“That’s the last of them,” said Jennings. “Molina, help me with the door.” The steady beep of the tracker filled the room as the two men slammed the door shut. The bright blue beam of his pocket welding laser flared, melting the seam. But even with two of them, it was slow going.

  “Thirty metres,” said Davenport.

  “Bearing?” demanded the colonel.

  “From the east, sir.”

  Good, Jennings thought to himself. With the civilians on the west, it put Operations between them and the xenos. At least they would have to get through them first.

  “Twenty-five,” confirmed Davenport.

  “Listen up, Marines,” barked Colonel Sanchez. “It’s gonna be close quarters, so watch your goddamn line of sight. Controlled bursts only. Remember, they’ve got acid for blood, so beware of spray or blowback.”

  “Twenty metres.”

  “Okay, they’re in the corridor. You two, get back from the door,” ordered Sanchez.

  “Almost there,” Jennings hollered over the sound of sizzling metal. The acrid smell of the melting steel triggered memories of what he had seen in Medical. Of the burning acid on the floor. Just a few more inches.

  “Now, Corporal,” growled Heller.

  “Got it,” Jennings exclaimed as he backed up from the door, raising his plasma rifle. It was a flimsy barricade, but it was better than nothing.

  “I don’t hear anything,” whispered Molina. Jennings strained his ears, but he was right. Apart from the rhythmic beeping of the tracker, it was eerily silent.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Remember Marines, there’s four hundred civilians counting on us. We cannot let the xenos reach them. This is where we hold them. This is where we fight,” said Sanchez.

  “Thirteen.”

  The sweat ran down the back of Jennings’ neck and his heart slammed in his chest. He struggled to hold his rifle steady, and the tracker continued its inexorable countdown. Any second now, hundreds of screaming nightmares would burst through that door.

  “Twelve metres,” said Davenport.

  “That’s right outside the door. Safeties off. This is it,” barked Heller. There was no point in being quiet. The xenomorphs already knew they were here. Lowry wiped the sweat from his brow. One Marine kissed his crucifix as he mouthed a silent prayer.

  “Nine metres. Eight. Seven. What the hell?” said Davenport.

  “That’s inside the room, Private,” growled Heller.

  Even in the dark red glow of the emergency lighting, the Marines exchanged confused glances.

  “Five metres, sir…they’re in here,” said Davenport, his voice quivering.

  Jennings felt his eyes drift upwards, as if by instinct, towards the crisscross of plastic tiles that formed a false ceiling.

  “Oh shit…” Lowry swore as he realised what Jennings was looking at.

  “Four metres. Three…” Davenport could not keep the terror out of his voice.

  “Give me a flashlight,” demanded Jennings as he hopped up on to a console.

  “Two metres.”

  Slowly, he nudged one of the tiles aside with the barrel of his rifle and poked his head through the gap, shining the light into the darkness. Silence, except for the beep of the tracker, and the sound of his own breathing.

  “One.”

  The white beam of the flashlight passed over electrical wiring, metal pipes, foil air ducts, and nothing else. No black carapaces. No claws or gnashing teeth lunging at him. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. He felt his shoulders drop just a fraction as he looked back down at the Marines, giving them a confused shake of the head. With all eyes on him, he was the only one to notice the black taloned fingers rising up through the metal grating of the floor, right between a Marine’s boots.

  “Connelly!” was all he had time to say before the grating was torn away, and the screaming Marine was dragged down into the black.

  *

  Lowry panicked as the floor exploded and dozens of shrieking, black, biomechanical nightmares leapt into action.

  “They’re under the goddamn floor!” cried a Marine.

  “Kill them. Kill them all!” yelled Jennings as he fell from the console and the room erupted into a cacophony of shouts, gunfire and alien screams. The deafening staccato roar of pulse rifles drowned out confused orders and cries for help. In the dark, the pulsing rhythm of the plasma rifles echoed, their searing purple bolts creating a disorientating strobe effect as he saw flashes of xenomorphs clutching or dragging screaming Marines as they dived back into their holes.

  “Watch your crossfire!” barked Heller through the chaos, and Lowry struggled to hear over the thunder of the carbines. An alien exploded in a hail of plasma fire, the cauterising effects of the plasma protecting them from the worst of the acid spray. Instead, the creature collapsed in a heap, sinking into the floor as its caustic blood created another opening. The smartgunners were going near full auto, their fire tearing the xenos limb from limb as they relied more on their auto-targeting systems to lock on to hostiles through the smoke and the screams.

