"Mr. Morcey, look out!" cried the older man. "There's another one."

Paul Morcey did not waste time looking about, quickly ducking instead as a screeching bundle of wings and fangs and leathery fibers violently slashed the space over his head. Claws raked the air wildly, grasping at the balding man, trying to at least snag his foot length pony-tail as he dove for the floor.

"Guoooofffff!" Air rushed out of the ex-maintenance man as he slammed against the marble walkway. His move had been neither well-planned nor well-executed, but it saved him from the terror's razored attack.

"Leave these nasty t'ings to me boys, now," shouted a large black man over the increasing din. "Dis be our job."

Stepping forth into the open, a compact automatic weapon in each hand, the towering figure made a rolling motion with his shoulders. Instantly, well-trained men appeared in response to the silent signal — behind him and at each side.

"Ah, me brothers," he said in a thick accent that spoke of exotic islands and the reality of pain, "let's kill us some bad t'ings — now!"

Gunfire rocked the museum halls in response to the command. Shotgun blasts tore through creature flesh, splattering fluids, pulping narrow eyes and conical ears, shredding wings and leathered bones — and more. Two of the things went down in immediate response to the opening fusillade, shrieking a foul, terrible noise that almost sounded like language. Instantly, three more of the gruesome shapes appeared out of the shadows, each of the new trio markedly faster than the first.

"Second team, news flash," the balding man shouted into his headset, desperate to be heard over the reverberating din of the gunfire. Pointing at the new arrivals, he bellowed, "we got company!"

The shooters turned, one too slowly. Fangs clamped on the man's neck just above his protective vest, tearing into his flesh. Bone snapped. Leather lips smiled. Blood pulsed in a wild arc, showering across the polished stone flooring as well as those standing nearest the victim. As multiple weapons swung toward the thing's direction, it let go its now-dead prey and beat its massive wings furiously, trying to gain height even as its fellows dove toward the marksmen. Gunpowdered thunder shattered the night once more, missing their mark by inches, tearing gouging holes in the marble wall beyond.

"Damnit, Pa'sha!"

The bellow swelled from a tall, thin man with intense, blazing blue eyes. Small boned, but square-shouldered, he pointed around wildly at the priceless paintings all about the invasion force with one hand, tugging at his tie with the other, as he screamed into his throat mike over the gunfire.

"Remember where you are!"

"Goward man, right," snapped one of the gunman, a wiry deep-black Jamaican. Nodding, he added, yelling to the others, "De teacher speak most cool — wrong bang bang and kiss goodbye the gentle mystery of dey Mona Lisa's smile."

"Also most terrible law suits and other annoying t'ings, my brothers, don't you know?" answered their boss. "Okay, me Murder Dogs," he shouted to his men. "Show de man we know our business."

"Yes, daddy man!"

Pa'sha's forces returned to their defensive crouches. They moved forward slowly, their guns frozen in their grasps, their eyes scanning the walls and ceilings carefully. The men watched the areas ahead of themselves, as well as behind, their minds constantly repeating the warning that the things they were waiting for could come from any direction. Ignoring the mounting tension as well as the beads of sweat gathering across their brows, the force continued sweeping forward, weapons ready, waiting for their targets, following the lights — eyes searching–

"Left — up — the Warhol section!"

Those designated as part of A-Sweep followed the line of direction, their weapons ready. As the lighting man marked the designated coordinates with his hot flash, the B and C men fired without question at the first thing that moved into sight. Black it was, large and powerful with wings spreading some eight feet across. It was a screeching fast flier that slashed at the lights hitting it, somehow spilling a warm foul line of darkness into the beam from some beyond realm.

"Avoid!"

The men's eyes widened, several of them freezing in place. Pa'sha roared into his mike.

"Damnit, all — move it now! Get out o'de way!"

The mercenaries scattered, backing rapidly away from the fetid, light-absorbing pus as their first projectiles struck their targets. The shotgun man's blast sent a shatter of pellets through the thing's shoulder at the wing, turning the meat and sinew of the joint into a splintered ruin. The rifleman's first bullet tore a chunk from out its neck. His second sliced a flapping ear neatly off the leathery head. Both men silently cursed their missed shots. Despite being hit cleanly, the thing continued to fly for a moment, then wobbled off course and shattered its skull against the marble wall. Bone and stone both cracked loudly. The vaporous ooze vanished in an acrid flash as the broken thing slid down the wall.

"Good shooting," called out their boss. "Dese t'ings be devil fast — lucky we are to hit them at all. B Team, you're up. C, prepare."

"T'anks, Pa'sha daddy."

The big man smiled. Watching carefully for any other beasts that might appear, he flipped his throat mike upward and began making a report of the recent action. Readjusting his night vision goggles at the same time, he listened to a response coming from someone not within the same chamber. From the look on his face, it was clearly evident the big man was not happy with what he was hearing. Across the room, the woman watching from the corner stayed glued against the wall.

Who in hell are these people, she wondered. Her eyes wide — round, unblinking. Back slick with sweat, she stared mutely as another round of gunfire tore two more of the impossible creatures apart. Her gloved fingers tapped unconsciously against the marble slab chilling her spine.

And, while we're busy speculating, a nervous voice from the back of her mind asked, could you explain just what in Hell it is they're blasting to bits?

The woman was not part of the team shooting up the museum. She was not even armed. She had no idea who the men before her were, why they were there, or what the creatures were they were slaughtering with such precise determination. She did know a few things, however. For starters, she could see that the men were dangerous, and good at their work.

Unlike her, they did not stare open-mouthed at the flying, vicious horrors whistling through the hallways. They were not frightened of the claws or fangs, or the fact that the things they faced could tear apart the fabric of space to open inter-dimensional rifts. Unlike the woman, they seemed, if not complacent about it all, at least somehow used to the idea of creatures of which no one else had ever heard. Indeed, so unflapped by the beasts were they that they were coldly, coolly and quite rapidly disposing of the things one after another as if they were nothing more than bats or over-sized moths.

In fact, the woman suddenly realized they were making short work of anything moving that was not a part of their team. Realizing what that calculating efficiency would almost certainly soon mean to her personally, the woman told herself;

So, there's your question, little girl. Do you...