Hawks vaulted the fence easily and touched feet to slab in the backyard. Most of it was concreted over, save for a stretch at the far end that had been torn up and left as bare dirt. The door this side had enough space, so he squared up to it and then kicked just to the right of the handle, smashing the lock and sending a jarring jolt up his leg in retaliation. Limping inside, Hawks saw filthy bootprints criss-crossing the kitchen which he now entered into. His moment of respite would soon be over, and he grabbed a kitchen knife from the block. It sat easily in his hand; he had fought with many kinds of blade in his short life, but knife-fighting would always be his home turf…

The Deadman’s Finger: Chapter Two