  “Shit,” cursed one of the smartgunners as the weapon ran dry, before dropping the ammo drum and slamming another one home, resuming their sweeping arc of death as the gun roared to life.

  “Get out of the centre. Put your back to a wall!” ordered Heller.

  Lowry tried to focus as he backed up, struggling to see through the haze. Trying to pick out glimpses of hard carapaces slipping between the shadows. They were so fast. Movement, in the corner of his eye, briefly lit by the strobe of gunfire. The shrieking beast leapt towards him; talons extended as its outstretched arms reached for him. He screamed, raised his rifle, and fired. The plasma bolts struck the creature dead centre, sending it flying back over a console in a shower of yellow acid as a second leapt out of nowhere.

  “Die, motherfucker!” he bellowed as he unloaded into it at full auto. The creature collapsed, thrashing wildly in its death throes, and he narrowly missed having his head taken off by its blade-like tail.

  “Jennings,” hollered a Marine. He looked up, he could not see who had said it. It sounded like Molina, but he couldn’t be sure, and he couldn’t see either one of them.

  “They’re fucking everywhere, man. We need to get the fuck out of here,” yelled a Marine.

  To his right, a grotesque head rose up from the floor, grabbing a Marine and pulling her down. Lowry dove, tossing his rifle and grabbing her arm just in time, holding on for dear life as the woman looked at him with wide-eyed terror. He could feel his grip slipping as a second Marine dropped to his knee and grabbed her other arm with both hands.

  “Oh no you don’t,” exclaimed the Marine as he strained to pull the woman out of the creature’s grasp, but a single taloned hand reached up, and closed over her face. With a single hard yank, the woman was torn from their grip and vanished. Her screams fading as he was dragged to her doom. Lowry exchanged a horrified look with the other Marine, only to see the man spasm as a huge black blade, the stinger of a xenomorph tail, erupted from his chest plate, soaking Lowry in a shower of blood before it pulled back, dragging the man up into the plenum.

  “They’re in the ceiling,” he screamed as he fired a volley in the general direction of where he thought the creature was, and felt a moment of guilt and disgust as he caught himself hoping he hit the man as well. He saw another Marine fire as a xeno launched itself at him. The blast blew it to pieces, but it was too late. Too close. The main raised his arms to shield himself as a spray of acid peppered his armour and began to sizzle. Desperately, the Marine frantically unclipped his armour as he grunted in pain, dropping the smoking armour to the floor as it continued to dissolve.

  More xenos dropped from the ceiling, only to throw themselves headlong into the fray at close range. They weren’t even trying to capture them anymore. Their assault had taken the form of kamikaze-style attacks. The acid. They just want us dead now, Lowry realised. Eliminate the threat, then they could capture the civilians for the hive…

  “Fall back to the barracks,” roared Heller in-between bursts of pulse rifle fire. “Stay low. Aim low. Shoot of the legs. Disable them,” he ordered.

  Lowry turned in the direction of the barracks just as a whip-like tail slashed across his chest, his armour saving him from being cut open like tin can, and knocking him to the floor. The xenomorph dropped from the ceiling, pinning him down. It was his first close up look at one, and it was even worse than he imagined. Massive, yet lithe. Disjointed, spindly limbs, razor-sharp claws, and an elongated, eyeless head. Its tight lips peeled back, exposing silvery teeth and giving the creature a cruel, malevolent grin. He brought up his rifle, but he was right under it. He couldn’t fire. So instead, he kicked and punched at the creature with all of his strength. His boots smashing into the alien limbs hard. He might as well have been hitting a plastcrete wall.

  Frantically, he looked for anything he could use as a weapon that would not drown him in acid. Out of the corner of his right eye he saw Sergeant Heller take aim at the creature, and hesitate. He knew. The big man flipped his rifle in the air and grabbed it by the barrel before charging at the xenomorph, wielding the rifle like a club. Fuelled by rage and with a swing that would have killed a human, he brought the weapon down on the creature’s skull so hard it bent the frame.

