The heavy breathing continues behind us and I turn to the

Samaritan I’ve blasted and who is now lying supine on the stairs. Paul

joins me as we look down at the boy gasping for air. Where the bullet has

struck his neck, bubbles fizz as though he has a strawberry soda pouring

through the wound.

“Can’t be older than sixteen,” I whisper. “What have I done?”

The weapon in my hand drops to the floor, a statement of my

contempt for what I’ve become, what I am.

Kid-killer.

“What you’ve done is stay alive and that’s all we have now.”

Paul steps up to the boy and places the muzzle of the rifle against

his brow. There is no acknowledgement in the kid’s eyes, just the faraway

look of the dying.

The rifle quickens the boy’s passing with a report that is as loud as

any I have heard in the past half an hour. It is an act of mercy and an

execution blended together until it becomes one and the same.

Paul turns to me, his face grim. “We’ll drag them all out into the

street. I guess the dogs will be eating well for the next few days.”

I bow my head, not seeing anything good in his statement.