Bone Hunter: A Novelette in the Dark of Dawn Series by Sebastien Woolf

1
The Reaper
     
    Late afternoon light cast a shadow across the empty street. The city was up to her old tricks again, silhouettes and shapes, illusions and visions. A brisk wind gusted across the sidewalk rustling a few discarded newspapers that lay scattered next to an abandoned newsstand. It was an icy breeze with a vicious bite to it.
    Tugging at the strap the man in the shadows pulled the goggles down from the top of his tactical helmet so they covered his eyes once again, providing him instant relief from the cold wind. He squinted down the short barrel of his handgun, gained a bead on a shuffling silhouette ahead of him and closed an eye. Allowed the small teardrop that had formed on his eyelid from the fresh breeze to slowly trickle down onto his cheek.
    The gun kicked slightly in his hand.
    A body fell to the ground.
    Like a wolf on a full moon’s night, the breeze howled wildly up the street barking at his heels muffling the sound of the gunshot. As he stared blankly at the corpse laying motionless on the sidewalk opposite a steady stream of blood ran through the cracks and over the curb into the gutter.
    Sliding the .22-Calibre Rimfire pistol into the holster at his hip he pulled the black fixed blade knife from a belted sheath hanging next to it. The ten inch long serrated blade made it the ideal hand-to-hand combat weapon, perfect too for cutting through bone and sinew, necessary when removing a head from its body.
    Vertebrate crunched as the blade cut hard, it required a bit of muscle, but eventually with a popping sound the head came clean off. The man paused for a moment eyeballing it in a Hamlet-like pose holding it out in front of him. Alas poor… soul, he recited in his head causing half a smile to curl up on one side of his mouth, it was more a smirk than anything. Allowing the dead head to roll off his open palm it fell to the ground with a sickening thud.
    Newspapers danced on the sidewalk in the breeze pirouetting and promenading gracefully. It was starting to get dark gloomy and overcast with grey rain sodden clouds building up in the distance, rumbling along on the wind. A dart of lightening and a crack of thunder in the afternoon sky announced the storm’s imminent arrival.
    Sheathing his knife the man reached for his rifle which was slung loosely over his right shoulder. He knew better than anyone in this Godforsaken city the importance of always being armed for danger lurked in every shadow and it needed no further invitation.
    He gave a loud whistle which was followed by the sound of panting.
    “Good boy,” he said, patting his companion on the top of its head. “Let’s go hunker down. It’s gunna be a wet and wild night tonight.”
    The storm front growled overhead as it bore down rapidly, menacingly on the wastelands. There was no other movement on the street aside from the flapping of paper in the wind and a few tin cans that rolled along the sidewalk, clattering loudly as they gained momentum with the aid of the breeze.
    SPAM!
    Peeling back the top of the can the man savored the aroma of the processed pork shoulder. It was far from an ideal entrée but he wolfed down as much as he could stomach before tossing several slices to his companion. He smiled as the Rhodesian Ridgeback devoured it greedily.
    The dog curled up next his master, it’s sleek glossy brown coat shimmered in the candlelight. They made fitting companions, both imposing athletic and muscular, yet incredibly loyal. The man’s rugged, calloused hand stroked the solid head of the hound as he finished cooking the evening meal.
    Blue flame flickered from the small gas burner on the floor in front of him heating the contents of a grey tin cup. Bubbling away was yet another scavenged meal, a stew of sorts combining tinned spaghetti, dried stale crackers and freshly picked herbs. The whole thing tasted quite foul, but nevertheless it was much needed nutrition.
    All through the night the storm raged, viciously battering the