“You’re imagining things.”
In the bushes, something moved, and Biggs caught a glimpse of colour, black and white kimonos.
“Kids!” he shouted. “There are damn kids in the bushes!”
He took a step forward, and, across from him, Wedge fingered his rifle nervously, anxious that there were only rubber bullets loaded within, and then feeling awful that he was considering that rubber bullets would not be enough for kids breaking curfew. When did he become this way, he asked himself, scanning the bushes; was it the uniform, or had it been his bitterness at not being accepted into the army proper? When did he become the kind of man who thought it was okay to raise a gun at kids?
“I can see them!” Biggs called out. “I can see—”