The plagued girls' cries reached the survivors like a blast of ice; even with the threat of a horde breathing down their necks, they gave pause. In their ears rang echoes, not of the crunch of bone and stunning blast of newly released ammunition but a stuttering cry, at first startling in it's intensity and then dwindling off into a frail sob. For a split second they considered turning to face the horde as one. The thick sense of dread that seemed to waft from the blood strewn streets and settle atop them like a lead blanket made their hearts heavy in their chests and, as a second screech sprang as if from the ashes of the first, time had already proven to have taken it's toll. A flurry of garish rags and thirsty claws were upon them. They'd never repent for the mistake of startling a witch.
Lame? Because i'm dead tired even though my body doesn't seem to be giving in yet. Short? Because it was gonna be a contribution to another fic. More questions? I know you have none.