Crimson-red blood covered the front of the boy's shirt and the floor surrounding his limp body.
In movies, I'd seen that humans look peaceful when they died. Like they were just asleep. Not this time. All of Dib's muscles were tensed in the last throes of death, and his eyes were wide open-staring up at me with a silent, blank glare. I gave the knife one last twist and tugged it out of his stomach. It glistened red in the light.
Irken tradition was imprinted in soldiers from the time they were smeets. It was taught like religion. And it stated that once someone-comrade or enemy-was struck down in battle, their body must lay in a place of their choosing. And just my luck I found the stupid Dib-monkey's journal a week ago.
Beside a burnt-down shell of a house on the outskirts of town there was a path that leads to a pet cemetery. (For some reason, in his journal, he always misspelled it as 'semetary'.) Beyond that-a mile beyond-was an Indian burial ground. He had clearly stated that, in the event of his untimely death, he should be buried there.
I looked from the knife to the body. However I hated it, I had to admit-the human child had been a worthy arch enemy. But in the end I won out. It was inevitable, but still, Dib Membrane had fought a good fight.
"Computer…bring me a hovertransporter. And ready the Voot. I'll clean this up later." I said, reaching behind Dib's glasses and closing his eyes. "And get a shovel."