[b][u]Snack Run[/u][/b]

[b]Conningstone[/b]

''Trevor? Trevor...? [i]Trevor![/i] I need you to stop whatever it is you're doing and listen to me.'' Dave said, snapping his fingers before the pale eyes of the sandy brown lizard.
Trevor blinked, put the land mine down on his cluttered desk and looked around and up, blinking rapidly at Dave's oversized warped visage through his magnifying glasses. He absently picked off a dead scale from his eyebrow and flicked it away.
''What?'' He asked, pushing the chunky glasses up onto his forehead and putting his pair of tweezers down.
''Have you finished my order?'' Dave asked with great patience.
Trevor looked blank, his milky white eyes going vacant.
''Order...?'' He asked in a distant voice.
''Yes. Our order. Y'know-''
''OH! Your [i]order[/i]! The hollow points stuffed with explosives?'' The tatty inventor crowed excitedly.
''Yes! Those! Fifty rounds of fifty-cal hollow points for my sniper rifle! Are they done?''
''No.'' He replied bluntly and turned back to hunch over his desk to continue his fiddling with the land mine.
Dave sagged. Marty, who was leaning against the door frame a reasonably safe distance behind them laughed.
''I asked for them two weeks ago. You have all the gear to do the job, so why isn't the job done yet?'' Dave asked plaintively.
''I ran out of peanut butter. I can't work without peanut butter, you know that.''
''You're working right now.'' Marty pointed out as he slid casually around the corner when Trevor started replacing the mine's innards.
''No, what I'm doing is pursuing my hobby.''
''I thought your hobby was collecting blades of grass?'' Dave asked, shuffling inconspicuously backwards, in the direction of the exit.
Trevor waved a dismissive hand, not looking up from his task.
''That's [i]one[/i] of my hobbies. I have many more, including re-fitting mines with a higher yield explosive than is considered legal.''
Dave slid around the corner of the door frame, opposite Marty, and peered around into the darkened room that was crammed from ceiling to floor with military hardware, most of it in pieces, the rest modified for reasons of felling zombies and trespassers.
''So, er, about my order...?'' Dave enquired politely as Trevor clipped the mine back together again with little light-handedness.
''Peanut butter first!'' Trevor said, engrossed in fiddling with the controls.
''We'll go get you some!'' Dave called down the hall as he ran away from the danger zone.
Marty was already outside, sprinting hard towards the tank, his helmet pulled down on his head. Dave followed him, pulling his olive scarf tight around his face. There was a definate putrescence in the warm air that day.

The town of Conningstone was small, but developed enough to have a wide variety of shops on the high street, including a couple of supermarkets, one at either end of the long, wide car cluttered road. The supermarket to the south of the high street had been burned down in the aftermath of the Strike during the Awakening, but the one to the north had survived with minimal damage. During the time between the Strike and the Awakening, the local flora had reclaimed what had once been its own. Vines, creepers, weeds, grasses and trees had rendered the town near impossible to navigate by anything less than a four wheel drive. If you didn't have a suitable off-road vehicle, then you had to walk. Either way, it was a risk going into such places; villages and towns that hadn't been reclaimed by the countryside had become home to renegade soldiers who had survived the Strike and also the locals, all of which had formed their own little groups. Bands of bandits and religious cults gone to seed, regular folk who were trying desperately to survive in the new world and soldiers who had had enough all fought over supplies and territory as well as against the abundance of zombies, Grotesques and nightmarish Meteor Mutants that lurked in the dark and the foliage.  No one got along and none of them much cared for mercenaries, a role of which Dave and Marty had found themselves playing, much to their chagrin.
''We goin' to Winterfields?'' Marty asked.
Dave popped the hatch on the turret and peered outside. They were sat in a cluster of trees at the end of the road, one track mounted on the rusty remains of a car, the smaller vehicle's metallic groans still quietly sounding as the tank settled its full weight atop the smaller vehicle. Summer was now in full swing and the air outside was stifling and filled with insects. During the half hour journey from Trevor's little bunker on the outskirts of town, Dave had ditched his scarf and shirt in favour for just his armoured vest and a military grade respirator to try and block out the continuous stench of rotting flesh and leaf mould. About halfway up the road a makeshift bridge had been built out of scavenged metal sheets and RSJs that had been pilfered from the local building sites to create a suitable crossing point across the deep scar in the land that had been created by one of the larger meteors. It had taken out numerous buildings as it had ploughed relentlessly through the town, effectively splitting it in two, finally coming to rest in the nearby river where it still sat, steaming hotly. He peered through his binoculars and at the bridge. It looked sturdy enough, more sturdy than the one it had replaced which had just been cobbled together from wood and cars that had been shoved into the massive gouge in the road. Dave dropped back inside the turret, closing the hatch and locking it. 
''Didn't see any movement and the new bridge seems sturdy enough.'' He said, ''Think you can cross it this time without putting us in the drink?''
''You think you could spot for me this time instead of picking your arse?'' Marty shot back, not unkindly as he moved the tank forward.

