aug1

“deflating. Then empty. His diaphragm relaxed. He counted to three and squeezed the trigger. The British-made AWM bucked hard against his shoulder, the report dampened by the suppressor. Recovering from the recoil, he found his target in the sphere of magnification, still crouched on a flat-topped boulder on the floor of the canyon. Damn. He’d missed. It was a longer shot than he normally took, and so many”
― Blake Crouch, Wayward

“dotted line on the map that promised few houses and even fewer murderous mutants. The bite wound on Rachel’s left calf had gotten steadily worse, passing from mere red irritation to a festering purple mess. The stuff coming out of it now was more pus than blood, and although she’d packed it with antibiotic ointment she’d found in an abandoned farmhouse, the infection had now caused a mild fever. And a fiery volcano of agony with each step. She’d lost the pistol DeVontay had given her, but she’d found another in the house they’d slept in two nights before. It was heavy and”
― Scott Nicholson, Milepost 291