Stan knows that, too. He knows, too, that he ain't gonna' magically get good at this thing in the next five seconds. "I hope to hell this is yours," he says, and tosses the gun at Ford. "Get behind all this shit, and keep shootin'."

Then he runs. Or jogs, anyway. It's not like he's got to go far.

"Heya', ugly," he says, standing in front of the pods, feet spread, chin up, facing the horror his brother kept down here - maybe even made down here - without flinching. "Ya' know, I'm just now remembering somethin' - I never did get to give you that kiss."