by Orrin Grey
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The scene is strangely quiet, broken only by the occasional sound of their claws striking granite or the roar of one of our gunshots. When they fall they make dull thuds, like a side of meat slapping down on a counter, but usually they’re too far away for us to hear it, or we’re already chambering another round.
Harter stands to my left, shrouded in the mist of the graveyard. …