The water buffalo wavered, and for a moment Bingwen thought it might keel over. Then it shook its head and gathered itself.
Bingwen looked to his left and saw that they had arrived. There was wreckage a hundred meters away. Mazer’s aircraft. Bingwen was sure of it. A fire had consumed it and burned it black, but the flames had long since died out, and the familiar shape of the aircraft was still intact. The only new feature was the four rotor blades on the top of the aircraft, which must have snapped open as the aircraft fell.
Bingwen’s heart sank at the sight. There couldn’t possibly be any survivors. The aircraft had exploded, sending shrapnel and debris in every direction. Even if someone had survived the impact, they couldn’t have gotten clear of the explosion in time. Nor could they have ejected before impact, not with the rotor blades, not in a dead drop.
Bingwen felt ashamed. He should have listened to Grandfather. He was foolish to have come out here.
Something near the wreckage caught his eye. A rifle perhaps? That would be useful. And where there was one, there might be others; and if not other weapons, then perhaps other tools. He pulled on the rope. The water buffalo didn’t want to move; it still wheezed and whined from their run. Bingwen pulled anyway with his good arm, and eventually the animal walked.
The wreck smelled like ashes and burning things and what might be the scent of charred human remains. Smoke still hung thick in the air and stung Bingwen’s eyes. He didn’t want to look inside the cabin or cockpit. He knew what he would find there.
The ground was littered with shrapnel and debris, some pieces as big as Bingwen, all folded up and bent in odd shapes with torn edges that looked dangerously sharp.
Bingwen’s eyes were locked on the rifle ahead of him, but as he approached it, moving through the smoke, something else near the weapon caught his eye. A body.
Bingwen ran forward, frantic, the lead rope dropping from his hand.
It was Mazer. There was blood and mud all over him. His arms, his head, his side. His side was the worst. A bloody bandage lay draped across his abdomen, soaked through and deep red. The contents of a med kit lay scattered around him. Someone had administered first aid. Someone was alive and helping. Bingwen looked around.
“Hello?”
No one answered.
To his left was another body. The female soldier. Bingwen instantly knew she was dead, even without seeing her face, which was turned away from him. She had too many wounds. Her skin was white and lifeless. Her clothes were burned. Her arm was twisted behind her.
In the fields, the corpses had looked asleep, peaceful even in some instances. Not so here. This had been a hard death. Quick most likely, instantaneous even, but it terrified Bingwen more than anything he had seen thus far.
There were lines in the dirt from the aircraft to the woman’s body where her boots had dragged across the soil. Mazer had pulled her from the fire, Bingwen realized. Wounded as he was, Mazer had pulled her from the flames. Bingwen could think of no other explanation. And then somehow Mazer had tried to treat his own wounds. Bingwen knelt beside him. Yes, one of the packets from the kit was still in Mazer’s hand. Bingwen should have noticed that instantly.
“Mazer.”
No answer.
Should he try shaking him awake? No, that might tear something inside him. Instead, Bingwen reached out a tentative finger and poked Mazer in the arm. The skin was warm. The tip of Bingwen’s finger came back bloody. Mazer didn’t respond.
Then Mazer’s chest rose, just slightly, almost imperceptibly. A shallow intake of breath. Then an exhale. He was alive. Barely maybe, but he was breathing.
Bingwen had to get him back to the farmhouse, back to Grandfather. But how? He had hoped to find the soldiers awake and able to walk. And if they couldn’t walk, Bingwen would build a travois for the water buffalo to pull and then ask the wounded soldier to climb up onto it. But Mazer couldn’t even do that; he couldn’t move at all. Bingwen would have to lift him somehow onto the stretcher.