Deacon laid down cover fire and did a mechanically rapid mag change, taking a knee behind the concrete barrier.

“You still alive, Preacher? Even with that 50 cal, you’re not getting through that security wall. This place is a fortress. You’re gonna need a bigger gun than that!” he said, cut short as the door suddenly caved in like a rocket had hit it. He shouldered his AR-8.6 blackout and tactically circled, to see what just happened. The mechanical roar of a truck engine tearing itself apart deafened his senses, the engine coughed and died, half the font end wedged in the door he hopped the hood and aimed in the driver’s seat, noticing just a metal pole jammed on the gas pedal and nobody inside, but a gallon jug of gasoline strapped with road flairs and a brick of Carl's Grenades and C4. He peered out the back window at Mike casually topping off the drum magazine of an automatic Fostech Shotgun with what he did not yet know were dragon’s breath rounds. Deacon sprinted for cover, rolling and sliding behind a coffin-sized water barrel as the room filled with flames and the silence of eardrums being nearly perforated. He shook off the daze, firing a few rounds as Mike strutted through the flaming door hole, fully opening fire as if he couldn’t run out of ammo. Deacon heard the magazine drop and popped up to get clipped with buckshot and sat back down.

“I got spares, Deacon. How many you got left?” Mike barked, pelting the water barrel to jar his confidence. He checked his vest and looked for blood, realizing the vest caught the lead and suppressing the pain.

“All this for a hooker?” Deacon asked. “Or are you old and just ready to die fighting and looking for an excuse?”

“Just for that, Deacon. I’m gonna kill you with a knife instead. You got a combat knife on you? Let's cut to the chase and fight like men. One of us is gonna run out of ammo eventually, so fuck the guns, can you handle a half century old holy man blade to blade, or do you need to swing that 8.6 Blackout dick around to feel like the alpha male in the room?” he taunted. Deacon checked his clip, empty.

“Toss the shotgun, and I toss the blackout. We’ll do this like they did in medieval times old man, like how you grew up with.”

“Fair play.” He said, tossing the empty shotgun. Deacon tossed the blackout aside and they both stepped out from cover, Deacon confidently holding his K-bar in hand, edge gleaming sharp as Mike stood pointing his butterfly knife like a sword ready to duel. Deacon circled and started his rush in as Mike drew the HK from his back and unloaded 6 shots into his chest, planting him flat on his back.

“You cheating old prick.” He wheezed, feeling like one of them got through the vest under the lower rib. Mike stood over him, foot on the knife and casually reloading the pistol.

“There’s no cheating or rules anymore, you little shit. You people killed Tanner, I don’t give a damn if I die, I’m gonna inflict as much pain and death as I can in the time before that, and the rules went out the window the moment you brought her here.” He said firing a round to the crotch, one in each knee, and one in each elbow, leaving Deacon crippled and practically foaming with pain and hatred. Mike held the gun to his head as Deacon leaned up and pressed his skull to the barrel. “Just kidding. You’ll bleed out like that pretty soon. If you’re still alive after I’m done with the rest, maybe I’ll finish you off. Have fun down there.” He said coldly, scooting the knife away from the motionless crippled Deacon on the concrete.

“The fuck was that?” The backpack killer asked, hearing the truck explode and shake the building.

“That’s Mikey.” Yelled Tanner, chambering the gun and listening for her opponent’s position. “He's the horseman of death, and hell followed with him.” She giggled.

“Your man got artillery? Won't do much good if he kills you too. Imagine his horror if he killed you leveling the building. The closer you are, the safer I am, honey.” He said brushing his red hair behind his heavily pierced ear with his Beretta, one earbud playing fight music and his signature backpack strapped around a beige sweatshirt. He fired a round, bouncing it around the corner to startle her.

“Nice aim there, Flanders. You learn to shoot at culinary school?” she taunted, ready to fight or die trying. Without warning, she went wild card, taking off running and leaping into the air, firing as she sprang unexpectedly high from the hall, tucking her feet as a hollow-point zipped under them. In a haze of slow motion, she landed and kept sprinting, shoulder-checking the wall with a bounce and both dodging and returning fire as the two traded 9mm rounds at point-blank range, hitting air and walls until she was close enough to ram her head into his nose. She winced, the Beretta going off right next to her ear, ringing her like a bell and cutting her pigtail slightly. The pistols clashed like swords, firing dangerously close to legs and feet, as neither of them could get lined up without the other shoving the gun out of flesh alignment.

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Both of them two-handedly gripping side-irons, exchanged strikes, locking slides at face level as he smirked and noticed her gun was empty, his smile faded as he noticed the gleam of a knife pointed downward, gripped tightly against the pistol handle between both of her tiny hands. With a sudden downward drop, her hair bobbing upwards, she raked the blade down his wrist and disarmed him. She hopped back and bounced to the beat of her own head music, tossing the blade to her right hand and holding the empty Glock in her left hand as a bunt bashing instrument.

