I formed an impromptu cadre with some of the others who were among the rearguard at the battle for Shitty Towels. We threw a VCR as a distraction and headed back through an empty aisle. A man in a watch cap swung a length of uprooted rebar into the wall, tearing out a ragged hunk of Walmart flesh. We recoiled in horror as he wailed beneath the smoking effluent that squeezed forth from the wound.

A woman named Susan started screaming. A 12 year old child with Spider Mans in each hand dropped one and slapped her. The child ran off. We never saw him again. Darius turned, his eyes scanning the eerily quiet corner of the store. “There”, he said, pointing to the relative calmness of the pharmacy aisle. “Are you going to be able to handle this?” I asked Hector, who had thrown up on himself, while pointing to the bubbling, screaming man in the watch cap. Hector nodded, barfily.