“I’ve never used one before.”

 

“Private, there’re only three things to know: point, aim and shoot.”

 

The instructor makes it sound easy, but it’s not. “Take a look through the scope, line up the crosshairs, and when you’re ready, pull the trigger.”

 

The target’s a sack that’s been tied to a pole and stuffed with a pillow. I squint one eye.

 

“It’s them or us, son,” he reminds me. “What’s it gonna be?”

 

“Them.”

 

I pull the trigger. The rifle recoils hard against my shoulder, but I’m rewarded with a straight hit.

 

My instructor beams. “Another go?”

 

“Sure.”

 

The instructor radios for a new target.

 

“You ever seen a raptite before?” I ask.

 

“Not up close, but I’ve heard plenty 'bout them.”

 

“What do they look like?”

 

“Ugly things, that’ll scare the bejesus out of you. Shells as hard as titanium, and teeth like a waste disposal unit, just whirring round in their mouths.”

 

“And guns kill them?”

 

“HQ says these bullets can cut clean through that armour if you’re close enough. Soldiers like you are our only chance now.”

 

“And how many bullets will I have?”

 

“Thirty rounds in one mag.”

 

“Well, I’m gonna take down thirty of those bastards.”

 

“For God and country, private.”

 

“For God and country.”

* * *

 

Ten days later they airlift me and nine other newly trained soldiers to a suspected raptite breeding spot.

 

Just before we land the sarge repeats the instructions, shouting above the helicopter blades to be heard. “We drop you in, and you take out as many raptites as you can, as quick as you can, and then we’ll pull you out, okay?”

 

“Yes, Sergeant,” we chorus back.

 

“God, I hate these missions.” He slumps beside me, stinking of whiskey.

 

“Sergeant, I'm going to kill thirty.”

 

“Thirty? I’d settle for ten.”

 

His answer surprises me. “Well, it's them or us.”

 

“You're right, soldier.” He takes out his hip flask and throws one back. “Them or us.”

 

We’re dropped off just outside enemy territory.

 

It doesn’t take too long for us to locate the raptites.

 

It looks like there’s at least forty of them, like they’ve been waiting for us.

 

“Targets confirmed.”

 

“Fire at will,” radioes the Sarge.

 

We all fire, just like we’ve been taught. Point, aim and shoot. Nice and close.

 

But they don’t die.

 

We try getting closer. But they still don’t die.

 

Our bullets ricochet off their shells, left, right and centre.

 

“Sergeant! The raptites aren’t going down. Repeat. They’re — not — going — down!”

 

“Funny that,” comes the Sergeant's drunken reply over the radio.

 

“Fall back!” I yell.

 

We head to the pick-up point with the raptites hot on our heels. Three of our team get taken down, their screams slicing through the air.

 

I look up to only empty skies.

 

“Sarge! We’re at the pickup zone. Where the hell are you?”

 

“Hell? Yes. Hell probably.”

 

“Sarge— for fuck’s sake—”

 

“You can’t kill them, you know. You can’t kill any of them. So we’ve a deal. You’re part of the deal, son”

 

“Sarge… you can’t… you can’t do this!”

 

“Them or us. You’re the ‘them’, soldier.”

 

The radio cuts off.

 

I hear the sound of whirring blades coming from behind.

 

It’s not the chopper.