Outside 1440 Hempstead Avenue, Death was taking numbers.  With the death of their commander, the furs were off-guard and disorganized.  Squad leaders each took a different objective to pursue.  The humans fought wildly, with a manic furor brought on only by the promise of liberation.<br/><br/>But the humans were in a bad position also.  The bald lieutenant was floundering in a pool of his own blood, whimpering at the loss of his arm.  His gun lay a few feet from him, still clutched in his now-dead hand.  He scratched with his good arm to get it.  A heavy foot crushed his hand and he screamed.  Above him, a snarling wolverine let drool drizzle in a sickly line onto his head.  Then in three quick motions the lieutenant was dangling from the wolverine's mouth, disappearing in rapid, squeezing gulps.  His world shrunk to a burning, asphyxiating horror.  The wolverine filled out and whirled for his next target.<br/><br/>This wolverine was different - he was, as the furs called it, "zerked."  A pouch at his side contained a now-empty syringe of Berserker Juice, used by fur troopers in extreme cases of defeat.  But the wolverine was a junkie.  The rush of being filled with the urge to kill, maim, and devour anything in his path was intoxicating.  Drunk on murder, he plowed through a clot of furs and humans, aiming for the dark S.E.M. building.  His commander had briefed him on the target, the objective the Fanged Lady wanted to possess.  He left his weak brethren and kicked in the door of the apartment complex.  A human on guard there lunged from the darkness holding a sharp blade, but the wolverine caught his arm in his maw and broke it, causing the human to yelp and drop the weapon.  He then stuffed the human further in, gulping repeatedly, drowning in the ecstasy of feeding.  Now gorged, he sniffed the air.  Fear's odor rose rank from the stairwell into the basement.  He lurched forward, his night-vision clear. Another human charged him from across the hallway.  The wolverine caught his head in a paw and slammed it flat into a wall.<br/><br/>The wolverine descended.  There was the target, at the back of the room.  He charged...<br/><br/>---<br/><br/>The sergeant took the revolver.  He craned his neck over the deli counter, watching, waiting.  Janus wiped sweat from his forehead nearby.  Collins covered the rear entrance, wielding his machete.  Fenson crouched near a hatch in the floor that led to the refrigerator room.