A golf club slams against an old punching bag. I wince at each impact, my nerves already frayed from the constant barrage of otherworldly sounds filtering through the basement walls.
"No, no, you're doing it all wrong," Randall huffs, grabbing the club from Marissa's hands. "Your grip's all wrong. You should think of it like a baseball bat. It'll give you more power to swing."
Marissa rolls her eyes. "What's the difference? As long as I can bash one of those things' heads in, who cares?"
I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to point out that neither of them has ever played golf or baseball, much less fought for their lives before. Starting an argument now would only make things worse.
