Eliminate Them

You freeze in the shadows, heart slamming against your ribs. The two teenagers lean against the bus, cigarettes glowing in the dark. One laughs, a high-pitched bark that cuts through the distant gunfire. The other flicks ash onto the ground, rifle propped lazily beside him. They're New Republic, same as you, or were. But they're in your way, and questions could end you. No time for talk.

You slide the knife from your boot, grip tight on the worn handle. Leaving your AK47 behind the top of a Toyota Hilux and silently sneak behind the two teens, breath held. The first one turns his head just as you lunge. You drive your blade up under his jaw, straight into the soft spot. He gurgles, eyes wide, hands clawing at your arm. You twist the knife, yank it free in a spray of blood. He drops like a sack, cigarette still burning on his lips.

The second spins, fumbling for his rifle. Too slow. You charge, slamming your shoulder into his chest. He stumbles back against the bus, breath exploding out. His fist swings wild you duck, slash across his thigh. Blood pours, he screams, drops to one knee. He tries to grab your leg, but you stomp his hand flat against the bus, bones crunching. Then you drive the knife into his neck, once, twice, until he goes limp, sliding down the bus in a red streak.

Panting, you wipe the blade on his uniform, scan the avenue. No one heard over the chaos. Their bodies lie there, eyes open to the flames. Rifles, ammo belts, a few grenades. Really good gear.

Do you strip them clean and risk the extra weight, or leave it all and keep moving light?