It seemed to happen in slow motion. The Tank reached out and grabbed the cornered Zoey who was still futilely unloading round after round of her M1911 pistols into its face. Then, with a roar of rage, it flung her clear across the room. She hit her hip hard on the meeting table in the middle of the conference room before she collided audibly with the opposite wall.
Francis swore repeatedly before delivering four successive shotgun blasts to the Tank's face. The beast gurgled feebly as it collapsed face-first onto the debris-strewn floor.
Louis was by her side in a second. She lay twisted in a motionless heap; a trickle of blood ran down from her hairline and stained her temple a delicate shade of pink. He gingerly untangled her legs and propped her head in the crook of his elbow.
"C'mon, Zoey, wake up! Don't you die on me!"
She stirred listlessly in his arms for a moment before her eyes flickered open. He had never been so glad to see her green eyes.
"I knew you wouldn't leave me," she whispered.