The former employees ran their fingers over the door, moaned and clutched their stomachs. They tried the handle, but the door wouldn’t budge. Without a moment’s pause, they turned and found Mr. Chan. Two of the three went for him, clicking their teeth and letting their tongues hang out like panting dogs. Mr. Chan shouted Chinese at them, frantically searched the kitchen for something to defend himself with. He found a serrated butcher knife lying on the counter, wrapped his fingers around its hilt.

But Juan didn’t have a chance to see what happened.

The third Mexican, Juan recognized as the man who delivered the prepared food to the buffet, came at him. His eyes wild, the color of blood, quivering and pained. The man bared his teeth, the silver caps within glinting like buried treasure.

Juan sent the sole of his shoe upward and caught the man on the bottom of the chin. A spray of blood misted into the air, but the man wasn’t slowed.

Juan searched for some kind of weapon, anything. From where he sat, he saw nothing that looked useful. He sent another kick toward the man as the attacker fell to his knees and descended on Juan, but it bounced off of his chest harmlessly.

The man caught Juan’s foot this time, pulled him close with a powerful tug. The joint popped at his groin and Juan hissed. Then screamed when the teeth clamped onto his calf. Even with his jeans in the way, the teeth pinched the meat of his leg.

There was a box beneath the counter just beside him. He grabbed for it, got hold of it, and threw it at the man. It was weightless, did no damage. But an explosion of fortune cookies showered out like cellophane fireworks.

“C-comida.” The man released Juan’s leg and went for the plastic-wrapped cookies. He stuffed them into his mouth without opening them, the plastic crinkling as he chewed.

Juan jumped to his feet...and saw Mr. Chan. He hadn’t noticed what was going on as he fought for his own life, didn’t hear the gurgling cries of pain, the wet sounds of chewing.

The two Mexicans had him pinned to the ground like lions on a gazelle. One tore strips of muscle from the arm, licking the bone underneath. The other, with the knife protruding from his chest, rolled his face over the Chinaman’s throat and groaned. Blood poured onto the floor as Mr. Chan’s mouth worked up and down, his eyes searching the ceiling, drowning in tears.

Juan thought about making a run for the door, escaping the pandemonium, but he just couldn’t leave his cousin behind. There was no way he would end up a meal for these sons of bitches, though. He wouldn’t let them have him.

He dashed across the kitchen. His shoes slid on Mr. Chan’s blood and nearly made him slip, but he kept his balance as he reached the first man. One hand took a fistful of hair as the other wrenched the knife free from the man’s chest. Juan yanked the hair backward, clenched his teeth, and sawed the man’s neck open. The serrated edge of the knife ate into the flesh with ease, breaking open the skin and releasing a fountain of blood. Juan ran the blade back and forth, pressing down until he felt bone.