Dave snorted and stood up again, popping the hatch and running a belt of ammunition through the cupola gun as a precaution. The tank rumbled forth, Marty carefully guiding it forward, Dave keeping a close eye on the margin for error as they approached the DIY bridge, lined up and ready to cross. Debris crunched and groaned under the tank's weight as it moved slowly forward. The bridge groaned under the massive weight as Dave murmered directions through his radio to Marty. On either side of the patchwork bridge, black water, thick and pungeant oozed through the gouge created by the speeding meteor. Something beneath the surface moved and oily bubbles rose to the surface, popping thickly, releasing a foul odour. Dave wrinkled his nose in distaste, the stench permeating the filters in his mask.
''Oh god, that smells worse than death...'' He muttered.
''Spotting please? I can't see fuckall from down here.'' Marty asked over the radio, his voice laden with concentration.
Dave hopped up onto the turret top again and peered over the right hand side of the tank before checking on the left.
''Got about six inches either side. Keep going as you are.'' He said.
Somewhere behind there was an almighty crack of wood and a tree that had been clinging to the second floor windows of a nearby news agents collapsed in a cloud of splinters and brick dust, hitting the ground and toppling a vine encrusted lamp post. Dave instictively swung the .50 cal cupola chain gun around and focused on the area of activity.
''Anything?'' Marty asked over the radio.
Dave squinted through the settling dust and tried to see inside the dark building, past the tattered, weather worn drapes that hung out of the ragged windows and into the murky interior. A shadow passed quickly by the first window but failed to reappear at the next.
''Got movement.'' Dave murmered into his mic.
He continued looking into the windows, keen gaze flicking from one window to another.
''What d'you think?'' Marty enquired, letting the tank roll to a gentle stop.
''Not sure... Possibly a Grotesque. It moved too quick for a Zombie and was too small for a Mutant.''
''Shit, I hope not. Mutants and Zombies are pains in the arses, but fucking Grotesques...?''
Dave didn't need to see Marty to know he visibly shuddered at the thought of having to deal with another Grotesque. Unlike the Meteor Mutants, the Grotesques were like the zombies, except faster, angrier and a lot more persistent in chasing their quarry. A few they had come across had even shown signs of learning, albeit slowly and on a low level. The only thing that made it easier to deal with Grotesques was that they were loners and hated every creature around them, be it dead or technically alive.
''I really wish Trev had finished my order...'' Dave sighed miserably as the shadow moved back across the window again, ''What do you think? Shoot it or move on and leave it?''
''If we've seen it, it's seen us.'' Marty said, ''But then there's also the risk it could be a local, sooo... It's up to you. You're the one on the gun.''
Dave screwed up his face and rubbed carefully at the raw pink muscle and flesh around his left eye. He adjusted his helmet, engaged the chain gun's safety and dropped back into the turret.
''If it's a Grotesque, we can deal with it later when it catches up with us, because I really can't be arsed to deal with an angry bunch of god-botherers or the like if it isn't.''

The old supermarket had been in the prime of its life before the Strike. Now it was neglected, the large storefront windows smashed, cracked and milky with greenery growing around the frames and remnants of glass that still clung to them. Inside, the tills were covered with dust and moss, and tufts of grass were growing out from between the keys. The drawers of each of the ten tills had been emptied by those who thought that money would still be as relevant today as it was then and had been left strewn about the floor. The huge shelving units that made up each of the twenty aisles were all but bare, some toppled over, all rusting and collapsing under the weight of the gathering plant life. A thick trunked tree grew across the large double-door entrance, obscuring their view of the far right of the shop's innards. Marty and Dave sat in the tank in the large car park between a rusting car and the remains of a large van that had been hurriedly stripped down for spares, glaring forlornly at the supermarket, it's once proud leaf green and snow white sign hanging from a corner of its twisted, rotten frame.
''It looks pretty grim in there.'' Dave said as he stared through the periscope at the creaking building.
''At least it isn't as dark inside as most places we've had to go into.'' Marty replied absently, ''I don't see any movement, do you?''
''Only seen a wee little bunny bouncing through the grass in aisle three.'' Dave said.
''Well,'' Marty sighed dramatically, ''we better get a move on. It's four hours 'till dark and if that was a Grotesque we saw, I don't wanna get caught with my pants down again.''
There was a muddle of activity as the two undead reptiles got their gear together, clipping grenades to their vests along with extra ammo, a few combat blades and a small but powerful torch. They checked their sidearms and the accompanying spare clips that were stowed snugly in their pockets. Doing a last check on their assault rifles and the attached torches, they climbed from the tank, locked it down and proceeded carefully and quickly towards the supermarket. Stopping at one of the broken windows, they peered in carefully for a closer look, rifles raised.
''Anything?''
''Nope.''

