It had been raining steadily; slanting sideways so that the water blinded Dragna, making him swear. He spat out a mouthful of tobacco and turned to Fourscore. “Pick up your feet, you cretin!”

Fourscore, massively muscled and badly scarred, leered, showing the stumps of his teeth. “How ‘bouts I pull your ahole up round your ears for ya, ya toad-faced shrew?” Dragna didn’t bother to reply, pulling his hood tighter in a vain attempt to be less wet. Toaster slouched past, rifle slung like a man out hunting game.

“So where in the Hell is this [censored] place?” Dragna just pointed. You had to watch your mouth around Toaster. He had gutted a man a few months back in Rivet City because the fool had said the wrong thing. Dragna hadn’t heard what the guy had said, so the group said as little as possible to the little maniac. Toaster squinted up the road. “This place was a store or something pre-war?” Dragna nodded. “Yeah. A supermart or something.” Toaster sighed and checked his ammo clips. “I hope it ain’t empty.”

Fourscore wiped rainwater from his single brow and wrung the water out of his filthy knit cap. “’Course it ain’t empty, man! I saw those bandits stacking the toys myself! Loads of great big shiny firestarters!” He licked his scabbed lips in anticipation. Dragna suddenly made a brusque chopping motion with his left hand. “All right, quiet! Those bandits are probably around. Spread out!”

Dragna’s group advanced up the broken road, stepping over shattered concrete and rusting steel. They could see the place now; a large grey building with a rusting S hanging precariously over the doors and a couple of cracks in the surrounding wall. Toaster moved forward, his 93 held tightly to his shoulder. The rain increased in intensity, smacking against the wooden furniture of Toaster’s rifle. He crouched and laid the 93’s barrel over a large slab of fallen concrete.

He gestured to Dragna, who moved forward holding a shotgun. He reached the door and eased it open. The inside of the mart was gloomy and silent, dimly-lit by intermittent lighting set high in the ceiling. Fourscore whistled once, briefly. Bugsy and Emir, the last two members of the group, appeared from the rubble of what had once been a Zap-O-Matic electronics store.

They moved to the door and slipped inside. Dragna beckoned Toaster and Fourscore. “You two stay here and keep lookout for those bandit scum. We need help, you’ll know. Oh-Toaster? Keep your knives to yourself. You and Fourscore want to kill each other? Do it later.” The two’s rivalry was well known. Toaster nodded blankly and settled down to watch while Fourscore mumbled obscenities and started to clean his pistol.

The mart was empty. Dragna moved through the aisles, kicking aside empty cans and straining to see the far wall. Bugsy swept the interior with his SMG, chewing a tough piece of grilled gecko. “Where are the shooters?” He drawled, kicking idly at a mouldy stuffed elephant. Dragna turned to him. “In the storeroom. Let’s get ‘em.”

Fourscore had not lied. There were eight mint condition .308 rifles, two with high-grade scopes. “Damn!” Swore Emir. “That [censored] will net us a pretty profit!” Promptly the loot was divided between them, each slinging a couple over their shoulders.

“What did I tell you?” Fourscore was triumphant. “Nice set of irons!” He grabbed one of the rifles and ran a great grubby paw over it. Suddenly his head snapped backwards, surrounded by a crown of red mist. He squawked once like a drowning chicken and crumpled to the ground. “BASTARD!” Someone howled, and they hit the deck.

They came in a tight group, 10 of them, fanning out as they came within range. A mixture of Ghouls and humans, gripping clean, well-cared for weapons and dressed in drab green-grey coats.

Toaster started spraying bullets as soon as he hit the ground. They caught one of them, putting him down. The rest took cover. Dragna ripped his pistol from its flap and snapped off a few shots.

He received a burst that almost took his arm off as he dived for cover behind the ancient husk of a police car. They moved fast, covering one another with overlapping fields of fire and disciplined bursts of fire that overwhelmed Dragna’s group as if they hadn’t been firing back.

Toaster had emptied his clip and fumbled the fresh one. He was caught in the chest by two shooters who targeted him with admirable precision. He screamed shrilly until another burst thudded into him, blowing his throat out.

Emir was pinned by three Ghouls, who fired careful single shots to keep his head down, until a big brutally scarred human slipped around the side of the pillar behind which he had been sheltering and drove a knife though the top of his head. Bugsy died in a hail of crossfire as he tried to flee. His body twitched as chunks of flesh were ripped from him, before he flopped like an empty sack to the dust.

Dragna switched to one of the scoped.308s. He fired twice, working the bolt desperately and sighting the human who had stabbed Emir. “Die!” He mouthed as he squeezed the trigger. The gun flashed and slammed back into Dragna’s shoulder. He saw Emir’s killer thrown off his feet, a ragged hole in his chest. Dragna pumped a fist in victory, slotting another round into the rifle breech.

Then the rifle was gone. Plucked from his hands.

He spun round and received a kick in the teeth for his trouble. The still-hot rifle barrel was pressed into his cheek and he hissed in pain. He looked up and saw standing there a Ghoul. A tall Ghoul wearing a dark green greatcoat and peaked cap.

He had a thin moustache and piercing all-grey eyes He motioned to two of his companions, who hauled Dragna to his feet and pocketed his sidearm. The Ghoul looked at him for a long moment before speaking in a strangely melodious voice. All rounded syllables and soft tones. “I believe that these could be better utilized by a professional. Although you seem to have used it well in adversity.” He handed the .308 to the man standing beside him. “Firing squad.” The Ghoul remarked mildly. Dragna was hustled over to the side and two men and a ghoul lined up and raised their rifles. Dragna spat blood and took a breath.

Zhuge Liang dropped his hand and three shots cracked out in unison. And the People’s Republic of America had won another victory.