Over

I look at the little boy. He looks to be around the age of five...he looks fine"He's diseased Porter," Jacob says to me as if to read my mind. "It takes a couple of days for it to show." I hear his mother in the corner of the room crying and pleading for us to give her back her child. I begin to lower my gun from the boys head. "No," I say. I hear Jacob shift behind me. "This is wrong he's a child Jacob." He sighs, "He's no longer a child Alex. In a few days he will be a killing machine, nothing else. He is no longer the boy you see in front of you." The woman's cries become louder, "Please!! Please, dear God not my baby! Please!! O God No!!" He's right. I repeat the line we've been taught to say so many times to the women and I raise my gun slowly back to the middle of the boys head,

"Remain clam. All is well..."

Inhale.

"We will protect our world..."

Exhale

"And-All-Our-Citizens."

BANG!