  The alien let out a piercing inhuman shriek as a drip of sickly yellow dripped down the side of its head, and it spun to face its assailant, completely forgetting about Lowry. Grabbing the sergeant by his shoulder plates it slammed him to the wall, claws digging into the metal as its face leered half a foot above even his. Its lips peeled back and the teeth parted, and a vicious set of inner jaws shot forward like a piston. With lightning reflexes that belied a man his size, the sergeant was able to move just enough to dodge the appendage, but he could not break free of its grip. A second lunge, and again he dodged.

  “Sarge, I don’t have a clear shot,” yelled Lowry as he retrieved his rifle.

  The jaws shot forward a third time, but this time he was ready for it. The sergeant grabbed the jaws with his free hand, gripped its throat with the other, and pulled. Hard. There was a sickening snap, and the big man ripped the inner jaws from its mouth as acid blood poured forth, but most of it landed at his feet. The alien tossed him away like a ragdoll as it unleashed an ear splitting skreich of pain. Seeing his chance, Lowry opened fire, blasting the beast to pieces. He looked to his sergeant and cried out as he saw three more aliens swarm the man.

  “Sarge!” he cried as they dragged him down into the floor. Heller struggled, trying to wrench himself free as the claws raked over his armour. Three men could not have restrained him. But the xenomorphs were inhumanly strong, and even he was no match for them.

  “Get out of here,” roared Heller as he pulled a grenade and popped the cap before vanishing.

  “Fire in the hole,” yelled a Marine as they dove for cover.

  A second later the ops centre was rocked by the explosion. Lowry was knocked to the floor as the deafening blast wave hit them, and his world went silent. Floor panels were launched into the air and fire erupted from two dozen acid eaten craters. He came to, dazed as he saw an alien seize a Marine from behind, punching its pharyngeal jaws through the back of his skull and out through his face in a burst of gore before it was gunned down. The ringing tinnitus in his ears bringing a surreal unreality to the carnage.

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  Out of the burning smoke a Marine grabbed his shoulders with both hands, screaming words he could not hear. It was Jennings. His face was black with dust and ash and slick with panicked sweat.

  “…arge? Wh…is…arge?”

  “What?” asked Lowry, the ringing in his ears finally beginning to fade.

  “I said where is the Sarge?” Jennings cried.

  “He’s gone. The Sarge is gone,” said Lowry quietly. Still too numb to process as he adjusted his helmet.

  “What are our orders?” yelled a Marine.

  “All units. Abandon Ops. Fall back,” hollered Sanchez, his own rifle mowing down one alien after another in a hail of plasma fire. “Jennings, get on the other side of that door, and seal it. Don’t wait for me.”

  “Sir,” Jennings implored.

  “That’s an order, Corporal. Move!”

  *

  Everyone held their breath as they listened to the distant sound of screams and gunfire. With four hundred civilians jammed into a space meant to hold half of that, there was nowhere to hide, and everyone knew what it meant if the xenomorphs made it passed the Marines in Ops. But there was nothing anyone could do but sit and wait, and hope that the Marines prevailed. About twenty Marines had escorted them, gesturing for everyone to stay low and quiet, but as the sounds of the war raged just a few corridors away, a single squad felt woefully inadequate.

  Angel strained to hear a hushed conversation between two Marines. She did not know what ranks their insignia patches denoted, or quite make out what was being said, but the meaning was clear based on body language alone. The younger Marine was imploring the other, probably his sergeant, to join the melee in Ops, and was being rebuffed. She felt a sudden pang of guilt at that, for being relieved that the Marines were staying to guard them while their compatriots fought and died down the hall, but inadequate as it was, twenty armed Marines were not nothing.

  There was a piercing scream, somewhere off to the far side, closer to the east door. Although she was at the opposite end of the room, she instinctively backed up, watching as a panicked mob formed around the origin point of the sound. It was hard to see in the dark red light, but there seemed to be some kind of struggle. More screams, a metal crash, and this time it was punctuated by the short burst of pulse rifle fire. The whole barracks erupted into chaos as floor panels were launched into the air, and huge, black nightmare shapes leapt from the pits. People ran blind, screaming, only for a gaping hole to open beneath them and drag them down. Angel stood frozen, watching as dozens of people vanished through the floor, carried off by grotesque, biomechanical demons. Tall, lithe, predatory, like some fever dream amalgamation of a raptor and wasp. Oh God, she thought to herself, are these what they had been taking out of her? Using her body as an incubator to breed these…things. She watched as a woman was effortlessly pulled up into the rafters, her legs flailing. A massive, bladed tail punched through a Marine’s neck, the tip erupting from his mouth. His death spasm causing his pulse rifle to jerk, and a civilian was blown to pieces in a spray of hellfire. More shapes dropped from the ceiling. Dozens of them. Too many to count.

