Apocalypse Soon

/Shk-shhk!/ The familiar sound of a new shell entering the chamber of the shotgun reassures me. The nerves of initial contact settle along with the gunsmoke- my instincts kept me alive, but now I'm a cold killer, the mad rush for survival replaced by a steely resolve to end life. There's a row of bullet holes punched into the sheetrock of the wall next to me, and rather than risk the window, I peer through one of them into the street below.
Though safer, the wounded wall affords little view, but before long, my eyes adjust to see a bloodstained turban. "Got one," I think to myself. My mind races back to the initial attack: the shouts in an alien tongue; the gunfire; the instinctive sweep, aim, squeeze, then roll with the recoil of the bulky ten gauge monster in my hands. Before the view was obscured by smoke and flame, I saw three ragged attackers rushing the house. Rushing? Shit!
As if to confirm my worries, a crash echoes up from downstairs, signalling the demise of the charred and cracked door. Still on my back, I just have time to train the shotgun on the top stair before another dark-faced attacker charges up, screaming and firing an AK-47 blindly. A blast of buckshot sends his lifeless, headless body tumbling back into his partner, giving me enough respite to roll onto my belly and pump the shotgun again. I squeeze the trigger again, instinctively, but the sly rat must've learned from the demise of his buddies and kept his head low. Rather than a satisfying spurt of blood from a satisfyingly warm body, I am disappointed by the pellets ripping through thin air and into a several hundred year old, soot stained chandelier.
My curse drowns out half-hearted apologies to the owner of the house, though she went to her heavenly reward along with many others long before I got here. I hear the steps creak as the piece of filth tries to ease back down to the floor, away from me. Slowly, I stand, training my gun on the top of the stairs all the way. I can hear the floor creaking downstairs as the intruder moves through the house. Not wanting to make any noise and give away my position, I stand stark still, afraid to cock the shotgun. Deciding against risking the noise, I draw a bulky (stolen) Desert Eagle from my belt, slinging the shotgun over my shoulder.
I listen intently for any sign of his whereabouts, straining my ears for the slightest clue. The acuteness is completely unnecessary, though, as he bumps into the china cabinet in the kitchen, sending it tumbling over, by the amount of shattering. I train my pistol on the floor about three feet to my left. That's where he is. I think. Then he swears in Arabic. The pistol roars. The big block of angry metal, spitting death straight through the floor into the kitchen from above, bucks in my hand. I don't stop squeezing the trigger until it clicks empty three times in a row. The kitchen is silent.
I touch the bible strapped to my thigh, then kiss the cross hanging around my neck. Three more of the Enemy died today.
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