Stealthy movement through the ink black sky,
the hunters made their way.
No talking... nothing to give them away
Every action, deliberate, slow... steady.
The senses labor in overdrive,
The stench of sewage pervades,
wafting about the air in unseen rhythms,
flowing along in miniature rivers.
The village slumbers in guarded rest,
War weary, shell shocked!
RAT A TAT TAT!
A quick burst drops him to the ground
The silence is broken,
Shit! The bastards not dead, RAT A TAT TAT!
Three more to the chest,
away he stumbles
The coup de gras delivered.
It was his fault, he lunged at us
What were we to do?
