The kids were hungry.
And the wife - well, he forced the thought out of his mind.
She had been gone this three long days. Would she abandon
the young ones, too? He must get something - anything - for
the kids to eat.
Footsteps sounded, coming closer. The cold touch of the
night wind made Amoeba shiver. He felt in his pocket, and
the touch of the hard handle of his knife was reassuring.
When he judged the sound of the footsteps as being close
enough, he jumped out, knife in hand. The man never had
a chance. Blood gushed from his cut throat.
Amoeba went through the man's pockets. Loose change.
A cinema ticket. A pocket book. Stuffed full with - his heart
began to race - newspaper clippings. Disappointed, he chucked
the things away and dragged the body into the gutter.
The next one - there was always that hope - The next one would
be one with a pocket book stuffed full of banknotes. Amoeba
went back into hiding.