"Debbie Does Dallas--this charming little gun moll here is Zarita, by the way. Zari, Youko," Mickey somehow manages to find the time to say, because he has more breath than should be allotted to any reasonable human being.
He also unconsciously takes a load off Youko's narrative by putting his gun away, because he was only carrying one out of habit and by the time he's put down another one of these inconsistent bastards - first stupid and slow and then suddenly so much more formidable - he only has four bullets left, and he's kicking himself internally for using any of them in the first place. The nice (...nice) thing about spending one's whole life nominally prepared for instances like these is that he's also carrying a long, wicked-looking hunting knife strapped to one leg, and as someone with a library named after him once said, blades don't need reloading.
Another of the creatures surges out of the swarming mass, and Mickey smiles beatifically at it, teeth showing. He reaches out to take it almost delicately by the shoulder to steady himself and keep at arm's length. The knife goes into the soft place under the chin and twists, sticking into the skull, and he has to brace one leg against its chest to push it away.