  She turned and ran, half-expecting spidery black hands to descend from the ceiling at any moment, claws digging into her flesh, as the screams, gunfire and alien cries of pain drowned out everything else. Rounding the corner, she burst into the women’s restroom. Her sanctuary. It was dark, but she could still just about see where she was going. More importantly, it was empty. Diving into a random stall, she slammed the door shut and locked it. A tiny metal snib the only thing holding it in place. She sat on the cistern, pulling her feet up on to the seat as she curled into a ball, pressing against the cold tiles, as if she could just melt into them if only she pressed hard enough.

  “Is someone there?” came a small voice from the neighbouring stall.

  Angel froze.

  “Please, is someone there?” asked the voice again, pleading.

  “Be quiet,” whispered Angel.

  “They got him. Oh God, they got him,” mumbled the voice, dripping with barely contained hysteria.

  “Shut up,” Angel hissed.

  There was a crash as a metal ceiling vent cover fell to the floor. Angel’s heart began to race as she felt more than heard the creature descend from the ceiling. Wide-eyed as she clasped both hands over her mouth, she watched the crest of the elongated head appear above the top of the door as the alien stood to its full height. Had this one came out of her? Could it sense her? Some kind of instinct driving it to reunite with its “mother”?

  The creature let out a long, slow hiss before it began skulking around the restroom. Investigating, searching. Its heavy footfalls terrifying as Angel used every ounce of strength not to scream. Its wicked tail appearing beneath the door as it snaked along behind the creature. Another hiss, and the crested head reappeared on the other side of her stall door. Barely a centimetre of cheap plastic between her and the creature, its clawed feet visible through the gap between door and floor.

  Tears streamed from her eyes and she squeezed her hands tighter as the alien pressed against the door. Testing it. She had no doubt it could tear it apart like tissue paper if it wanted to. Go away, she pleaded silently. Go away. But the feet did not move, and the door rattled hard as the creature tried the door again, more forcefully this time. A hiss, and the door began to shake violently, the plastic and hinges audibly cracking they began to give.

  Angel felt sick as slowly, silently, she slipped off one of her white sneakers. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, she repeated to herself, and she tossed the shoe over the divider into the other stall. It landed with a quiet thud, and in her surprise the woman let out the tiniest of gasps. The alien screeched in rage, and Angel closed her eyes tight as she listened to the creature tear the door off the other stall. The woman let out a blood curling scream before the wall was rocked again and again by the fury of the attack. The scream died, replaced by a wet gurgle.

  I’m sorry, Angel repeated like a mantra, and she tried not to wretch as an expanding pull of blood spread across the floor, creeping into her stall. There was the sound of something heavy and wet being dragged across the tiled floor, followed by the clang of metal as the creature leapt back up into the airshaft, dragging its gruesome prize. Angel listened as the rapping of its claws grew fainter and fainter, but still did not dare move. Did not dare make a sound. Curled up in the bathroom stall, all she could do was hope it did not come back for her. She did not ask for forgiveness.

  *

  The barracks was in chaos as civilians disappeared left and right, pulled down into the sub-flooring or up into the ceiling void. The staccato strobe of pulse rifle fire gave brief flashes of screeching black demons as they pounced on their defenceless prey. Morse kept low, ducking behind cots, but the damn things were coming from everywhere.

  A long, whip-like tail descended from the ceiling. Positioning itself behind a Marine, he did not see it coming as one quick slash decapitated him, and the headless corpse fell lifelessly to the floor. Morse spied the Marine’s pulse rifle dropping next to the body, momentarily debating whether or not to make a move for it. The xenos seemed to prioritise the armed Marines, but it didn’t stop them from snatching unarmed civilians by the dozen. Fuck it, he thought to himself. He wasn’t going out like a pussy, and he dove for the rifle, rolling on to his feet in one smooth motion. An alien dropped from the ceiling, and his pulse rifle roared as he blasted it in a hail of bullets. Hell yeah, he thought to himself.

