H
“Above all else: survive.”
I haven’t
moved of my own free will in hours, but my hand springs out to grab
the fence.
The body
I used to call mine, but which seems to be acting on its own,
flattens itself so I’m on my back.
My other
hand – now free to move due to my change in posture – grips the
Guard’s throat.
There’s
a pop. It sounds distant, like someone wasted a bullet.
There’s smoke coming from the Guard’s uniform as he shudders.
Half a
second later, he’s limp.
And I’m
stashing his knife in my pocket.
Guards
let each other pass out when the gas is around. So I make sure that’s
how he looks: I lay him on his side. And lower that stupid helmet
over his face so they can’t see the grimace forever stuck there
until the rats eat it.
Nothing
in this camp goes to waste.
Not
clothes, not soap, not food, and certainly not a chance to
escape.
The gas
is getting thicker now.
It makes
you forget...and it makes you sluggish. That’s probably the only
way I could catch the dead Guard by surprise.
And you rats – you real ones
– are starting to emerge from hiding.
The bombardment is over, after all.
And you’re always hungry,
aren’t you?
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