meantime weaved between the leaves and snapped stems and tried to procure an accurate headcount of the men in the back of the truck. His head nodded each time he mouthed another number, ending finally on seven, plus one in the driver’s seat and another stepping leisurely out of the truck. Dae-Ho could only see the man’s feet as he approached and the tip of the rifle, which undoubtedly hung from his neck, swinging just below his waist. His dark-brown leather boots staggered and even swiveled, seemingly unable to find a straight line between the truck door and bushes ahead of him. Laughter and blend of voices followed the soldier’s unsteady steps, something about it’s nothing orwait until we get backbut Dae-Ho was too focused to hear or more so understand. All he saw was in the scope of his rifle, all he felt was the trigger, and all he heard were the whimpers of a lost infant boy. He couldn’t fight them all, as skilled as he was, Dae-Ho knew he crouched in that position vastly outnumbered. That realization came with a cringe and a frightening thought that began at his chest and rippled through him as if each heartbeat felt like a raindrop and he was a puddle for it to ripple through. The panic surged through every part of him and he tried not to entertain this idea, yet soon found that it had already begun. His finger unfurled from the trigger of the rifle, his palm slipped off the handle and he let it hang. He still tried not to think about it but the nightmare of an idea continued as his arm dropped to his side and the mere touch of his silencer seemed blisteringly cold. He flinched, the feeling still trickling down his spinal chord yet he somehow slipped the gun from its holster. He tried one last time to purge the thought from his head but it was too late. He wrapped the boy into under his arm and shoved the silencer into his mouth. Dae-Ho heard a few muffled screams as the silencer rattled against the boy’s few and still forming teeth. He in turn rammed the gun down firmly towards the his tonsils. The boy gargled, then coughed as his arms flailed and he tried to kick free. Finally the boy began to squeal just loud enough for the soldier who stood no more than ten meters away from the bush to hear. Dae-Ho heard a voice just then. A voice that sounded as clear as the men in the truck and child under his arms. The voice seemed familiar and like one that he hadn’t heard in a long time, his propaganda conscience. Dae-Ho flinched as if an invisible tongue stroked against his ear and whispering, “Pull the trigger.” Dae-Ho’s heart dropped and his trigger finger tightened. His finger seemed to splash against a trigger that felt heavier than its ever been for him. He struggled to curl his finger into a knuckle because now he finally felt it. He wasn’t numb and he could taste, smell and feel every detail in the air around. He cringed his eyes shut and into a frill of wrinkles as he felt the bullet slipping from the muzzle like a premature or unwilling ejaculation. In the end he couldn’t even watch. After that there was nothing. All that remained audible was the engine 114 theMeadow
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