Armed to the teeth

You crouch beside the bodies.

The first kid with two full AK magazines and one half empty. The second kid with one full AK magazine, three Tokarev magazines and three F1 grenades still pinned together with tape.

You take it all. Four AK magazines slide into your empty pockets. Three Tokarev magazines go into the dump pouch on your belt. The three grenades you hook on the left side, pins straight and spoons secure.

The rifles you leave behind. You already have one. You wipe your hands on the taller kid’s jacket and stand. You go back to the Hilux to retrieve your AK and sling it back across your chest, and walk.

The avenue stays empty, fires burn on both sides. Bodies lie where they fell. Your boots make no sound on the ash.

Ten minutes later the plaza opens in front of you.

The cathedral waits, black stone, broken tower, main doors hanging open and yellow lamplight spilling down the steps. Two cold trucks block the entrance. One guard on the hood, head nodding. Three silhouettes move behind the high rose window.

You stop at the edge of the shadows with your thumb resting on the selector of your AK.

You could go in loud and deadly, kick the doors, empty every magazine, burn the place down and find your sister or die trying.

Or you could go in silent and quiet, slip in through the side, cut throats, take them one by one and pray she’s still breathing when you reach her.

You breathe once, slow.

Which way?