I stand in the middle of a huge warehouse, the last of the survivors scales the swaying rope ladder to the sanctuary of the roof and leaps to the safety of the waiting helicopter.
A grenade in each hand, their quiet clicks count the last seconds of my life as a scream built of pure rage fans out from my mouth and echoes back the the meaning, never changed, from the beginning of the failed experiment called man.
The slavering horde, hungry for my flesh, streams in from all sides, accelerating, desperate for the temporary reprieve from the insatiable lust that grips them.
The last quiet click is lost beneath their footfalls, the whirring blades of my companion's salvation and the bellow of defiance, regret and fear that still issues from my doomed neck.
My last tear has not had time to hit the ground before my body is ripped apart in a flurry of blood and shrapnel, the bodies of my enemies caught in the blast fall in its place.
Those I have left behind, flying into the sunset, they do not shed a single tear between them.
When you have seen what we have seen, you will understand.
If I die in any other way I'm going to ask for my money back.
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