Kill Them All

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“Help! Over here!”

Matt Cahill shaded his eyes. Even this early in the morning the fierce Nevada sunshine slammed down like a giant metal press. The desert was flat and freckled with flat rocks. Clumps of blue sage sprouted here and there, tiny flowers open and gasping with thirst. Matt had jumped off a flatbed truck when the driver turned east, figuring he’d easily catch another ride, but no one had passed this way in more than an hour. He’d started walking and was completely lost. Now he wondered if he was also hearing things.

“Help!”

A male voice? Then Matt spotted the boy, who was jumping up and down, waving frantically. He also saw a shirtless, sunburned man in overalls nearby, walking in circles. He took in the two racing bicycles resting against the side of what appeared to be an old, boarded-up mine located on some scruffy ranch property. Matt dropped his backpack, his grandfather’s ax, and his worn bedroll and sprinted in that direction.

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