The red tide of my rage ebbs and lifts its veil from my eyes. I find myself in a kitchen, sitting on a greasy, orange-tiled floor with my back against a stainless steel sink. An AK-47 rests across my lap, the barrel hot enough that I can feel the warmth through my jeans. Empty magazines litter the floor amidst a flood of spent brass, and the air smells of blood, cordite, and French fries.
Outside, someone is yelling into a bullhorn.
I poke my head around the corner of the sink, look out beyond the register at the dining room, and realize what the yelling is about. Corpses sprawl everywhere, their gaping mouths filled with blood. The tables and chairs are broken and scattered, trampled by feet stampeding to the exits, and bullet holes riddle every visible surface.
I guess I’ve finally snapped.
For a moment I’m afraid, but then the bullhorn squawks into silence, boots crunch on broken glass, and I know they’re coming for me. So be it. I smile and embrace my fury. Casting myself into its seething tide, I reach for a fresh magazine, slap it home, and let the churning red water carry me away.