Nightwitch

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John Coffee struggled for air as his bare feet slapped the winter sand. He was running into the wind, finding it hard to move, harder to breathe. It started to rain as he tore across the dark, early morning beach. He yelled, but the sound of the crashing surf smothered his warning. All he could do was keep charging toward the dunes and hope he could stop them before they killed her.

He had been watching them for the last hour. Three from the dregs of any one of America’s larger cities. Spending some time here, before they moved on. Come to beg for a few days, or to rob. They needed money. Coffee hated it when they used needles. There was something wrong with men who sent the white death flying through their veins.

It made them so they couldn’t think straight.

He’d come across their kind before.

He knew what they would do to the woman.

She should have turned back when she reached the pier, like she did yesterday and the day before. But she didn’t. Life wasn’t fair. She was out before the sun, so maybe she had some extra time this morning. Maybe the runner’s high clicked in late. Maybe she just felt good. But whatever the reason, she shouldn’t have to die because she ran farther than usual.

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