Go in loud and deadly

You sling the AK47 off your shoulder and pull the bolt back just enough to see brass in the chamber. Thirty rounds in the curved magazine and one already chambered. The pistol on your belt with eight in the mag and one in the pipe. Thirty-nine bullets total. Plenty you tell yourself. More than enough.

You step into the plaza, boots loud on the cracked stone. No hiding now.

The guard by the truck snaps awake when he hears your footsteps. He swings his rifle up, mouth opening to shout. You shot. Three short bursts from the AK stitch across his chest. A surprised look frozen on his face while he topples sideways off the hood his leaning on.

You run to the door. The doors are already half open. You kick the hanging one anyway, it slams back with a boom that echoes inside. You stride in like you own the place with your AK muzzle up.

Six slavers spin toward you. Then seven. Eight. More than you counted from outside. Shit.

You open fire.

The AK roars, muzzle flash lighting the nave like a strobe. First man takes half a magazine in the torso and folds backward over a pew. Second tries to bring a shotgun around. You aim the burst up his belly to his face and he drops in pieces. Brass rains on the marble floor tinkling loud.

Ten rounds gone.

You keep walking and firing controlled bursts. Two more go down clean. Another dives behind the altar but you spray it anyway, wood chips and stone dust exploding. Someone screams behind the altar. Good.

Eighteen rounds left in the AK.

A slaver on the balcony starts shooting down with a pistol. Bullets slap the ground around your feet. You snap the rifle up and empty the rest of the magazine in one long reckless roar. The balcony goes quiet and the shooter flops over the rail and lands with a wet thud in front of you.

Magazine empty. You let the AK hang, yank the pistol.

Eight plus one in the chamber.

Three slavers left rushing from the side chapel with rifles. You backpedal, firing fast. One drops, second takes two in the leg and keeps crawling and screaming. Third keeps coming.

You pull the trigger. Click.

Slide locked back. Empty.

You didn’t count right. Thirty-one in the AK, eight plus one in the pistol. Thirty-nine total. You spent them all in twenty seconds.

The crawling one raises his rifle one good arm, rifle shaking. You have nothing left but the empty pistol and the blooded knife in your boot.

You do the only thing left. You drop the pistol and pull out your knife and charge at him.

He panics and fires. The bullet punches through your stomach. You keep running, trip over your own feet, and you face plant onto the marble. Your nose breaks with a cartoonish crunch. Blood sprays everywhere.

The third slaver walks over at you while laughing. He stands above you and puts the muzzle of a Tokarev against the back of your head.

“Nice try, hero.”

Click and a boom.

Half of your face slides three feet across the floor on its own blood and snot, eyes wide open, staring at the altar you never reached thinking you should have taken those damn grenades earlier.

GAME OVER