“I think this qualifies,” Shane said. The valves were covered with glass panels, but there was a handy little hammer hanging from a chain, and he used it to shatter all of the panes, one after another. “You start from that end. I’ll take this one.”

That was an okay plan until Claire tried to turn the valve—it was big, heavy, and, most important, hadn’t been moved (probably) since they’d stuck the glass over it in the 1950s. She tried, but it just wasn’t happening. Shane was managing his first one, with difficulty, but Shane had about ten times her upper-body strength.

She threaded her shotgun through the spokes on the valve and used it as a lever, careful to keep her hands far away from the trigger mechanism. With a deep, metallic groan that vibrated up through the floor, the valve started to turn. As it spun, it got a little easier, and she tightened it off, took the shotgun out, and moved to the next one.

“Claire,” Shane said.

“Almost got it!” She gritted her teeth and threw her shoulders into it, and the second valve squealed as rust flaked free.

“Claire!”

She looked up this time, and saw that he was facing away from her, down the hallway. The expression on his face … she didn’t want to look.

But she had to.

The draug were approaching in utter silence, gliding through the metal halls like ghosts. Identical men, all gray and indistinguishable and yet so very wrong, rippling and boneless.

There must have been twenty of them coming their way.

“Get behind me,” Shane said.

“I’m not done!” She threw herself into moving the valve again, the last one, and more rust flaked as the metal screamed and turned, inch by grudging inch. Her hands slipped, slick with sweat, and then Shane was shouldering her aside and grabbing the makeshift lever of the shotgun and applying his own strength to it. It turned another half circle, and jammed tight.

“That’s it, we’re boned,” he said, and pulled the shotgun out to hand it to her. She almost dropped it, but got it under control and pointed it at the approaching draug. Tight into her shoulder. She was already badly bruised there, but a few more hematomas were a small price to pay. She looked silently at Shane, and he stepped forward, gripping the nozzle of the flamethrower. He pressed the ignition button, and when the blue flame leaped into life, he grinned fiercely.

“I love this job,” he said, and he probably would have added something else to that, something witty and funny, but before he could, the draug closest to him flung out its hand, which stretched impossibly far and turned into water, clear and formless, and hit the nozzle with a wet, sizzling slap.

It drowned out the ignition flame.

Shane looked down, shocked, and hit the button again. Then again. He got a clicking sound, but no pilot light.

“Fuck,” he whispered, but he didn’t waste time on regrets; he just holstered the nozzle and grabbed the shotgun from the rig on his back. “Claire, stairs. Now.”