Raïsaic looted six more bodies on his way out of the graveyard but only found talismans and mementos of superstition, and those tokens had not saved their owners, so he left them untouched lest provoke their rotten luck. Throughout the war, he had abided by his own superstitions so he avoided the remainder of the corpses like their fates were contagious. Blind greed has a way of finding us all, however; and just as Raïsaic was nearing the edge of the battlefield he noticed a frozen corpse, leaning back-to-back with another corpse, with an unlit cigarette frozen between its lips. The man held onto an empty pack of Eckstein No.5 cigarettes. The other soldier had smoked his cigarette down to the butt before dying. Raïsaic looked at the two of them indifferently. Nationality was absent in death. He snatched the unlit cigarette from the man’s frozen lips – blood stains coloring the filter – and tucked it inside his own pack of smokes. The blood of the fallen tainted the rest of pack, but Raïsaic was oblivious to the warnings of the new talisman he had accepted. The fortunes of the dead had earned his company, after all. Warmed by a bloodied winter coat and fed by a can of murdered peaches, Raïsaic continued to march homeward toward the beast.