Mike Dixon

„Freeze!‟
A bullet dug a hole in the ground at his feet and David
stopped instantly. It passed so close he wondered if Clive
had meant to hit him. The man was either a very good shot
or he‟d intended to maim him – and missed.
Barry retrieved the spade.
„Get digging.‟
„What do you mean?‟
„You‟re going to dig a big hole for us, darling boy. We‟re
very concerned about the environment. We always bury our
rubbish after we‟ve had a party.‟
David picked up the spade and held it in his bloodied
hand. It was a formidable weapon.
He watched Barry mark out the shape of a grave and
shuffled forward, choking back tears. He stuck the spade in
the ground and struggled to lift the soil.
„You‟ve got two hands, kid. Use „em!‟
„I can‟t,‟ David sobbed. „You‟ve broken my wrist.‟
He held up a hand, contorting it into an unnatural posi-
tion.
„Oh, you poor darling!‟
Barry moved closer … close enough for David to take him
out. But he needed to deal with both of them together. He‟d
had this situation before. If he didn‟t do something soon it
would be too late. For want of a better idea, he peed in his
pants.
Clive was quick to notice.
„The darling boy‟s pissing himself.‟
David now had two hands on the spade.
Clive took a step forward and bent down to examine the
wet patch developing around his groin.
„Does the darling boy want …‟
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