The clock laughed at our plans of escape, of tea parties in some hoped for future. Even as we lobbed our protests at its great gearwork face, its hands advanced steadily forward.

Masterson, one of the more bloodthirsty of our number, entered the room, the carcass of a werewolf on his shoulders. He sloughed it off, letting it fall before the Clock.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the gears squealed, slowed and reversed. We gaped as the hands moved backwards an entire circuit.

“Who shall say ‘Time waits for no man’?” Masterson shrieked. “Time waits for sacrifices!”

Exchanging brief glances, we each checked our remaining ammunition and headed out the closest door.