Empty mags clicked dry. He dropped to his knees, using momentum to slide beneath the window, already reloading as he moved.
The assault had begun.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Click. Empty.
The twin pistols hissed as James ejected the spent mags with a flick. One-handed reload—cartridges from his belt, slam, click, ready to rock. No wasted motion. Cortana's guidance, muscle memory, or maybe just video game instincts—either way, he was back in the game.
But before jumping into the blender of bullets, he fished a grenade out from the Swiss-army interior of his leather jacket. That thing had more pockets than a military backpack. Pull the pin and toss the grenade where the enemy was densest.
[BOOM. KRRRSHHH.]
Smoke and Screams filled the scene.
He vaulted in, scanning like a predator. Even if his brain was running hot, Cortana wasn't. The corneal HUD lit up with blue pings.
[One at six. Another at nine. One o'clock lining up a shot.]
James didn't stop. Bang. Bang. Twist. Bang. His body moved like a possessed metronome—dodging, ducking, head shotting. He wasn't calculating trajectories, but he was moving like he'd played through this level before.
"Two o'clock. Ambush."
He dropped low—right as some chump popped up with an assault rifle and unleashed a barrage. James shifted as he leveled his M1911, and stitched three neat holes in his chest.
The tempo changed. Panic set in. The smarter ones started ducking behind cover. A bad move since they lost sight of him.
James switched styles. Arms loose, he swung his arms and fired in arcs, letting the bullets curve just enough around corners. Bunkers became coffins. Screams. Knees blown out. Heads pinged like punctured wooden plates.
And then—FWIP. A bullet whispered past his ear, silver-white. Familiar pattern.
His father.
Carlos was in position, sniping from above. One less guy behind James now.
Then—
[THUD!]
A door blew open to his right. The Repairman. Still alive but limping, and still very pissed. His revolver came up—but James was faster.
Click. Out of bullets.
He didn't flinch. Just hurled both empty pistols like a bar room brawler throwing chairs. Direct hit to the Face. Nose probably shattered.
The guy stumbled back. James was already there, grabbing his collar, yanking him forward like a meat shield. Left hand drew his backup pistol, the Imanishi 17 and pointed it on his forehead pointblank.
BANG.
No hesitation. The Repairman died without even firing a single bullet or landing a single hit.
More footsteps came up.
James propped the body up in front of him as he kept firing around it. Bang. Bang. Bang. He moved with purpose, advancing toward the door. When close enough, he tossed the corpse and kicked it hard. The body flew through the threshold like a bowling ball, knocking over three incoming attackers.
James jumped.
Mid-air mag swap.
Landing? Not so smooth. He skidded forward, flat on his chest—but used the momentum to kick off a nearby corpse and spring right back up like it was all planned. He Kept on firing.
Enemy fire gradually died down. Suppression: achieved.
He ducked behind the doorway, reloaded, and tugged out another grenade. Pulled the pin and held it.
[Three. Two. One.]
When the grenade was properly cooked he tossed it underhand like a beer pong shot. Boom. Screams. One less room to clear.
[Two o'clock.]
James didn't need more than that. Snap-turn then fire. Guy dropped like a sack of potatoes.
Everything has finally gone silent.
In the meantime he reloaded, checked his inventory. Still with three grenades, four mags. Not ideal, but workable. He snagged an assault rifle off the floor. He'd need it—the next batch wasn't going to be entry-level grunts.
He pulled out his communicator and asked for updates from Carlos.
"Cross, what's the second floor looking like?"
Carlos crackled in through the line. "Cluttered. Looks like the good ones are up there. Everything before this was cannon fodder."
[BANG!]
"You good?" James asked.
"Yeah. Some junior with a death wish. I'll hold position for now."
"Try not to die. That's my job."
James clicked off and checked the rifle. Low ammo. Finding a spare mag on a nearby body. He slammed it in.
Now making his way upstairs for the next round.
This was the Butcher's zone. James crept through the dim hallway, entering what looked like a cafeteria that hadn't seen sunlight—or bleach—in months. Racks of meat dangled from hooks. Light barely filtered in. Butcher didn't use guns, which meant he'd be waiting with that cleaver he loved so much.
"Come on out, Butcher Mundo," James muttered. "Let's see how sharp that thing really is."
No response.
James crouched low, rifle raised. Meat carcass blocking his view, but not low enough to hide the legs. Just needed a glimpse to find his target. Cortana helped.
[Nine o'clock. Extra fatty meat on the floor. That wasn't there before.]
James open fired. Da-da-da-da. Same spot. Kept shooting until it clicked dry. He Tossed the rifle and drew his long dagger.
He moved in slowly.
Then his instinct kicked in.
His ear twitched.
He crouched just as a blade sliced through the air behind him. Butcher missed by inches. James couldn't see him, but he swept a leg behind him blindly—
THUMP.
Contact with butcher's tubby legs. Butcher stumbled down on the floor.
James spun, reversed his grip, and drove the blade straight into the man's thigh. Not fatal—but painful and deadly enough to take him out of the dance.
"Tag. You're it."