by Andrew McDonald
The sentry never heard me. I stab all the way through his neck, behind the jugular. Pushing the blade forward, I tear out his throat. He dies without even a whisper. Quietly, I drag him into the woods, away from patrols.
With my hatchet, I split his skull, careful not to harm the brain. My knife severs the brainstem. Raising the brain to my lips, I sink my teeth into it, biting off gory chunks, swallowing the grey matter.
Closing my eyes, I sift through his memories. Childhood, first love, basic training, their hidden headquarters.
I radio for an airstrike.
Andrew McDonald lives in St. John’s, Newfoundland and Labrador, Canada with his wife and daughter.