Max+Ashmore

__**Term One, Piece One**__

A slight rustle sounded underneath the rusted iron sheet. It stopped for a few seconds, and then experimentally tried again. This time, the scraping noise went on for several seconds before halting. Finally, with a loud creak, the sheet of corrugated iron was lifted, and a face pulled itself out of the shadows. From his perch high above, the lone sentinel started, and looked down on the stealthily moving figure. He pulled his long rusty rife from under his straggly blankets, and took an aim through the grimily lens. Down on the dark ground, the scavenger fastidiously pulled a window loose, placing the frame of glass in its crudely fashioned knapsack, before moving quickly towards the dark exit. The sentinel took a deep breath to steady his nerves, and fired. The creature spud as if it had taken a punch to the jaw, before desperately staggering towered the exit. He fired again, but the stress threw his aim off and the bullet tore through the air above the creatures shoulder. The thing reached the faux safety of a large sheet of plate iron, and hurled itself down beside it. However, it had chosen poorly, and the shooter still had a clear angle to it. He took a second to clear his head and fired, for the third and final time. This shot struck true. The first sound, exempting the dull cracks of the shots, filled the still air. A final keening scream, a high animal sound, echoed off the dissected steel skeletons, tore from the things mouth. In Its final motion, its eyes searched wildly for their killer, sweeping over the sentinel’s hiding place without a second thought. He climbed slowly down the warped frames. As he set foot on the cracked ground, his foot jarred painfully against the unforgiving ground, as he had been up in a harness for the last twelve hours. He slowly stalked over the corpse, all the while scowling at he fresh stabs of pain the each step brought. He reached the body; he turned it over, and looked deep into its face. He pulled himself away from the husk, bile rising in his throat. He forced it down, and trough the mist of his self-hatred, he seemed to see a hand, like his own and yet subtly different, rising. The old pistol it held seemed to fire silently, as the world drained its couleur, finally slipping into blackness.