Chapter 18
The three silver discs reflect light into the tunnels. They lead me to the tunnel with the memorials to the dead. I pass the photographs, millions of people slaughtered in a single night, some from nuclear missiles and dirty-bombs, others from the purges which followed.
I take out a picture of the boy I killed last night. I pin it onto the wall, right next to the picture of the eleven rebels General Rasulullah beheaded.
"I hope you made it into paradise."
I touch the picture, the boy's face. For so long as I live, I shall never forget my first kill.
The boy stares out from the picture, his expression serious. It feels as though he is waiting for me to do something. To make his death worthwhile.
I open my eyes and stare up at the black anthracite ceiling. Sometimes, when I
