We followed the smoke, creeping past the charred piles that used to be our friends and neighbours, praying salvation was on the other side of the countless fires we'd made over the last few weeks. Burning them was the safest and kindest thing to do, we said amongst ourselves, hoping that if we said it enough it might start to mean something.
They still twitched in the fires, writhing and groaning no matter how much accelerant and wood we used - it was never hot enough to outright kill them. They'd always live for a couple of hours first and they made sure you knew it - shrieking fading to groaning fading to harsh coughs and silence.
The silence somehow hurt more than their screams.
It made everything seem more final.
Made them feel like murderers when they were only trying to save everyone.
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