56
The service yard has achieved a new level of mess.
The supersaturated air is already starting to lay dew as the temperature dips to merely hot, and the haze of gunsmoke makes the clamminess feel soiled. The square office building is too heavily built to have suffered any real damage, but I see bright spots where ricocheting rounds chipped holes in the hundred-year-old brick. Both of the wide windows on this side of the office have only a few intact mullioned rectangles. All that beautiful century-old runny glass, ruined.
Fortunately, the most common building material here is abandoned industrial iron, and my rounds did nothing but ding divots in the rust.
Two prisoners lay nearby, face-down in the cinders, trying to make themselves shorter than the shallow heap of pulled-up iron tra
