Water gushes in, filling the empty space around me. Slowly the level rises, lifting me to the edge as I drift back to consciousness.

"Awfully rude of you not inviting me to the party," says a voice from behind.

I squint my eyes, trying to make sense of the blobs of light floating around me. "What is this?" I say, fishing myself out of the pool. "I put a bullet in your head."

We're about a hundred yards from the blast when reinforcements arrive. There are a dozen soldiers in all but they're not Hangman's men. You'll never find that many in one place. They are Las Manos Rojas, the bloodied hands. Here, in the blender with us.

The rest of way is far too quiet and that bothers me. Finally I've had enough. Enough of the small talk. "Where's the access point?"

I lead her through the jungle close and tender because I like to be a gentleman with the ladies. It's a series of sharp turns through dense foliage. The kind that thread you in circles if you're not careful. The kind that get you killed.

No witnesses, that's what they told me. Made me pledge to it on my life. But I wasn't feeling patriotic, especially after numb nuts dropped me onto a concrete slab.

The flash from my barrel is the last thing they see before I lay them down, one-by-one. I’m quick, methodical. I snap the last soldier’s neck with one arm as his rifle fires harmlessly into the foliage. I am their shadow, their plague.

Eight thirty. The campfire spreads from the floor to the ceiling. Damn. Looks like I've got to blow this joint after all. The party's over and the guests are ravenous. I toss as many as I can into the fire. Give one the guitar. There are barbecued ribs, grilled flank steaks, and roasted nuts. For a moment they lose all interest in me and devour their charred comrades. I guess raw meat isn't all that it's cracked up to be--just try telling that to the Japanese.

Seven o'clock. They pour in like Siafu. I can barely keep up with their numbers. Three fall, twenty more rise. Chop, chop, chop. They don't seem to take a hint. A human with a minimum of intellect would flee the carnage, especially with something gnawing at their entrails.

I knew I was screwed the moment Billy overbite took a chunk out of me. Now no one wants to claim me as their own. The living gawk at the crater in my arm and get a little twitchy with the trigger. I can turn at any moment. They know this, as do I. And it's a hard point to argue. Better off putting a bullet in my head.
But not yet.
I still have something to offer. Some intrinsic value. And I haven't become a feeder yet.