Rick started running before his thoughts caught up to the wailing of the sirens and the flashing of red lights. Almost as though he were on autopilot, all he registered was the pounding of his feet against the floor and the harsh breaths burning through his lungs. And then his head caught up and his thoughts spiralled again. Shit, it's happening, what the hell do we do, where are they, how do we get out of this one… A new thought popped into his head with each step, mind racing wildly.

He was dimly aware of the marines around him, mobilizing on their own. They had their guns in hand - they'd never dropped them, never even taken off their armor - up and ready. In the dim light, Rick could see the vague outline of Merle sprinting at his right and Rosita running at his left. It was reassuring, really, and the storm of thoughts plaguing him quieted for a bit.

Without needing to talk about it, they all clustered around their bank of computer systems. Dixon was already there, long enough to have settled down into the chair with a headset wrapped around his head.

Rick stayed quiet in deference to whatever Dixon was doing with the headset, but Merle had no such caution. "Hell's happenin'? Wha's going on?"

Dixon inclined his head towards the computer, blue eyes grim and narrowed. "They're coming."

Merle took it surprisingly easily, not flipping out and, instead, merely nodding. "Where they at?"

Daryl barely answered "In the tunnel." before the sound of the guns firing filled the room. All of the marines tensed as one, sitting a little straighter and craning to get a look at the computers. Rick, right up against the desk at Dixon's right elbow, could see the computer screens well… and he immediately wished he couldn't.

The guns - initially sitting at such an optimistic value of 500 rounds - were firing far too quickly for his taste, the temperature shooting up as the number of bullets dropped by tens each second.

Dixon leaned forward even more, eyes flickering between the screens. "A'ight, here we go… A and B gun firing, multiple targets."

The numbers kept dropping, and Rick's eyes were pinned on them, watching them drop. 400, 380, 360 rounds on A. Rick couldn't even think the number before it was gone, twenty more rounds fired. He could hear the screeching of the walkers as they ran into resistance, their screams vicious and unnerving, but it didn't do anything to reassure him. There were a hundred and seventy-five of them out there and there was no way each of them would die with one shot.

Merle was leaning over his brother's shoulder, and he shook his head as he watched. "Damn, look at them ammo counters go." None of the others even responded, taking the statement for the rhetorical observation it was. Rick looked over, though, noticing Dixon paying more attention to B gun than to A, and followed his line of sight.

280.

270.

265.

250.

225.

220.

210.

"B gun's down 50%." Dixon's words were curt and brittle, the tension evident in them even over the guns.

180.

160.

140.

130.

Merle looked vaguely hysterical, his words just a little too high-pitched: "t's a damn shooting gallery down there."

100.

70.

"60 rounds left on B."

A beeping filled the room, sounding in time to the flashing of a new box on the screen, the word "Critical" yellow and bold against a black background.

"40."

"20."

"10."

"B gun's dry. 20 on A."

Rick had completely forgotten about the second gun until Dixon's reminder, hurrying to look at it. That yellow box - Rick had come to regard its presence as a harbinger of their doom, really - was flashing there too, beeping loud and wild, an overlay to the sound of gunfire and screeching.

"10."

"5."

The round counter officially hit 0, the double null prompting the critical box to stop flashing and just sit there. The beeping was constant, then, steady and final and serious like a flatline on a heart monitor. Dixon slumped back, sinking against his chair and spinning it just enough to make eye contact with Rick. "That's it."

"Jesus Christ! Them sumbitches 're wall ta wall in there!" Merle seemed close to losing it again, but he had a tight enough lid on his own panic that he didn't. Instead, he shook his head and leaned back, resting his head on where his hands still clutched Dixon's chair.

Rick straightened, looking between the Dixon brothers as he tried to think of something to say. What do we do? No, too helpless, too useless, too pathetic, too weak. Well, that's that, then. No, too defeated, not enough Dunkirk spirit. Let's get moving. No, it was too idiotic to move without a plan.

In the end, he didn't have to answer. Instead, everyone stiffened as thumping started to sound in the hallway outside, closer than the guns were, too loud and nearby to be anything good. No one dared to speak, to voice what they all knew was happening, everyone just… listening.

In the end, it was Rick that spoke, Rick that broke their contemplation of death walking just outside the door, Rick that said, "They're at the pressure door."

The walkers outside didn't care for his analysis, continuing to slam against the pressure door heedless of his words. Merle shook his head, still hunched over the chair, words a muffled "Man, listen to them assholes" that floated up.

Silence reigned again, interrupted only by the thumps of walkers outside and the beeps of the critical guns.

Except then a voice sounded over the radio, familiar and yet unwelcome (to Rick, at least). "Hey, guys, it's Jesus… I've got some bad news."

And, just like that, the voice unwelcome to Rick turns into a voice unwelcome to all of them, and Rick closed his eyes without even thinking about it. He'd hoped, just once, that their plans would go according to plan, that the guns would work or nothing else would happen to worsen their odds. Evidently, he was wrong.

It was Dixon straightening from his slouch that brought Rick back from his own head, eyes snapping open, but it was Merle that spoke next, voice bitter and sarcastic with a slight edge of fear. "Bad news, huh? What a switch."

Dixon shook his head, whacking his brother lightly in a clear "shut up" motion before turning back to the radio and bringing his hand to the headset. "Yeah, Jesus? Whaddya got?"

Jesus didn't answer, merely saying, "You'd better come see."