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ammunition.
    The silence rings in a stark contrast to the noise we just experienced.
    We stay hidden in the bushes. I struggle to maintain an even breathing pattern. I wipe the sweat out of my eyes.
    “Alrighty, Commander,” Manny huffs, breathing hard. “What’s your take?”
    I say, “Okay, I need three hunter-killers teams.”
    This is a tactic that Chris taught me. A Hunter-Killer team is usually composed of two men. Three teams equals six total assaulters. We will round the enemy from the left while someone stays here and holds down the main force. In other words, we’re sneaking up on the enemy’s flank while the rest of the militiamen attack them from the front. We’ll box them in from two points.
    “Derek, you take command while I take my teams,” I say. “Keep their heads down so we can move. You’ll hear us when we’re in position. Got it?”
    “Got it, boss. Go for it.”
    My three teams assemble around me – all of them veteran militiamen with common sense and great aim. We stay low in the bushes and trees, following the slight curve of the edge of the woods. It extends behind the grassy field. We move quickly and silently, too angry to be afraid.
    I slip a little further along the wooded territory line, dropping down. I scan the field, searching for any enemy that might be lurking in the grass. It’s clear. We’re safe, and we’re close to their position. Very close.
    I see the ditch where they are hiding. They’re idiots. Stupid tactics. There’s nobody guarding their flanks.They’re wide open to an attack. An
enfilade
, Chris would call it. I check the area one more time. All clear. My men see the opening, too.
    “Okay, boys,” I say, “Finish this.”
    In the next minute, we blow through ammunition in a vicious, overwhelming barrage of fire. There is screaming as the men in the ditch twist and fall, dead. Our bullets tear through their line of defense. I pop a red flare to signal Derek. He gives three blasts on his field whistle and his men stop firing.
    “Skirmish line!” I yell.
    I walk, reload, fire, reload and fire again. My teams spread out beside me, and together we finish off the rest of the enemy combatants in the ditch. They don’t have a chance.
    They are dead. All of them.
    I choke on a shaky breath, gasping for air. Sweat sticks my uniform to my skin. I stop and look at the bloody carnage around me. I am horrified. How did I get to this place? How did this happen to me? How did I become such a killer?
    My men are silent, checking their weapons, looking around them. I know what they’re thinking. The same thing
I’m
thinking.
    We have changed. All of us. We’re not mere civilian survivors anymore
.
    “Good job,” I say. “Now sweep through this and secure it. Do a search.”
    They stand around me, looking at me in a way that they’ve never looked at me before. Maybe they’re just as horrified by what I’m doing as
I
am. Maybe I’m not the only one who doesn’t recognize myself anymore.
    I swallow a lump in my throat. “Move it,” I mutter.
    I turn away. I know that they can see the tears streaming down my face, but I don’t care. If I didn’t cry for this, I would be afraid that I’d lost all sense of humanity.
    I slowly lower myself down, sliding on mud and grime. I crouch near the first dead figure. It’s one of the men that I shot. There’s a hole in the dead center of his head. I shudder, disgusted, and turn him onto his back. His entire body is clothed in black. His hands and fingers are wrapped in strips of black cloth. A black bandana is tied around his forehead. The only visible piece of flesh is the skin around his eyes – tiny slits on his facemask. I pull the facemask off. He’s an average looking man. Maybe thirty years old. Uriah, Manny, Vera and Derek arrive at the scene, checking the perimeter.
    In all, there are eighteen enemy ambushers.
    “Who are these people?” Derek asks, kneeling next to me. “They’re not Omega, and they’re