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Dead Transmision

Submitted By: Date: October 13, 2005, 12:26:20 AM Views: 2420

The valley was a pale crimson colour, the stains of blood and death scarring the landscape. Steep cliffs rose from either side, creating an arena of death in which the contestants played for their lives. Patches of grass, trees and shrubs dotted the valley floor, masking the bullet casings, scorch marks and rotting bones. Vehicle tread marks were sketch across the scarred ground as if some cursed artist had closed his eyes and slashed madly at a worthless canvas.

The sun was out,  not a cloud was in the sky and everything was quiet save the chirping insects. Only the small stream that ran through the valley gurgled with life, washing the blood to some unseen waterfall that mixed the death of some with the lives of others. But in this stream of life crept three Messengers of Death bent on eliminating the unseen ghost that had been killing of their kind for days. They were the finest warriors the Imperium of Man had to offer. Killing machines that showed no mercy, which stalked any foe across any world, under any sky. They were known as the Stalkers of Night, and they gave to who ever crossed their path. They had maintained radio silence for over two weeks as they stalked their prey.

It was too hot for active military movements, and the assassins were grateful that the stream was cool and refreshing as they crawled through it painfully slowly. A short whistling broke the natural silence, and then stopped just as quickly. One of the assassins slowly swiveled his head around to look at his team member only a few paces away, who was now drifting quietly down the stream in an ever-changing charade of red and blue. The crystal clear water, mixing with blood, slowly pushed the body downstream into the shadows of a nearby cliff.

The insects had never stopped chirping, and the size of the valley had destroyed any chance of tracking where the shot had come from. The two remaining assassins sunk lower into the water, almost completely submerging themselves. Perhaps the sniper had only seen… A second whistling noise ended that thought prematurely, which was followed by a distinct plunk of water splashing back into the blue stream.

The third and final assassin glanced slowly around watching as the second assassin floated down stream to join his dead companion. Then, with quiet resolve, he ducked bellow the surface, grabbing the mud in his glove clad hands and began pulling himself towards a nearby shelf. Hours passed, as the assassin grew more at ease, pulling himself slowly out of the water and onto the stream bank. Slowly and deliberately pulling his sniper rifle around and placing it in among the weeds, he began to survey the high ridges,  trees, and hills. It must have been a sniper, shooting from a cliff ridge, or a high place. The banks were too high for a marksman to get a shot off at the assassins. And so the patient waiting game began.

The last transmission that was heard from the team of assassins was a high-pitched scream in the afternoon from a nearby patrol. The insects were still chirping when the soldiers found the bodies with runes of death around their throats.

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