A surge of adrenaline burst through Wilson's body as he heard Grit's yell. He turned to where Roscoe was standing only to find that he had already gone. He caught sight of him sprinting up the ramp, shotgun in hand, his long legs pumping furiously. Wilson fumbled at his hip and retrieved his 10mm, then gave chase.

He joined the rest of the traders and caravan guards as they thundered up the hill, around thirty in all, kicking up the dust as they went. As Wilson neared the outpost, he could hear more clearly the ring, snap and whiz of bullets as they impacted the crude fortification. A stray shot flew past his head, missing him by about a foot, and pierced the skull of the woman beside him, casting aside a shower of crimson gore and sundering her head. The gravitas of her death was lost rapidly in the dust however, and Wilson was given no chance to dwell on it. Cresting the ramp, he hurled himself behind what had once been a dumpster lid, and found himself next to Grit.

"Pleasure to see you again," cackled Grit, before spitting a great glob of chewing tobacco into the earth.

"How can you be so calm in a situation like this," panted Wilson, his hair matted down with sweat and panic. He had faced raiders before, several times, but he never got used to the idea of being in mortal danger. He could shoot straight, but always found his aim gripped by fear. Roscoe was in that respect his only hope in wasteland combat.

"Eh, you get used to it. Besides, I wouldn't be in the guarding business if a few raiders made me duck and cover. But as you can see, I'm pinned at the moment. Not much my gun can do without a chance to get her spinning."

"Wait a minute; I might have something for that."

Wilson stuffed his hand into one of the pockets of his old military jacket, and after a moment of searching, pulled out a dusty and unreliable looking grenade.

"On my mark; one, two, three!"

Wilson poked his chest above the metal wall, ripped out the pin, and unleashed the weapon onto the raiders, who were in deep cover behind a cluster of large rocks. The grenade whirled silently through the air, and disappeared behind the rocky outcrop. A second passed, and then a brilliant flash of light and a blast of flame erupted from the raiders' position. Blood trailed through the air behind dismembered, splintered limbs. Legs, arms and torsos hit the ground with a dull thud. The raiders who had been lucky enough to escape the blast scattered from their defensive positions into the open, many more than there were traders and guards. Some were taken down quickly by random shots from the Dustbowl residents in the outpost, most however attempted what appeared to be a last ditch charge.

"You ain't going nowhere!"

Wilson wheeled his head round, away from the carnage and saw Grit, standing at full height, with his minigun trained on the largest concentration of raiders. Wilson saw the six barrels begin to spin, and for a second, it whirred quietly. Then hell broke loose.

The sound was deafening. Wilson had heard thunderstorms, but it could not compare to the roar of the terrifying weapon. To him, all he could perceive was the harsh metallic scream of the gun. He couldn't hear the guns of the other Dustbowl residents, or the laughter of Grit, though he could tell he was; mouth open wide, eyes scrunched, chest quaking with every guffaw. The raiders on the wrong end of the minigun were dead in seconds. Eviscerated by lightning fast gunfire, men were split in half in an instant, legs and torsos separated by reams of 5mm bullets. Intestines and organs spilled onto the unclean earth, and the blood soaked through into the soil. Wilson could just make out their faces, each a twisted and shattered rictus full of pain and hate. Skulls were hewn in two mercilessly, and their humanity spewed out onto the unforgiving wasteland.

The majority of the raiders were gunned down, but a few, perhaps five or seven, made it round the side. Drawing knives, piping, baseball bats and even wooden clubs, these last few wildmen Made a desperate assault on the outpost. Grit didn't have time to turn his minigun around, and before the traders knew it, the raiders had leapt over the low metal detritus that composed the Dustbowl outpost and were letting loose their weapons.

Crumbling under the pressure, Wilson struggled to reload, clicked the new magazine in, and his aim round to be greeted by the sight of an angry raider. A bruise defined his gaunt, Hispanic face, his teeth had been sharpened to points, and his hair was drawn up into intimidating spikes. Blood oozed from his split lip, and gave him a completely bloodthirsty, manic look. He raised his right fist, crowned with a set of spiked brass knuckles, and he cackled dementedly.

The fist never came down however. Wilson had shielded himself with his arms, and consequently only heard a loud blast from nearby. He looked quickly up to see the raider still there, missing his head. The bloody stump coughed up some gore for a moment, and then flopped down to the ground. Wilson turned to where the blast had come from, and met the gaze of Roscoe, shotgun in hand, barrel still smouldering.

"You can pay me back for that later," remarked Roscoe, acknowledging Wilson with a curt nod.

Wilson nodded weakly back, before inspecting the scene around him. All the assaulting raiders were dead. The few that had not joined the charge were still just visible on the dusty horizon. Around the outpost, the number of dead raiders and traders was almost equal. The surviving traders and guards had begun to descend the ramp, or loot the bodies of the raiders.

"So, how you boys doing?"

Wilson felt Grit's meaty hand clamp down on his shoulder.

"Ah, fine I suppose. Cut and bruised, but it's nothing a few meds and a beer can't cure."

"That's what I like to hear. In fact, I think I'll join you in the last part of that 'medicinal care'," Grit chuckled.

Wilson turned to face Roscoe.

"You doing alright Ros?"

"Just hacked off that I had to waste shells on those lowlifes."

Wilson smiled inside at Roscoe's business-like attitude to the day's slaughter; 'glad to know he's on my side.'

Stepping over the broken bodies, the three men began the trudge back into Dustbowl.