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thing’s ear and into its brain. After a second, you pull it free, blood and brain spraying off the still-spinning, squealing drill bit. The thing drops.
    The next one leaps at you. You duck. Awkwardly, it falls onto your back. Before it can attack you, you stand and flip it over onto the floor. You go in with the drill—but Anthony’s there first, burying the ax into its face.
    You give him a thankful nod and turn your attention to the others. Behind you, you hear Anthony take care of the two on the floor.
    Four down. Seven to go.
    You push the drill up through the chin of the next one. Not deep enough. It thrashes at you. You kick it back and let loose with the hammer. Finally, it falls.
    The next one, an old woman, lunges at you. You raise the drill to block the attack. The drill bit pierces the thing’s hand. You yank it out, swing it around, and ram it through a busted pair of old-lady shades and into its eye. You swirl the drill around, scrambling its brains, while pounding its head with the hammer, and it finally goes limp.
    Anthony steps ahead of you now. He swings the ax wildly and misses—the blade sticks into the wall. He tugs. It’s stuck. That split second is all it takes. Two are on him.
    You ram the drill into the back of the head of the closest one. After a moment, its grip on Anthony loosens, and it falls.
    But it’s too late. The other one has its mouth around Anthony’s face. Blood pouring down both of them.
    Anthony’s bit. Done for.
    Fuck, fuck, fuck. What now? Panicked, you turn to run back into the bar—but it’s blocked. The two that Anthony had handled—he had put the ax through their chests, not their brains—it didn’t do anything except leave them in a bad mood. Have to kill them all over again…
    But then you stop—
    You sense Anthony rising behind you, and you slowly turn back. He’s gigantic. He fills the entire width of the hallway. His face—moments ago normal—has changed. Amazingly, just a minute after his death, the blood has clotted, dried. He rocks back and forth on his thick, trunklike legs. Stares you down—Christ, almost like he recognizes you.
    Fuck that noise—peace—time to run. Click here .
    Stay and fight? Click here .

ANGELS
    Jones walks past you.
    You snap out of it and work your way down, following the Angels. Weapons over their shoulders. Heads down. The job is done, but there’s little rejoicing.
    You board the bus. Lean over the front edge, exhausted, ready to get back into the dead man’s bed.
    You see it out of the corner of your eye. A flash of iron in the moonlight. A tank. U.S. military.
    And too late, you realize. They were never going to give you anything. No pardons. No pats on the back. No job well done. No nothing. Just do their dirty work, and that was that.
    The tank aims at the bus. You brace for death.
    BOOM!!!
    AN END

SOMEBODY’S IN HERE!
    You stare right back at him. You should help. But your body won’t move. Something down in your balls won’t let you. Fear. Feels like leaning over the side of a roof twenty floors up. Like Anthony’s asking you to jump. You can’t.
    The feeling in your balls jumps to your gut and then volcanoes up your throat—puke.
    You turn away and run to the back of the bar and into the bathroom. You jiggle the handle. Vomit seeps out the side of your mouth. You ram your shoulder into the door and it opens. That’s as close as you get—puke splashes the floor. Last night’s pizza.
    You don’t feel any better—just more frightened, more incapable.
    You slam the door shut behind you. Search for a lock. None. You put the toilet seat down and take a seat. Drop your head into your hands—cold and clammy. Icy sweat drips from your forehead. Your mind fades out—black spots fill your vision.
    After a long, scary moment, the world comes back to you. You can hear faint screams coming from the