Nick is behind the rampart when he hears the hoik of spit hit sand.
Christ.
They tell him they’ve killed them all.
You go, Pussy, they say, stabbing at his armband. We’re resting. Sick to death of your shots and their shots.
His gut bucks. His mouth biles.
They guffaw.
He lifts his gun.
Inches around the corner.
The camel is alone, tied to the gate with a shoestring, its green slobbers pockmarking the sand.
SANDERLINGS 