Posten tracked the figure as he fled up the beach and scrambled into the hut. The thin fog and the distance made the shot difficult, but not impossible. He'd hit harder targets. "What do you think? Should I put him down? He'll duck back outside any second."

Meli took a long look but said nothing. Posten gritted his teeth. This was one of the many reasons no one liked Meli much. He wasn't right in the head.

The shadowed figure appeared again but Posten let the opportunity pass. "Your lucky day, jerk," he said to the silhouette disappearing up the misty hillside. Posten shouldered his rifle.

Like everyone, Posten hated beach recon the most. It was a two-man gig and you were stuck out in open, completely exposed. Dark figures against white sand made good targets. Having Meli as your partner made it positively unbearable. The changing of the guard happened every two weeks, where a dozen MPD grunts headed south from Mansion Inn while another dozen headed north from Summerland to replace them. The guards scoured the city blocks between, evicting or otherwise eliminating any squatters stupid enough not to see them coming. Guards kept whatever they confiscated, and sweeps were a good way to supplement the monthly stipend—except for the unlucky two bastards who drew beach recon. Nothing along the strand but packs of wild dogs and the occasional rundown junkie. A few months back a sniper up on the ridge cut down two guards from the ridge. That person escaped but whoever it was had a rifle, a grudge, and a damn good aim. Though the fog off the Lake Lawrence was frigid, Posten hoped it would continue to roll in.

The dark lump on the edge of the surf turned out to be a girl's body. Neither man spoke as they looked down. If you look past the gore she might have been cute, Posten thought blackly. "Looks like I should have shot him after all," he said at last.

"Who?"

Posten gritted his teeth. This was what it was like talking with Meli. "The guy who did this to her."

"But those are dog bites," Meli said. He wasn't joking.

Why do I even try? Posten shook his head. What a waste, killing a perfectly good young woman and throwing her to the dogs. Could be she was withholding something he wanted. Drugs. Food. Sex. Whatever. That's how life worked for scavengers and Posten resented them for it. No code of decency among them, just scraping the streets and nursing their junk habits, never trusting a soul. No thank you. No thank you indeed. The MPD had its flaws—sizable ones—but at least Posten felt he could trust his fellow guards. The sane ones at least.

Meli's hand dropped to his pistol and his eyes grew wide, staring up the beach. Posten dropped to a knee and aimed his rifle at...nothing. Meli's head tilted upwards as if he were following the trajectory of a bird's flight but Posten saw only empty space. Meli exhaled and let his hand hang again at his side.

"Would you stop doing that? You scare the hell out of me every time," Posten snapped.

"Sorry," he said emotionless. "Thought I saw something."

Posten shook his head again, wondering at his bad luck at being paired with this psycho. Word had it that Meli was connected to the Lukowski clan and that's how he kept his job. Posten liked to think it was the top brass's way of tormenting the rank-and-file like Posten.

They started back up the beach and, not for the first time, Posten wished he could skip forward in time a few years. By his calculations, he'd have squirreled away enough to cash in at the Bazaar, where he could lavish gifts on one of the younger whores, one who hadn't been used too much. They could relocate to the Marcus district. Or even the Riverside, as long as he was dreaming. Put in enough time and he'd land a desk job sooner or later. Sit back and get fat.

Still, that future was years off, if ever. But he could always dream.