Automatic

“It’s automatic,” he said. His scar blazed violently.

Another’s eyebrow lifted. “The orders aren’t clear. We should call the may—”

“It’s done!” His eyes narrowed and lips stretched tighter.

The others all nodded their heads. Contempt crossed their faces.

He swallowed a lump in his throat. They all seemed absolutely certain. He wondered why his stomach was clenched like a fist. Breathe. Just breathe. He looked at the floor.

One of the others snickered.

He looked up. “But what are we going to do with the women?”

The scarred man drew his revolver. “We’re going to clean up these messes.”


Picture is copyright by Tim Difford.

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