side and take Kowalski with you. Get him upwind of this mess."

"Yes, sir," Fraser answered, offering Ray a hand up. Ray grunted his thanks, picked up his rifle, and set off toward the east end of the plaza. The day was sweltering, but the breeze blowing down off the mountains brought no relief. It was only more hot and dry added to it all...but at least it was upwind. Ray figured one day he'd get used to it--he'd grown up in the meat-packing district, after all, but this. God in heaven, these were people. Not other soldiers, but innocent old men and young boys: everyday, unarmed, innocent people. And yeah, the meatpackers smelled like blood, no matter how many tons of ice they hauled in, but this. Blood and shit and piss and rot, and now vomit, too. It had splashed back onto his knees and his shirtsleeves, mottling the dust and dried mud and battle gore.

There were dozens of them, men and boys, stripped of their clothes and all with their privates cut off. He'd held it together til they'd found one alive, a kid no more than twelve. He was in shock, nearly dead. They thought he was dead until they tried to move him and he screamed like the devil had him.

Welsh did it, in the end, to keep them from having to draw straws. The medics were too far off, and didn't have the morphine to spare anyway. The report echoed through the plaza, bouncing off the flat faces of the buildings on all four sides, and that's...that's when he lost it. With the sound of the shot ringing loud in his ears, just like the boy's screams.

Now Fraser was at his elbow, pointing two fingers at the support columns and front alcoves of the regional police station. Thompson and Morales were up ahead at the post office, while the rest of the unit was sifting through the wreckage of the Banco de Espaa across the blood-muddy square behind them. Downwind. Fraser gave him a look, grim-faced and professional, and Ray nodded back. Like it or not, there was a job to do.

He and Fraser cleared the building lickity split. They were good at this, at least. On the roof they scanned for snipers through their field glasses and Fraser put his hand on Ray's arm and said, "Wait a moment, will you?" He took a chunk of bread out of his pack and held it out to Ray.

"I'm fine," Ray said.

"It'll help."

"Yeah, well, just because I tossed my cookies doesn't mean you gotta treat me like a baby, Fraser." Ray felt himself turning red with anger. Who did Fraser think he was, anyhow?

"Ray, you're hardly the only one." Fraser clapped him on the shoulder and shoved the bread into his hand. "Take it. We won't get another meal until sundown."

The chunk of bread was stale in his hand, but he didn't see any mold.

Sometimes it could really get on a guy's nerves how Fraser was always right. Ray guessed maybe it was some kind of Canadian thing, like everybody in their unit had their odd quirks. They had Americans, Brits, French, Pollacks, Russians, and even a Chinaman with them. All kinds of people from all kinds of places, some of them Communists, some of them thrill-seekers, far too many bohemians who'd never stand a chance in a good old Chicago street-fight, but they all hated the Fascists enough to kill and die for it, and so finally Ray stopped grinding his teeth and gave Fraser a short nod and said, "Thanks."

Then he put a piece of the stale crust in his mouth to suck on and led the way back down through the empty police station to the street. There was still a school to check, and after that, the church, and after that, there were a hell of a lot of candles to be lit for the dead.

He wondered if they'd find the priest. Then, as the sound of Lt. Welsh's voice drifted toward them, he wondered if they already had.