They journeyed on for a bit, then set up camp and cooked beans over a small fire. The poor man's meat. Drifter food. Some said beans'd get you across the desert and back. Dead men said a lot of things.

Moments passed like the lives of the dead. Who knew how many had died in that explosion? The Order wouldn't stay long enough to count. Names would be ticked off from a list later, and their passing wouldn't seem quite so bad on the page. Yet as people fell, the counters rose, and the anger rose in those who remained.

Jacob studied the iron graveyard, where every vehicle was its own gravestone. He drove slowly through, as if he was afraid to wake the dead. That was not it though. The general made it clear that they should fear the living.

If the Wild North were a living place, as the local tribes often claimed, then these were the embodiment of its dark subconscious. The spirits of men could haunt you, so why would the spirits of machines be any different?

If you were picky about who you worked with in the Wild North, you'd be quickly left with no one to choose. You could try to pick the best of them, but you'd have to dig them up first.