Aftermath

On the sandy banks of the river, Dundee walked up to Potts and Tom as they rooted through the belongings of Michelle. Potts and Ben had found her body during their hasty retreat from the Apache camp, and had brought it back to camp.

Holding out a paper, Potts said, hesitantly: "She was. . . writing a paper for. . . English class." Then, he turned to Ben and shouted for him to bring their horses over.

"How did they know?" Dundee asked thoughtfully.

"They're Apache," came the reply.

"And just what in hell is he?" Dundee asked pointing at Ben.

"I am a tame Apache," Ben said. "A skinny jock. Christian Indian. Charriba is Apache."

Dundee eyed him over untrustingly, then crumpled up the test paper and tossed it to Potts. "Jed, you take this skinny jock and go find me Charriba."

Potts hesitated for a moment. "That's what you pay us for, Groggy," he said finally.

Dundee then walked away from his scouts and towards his camp. His men had dug a hasty set of redoubts on the far bank of the river; his artillery had been shelling across the river since the battle was over. But most of his men were content largely with just sitting and recovering from the shock of battle. Several people had been killed, others wounded. Dundee was upset over the loss of his dear friend (and possible secret love interest), Michelle, but put her to the back of his mind for the moment - there were other pressing issues at hand. Like, where in the bloody hell was Sergeant Kimmel? Was she shot down? Or did she simply get lost? It was impossible to tell.

Dundee walked by Bill, who skulked mournfully by himself; Sandra had been killed during the fight. Dundee walked by him without saying a word, then turned to Aimee, who was leading two horses.

"Aimee, you hit?" he asked, noticing blood dripping from her head and matting her hair.

"No, sir," she said. "One of these damned horses kicked me."

Dundee then walked on, and was saluted by Joe Starbuck.

"Eight men killed, sir," Joe reported. "Seven wounded - two critically. 20% of ammunition, 90% of our Thanksgiving feast, 70% of AA and 45% of all AAA batteries, our Internet connections, 75% of cell phones, and 100% of Playstation 2 consoles and games lost or stolen."

Starbuck handed his commander a list of casualties:

Killed:

• Michelle
• Tristan
• Dante the 1st
• Lennie
• Angel
• Black Jacques Shellac
• Sandra
• Shaulis

Wounded:

• Sergeant Harriman
• Captain Tim
• Mark the Bugler
• Keith Richards (though saying he's wounded is kind of silly, isn't it?)
• Daniel
• Shumaker
• Nathan

Dundee and his men had counted at least eighty dead Apache across the river banks in the meantime - they had been very lucky to escape.

At this, Dundee walked past Mark the Bugler, who was being operated on by Reverend Armstrong for a painful ass wound. He screamed, "DAMN IT TO BLOODY MESSENGER HELL!"

"WHAT!?" screamed his cousin Tim, who sit nearby with a minor shoulder wound.

"Sorry, cousin," Mark said.

"He's alright, Doctor," Tim said to Armstrong. "He'll live forever and have a hundred children. But if time and battle prove you have a weakness for being shot in that vicinity, I'd wear an iron board inside my pants."

Still limping slightly, Mark walked off. Armstrong turned to Tim and began to operate on his shoulder.

"Well, Tim," Dundee said, "I don't believe you've ever been to Mexico before."

"Not really," Tim replied.

"Okay then," his commander said curtly. "So, did you hear about the French involvement in this country."

"I did," Tim said. "President Chirac reclaimed Maximillian's authority over the Mexican throne, and has sent over some 500,000 French troops to occupy the country - everyone knows that."

"Well," Dundee said, "I think that we'd be well-advised to avoid them."

"Well, duh!" Captain Tim replied.

"Don't 'duh' me, Captain," Dundee said. "I'M the commander here."

"And you're also a bloody asshole," Tim replied. "Major, we can't follow the Apache."

"Why the hell not?" Dundee replied.

"Because more people could get hurt," Tim replied, "that's why not."

Dundee turned away from his subordinate and scanned the remnants of his force behind him. Nathan rubbed his ankle wound uncomfortably; Sergeant Harriman poured a water bottle on her head wound; Garfer and his men solemnly viewed their dead comrade-in-arms; Border Trash, his Razorback flag torn and dripping blood; Mr. Smit, examining his Winchester legs, both of which had been struck and damaged by enemy fire in the battle; even Dave Jenkins seemed subdued by the carnage of it all. And where in the hell was Sergeant Kimmel?

After all this, Dundee looked up and saw buzzards circling over his encampment - an ominous portent of doom. He then turned back to Tim.

"Fuck you," he said to Tim. It was fast becoming his favorite phrase, violent, insulting, and dismissive all at once. Dundee walked away; he would not move out until he got word from Sergeant Kimmel. But, to kill time until then, he decided that he would survey the carnage across the river. He turned to the nearest fit man beside him - Marco Leone, who's brave five second stand had gotten his attention.

"Marco," he said to the gunslinging online trooper.

"Sir?"

"You and me are going to take a ride," Dundee replied. He then walked over to Peacemaker, Frisco, Armstrong, and Kermit and said the same thing. They would move out within the hour, to do some reconnoitering of their own. . .