Tim Fletcher faced the men at the end of the alley. There was nowhere to run. Behind him was a brick wall. He squared his shoulders and waited.
“What do you want?” he shouted, trying to show them he wasn’t afraid.
The men began walking down the alley in their weird costumes, robes and masks like those of some freakish sex cult you read about in Europe. Satanists or tree worshippers.
“Who are you?” he yelled.
They marched closer, lead pipes down by their sides.
His dad should’ve been here by now. Were these thugs from someone his dad had cheated? Had they already taken his father?
“Where’s my dad?”
How could he know his father had never called?
Through the eyeholes of their masks he now saw them gazing back. He tried to read their intentions, the way he would size up a defensive line.
The men got within a few feet of him and stopped.
They raised their lead pipes.
Tim braced himself for the pain. He was ready to fight.
Then the men paused.
As if waiting for something.