A supervisor would drag him out, and say, "Fire."

If he refused — bruises, wounds, and burns on his body would add up, and his ribcage would bulge.

If he missed — his ribcage would bulge.

If he hesitated — the man would slap his cheeks swollen and his eyes shut.

So he did.

Because what else would he do?

If he sniped at his own will, the man would say, "Good job!" and return him to the dark room, where he slept, blurring away the faceless strangers.

It was like that. If he wasn't firing, he was eating, sleeping — sometimes talking to the other kids.

Before he knew it, he was able to fire at any spot — no matter how fast the target was moving. And now, additional men would gather around him just to watch the talent of a kid they heard about.

Then one day, they asked the kid to shoot a father and a child hostage.

The child cried hard.

The father said nothing — but his eyes were filled with plea.

Too close to be blurred away in his sleep.

"Fire," the supervisor said.

The kid grabbed his rifle, shaking — and turned the nose toward the supervisor.

Cain opened his eyes.

The kid pulled the trigger.

He pulled the trigger.

"Sorry."

And with a gunshot, their group went down to 199.

The rest passed in a blur. Was he too exhausted? He didn't know. He didn't even know how he got through all the zombies back to his post.

All he muttered was — "He's dead. We're down one."

But Juan understood everything.

"That final destination — you know where it is for sure, right?"

"Yes."

Cain closed his eyes.

"The orphanage."

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