Chance took the pressure, and Gibby forced himself into the gap. He was larger, but made it through with only a few cuts and scrapes. Dusting himself off, he said, “I’ll never look at a dog pound the same way.”

“Whatever, man, I’m calling you Houdini from now on.”

“Not yet. That door’s locked from the outside.”

Chance checked to make sure. It was solid steel, and seriously locked. “So what do we do?”

“A lot of dangerous stuff in here. I guess we find something sharp, and kill the bastard.”

Chance waited for the punch line.

It never came.

“You check over there.” Gibby picked up a scalpel, gripped it like a knife, and then put it down when he found a larger one. “Anything?”

Chance opened a few cabinets. “I found bleach.”

“Check that big chest.”

“It’s a freezer.”

“Check it, anyway.”

The freezer door went up. “Um, Gibby.”

“Yeah?”

“No. Seriously.”

Chance’s face should have been warning enough. It wasn’t. Gibby crossed the room, and stared down. “Oh, Jesus.”

“That’s somebody’s leg.”

Gibby closed his eyes, but the image wouldn’t go. Plastic, frost, those things that were beneath …

“Oh shit,” Chance said. “I think that one is somebody’s head.”

“Close it, please.”

Chance did that, too.

Behind them, a key grated in the lock.

For a moment, time stopped, then Gibby charged the door. It opened, and framed the small man—same gun in his hand—and there was a moment of pure comic genius: his face when he saw what was about to happen. Because Gibby was big and fast, and not about to slow down. He tucked his shoulder, and hit chest-high, one hundred and ninety pounds of pissed-off, shit-scared, eighteen-year-old with a very strong desire to live. He drove the little man back through the door, and they went down in a tangle, Gibby on top, and trying hard to stab a man somewhere it actually mattered. He had little luck, and no time at all. The gun went off, maybe into the dirt. Gibby rolled right, and the world exploded again, powder grit and fire as the gun lit off ten inches from his face.

Still alive, though.

Chance must have been close behind, because the next three shots went into the basement, then the little bastard was up and running. Gibby tried to stop him, but couldn’t. He was half-deaf, half-blind.

“Chance?” He stumbled back into the basement. “Chance? You alive?”

“Yeah, believe it or not.” Chance straightened as he stood, ten feet from the door and big as life. “That dude cannot shoot for shit.”