The impacts start at one end of the house, blowing bits of wood and brick debris into the living room, little craters scissoring their way across the length of wall.

I dive to the floor in time to hear the volleys whistling over my head, cracking and crumbling the walls, baseboards, and hardwood all across the bottom floor of the house. Puffs of stuffing explode from the ugly couch like popcorn.

There’s so many gunshots, so much noise, that it all seems to run together, morphing into some massive, ear-wrenching superbomb of sound.

Then, all at once, it stops, replaced by the clicks and clinks and chik-chik’s of a hundred people reloading their guns.

Amateurs.

I push myself up and begin dashing for the window I can see through the open bedroom door on the opposite end of the house. As I pass one of the windows by the front door, I let off four shots in the direction of the mob out front. I don’t stop to see the damage.

I quickly cross the threshold of the bedroom and jump, diving for the window. As I break through the wood frame and glass I’ve turned my body to face the front of the house.

Sure enough, as I hit the ground—landing on my left shoulder—two excited Rifters appear around the corner. They haven’t finished reloading yet, and are fumbling with their weapons.

I shoot one in the head, then the other.

I scrabble to my feet just as I’ve let off the second shot. A gaggle of extra Rifters have started to appear around the same corner. I dash to the other side of the alley, still firing as I crash sideways through another window.

Adrenaline is kicking back in. I’m in the zone, acting without thinking. Gaming. I’ve been doing this for years, and I’m just starting to get warmed back up.

My revolvers are empty. I put them away for now as I book it toward a staircase at the opposite side of the house.

They must be able to see or hear me, because the shots have started up again, cutting wood, shattering glass, whistling and pinging.

I grab the stairwell railing, whipping around the corner and up the stairs, just as a bullet zips just past my head, sending wood shrapnel flying from the far wall. My steps sound crazy loud as my boots thump on the stairs, even with all the gunfire. Bullet craters follow behind me as I run, one hand on the railing.

Two floors later, and I’m at a door leading to the roof. I slow, grabbing and wrenching the knob.

Locked.

I take a second to pull out the rifle strapped to my back, then kick the door, crashing it open and causing it to swing wide on its hinges.

I dive forward into a prone position on the roof, fully expecting that the doorway itself will quickly be blown apart by gunfire.

I’m right. Bits of wood spray across the roof like fresh flakes of snow. I turn left to see three figures standing on top of the building next door. I swivel in their direction, still prone, and begin firing, cocking the lever between shots, empty shell cases bouncing up and past my right eye. I start with the target on the left and keep firing until they’re all on the ground, then I jump to my feet, turning toward the doorway leading up onto the roof, where I hear dozens of boot steps pounding up the stairs.

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Without pausing to discern what’s on the other side of that doorway, I start firing into the shadowy stairwell, muzzle flashing. As I continue cocking and firing I step toward the doorway. Between shots I can hear the crashing sounds of people being knocked through the railing, or backward and into their Rifter colleagues, leading to a fleshy, downhill domino effect.

As I step into the doorway I can clearly see the dozens of fallen Rifters all along the stairwell, struggling to untangle and get back to their feet.

I keep squeezing the trigger, arcs of blood streaming up out of fallen, trapped bodies, like sandbags filled with red dye. Those that aren’t trapped are trying to maneuver back down the stairs, or over the railing. I aim for those, too.

Click. Click. Click.

Empty.

Immediately, an array of barrels poke up through the railing and out from underneath some of the bodies.

I dive backward, avoiding the hail of the gunfire as I land on my back on the roof. I roll off to the side and start running to the edge.

I jump. The buildings here are packed close together, each alley only a couple paces wide. I land on the rooftop next door. I can hear Rifters running and yelling on the street below.

Need to get off here. Soon these rooftops will be brimming with them, I’ll be completely out in the open. As I run, I scan for some kind of ladder or fire escape. Gusts of wind start to pick up, rustling my clothes and pushing me, like a hand pushing me, each rush punctuated by a loud whump sound in the air—

Nope. Not the wind.

I turn just in time to see a thick, scaled, obsidian tail swinging toward me, striking me across the torso.

I’m thrown sideways, wind rushing in my ears, lungs seizing. As the world flips around me, I’m reminded of the first and only time I rode a rollercoaster in the real. I can almost hear the rumbling squeal of the rails.

Don’t throw up. It’s super uncool to throw up.

I’m on a horizontal trajectory toward the rooftop of a neighboring building. I’m upside down, my head lower than the rest of my body, watching the corner of the rooftop fly toward me. Too fast for me to move or adjust.

One side of my face hits the corner, and my body bounces, skidding across the rooftop, everything spinning. Roof, sky, roof, sky.

The roof runs out, just as my spin slows, and I’m looking at the roof of a market booth in the square. I crash through it, wood splitting, beams crashing down on top of me. One of them hits my upper back. Another one lands on my leg, pinning me.

I’m already wriggling underneath the beam on my upper body, trying to roll it off of me. No time to assess the damage quite yet. Not time to—

Wet warmth trickles down the left side of my face. I reach up to touch it, but as soon as my fingers make contact with my left cheek, I can’t see that hand anymore. Because the left eye is gone.

I can hear the Rifters cheering, rushing toward the square.

I heave, lifting the beam and dropping it off to the side. I sit up, reaching for the one on my leg, pushing it, twisting my ankle. I manage to slough it off, pain registering in my ankle as I do so.

I push myself up onto my feet, in the middle of a tangle of dilapidated booths smack in the middle of the square. The nearest place I could even try to disappear is on one end of the plaza. Though the fronts of the buildings are all boarded up, there’s a slim, dark alleyway in the gap that would at least limit their visibility of me.

I start limping, slipping through and climbing over the wreckage until I’m in the open, dragging my bad leg.

Behind me, the sounds of the mob’s footsteps have petered out, replaced by laughing and cheering. One of the Rifters lets off a shot that ricochets off a chunk of cobblestone a few paces ahead of me. Not aiming for me. Not even a warning shot. A taunt.

I don’t even look back. I just keep limping forward, my one good eye on the dark alleyway ahead.

Behind me, there’s the loud snap of a double-barreled shotgun being reloaded.

“Give it up, Winter.”

I recognize the voice. It’s the curly-haired one from before.

I freeze, perhaps ten paces from the alleyway’s opening. With effort, I turn around.

Curly is standing ahead of the rest of the group, shotgun leveled at me. The rest of the fifty or so Rifters, fanned out behind her, have their guns trained on me as well. The second I reached the alleyway they would have unloaded on me.

It’s over.