No.533
The cracked windowpane offered a jagged frame for the hunt. Below, in the choked green silence of the suburb gone wild, *he* moved. Not like the shamblers, not like the pack hunters. This one flowed, a gaunt shadow slipping between skeletal trees and crumbling brick. My breath fogged the dirty glass as I tracked him. The contract was specific: eliminate the primary breeder. Identification was grotesquely simple. Even from the second floor, the sheer, obscene length hanging between his stick-thin legs was unmistakable. It glistened faintly in the weak light, slick with the potent corruption he spread – the fluid that seeded nightmares in the wombs of the unwilling. My finger found the rifle's cold trigger guard. Target acquired.
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