With the floor clear there's really nothing to do but call it in. One more swing puts the last guy out of commission (it's only courtesy, I mean, if you're gonna paint the floor with a motherfucker's brains you'd best intend to finish him off) and I drop the pipe to the carpet. It squelches when it lands. Who the fuck cleans all this up when we go?

It's quiet now, it's always so damn quiet when we're done. I think that's what freaks me out most, actually. Not the blood, or the risk of death, or even the creepy fucking masks the guys insist on us wearing, but how damn quiet it gets when all's said and done. I consider lighting a smoke, but I decide against it; as much as I'd love to get this mask off and get some air on my face, I haven't checked for cameras on this floor and I can't risk being seen. So no smoke.

Gunshots. Not unfamiliar, but still a little worrying. I can't help but be concerned that the guys are on the wrong end of them. Alex and Ash should be okay, the brutal little fuckers would probably just carry on if they got their fucking heads blown off. But Mark's always hesitated a little too much for me to be sure he'll be okay. And Tony, Tony's the exact opposite. Charges into battle like John fucking Rambo, but all he's got is that shitty vest and his machismo to keep him alive. How long will that be enough?

"I think I'm done here. How are you guys doing?" No time to wait for a reply, really, as much as I'd like to hear they're alright. "I'm moving up to the next floor. See you on the roof." I click the walkie-talkie off before slotting it back in my pocket. In all honesty, I don't really want to hear from them until I'm sure they're done. If I have to hear that fucking chainsaw go through another unfortunate son of a bitch, I'll fill the god-damn mask with puke. Seriously. There's a couple of sofas in this room, so I pad over and help myself to a seat. I don't think anyone will mind. I shunt a corpse off the cushion next to me and watch it slump to the floor, a spray of dark red splattering the carpet where his head collides. If I were feeling morbid I could peek right through him like a telescope, or shout through like a megaphone. It's amazing how much mess a little bullet can make, I mean this one must have been, what, a .22? I look at the handgun I threw to the floor not a minute ago. Yeah, .22. And half his fucking face is gone. I guess there's a lot to be said for point bla-

Someone's coming. Fuck.

I grab the pipe. No, will that be enough? There could be dozens. It sounds loud, angry, fast. Like hornets heading my way. My blood, only just settling, kicks back into high gear. I need something. It's right on the other side of the door now, the hornet's nest, the crashing and thudding like some kind of beast bouncing off the walls. I go for the pipe. Cock my arm. Ready a swing.

Who the fuck is this? All that and it's some fucking junkie, stoned off his tits. His eyes look like blood, a reflection of his stained suit, the same as the ones on the Russians he's knee-deep in. His hair has brains – actual fucking brains, like a human's brains – in its black tangles. He's holding a gun.

Shouldn't have gone for the pipe.

(* * *)

The elevator rumbles to a stop, and I grab the rifles from their holsters. Should I name them? I can't decide whether it's better to get attached or not to get attached. I mean, it'll be sad if I lose them, but then again, it might put a prettier face on all this unpleasantness if I've got something familiar in my hands. Maybe I'll name one? But that hardly seems fair.

Ding. My floor. The doors grind open and the first guy isn't expecting me. I actually think the masks help, weird as they might be. Seeing a guy like me with two barrels pointed at you's gotta be scary enough, but when he's got a bear's head? Fuck. Watch out! I gun him down. Footsteps round the corner, they run right into a stream of bullets, I honestly have no idea why they all do that. But the rest are ignoring me. I'll come to them. No problem.

The corridor's lined with conference rooms, all bordered with glass on both sides, but I have two guns. I don't even need to look as I spray into the rooms, glass crashing at my feet as I advance slowly down. I try not the think about what I can hear, just focus on aiming steady, counting the thun-ka-chk thun-ka-chk thun-ka-chk, second by second until click click click. Stop. Reload. Continue. That's what needs my attention more than the cries of dying mafia guys. Someone's heading down the corridor, so I start backpedaling and ready my guns down the hall. Sure enough, into the killzone they wander. Click click click. All gone. I stash away the first gun, then Vera (I've decided on Vera for one of them), and search the floor around me for something else. None of these useless Russians have the clips I need for the guns I brought, but this baseball bat looks like it'll do the job. The corridor's gone quiet, but I can hear voices coming from this last room I haven't checked. I peer through the window, as subtly as I can, which Tony has informed me in less than generous terms is not very subtly at all. Two Ruskies here, one with a Kalashnikov and another bigger guy who looks like he'll be more of a problem.

