Reborn in America’s Anti-Terror Unit

Douglas was dead. The founder of the Doghead Society died just like the prey he had once hunted — trembling, screaming, slowly fading into silence before becoming just another corpse.

Owen suspected Beth had drawn it out on purpose, out of revenge. She had used the power saw to slice through his eyes, leaving behind only a black-and-white mess of pulp and fluid. His body continued to twitch as the blade bit into his skull and jammed in the bone. Beth didn't bother removing it — she left it embedded in his face, grotesque and terrifying.

Beth gasped for breath, still trembling slightly.

While she executed Douglas, Owen scoured the bodies for weapons. All the guards carried Czech-made CZ75s — a lucky break, since it meant uniform ammo. The guns were poorly maintained, which made sense; these men were just thugs, not professionals.

Owen picked out two of the better ones — one for himself and one to replace Monica's beat-up piece — then he and Monica grabbed all the spare magazines they could find.

"Beth, we have to go. We still need to find Whitney," Monica reminded her, noticing Beth was still mutilating Douglas's corpse with nearby tools.

Beth snapped out of it. "Oh… right."

"Do you know how to shoot?" Owen asked suddenly.

"Uh… no. I've never been taught."

Owen scratched the idea of giving her a gun. In the U.S., many kids grew up learning to shoot. If Beth had, it'd help to arm her. But since she hadn't, giving her a gun might do more harm than good.

…

Outside the room, the corridor remained dimly lit. Owen and Monica instinctively slipped into a classic SWAT CQB formation — hugging the wall as they moved, with Beth following closely behind.

There were still several rooms they hadn't checked. Whitney might be in one of them. They decided to clear each room methodically.

At one door, Owen and Monica took positions on opposite sides while Monica strictly ordered Beth to stay behind her.

Breach.

Gunfire erupted from inside — someone was in there and armed.

But whoever it was clearly lacked experience. They wasted ammo, had poor aim, and quickly emptied their magazine.

Hearing the click of an empty gun, Owen and Monica popped into the room and fired. Two shots later, silence.

Inside, a man in a slaughterhouse uniform lay dead. A gun lay near his hand — the shooter. His victim: an Asian woman, already long dead. Probably another deceived foreign tourist.

Whitney wasn't here. They backed out and moved on.

Time was tight, and the enemies were trash. Owen and Monica decided to split up for faster searching.

They cleared three more rooms. One was empty. The others held more assailants, but all were easily dispatched.

As they approached the fourth room, footsteps echoed at the end of the hallway. Owen realized that for all the security cameras around, it had taken the enemy far too long to respond. Now, they finally had.

He and Monica took cover at the corner — Monica aiming forward, Owen guarding the angle.

Every time a guard turned the corner, Owen's near-supernatural reflexes — courtesy of his "bullet time" ability — allowed him to drop them instantly.

Beth, behind them, watched in awe. She noticed Owen always fired exactly 14 shots before retreating two steps, ejecting his mag, and slotting in a fresh one. This move brought him behind cover — forcing any attacker to chase, only to meet Monica's double tap.

Beth soon realized their rhythm. Owen was the spearhead, Monica the safeguard. Her kills matched Owen's, all because enemies took the bait.

Their gunfire was rhythmic. With each burst, their enemies faltered, morale shaken. Soon, the tide turned — Owen and Monica pushed forward, reversing the assault.

Beth, though inexperienced, was sharp. She might not have known their true identities, but these two were definitely not just a Hollywood screenwriter and a studio assistant. No way.

As the pair advanced, Beth did what she could. She scavenged ammo from the dead, skipping the empty mags Owen and Monica discarded and going straight for the spares on the corpses. Every time she collected six, she'd split them and restock Owen and Monica's pouches.

Owen, still furious over Doghead's atrocities, vented his rage. With each shot, he brought justice. Some died in a single hit. Others, less lucky, were riddled with bullets. One thug took seven shots from Owen before Monica ended it with a headshot.

After several brutal minutes, the hall fell silent. Every guard sent to stop them now lay dead.

Beth stared at the bodies, stunned, then dove into the pile to gather more mags.

Owen and Monica reloaded and resumed their search. Soon, they found Whitney.

She was unharmed, thankfully. The would-be executioner had been too distracted by the gunfire outside to do anything. Whitney was terrified but physically safe.

Owen was frustrated. They'd checked over a dozen rooms, but only rescued Whitney. The rest were already dead — or too far gone.

Beth quickly explained what was happening. Whitney was horrified.

With a few rooms left, they pressed on. The last hallway held nothing but a second elevator, with dried blood stains on the floor leading to it.

They stepped inside.

The elevator had only one floor button. When the doors opened, it was eerily quiet. In the distance, they heard soft crackling — like fire — and someone humming.

They exchanged glances. Clearly, the underground rooms were soundproofed — no one above had heard the chaos below.

Creeping toward the sound, they discovered what looked like a cremation chamber. A massive furnace roared nearby, crackling with flames. A large man in front of it was humming as he tossed limbs and body parts into the fire.

The sizzling fat gave off an eerie, greasy smell — almost like roasting meat.

As they watched, the man joyfully yanked a tooth from a severed head with pliers and dropped it into a glass jar. The "clink" of enamel on glass rang out like a curse.

Everyone felt a shiver run down their spines.

The jar held dozens of teeth — a grotesque trophy collection. The man had clearly processed dozens of corpses. Horror etched itself on all their faces.

"Urgh—"

The sound of retching broke the silence. Whitney couldn't take it anymore and threw up.

Startled, the cremator turned and lunged for a weapon.

He never made it.

Monica shot him dead with a single bullet to the head.

The corpse toppled, knocking over a cart full of body parts. A severed head rolled to Whitney's feet, making her scream again.

It was one of the pick-up artists they had traveled with — the same group that had boarded the train together. Josh had already died in one of the torture rooms. The Icelandic guy? Probably ashes by now.

"Oh no... Lona! That's Lona!"

Beth cried out, pointing at a mutilated torso on the cart.

The head, arms, and part of the chest were missing, but the remaining body had a distinct tattoo. Beth broke down.

"It's her… That's Lona. We got that tattoo together…"

She revealed her own matching tattoo — a thorny flower.

"Shit! These animals... I'll kill every last one of them!"

Monica swore, seething with fury.

Owen, meanwhile, noticed a manila envelope on the workbench. It sat beside several travel bags — the possessions of Doghead's victims, ready to be burned along with their bodies.

Inside the envelope were passports.

He quickly found theirs — his, Monica's, Beth's, and Whitney's. The others, he'd seen in the hands of people they could no longer save.

…

"Ding—"

The elevator doors opened.

Gunfire erupted.

Just as Owen had predicted, enemies lay in wait. But the bullets hit only the corpses they had propped up as shields. While the enemy focused on those, Owen and Monica sprang into action.

Within seconds, the attackers were dead.

The crematorium had been a horror show — but what broke Owen most was the jar of teeth.

Dozens of them.

Proof of so many lives destroyed.

Monica was furious. Owen was cold. Together, they swept through the entire underground compound with precision and fury.

Every member of Doghead they encountered — if not listed in the recovered passports — was executed on the spot.

No exceptions.

After clearing the underground, they returned to the surface using the same elevator.

Most of the upper-level guards had already died during the earlier shootout. The few remaining were easily dispatched.

And just like that, the slaughterhouse that had once been a factory of death…

…fell silent.

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