“Hey,” said Sixteen. He nudged the side of Four’s elbow with his foot. “Look.”

Four looked. Up ahead the sun was beginning to set. But only on one segment of the horizon, like a sepia-toned filter over just a slice of the heavens; flanking it were two stretches of perfect blue sky. Where the colors collided there was a fuzzy, crackling static gradient, like a busted television screen. The overall effect was that rather than the sun having begun to set, in that breach in the distance, it seemed the night had begun to rise.

Four grunted. “Yeah, we’re closer. We knew that.” Staring at the flickering edges of the breach was making his head buzz, like the static was trying to invade his skull. He turned his focus back to digging, just in case it was. The sweat was causing the stiff cloth of his uniform to stick and squelch. But he didn’t dare take it or the heavy body armor off. Nine had done that, sick of the oppressive heat of a sun that never set. And now here Four was, putting Nine in the ground.

Above him Sixteen shrugged. He heard a crunch as his companion squashed some grasping weeds beneath his boot. “Yeah, I know. But it’s exciting, right? Like, how long have we even been here?”

“Dunno.”

“You know, technically, it’s only been a day,” Sixteen continued—fittingly, for probably the sixteenth time. Four was long past the point of acknowledging the well-worn attempt at a joke. He paused with his weight pressing down on the shovel, giving one long exhale as he surveyed his work.

Seemed deep enough. They’d just have to hope that Nine’s soul would be content with the barest covering of dirt. Four felt that the point was moot anyway; wherever Nine’s soul was, it was better than here. That lucky sonuvabitch.

He raised his arm and gestured at Sixteen, who turned to look downwards inquiringly. “Gimme a hand,” Four said, pointedly, after a moment.

“Oh, my bad.” Sixteen startled into apologetic action, grasping the other man’s arm and heaving him out of the shallow grave. Back on level ground, Four brushed off his dirt-caked uniform, as if it would’ve made a difference. He reached back in to take hold of the shovel, then tossed it up at Sixteen. Once, eighteen graves ago, Sixteen would’ve startled comedically. But now his weapon was already hanging back from its strap, leaving his hands open to catch.

“Any words for Nine?” said Four, straightening back up. Their late comrade’s corpse lay crumpled in the dust. Already the tall grass from the field beside them was stretching back out again, wrapping around Nine’s boots and tugging him insistently back into the sea of green. Four sighed and stomped on the biggest patch, grinding his heel into the dirt, and the blades slashed hopelessly at the thick cloth of his pants before shriveling up in death. The other tendrils recoiled in fear.

Sixteen cleared his throat. He’d stabbed the shovel back into the dirt and was holding his rifle at the ready again. “Thank you for your service…” He trailed off. “I don’t know his name,” he admitted after a moment. “Still don’t know your name either, actually.”

Four ignored him. After a moment Sixteen continued. “Um, thank you. Was a pleasure serving with you, blah blah blah, et cetera… shit, that’s not respectful. Sorry. It’s really hot. Feels like I’m going crazy. Hard to think.”

Four waited, but Sixteen seemed done. So he stepped forward and coughed, uncomfortably. “Thanks. For showing us that the grass is carnivorous. Rest in peace.”

The two men stood in silence, staring dejectedly down at Nine’s body, his thin undershirt riddled with tiny jagged holes and soaked in blood. One brave stalk hesitantly probed its way out of the field and scraped at the stained dirt. It seemed to shiver in pleasure before rapidly retreating, right before Four’s sole crashed down where it had been. Four sighed.

“Amen,” concluded Sixteen.

“Amen,” echoed Four.

Burying Nine took no time at all. They didn’t even bother with the shovel, just kicked the crumbling dust over him until they were sure they’d at least be out of sight before the grass dug him up again. As they readied to leave, Sixteen made as if to pull the shovel back out of the dirt. Four placed his gloved hand over the handle. The other soldier glanced up at him curiously.

“Don’t bother.”

Something seemed to pass between their visor-covered eyes. Sixteen nodded. The two turned back towards the breach in the distance. And they set off again, shaking off the clinging grass; the beckoning night before them, a trail of graves in their wake.