Ezra opened the cylinder to his revolver, inspected each of his three remaining shells, and then snapped the mechanism back shut. He was sweating profusely, despite the cold weather. Ezra’s pale blue eyes were focused on the pistol as he murmured to nobody.

“This shit doesn’t happen.” Ezra said. “They’re going to kill us. Eat us. Us will be them. They don’t quit. Sleep. Give up. They just keep going.” And as if to punctuate his frantic sentiment, there was a renewed crashing against the wood barricades on the first floor.

“Look, Ezra, you’ve got to get it together, buddy.” Stanley said, nervously glancing around at the others. His gray pinstripe trousers were stained with crimson splotches. His shirt was smeared with red and there was an obvious lack of tie or jacket about his professional mannerisms.

“You’re freaking out my son, Ezra.” Mary said, stroking the weeping boy’s short blond hair. The child was crying consistently into her pale blue dress, never seeming to rest. The kid was her sole purpose.