As it happens, Tony's right. I'm not very subtle. A bullet lances through the glass and buries a hole in my shoulder. I jerk away, carried by the force of the shot, and try to shrug it off like I have before but holy fuck does that hurt. My arm grows numb by the second, and I realise this bat isn't gonna do the job. But the Uzi clenched in the fist of a nearby corpse probably will.

I grab it, quickly test the weight, ready my healthy arm. Lucky for me I'm ambidextrous, or that would have fucked me right up – although come to think of it that would have probably been an issue before. I lean round the corner and let off a burst, hear the reactionary gunshots and slip, smack, thunk of a rifleman going down. So just the big guy left. Part of me (the bear? No. That was a weird thought) wants to drop the gun and wrestle the bastard, but that's suicide. Instead, I poke the gun back round and empty the rest of the clip into his considerable gut.

He staggers to a stop. Crumples. Bleeds.

I drop the gun, now empty and therefore useless, and slip the radio off of my belt.

"I'm done here. Heading upstairs." I'm still a little pissed, so I leave it at that. Not much more to say anyway.

Ding.

The elevator? This was my floor, why would any of them come here? Tony's a prick, but I don't think he'd compromise the mission just to show me up. So who the fuck-?

Bang.

Hurt more the second time.

(* * *)

I'm finishing off the last guy, really shredding the bastard, and Ash is leaning over like he does sometimes. I don't know if he knows I notice -

(I do.)

- but he is, and I feel him watching. Does he enjoy it like I enjoy it?

(No. I fucking hate it.)

This is really messy work. Like seriously really really fucking grim. And in the literal sense, too. There's blood everywhere, on me, on Ash, on the floor and the walls and I can taste it, even through this mask.

(Me too.)

How does it get in there? I guess when motors are involved there's nowhere it can't get. I finish. Pull out. Ha.

(You're fucking disgusting.)

I rev the saw up a couple of times: I find that scares the last ones out of hiding, or into it, as the situation warrants. But in this case there's no-one left to scare. I take a look at my handiwork. It's more bearable to look through the mask's eyes than mine. The flesh is the most fucked up in the abdomen, where I went in,

(Please don't, do you have to do this?)

and the fabric of his shirt is in ribbons, saturated with blood. His intestines are mangled, almost puréed inside his gut -

(I cannot fucking believe you sometimes)

This is how he would have wanted it. Alright? Why are we doing this if not to embody Jack? Okay? Get out of my fucking head if you don't like it, freak.

(Freak. Wow. That's seriously rich, coming from a literal fucking psychopath. Just use a fucking gun. And I told you, his name's not 'Jack'.)

Well I heard someone call him Jack so it'll fucking do for now. Anyway. There's fragments of ribs broken to shards, sticking out of muscle and skin like shattered glass. The rest is a kind of wobbly straight line upwards out of his shoulder, like you'd get from a jigsaw through wood, and half his head is covered in red from the spray, and there's this shocked, horrified expression on his face. I feel kind of bad but then I don't. Ash gags, cause he's a pussy.

(Go fuck yourself.)

We move to the elevator and I hand Ash the walkie-talkie, let him do the reporting in crap. I stab the button for the roof, wipe the excess of the blood off my mask. I want to take it off but I don't think I can here.

(You can't, no.)

Hey, fuck you. I consider doing it out of spite.

(They can't see our faces, asshole. And since seeing your face is as good as seeing mine, keep it the fuck on.)

I don't do it, because Ash is a douche but he's ultimately right. And I love him.

(I love you too. Please be careful.)

Up a flight of stairs, a door marked 'ROOFTOP ACCESS' tells me we're where we need to be, and past that the empty rooftop stretches from edge to edge. I can see the next building over now, where we're headed, but to be honest at this stage in the frenzy everything past the ledge just looks like colours and noise. I walk to the edge, and wonder where the fuck everyone else is. They radio'd in, didn't they? So what's the fucking hold up?

