Leon braces the door with a shovel. The chanting outside grows louder, then fades. He breathes, checks his ammo: four rounds left.

“Four bullets, thirty lunatics. Perfect odds.” He says quietly.

From behind, he hears a low and calm voice, with a thick Spanish accent.

“No one sane comes here. Especially not alone.”

Leon spins, gun raised. A man steps out from the shadows—hands raised, wearing a worn leather jacket, cigarette dangling from his lip.

“Easy, amigo. I’m not one of them.” Luis says.