Knights of St Zion
The world is full of things that live just on the outskirts of belief. Shades and shadows that flit on the peripheral of human imagination and reality, things that anyone else would describe as nightmares. Sir Malcolm Ashwood slammed a clip into his automatic rifle, drawing a bead down the hall way and following the blood trail that pit-pattered down across the wooden floor in a rainfall of crimson.
The three men at his back similarly reloaded their weapons, the Scything would have recovered from the previous bullet wounds and nothing short of a full clip or two would bring him down. A giant spider scuttled over the wall to his left, it's eight clawed legs digging into the plaster work of the dark hallway. Malcolm let is pass without firing, the shots could give away their position and the Scything would know how close they were.
His boots stealthily crept over one another as the red dot of his rifle traced and scanned the dark corridor.
A crunch of glass behind him made him dive to the side, right as a serrated arm whipped passed his head. He knew his two companions had already died before he turned around, their gurgling throats spilling blood onto their chins. Someone hadn't been covering their rear- and if he made it out of this he was damn sure he would make them pay for it.
