He nods once, shortly, getting it. He'd been headed that way himself, he supposes. Guns are useless right now, here in the dark with hell very, very close. He makes a chattering motion with one hand--Keep him talking--and lowers his gun, hunching and edging around the stack of seats.

A few feet more and now his eyes are fully adjusted and he can see them in the dimness, the big hulk of a man and a smaller, crumpled shape at his feet. He feels dead except for a cold, steady, hateful rage. His hand is already close to his knife, and everything is surreally clear. There are only two ways this is going to end, and he can see them both like they're unspooling in front of him on a fucking movie screen.