  “Yo,” someone called from behind. He spun to see Santino, his chest heaving and stolen carbine in hand.

  “Watch my back,” demanded Morse as he let it rip with the carbine. He probably hit a civilian, maybe two, but too bad for them. No way was he gonna play momma to one of those fucking things. If that meant a few civilians had to bite the big one, tough shit for them. They shouldn’t have been in the way.

  “Behind you,” yelled Santino as he shouldered Morse out of the way, unloading into a leaping alien. But Santino did not see the alien skitter like a spider across the ceiling, dropping down on him like a giant bat, slamming him to the floor.

  “Get this fucking thing off of me,” he screamed as the alien clawed at his armour. Morse aimed down the sights.

  “No, wait!” screamed the pinned merc, but Morse unloaded a burst of ten-millimetre caseless rounds into the creature’s carapace. Shards of slick black chitin and sickly yellow acid blood gushed as the alien’s body tore apart, drenching him completely. He screamed in agony as the acid ate through his cheeks, teeth and eyes. His outstretched arm reached for Morse; bone visible where the fingers had already been eaten away. The screaming stopped as the acid reached his larynx, but he continued to thrash and moan as the acid took a second to eat through his chest armour. The outstretched arm fell as it melted off completely, and mercifully he finally stopped struggling as blood bubbled up through the holes in his armour.

  “Sorry, mate,” said Morse as he watched the whole boiling mess of alien corpse and melted human folded in on itself and began to sink into the floor, “just the cards you were dealt.”

  The gunfire was dying down as Morse backed up. Sizzling acrid smoke from what was left of Santino burned at his eyes, temporarily blinding him. Lone Marines here and there continuing their valiant last stand as the xenos continued their relentless assault, but the humans were taking heavy casualties. He had to get out of here. Too late he saw the xeno leaping towards him, mid-scream, arms outstretched, only for the creature to die shrieking as it was pummelled by purple plasma fire. It collapsed in a heap barely a metre from him, the sealing effect of the plasma saving him from a gruesome death. He looked up to see Jennings, the barrel of his rifle still smoking, as he gave the merc a slight nod.

  “This changes nothing, Soldier Boy,” said Morse. Jennings said nothing, turning his attention to the civilians. Prick, Morse seethed. His time would come, and boy would he enjoy it. But right now, they had other problems.

  *

  “That’s an order, Corporal. Move!” barked Sanchez as the last of the Marines retreated. The Ops centre was filled with burning smoke from gunfire and acid melted steel and plastcrete. Combined with the dark red of the emergency lights it was almost impossible to see beyond a couple of metres. He struggled to see moving shapes in the fog, firing wildly into the din. A piercing shriek confirmed he had hit his mark, but whether or not he had killed it, he could not be sure.

  A black bladed tail slashed at him from above, sending sparks flying as it raked across his chest plate, knocking him to the floor. He sat up to see a bleeding xenomorph drop from the ceiling, landing at his feet. He aimed his plasma rifle and pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  The sound was deafening in the sudden silence. Sanchez felt the bottom fall out of his stomach as the weapon clicked empty. The alien seemed to grin at him, as if it understood its prey’s newfound helplessness. Crawling on all fours, it slowly put one hand forward, and then another. Drool poured profusely from its mouth. Its lips pulled back in a snarl, savouring the kill. Drops of acid dripped on to the floor, sizzling away. The creature opened its mouth and extended its secondary jaws menacingly as it closed the distance between them. He took a breath, and steeled himself for the inevitable. Locking eyes on the chitinous black carapace. If this was it, he wanted to see it coming.

  With a sudden, violent snap the xenomorph was yanked backwards. Its head wrenched left, then right, before being torn completely off. A fountain of acid blood spewed from the headless corpse, but was redirected away from him, and the severed head was casually tossed to one side.

  He froze as the air shimmered, and the yautja decloaked, materialising barely two metres away from him. A towering vision of hell itself, the top of its head almost reached what was left of the ceiling. It made no move towards him. Instead, it seemed to study him. Its expression inscrutable, hidden behind an angular metallic mask, and framed by a ring of fleshy dreadlock-like appendages. It wore the typical armour of a yautja, leaving most of the torso and thighs exposed except for a crisscross of netting and…scars. Old scars. Very old. Ugly, extensive, and covering the entirety of the left torso and thigh. Wounds that had been stitched and cauterised without any consideration for pain or aesthetics. Sanchez knew explosives and shrapnel damage when he saw it, except no human could have survived such horrific injuries.

