The card table was overturned, fifty-one cards strewn across the patio floor, the four of spades adhered, face coated with sticky blood.  I stared at the reddened black card and tried to decipher any supernatural symbolism.  (Twenty-four hours ago, I would have dismissed the supernatural; now, not so much.)  Four swords.  Four weapons.  Four horsemen of the apocalypse.  Added together, they summed into one coincidence.  Sleep would help my mental state, but that prospect would have to wait until after the hunt was finished.  The key right now was figuring out who was hunting whom.

Treize signaled a scout into Gerrymanders to assure safety so we could hole up in our bunker and obliterate any incoming, inhuman threat.  Moments later, he peeked out a window with an “All clear!”

I never felt so comfortable upstairs from an arsenal.  Standing on top of enough explosive juice to send the building into orbit, I reminded myself this wasn’t very different from any gas station.  So long as that Exxon was surrounded by minions of the damned.

“A round on the house!” commanded Treize, opening a trap-door and descending into the cellar.  Moments later: “Where’s the Godforsaken light switch?”

I envisioned what it must have been like in olden days, when barkeeps carried lanterns into alcohol-filled basements.  One stray fume lit by one flame and....

Treize popped his head through the trap door and found me daydreaming.  “Drink something, would you, boy?  You’re safer drunk than sober.”

I considered that a compliment, though I couldn’t explain why. 

A fire brigade line formed to run bottles and rags down the length of the bar.  I draughted myself a Guinness, downed it as quickly as I could, and shuddered.  Sixty-something Molotovs.  With ten of us manning the tavern, that meant six per.  Except I wasn’t sure how good a pitching arm most of the geriatrics had anymore.  Heaven forbid they miss the window and light the whole place.

I manned the tap and filled another beer-shake for myself.  Ale spilled on my arm and bubbled at the wound like acid.  I howled in pain...

The howl.  It wasn’t human. 

I splashed the remaining contents of my mug into my throat and coughed up foam, hoping no one saw the source of the noise. 

Tables were flipped against the windows and three guys rolled an old jukebox in front of the back door.  Down to one entrance.  If the wolves used it, that meant no exit.

Mickey Levins finished reloading his weapons and approached.  He held my arm firmly and examined the torn flesh.  Bristles sprouted from the blood and bubbles.  My pulse was hot and rapid.  He scanned the counter, located the broken leg of a chair, and wound part of my sleeve around it, then twisted the fabric tightly around my elbow. 

“What are you doing?”

“Tourniquet.  Shut up.  Drink.”

He handed me a bottle of something – whiskey, I think – and I broke the cardinal rule about beer preceding liquor.  He turned the wooden peg and cut off all circulation, then lifted my hand and threw it down against the metal bar.  My knuckles rang.  “You feel that?”

As if my squeal didn’t already answer his question.

“Keep drinking!” Mickey insisted, assisting me with the Jack. 

I gulped until I gagged, but he held my mouth shut and sternly instructed me to swallow.  “Keep going.”

“I can’t!”

“You’d rather I use this?”  He produced a baseball bat from beneath the counter. 

Though I was two steps beyond buzzed, I’m pretty sure Treize’s next statement was something like “All we need now is wait.” To me, it sounded more like “bait” and everyone looked at me after he said it.