Blood soaked the sand in an angry crimson patch.
It was nightfall on the beach, and the sky was a cobalt blue with a faded orange streak on the horizon. Star twinkled on the cold winter sky. I'd walked here alone, hands shoved into the pockets of my windbreaker, my breath a wispy frost.
I saw the body. My back went stiff.
It wasn't the corpse that bothered me, but the fact that it was here, on my turf, on my hunting ground. A man, stout and middle-aged in both body and dress, lay with a single bullet hole through his chest and a white handkerchief over his face.
That concealing cloth was an invitation, a dare. Do I turn around, feign ignorance, and continue on my merry way? Or do I take off the handkerchief and see? Curiosity, morbid fearful curiosity, got the better of me. I lifted up the cloth.
My stomach heaved into my chest.
Next thing I knew I was running, running over the sand dunes, running toward the foam of the surf. As though my legs knew before my mind did.
They were coming for me.
They were on the hunt and I was the prey....
* * *