Damn Chip
When he came
to, he had the memory of a flashing knife and a blinding headache. He felt the blood soaking the front of his
ripped t-shirt. There had been someone,
a young boy. “Your money! Now!”
He tried to strike back, but the headache was searing, and there had
been the flash of the knife. A boy,
pimply teenager, shaking in withdrawal, no older than…
“Dawn!” He pushed himself from the ground. He saw her lying motionless at the foot of
the tree. He turned her over. Her neck grinned up at him; an ugly second
mouth. “Niblet…Dawn.” Cradling her body in his arms, he knew he
had lost her. Couldn’t protect her.
Why a
knife? Why couldn’t the boy have used a
wooden stake?