‘But he was unarmed, bru.’

Skeletor looked up, leaving Bob Marley creased over the terrorist’s head. ‘I’m going to count to ten, surfer boy. If you’re not back in your foxhole by the time I get there, I’m going to shoot you. Is that clear?’

Thomas couldn’t stop staring at the T-shirt.

‘One, two…’

He watched as flies darted in and out of the neck opening.

‘…three, four…’ Skeletor raised his rifle and took aim.

It was the smell not the threat that made Thomas want to leave. Noticing it, he covered his nose and drew away. He retraced the footprints he had made for Skeletor to use as a track through the potential minefield.

‘…five, six, seven…’

He curled up in his foxhole, away from the stench of a young body with all the life squeezed out of it.

‘…eight, nine, ten. You’re lucky, surfer boy!’

But Thomas didn’t feel very lucky. He felt hot, itchy and unsettled. Why him? Why did he have to defend the border against this mysterious red menace, a threat he hadn’t even heard of until a few months ago? He wouldn’t have cared less if the terrorist had trotted past their position, made it all the way to Pretoria and pissed on the stairs of the Union Buildings. He really, really didn’t want to be here. Anywhere, even back home with his overprotective mom and overbearing dad, would be better than this.

Shifting to his side, he reached for his Bible.

Chapter 2

The distant snort of a diesel engine found Thomas hunched in his ditch, desperately sucking the last drag from his last joint of the day. He wasn’t nearly stoned enough to go back, but he pushed himself to his feet one-handed and dusted off his uniform. ‘Here’s the cavalry,’ he said.

‘I know, surfer boy. You think I’m blind?’ Skeletor had dragged the body over their footprints, leaving a smear in the sand, and was posed at the bottom of the dune with one foot on the terrorist’s bare torso.