Just before I zag left, I take my opponent in. Skinny, sickly, his hair hangs in limp strands down his back. He’s wearing a dark trench coat and holey boots. When he turns his eyes on me, their strangely vacant, the whites gone yellow, the skin below purple. He slides the bolt on the gun and aims the rifle. I throw myself to the ground.

The gun explodes and a window shatters behind me. Glass and debris pelt my head and arms. My ears ring, blotting out most of the sound. I sit up and shake my head. Then I realize he’s reloading. I’m not prepared to dodge it. The silver barrel centers on my chest. I can see the sheen of sweat on the man’s upper lip as he pulls the gun to his shoulder. This is the last thing I’ll see before I die.

Clay flies in and tackles the stranger. They both go sprawling into the wall with a loud thud. A drooping ceiling tile dislodges and crumbles on their heads, covering them in soggy white clumps. The stranger lets out a strangled cry as Clay’s arms circle around his throat. His fingers claw at Clay’s arm as the stranger gags and digs his boots into the tile. Clay pulls tighter, his jaw locked, the veins in his neck bulging. The stranger jabs elbows into Clay’s ribs. Clay oomphs and his grip loosens. The stranger wiggles out of Clay’s arms, turns and grabs Clay by the throat. I watch as Clay’s eye pop and his face purples. I’ve got to do something. I run over.

Clay cocks an arm back and slams his knuckles into the stranger’s nose. There’s a loud crunch and a muffled cry. Two rivers of blood gush from the stranger’s nostrils. Stunned, he touches his upper lip with the pads of two fingers. His yellow eyes go wild. He finds his rifle as Clay’s catching his breath, pulls it back and bashes it into Clay’s forehead. The sickening crack as the gun smashes Clay’s skull makes me cringe.

Clay goes limp, eyes dropping closed, mouth open. The stranger lifts a sick, bloody smile up over his rotting teeth. He claws up the wall, leaving a red handprint. Slowly he turns his grin toward me. With his long, stringy hair; popped, yellowed eyes; and blood-covered face, I have one thought: this is what crazy looks like.

He lifts his rusty rifle up to his shoulder and points it at Clay’s chest.

Clay. I don’t think. I move.