  No, he thought to himself as cold realisation struck him. No, it can’t be. It wasn’t possible…

  The yautja raised its left arm, punching buttons on its wrist gauntlet with its right, and a sound came from behind the mask. A voice. A human voice. A recording.

  “Mijo, help me!” cried the voice.

  He felt the blood drain from his face and the world began to spin. A dizzying sense of vertigo that made him nauseous. No, no, it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. Could not…

  A gunshot rang out, and the yautja flinched as the round ricocheted off of its mask. It spun with a roar as a second round pinged off the mask, and a third. Sanchez watched as Watson emerged from the smoke, sidearm drawn.

  “Run, sir,” he said with a calm that only a synthetic could manage as he fired off another round, but this time the yautja dodged it. With inhuman speed it moved to grab Watson’s gun hand. With equally impossible reflexes Watson dropped the gun and caught it by the wrist, his knees buckling under the impact, but it was a feint by the yautja. Watson had overcommitted, and with its other hand the yautja brought down its blades, slicing off Watson’s right hand before ramming them into his abdomen. Milky white synthetic fluid leaked from his stump of an arm and soaked his coveralls as the crumpled body was hoisted into the air and tossed like a ragdoll.

  Transfixed by the nightmare in front of him, he did not see the pair of hands reach down and grab his shoulders. Sanchez startled. Human hands, and a human voice.

  “Sir, we need to go. Now!” screamed Corporal Jennings. The young man hauled him to his feet in one swift move and half-dragged him in the direction of the barracks. Sanchez did not turn around, but he knew the yautja was not pursuing them. This had only just begun.

  *

  Jennings stumbled into the barracks; the colonel’s weight heavy across his shoulders. The screaming had stopped. No more gunfire. No more shrieking beasts. Just the wet coughs and muted cries of the wounded, and the creaking groan of cooling metal. He leaned the old man against the wall and slammed the door shut. No way it would stop the thing he had seen in Ops, but it made him feel better. Hands shaking with adrenaline, he took out his pocket laser welder.

  “He’s not coming,” said the colonel, catching his breath.

  “Respectfully, sir, you don’t know that,” said Jennings.

  “Trust me, son. If he wanted us both dead, we would be.”

  Jennings was not entirely convinced, but did not question it further and pocketed the welder.

  “Are you alright, sir?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” said Sanchez as he straightened, placing a hand on Jennings’ shoulder. Probably more for balance than comfort. “I thought I gave you a direct order to abandon Operations?”

  Jennings stiffened. “That is correct, sir. You did,” he said nervously. The old man smiled dryly as he patted him on the shoulder, before turning his attention to the room. With the emergency lighting and the smoke, it was impossible to see very much.

  “Someone give me a goddamn sit-rep,” he demanded, regaining his composure.

  Two shapes cut through the haze. It was Molina and Lowry. Coughing, bruised, covered in sweat and soot, but alive.

  “It’s fubar, sir. Bastards came through the floor and the ceiling. No way to hold a line or field of fire. Goddamn free-for all,” explained Molina.

  “They got Sergeant Heller,” added Lowry quietly.

  “It was a trap, wasn’t it,” said Jennings. “The whole attack on Ops was a distraction. This is what they wanted.” A heavy silence descended over the group. He was right. They all knew it. They had underestimated the xenomorphs. Again.

  “Corporal,” said Sanchez, addressing Jennings. “You have casualties to locate. You two, go with him, and whatever is left of Charlie Squad. Set up a triage unit. Find Doc McTaggart if you can, and anyone else with medical training. If you see Sergeants Williams or Davis, tell them to find me. Get to work,” he demanded before stomping off to speak to another Marine. “I want some lights on in here, now,” he hollered.

  “We beat them back, but it doesn’t feel like we won,” said Lowry quietly, his voice thick with melancholy.

  “We didn’t beat them. They just got what they came for,” said Jennings flatly, glancing up at the gaping holes in the ceiling. “They’ll be back.”