"I've killed many men in my time, but I have never slain wantonly or stained my hand in innocent blood, only in self-defense. The Almighty gave us our lives, and I suppose he meant us to defend them; at least I have always acted on that, and I hope it won't be brought up against me when the clock strikes."
-Allan Quartermain, from "King Solomon's Mines" by H. Rider Haggard.
Terry deployed our batallion at around 3pm. The sun, still perched prominent and oppressive in the sky, drenched my army-issued neck sweat-kerchief and moistened the grip on my rifle. Our charge was simple, flush out every grotto and fox hole in the Caucasus and plant depth charges in the entire string of mud volcanoes skirting the western edge of the Caspian, an area commonly known as The Womb among infantry.
These Qulins can be a nettlesome bunch, or so I've been instructed by my superiors. I've never seen one up close but if I'm doing my job right I shouldn't ever have to. Between the bunker busters, RTTs, and my rifle, all i know for sure about the Qulins is they run on two legs and sound much like men when they die. The promise of never having to put a bullet in anything less than 200 yards away was part of the reason I enlisted afterall. That's not to say the question of what I've been killing all these months hasn't ever sparked my curiosity. I will say this – if even a third of the rumors I've heard are true I don't mind going right on keeping my mouth shut and quietly pulling the trigger. The last thing I need is these so-called magic spores they release upon explosion settling in my eyes and lungs.
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