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

wastelands and all who remained there. An unrelenting barrage of rain and sleet pelted the pavement outside as man and beast lay sleeping.
    Dawn broke and with it the heavenly assault finally abated. Heavy cloud cover remained and with it a bitterly cold, biting wind that swirled around the abandoned city as if it were the breath of an angry God. Pulling on his Garmont lightweight boots the man laced them tight, tying them in a doubly slipped reef-knot with a half hitch – standard shoe tie. Pulled on a sweater, slipped a nylon camouflage poncho over the top then reached for his rifle.
    “C’mon boy, it’s time to go to work,” he said in a husky morning voice, patting his companion on his black muzzle. “There’s vermin out on the streets already today, I can smell them.”
    It was a cold, bleak, inhospitable morning, grey and uninviting. Wind whistled by the alcove as it roared down the street, disturbing the man’s poncho and ruffling the line of hair that ran along the dog’s back.
    Shifting cloud cast dark ominous shadows over the landscape below, seemingly giving life to everything around. Sinister shapes moved deep within the shadows, shuffling and creeping, playing hide and seek. Distinguishing what was real and what was merely a figment of one’s vast and wild imagination was an art. It was also a survival technique that was nothing short of essential out here in the Badlands.

2
Dawn Blood
     
    Amidst the sound of the wind the cough of the silencer went unnoticed as it belched forth its death sentence. A shape shifted in the shadows, stumbled forward then fell to its knees slumping over itself in a hideously contorted pose. Dead as dead could possibly be in its absolute final form.
    The man blinked, stared and blinked again. He had been here before and had seen it time and time again. For him it was a déjà vu feeling, a strange kind of sensation that came to him at the most peculiar of times – the same creature, muffled gunshot, the finality of death, it was a scene that was on constant repeat.
    At this range his M24 sniper rifle was accurate to a within an inch capable of taking out any creature with a single shot. This was not a sideshow gallery where he was aiming to win a prize, it was a game with much greater ramifications. His aim was true on almost every occasion and he cursed himself when he was even slightly off.
    Crouching low he took a bead on another shape close to the fallen corpse, went through his four step breathing routine, mentally took the shot then depressed the trigger. Instantly the dark figure collapsed in a heap in the same way they all did into a twisted pathetic pile of reanimated human remains.
    Pulling the ten inch serrated blade from the sheath on his belt he then systematically set about dismembering the corpses. Removing the head from the body gave him definitive proof that the creature would not ever rise to kill again. This ritual of confirming the kill was one that helped keep him alive, it was part of his ‘code’.
    Mid-morning and the streets were already awash with the undead. Their numbers had swelled of late and the man had his work cut out for him today in this particular sector of the city. He took solace in the fact that he was doing his part to rid the world of this menace, culling, killing, liberating – whatever name anyone cared to give it.
    On one knee behind an abandoned Mini Cooper the man prepared for an all out assault on the undead. Checked the magazines for his rifle even though he knew they were full, another of his ‘codes’. This one was all about preparedness. He lived by simple rules each one designed to keep him and his trusted companion alive through these dark days, through this post-apocalyptic hell.
    “We’ve got company boy,” he said, rubbing the dog’s ears. “Keep your eyes out for more while I take care of this lot. Ok fella?”
    Wind howled again rustling the camouflage poncho that protected him from the cold. Light items of