“You still feel safe, Ned? HowdilyFUCK!” she said, head bashing him with the grip “-ing doodily.” She finished catching her breath. He drew a fresh full magazine and eyed the gun on the ground, slide open and wet from his bleeding wrist cut, as she circled her prey.

“You know how many women I’ve killed without a gun?” he asked, unzipping the backpack.

“You know how many men I’ve killed who had one? Oh, that’s just cheating bullshit!” She barked, retreating back to the hall as he drew out and snapped into place a folding full sized Ar15, and locked to combat position ready to finish the job. An old, bloody hand flipped the latch open and swing the barrel to the side, holding it out of position as he turned and locked eyes with the preacher.

“What you gonna do now?” he asked. The backpack killer yanked the gun and barely moved it, as an HK suppressor calmly pressed into his abdomen and fired 3 shots, moving up each time as his eyes went glassy, and he threw an elbow into Mike’s face, sending him stumbling back with an empty gun as the folding AR bounced away.

“PCP is a hell of a drug, preacher.” He said breathing heavily and staring him down, the Beretta on the ground equidistant between them and a fresh magazine in his hand. He took one step and like a pendulum of iron, the folding gun whipped downward, swung like a baseball bat by a mid-leaping Tanner, folding it the wrong way over his head, knocking him out cold.

“Hey Mike. Bout time.” She smiled.

“Are you really alive or am I just hallucinating?” he said looking bewildered and overwhelmed.

“Probably both, you look like shit. Are you drunk or high?”

“Little of both.” He wheezed.

“I thought that shit will kill you? Didn’t you say it blocks the voice of god and lets the inner demons out?”

“I expected to die here anyway, God is waiting outside, this situation called for fewer voices and more inner demons.” He said staggering and loading the Beretta as he proceeded around the corner.

“Mike…everyone that way is dead already. You fought your way halfway in, and I fought my way halfway out. We’re done. It’s over.

“It’s not over, we just reached a checkpoint. Are you injured in any way?” he asked.

“No. I’m great.” she smiled.

“Good, because I’m crashing, both my knees are ready to give out, I definitely have a broken rib and I may throw up.”

“Oh my God.” She gasped, bracing him up.

“No, I said he’s waiting outside in the parking lot. I didn’t need God seeing this.” He said motioning her to follow. They rounded the corner, Deacon still struggling to move and pointlessly reaching his fingers for the blackout rifle on the ground. Mike casually picked it up and handed it to Tanner.

“It’s empty.” she sighed.

“It’s still a really expensive gun, just take it with us. You can drop it if we have to, but I’m taking the shotgun and Gwen back too. Everything is out of ammo except Rachel 2.0...Happy birthday tanner you earned it." He said, sluggishly waving the HK like it weighed 40 pounds, barely able to stand.

"Okay, Mister Wobbles, let's get to the truck."

“Blew the truck up. We’re taking someone else’s truck.” He said groggy and leaning on the wall. Tanner picked up the knife from the ground and walked over to Deacon. Jamming it in his skull and heading back on her way.

“Never leave a live man behind.” She shrugged. “I’m not gonna run into some high tier killer some day with robot legs and guns for arms.”

“You watch too many scifi movies, but I get the idea.” he wheezed.

“So you used up months worth of ammo, broke a vow of soberism and whatever it is when you don’t do…whatever you’re high on, came in here ready to die, blew up your truck and killed about 20 people just to rescue me?” she asked.

“Originally. I thought you were already dead when I walked in shooting. I was going to just trade my life for yours, but everything went wrong, and I thought they killed you. I did all this just because I wanted to kill everyone that was involved in your death and make them suffer.”

“Fuck, Mike. You keep this up any longer and I might start to think you kinda like me or something.” she blushed.

“I don't like you. I love you.” He shrugged. “God only knows why, but here we are. You’re a pain in the ass, you’ve made my easy neat life complicated and stressful, You almost got me arrested, you got me drinking again, but fuck if I don’t still regret exactly nothing the moment I saw you alive and safe. Here we are.” he grinned.

“Yea about that, can we not tho. Can we not be here? Here seems like a bad place to be, home would be a good alternative, you wanna maybe try being there instead?”

“Oh Catherine has definitely got my place bugged with cameras and probably trapped the doors. I left intending not to go back. I rigged it to blow and burn the evidense, so it;s either already gone or about to be. I have an emergency place we can hit on the way out of town.”

“So I also cost you your home, you're reloading stuff, your workshop?”

“Workshop is in the van, backups of almost everything. I parked that in the woods before I left. Reloading shit in the van. Home is where the heart is, you can move homes. What’s a house anyway?” he sighed.

“Mike I can’t thank you enough, but I am driving, you can barely stand up. Let’s go find a vehicle somewhere with keys in it.”

“Any idea what Deacon drives?” he asked.

“Matte Black Ford F250 with a topper. Brings it to meetings.”

“Wonder if he’s got any toys in the back.” He said holding up the keys.