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Jack watched the free fresh shotgun-carrying Halloweeners get torn to bits with his rounds; he had shot a few rounds at some of the assault rifle Halloweeners, but apparently their cover was better and he didn't hit any of them this volley. He could make out the sounds of battle around him and was aware that Dawn and Joseph were fighting Halloweeners of their own. Unfortunately at the moment he couldn't risk a back-shot from his own enemies to aid his allies. He could only hope they had heard his last order and would fight to return to the car. He wouldn't leave without them.

The fresh three are dead. Eight left total. Hopefully.

The Halloweeners continued to rain down gun-fire at Jack, and while he saw the shot-guns from his enemies, at the moment they were too far. He had to end this gun-fight quickly; the car was getting whittled too much.

I can take eight.

Jack ducked behind the side of the car for some cover. He only had one loaded "normal" .357 Magnum that he could use before needing to reload. He was able to avoid the salvo from the Halloweeners with his high speed dive, albeit barely from the automatics. This time when he fired, he was doing so with extra precision; he had one clip, but every round was aimed for a head shot. He wanted to drop as many as possible. Best case scenerio he could wipe out seven of eight with well timed, extra precision shots regardless of cover; they would need to expose something to fire even from behind a dumpster. Whittling the goons down to four or five was the next best ideal; then he could try close quarter fighting to finish it, and then aid his mates.

Jack had slipped behind the car as cover as he reloaded his .357 "normal" magnum after landing his latest salvo; six head shots out of seven, only two grunts left (assuming those who were injured in prior volleys hadn't continued to fight, expired from blood loss, succumbed to pain, or fled). It would only be a matter of icing these two and then finishing off Joseph and Dawn's opponents, who he could hear were still fighting (via grunts, sounds of combat, etc).

That was when he felt it; a slam of force as a round from a rifle of some sort hit the back of his vest, between the small of his back and a shoulder. Jack grunted in pain and the force of it jerked him a few inches and he bumped against the side of the car he was using as cover; the bump split his lip a little, and made a sound and may have shook the car a tad for Prophet and Prin inside. He knew Prophet was tending to her medically, but he also knew that even with her skin sealed by Dawn, the rounds would have to come out of her body, and while one may not die as quickly from internal bleeding as external, it still was a grave concern. There was no assurance that whatever medical patchwork job they had to do at the Junkyard would save Prin for long, but it was her only option short of someone with magical healing powers emerging out of nowhere. Every second the battle lasted was a second against time.

Just as Jack had noted from the rifle shot to his vest and noted the ten rooftop shooters about them, he heard the distinctive sounds of cars coming. They sounded different than cycles. Two in front of them to block them, likely swurving to a stop around the charred wreck of the first car that Jack had destroyed (with the skeleton of the driver still there). At least another two or three from the road behind them, from where the cycles had been coming from.

By my count I've personally killed about twenty of them, with 'bout another four injured. And that's not counting whatever cyclists got wiped from the smoke-screen. Joseph's killed at least another one by what I saw. Not even the Dragons could so easily or effortlessly sacrifice almost two dozen men, fighters especially, and operate fine. Where the fuck is Heartless getting such gung-ho, eager to die thugs? I've killed an entire neighborhood of these fucks over all these weeks and they keep coming. What the fuck is there to do? Do I have to personally blow up that entire district to ashes!? After this maybe it's about time I did. I hate sacrificing anyone, but that's maybe my problem. Heartless seems happy to send a hundred men to the grinder if he can maybe kill two or three of us. At this rate every man, woman, and child in the Slums will 've been recruited by the time they finish us all.

Now I've got fucking thirty-one guys here at least with rifles and five cars. That's not counting however many Joe and Dawn have been fighting for fucking EVER. It's nice that the hordes are on me, but fuck. There's no fucking end. It's practically like the damned zeds. Man, I think I feel it inside, that sort of feeling like before, of anger and hopelessness, frustration, from when I was fightin' Heartless. With that power I'd lay waste to all of 'em easy. But I....I'd kill the others too, maybe. By the time I got back to the Mill and Xiadra the last time I'd had some time to cool some, but immediately during....the heat of battle is additive. If not for Heartless being who he was, I could've blown up that whole area, maybe.

Time to go more hardcore. They beat my hand with a fush, I have to either find an ace or a faster draw. I may take a slug or two in an un-armored part, but so long as it isn't my head I can keep coming. If these fuckers want my head on a stake, they'll have to come get it.

During this quick monologue, Jack came up with his plan of quick attack. It meant reloading the "Z-Killer", his only ace in the hole with them stationary. He'd intended it for monsters, but this will do. There was no way he was going to lay out even half of 31 men in one salvo unless they were less scattered. And in effect this wasn't his aim exactly now. During the second or two it was taking the new platoon of Halloweeners to exit cars, draw weapons, cock them, begin to aim, reload, or whatever, Jack was going over angles and scematics in his head, as best he could these days. Fortunately, shooting and mechanics were some of his best skills.

The "Z-Killer" was loaded and he had five shots, one for each car. He tensed the muscles in his arms and body; he would need as many of them as he could, even for him. He was braced for injury; it would have been a small miracle if he didn't get shot somewhere by someone on the roof or ground with this stunt, but if the choice is a mundane move that won't work or a stunt, go with the stunt. Once again using the car for leg leverage, Jack jumped upwards at inhuman speed, his body twurling as if he was trying some weird acrobatic move. His arms were thrust out and both holding his BIG GUN. Five shots at each car as the nozzle twurled in it's direction, the shots aimed for the lower parts of the cars, to hit the gas tanks of as many cars as possible with either a direct shot or ricochet or even shards of concrete sent up. To incapacitate or blow up as many of the cars as possible. Given the sound and force of the shots, it was possible some of the new combatants might scatter.

The action itself was making Jack's body sore, with all the moving, the jump, and staying tense enough to shoot the huge gun as many times like he was, a workout in itself.