(Doesn't seem right to me. I'm calling them now.)

Exactly, it's just fucking rude. We busted our asses getting up here, and they don't even show!

(No, I mean something seems weird abou-)

Bang.

No.

No.

Please don't fucking leave me alone no no no no no no this isn't right this is fucked this is fucked this isn't okay no no no no no.

His mask his gone, his face – I can't – my face. His and mine. Same face. He's dead. I'm dead.

And then I am.

(* * *)

It's all gone to shit. It's all fucked sky fucking high and I'm at the epicentre, the fucking eye of the storm, dragging my best friend through God knows what's left in this nightmare of a building.

"Hold on Corey, hold the fuck on, please just-" I stop speaking, too busy grunting as I drag her backwards up the stairs. She yelps with every step I pull her up, but I can't carry her, that'd only be worse. There's a hole in her gut like a whore's cunt and I can't not see it stretch and weep blood with every thump thump thump up the staircase. I'm within a few steps of the next floor when her groans and cries turn to weak whimpers.

"I'm sorry kid, you know I can't risk the elevators with whoever the fuck is around here. I heard the cops too, I'm pretty sure." I pause as I prop her against the door for this floor. Mark should be somewhere around here, and I only hope the big guy is in a state to help me out. I press my ear to the door. Nothing. Should be safe.

Bam. I kick the door in, fists cocked at my chest and ready for a right hook, but it turns out it won't be necessary because everyone here is dead. Everyone.

I run to Mark. I fall to my knees, sliding through blood as I come to his side. I can see the scruff of his stupid beard through the hole in his mask, his glazed-over eyes, a hole blown right through his cheek. It looks like he's chewed a fucking grenade, the whole side of his mouth is just gone. I choke, gag a little, turn away. And then, with horror, I notice his big, broad chest heaving.

"Oh fuck," I gasp, pulling the remainder of his mask off. Tears are streaked down his cheeks, one salty track running into drying blood and disappearing into a void of matted red hair and destroyed skin and muscle. His eyelids flutter but don't shut; I don't think he has the strength even to blink. He tries to cough, can't, starts choking. I slam his chest with my fists bunched into one and a jet of blood bursts out of his mouth like one of those statues with fountains in them, that's what he looks like, a stone-cast man spraying blood out of his mouth with every pound I give his chest. I consider CPR, but will that even work? Morbidly, I imagine blowing into his mouth, feeling my own breath rushing out of his cheek-hole and back into my face. The thought makes me wretch.

I can drag him. That's what I can do. I'll have to make two trips up and down the stairs for Corey, or...

No. No more running. There's nowhere to run.

Here. It'll have to be here. And I'll beat the festering shit out of anyone who comes for us.

There's a door hanging off its hinges nearby, and a dark room beyond that doesn't look like it has any windows. Perfect. A nice little choking point for a good old fashioned last stand. Just like in the movies. Alex'd love that.

Fuck. Alex. Ash.

No time.

I prop Corey up by the wall when I get inside, lay Mark back on the table. Reconsider it. Turn him on his side. Or is that worse? Fuck, I don't know. I slam the door shut, jerking it back into the frame.

Their breathing is slowing down, right down. I don't think there's much hope for them. Or me. But I'll be fucked if I'm going quietly. Not me, not this guy.

Boots on carpet, squelching through the blood trails I left when I dragged Mark and Corey in here. A SWAT team is stacking up on the doors – I can hear orders barked and rifles readied. I skulk over and stand ready at the door, cock my fists, pull the mask down a little tighter. I can see my fists, the door, nothing else. Pure tunnel vision. My knuckles are bruised beyond belief under the wrappings, but I can't feel anything, and my hands are drenched in blood up to the elbow. I bet I'll look a sight when they kick the door in.

Well let them fucking see me. Let them see me and know fear, and pain, like we have. Fuck them all.

Everything goes slow while I'm waiting to die, even though I actually pictured it ending this way. Or some variation of it, anyway. But I'm ready, or near enough. I breathe deep, steady, hard. The SWAT team starts counting in whispers, I can hear them over panting and static.

It's time. Game over.