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The Fallen Sky

BOB was making his way along Oxford Street towards Oxford Circus on a clear and mildly warm September afternoon. He walked swiftly for short distances, then he would stop, turn his head and listen for a few seconds. Not the first afternoon he had been hunted. By a long way not the first. He tightened the grip on his gun, turned and increased his pace.

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Peter Crowcroft

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Viḻunta vāṉam


Peter Nevill

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Categories: , Tags: , Product ID: 26084


He did not know the area, that was what made him really nervous. Frightened of what he might find; frightened of finding nothing again. Glancing back more often now, he ran jerkily on, loosening his knife, seeking a spot from which to fight. Small scraping noises sounded clearly to him. He crouched. the noises stopped. Disturbed rubble slithered down behind a pile of stones. The man lifted his half blind face, it gleamed alive in the late sun. No, they were there. They were there right enough. He laughed to himself, his hand trembling as he ran his fingers across his forehead. He would murder the brutes, given time, and place. Nothing like a fight. That was all there was. for it. He swung his head to cover the side where he was blind. He would smash their brains in. Nodding and smiling he went awkwardly forward into the blurred chaos before him. Shells of vast buildings rose grey white in the air and sun. Concrete green with moss, air showing as tattered blue windows. Smash their brains in, that was the thing. Bob stared up at the silent ruins. They would be working to his left. Try and rush him. The same old trick. He scurried on along the gulley between the buildings.


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