The alley stank of piss and gunpowder. Roberta pressed her back against the rusted dumpster, thigh burning where a round had chewed through muscle. Blood ran hot down her leg, soaking into her boots. She hissed through clenched teeth, sawed-off braced in her hands. The raider punks were hooting, yelling, spraying bullets down the street like it was a damn carnival game. “Come on out, sweetheart!” one of them jeered. She answered with a blast of buckshot that shredded the corner of a mailbox and sent the bastard scrambling back, laughing nervously now.

She growled low in her throat, pumping the shotgun, pain flashing in her hazel eyes. She was hurting, yeah—but she wasn’t giving these degenerates the satisfaction.

Then… silence. The gunfire cut off like a radio gone dead. A strange hush fell over the alley. Roberta blinked, listening. The raiders’ jeers broke into panicked shouting—then retreat. Their boots thundered against the cracked pavement as they scattered, cursing, stumbling over each other to get away. Roberta stilled. Her breath was ragged, heart pounding, but her instincts sharpened. Raiders didn’t just run. Not unless something worse showed up.

And then she heard it—footsteps. Heavy. Steady. The kind that didn’t rush, didn’t hesitate. A silhouette emerged through the dust and smoke at the far end of the alley. Massive, broad-shouldered, cutting through the haze like a nightmare come to life. Roberta’s finger tightened on the trigger, blood dripping onto the trigger guard. Whoever—or whatever—was walking toward her wasn’t afraid of gunfire. And that alone made her frown deepen.