The snow squeaked underneath their boots, and the cold wormed itself into their limbs. Scott thought of how he’d wished he had been able to see Halifax under different conditions. Buckle was about a dozen steps ahead of him, seemingly staring straight ahead. Vick walked across from him on the right. The older man looked around, studying the stone corners and listening to the sound of their march, the only noise to be heard. Scott glanced at Amy to his right, who finished the wide box the four of them made. They moved along without speaking, approaching the killing fields as Scott thought of them––that second line of machine gun nests spread out in front of the parking lots. Vick produced a pair of spiked knuckles that almost made Scott balk. The spikes looked to be at least a fearsome three inches long. Vick quietly fitted them on one hand and then the other, trapping his steel bar underneath an armpit as he did so. “Scary, aren’t they?” Amy asked. She had noticed him gawking and stepped in close.
