Jamerson called it the catwalk. A strip of metal three foot across that ran from Saint Mary’s Tower to the Maltings, weaving in and out of ruined buildings. Thomas was hunkered down about halfway along, eyeing something that I couldn’t see yet through the rifle sights. He pulled the trigger once, a pop then shattering glass, someone, something howling beneath us.
He swore, shifting the rifle slightly to his left as if hoping to take aim again.
“They’ll of scattered.” I told him, drawing level with his position. “Hit anything?”
“Not enough.” he scowled, shouldering the rifle as he stood.