The sounds of fighting in the doss long over, Wesley pushed open the back door to the upper-floor apartment cautiously as if expecting resistance. The rusty hinges creaked horribly, and when the door finally reached a half meter wide, he froze at the awful sight of the carnage displayed. But even as Wesley started to retch, his dirty hands moved expertly over the broken bodies, taking weapons, credsticks, optical chips, and everything else he could stuff into his patched pants. The smell of feces and blood was thick enough to taste, but he ignored the stench. He’d encountered worse, much worse, on the streets. Just never this fresh. Some of the bodies were still warm. That was the bad part. The suggestion of life where there was none.