{I'm not afraid of werewolves or vampires or haunted hotels. I'm afraid of what real human beings do to other real human beings. ~ Unknown }
**
On a small hill 1200 meters from the pack's gathering, a man lay down on a plastic sheet, his eye behind the lens of a Barrett M82 sniper rifle. Clint was aiming his gun at the Cross girl, his breathing steady as his mark continued to chat to many others of her kind. He could hear what they were saying from the bugs he scattered around the woods.
Mace, another hunter, was sitting next to him behind a rock, with his back to the target. He bit into some crisps incredibly loudly, crinkling the plastic wrapper as his hand shoved further into it greedily for the next crisp. He was a fucking slob. Clint inched away from him, disgusted by the sounds of his eating and the crumbs dropping on the ground.