They stepped carefully over the threshold and into the shop proper, weaving past abandoned trolleys and the emaciated corpses of those who didn't survive the Strike. There were bodies everywhere, strewn about the cracked, grass and weed covered floor tiles, some slouched against the shelves, others hunched forward into their rusting trolleys.
''Where the fuck is the peanut butter kept?'' Marty hissed irritably, staring at what was left of the overhead signs that informed customers of what was down each aisle. 
Dave joined him in staring gormlessly at the fading words at the rear of the supermarket.
''It'd be with the jam.'' He said eventually.
''Big fucking help.'' Marty muttered, taking a quick look around.
''And the jam would be near.... Er... Marty, I think we're being watched.'' He said, his voice dropping to a soft murmer.
''Yeah, I got that feeling too.''
Their voices dropped even lower.
''To your left, near the emergency exit.'' Dave said softly from the corner of his mouth.
''To your left, sprawled across the deli and fish counters...'' Marty added.
Both men looked out of the corner of their eyes in the stated directions, moving with deliberate slowness.
Sprawled out across the empty deli counter and sitting awkwardly against the front were five bodies, each rotten in its own unique way, but all far too fresh to be completely dead. Laying spread-eagled on its back, head hanging over the back of the fish counter was another in a butcher's apron. All wore torn and bloodied clothes covered in filth. And a few of them were starting to stir.
And standing before the milky, cracked glass of the emergency exit was a tall, hunched figure, sunken eyes fixated on the two tankers. It was naked, the glands in its neck were swollen to huge proportions, rendering its breathing laboured and rattling, and chunks of flesh had bubbled up in foul green and yellow pustules and warts all over its body. A rib stuck out from its side and its claws were long, curled and solid as rock as were the teeth that jutted at all angles from its distended jaws.
''Ooooh shiiiit...'' Dave sighed very, very quietly as the thing stared at them with hungry, feral eyes.
''Grotesque?''
''Uh-huh.''
The zombies continued stirring, one by one sluggishly pulling themselves upright with gurgles, moans and hisses, shuffling about aimlessly until they caught the scent of barely-living flesh. Something inside their rotten brains clicked, and as one they turned to the source, of which was Dave.
''I swear to god, I'm skinning myself when we get home.'' Dave muttered quietly, gripping his rifle tightly.

Marty slowly and carefully brought his own rifle up, pressing it slowly and firmly against his bony shoulder as he pivoted painfuly slowly on his heel, eyeing up the cluster of zombies that had taken a sudden interest in them. He slid the safety off carefully, lessening the sound of the click the slide made when it locked into position.
''On the count of three...'' Marty said, his voice barely audible.
Dave had also moved very carefully into position, so that they were back-to-back with their guns pointed at the threats.
''One,''
They carefully adjusted their footing.
''Two,''
Dave slowly thumbed the safety off with a soft click.
''Three.''
They let go a short burst into their targets, a welter of thick black blood and chunks of flesh, and splinters of bone exploding from a zombie's chest. It staggered back into the group from the impact of the five round burst, throwing the other four zombies off balance as it tried to regain its balance with flailing arms and tail. Dave's five round burst hammered into the Grotesque's left hip, the impacts twisting it around and forcing it over onto its side with a slap of hard flesh and a clatter of nails and teeth. Dave and Marty took to their heels, running back down the aisle they'd come up, jumping over corpses and shoving trolleys out of the way, fleeing for the exit. There was a rasping screech, a clatter and a tearing of metal. The Grotesque, sickly yellow pus and green tainted blood oozing from its fractured hip tore its way through the shelving units and cut them off. They slid to a halt, put some more bullets into the thing to stall it, turned tail and ran back and straight into the embrace of the zombies. They grabbed at their collars, their vests and limbs as gun stocks and armoured elbows smashed into the creature's faces, shoving them out of the way. The two reptiles elbowed and battered their way through the press of stinking bodies, Dave firing another short burst into the stomach of one that was getting a little too close to him with its rotten teeth. Semi liquified chunks of organs slopped to the floor as the zombie's stomach burst open, its intestines coiling out, rotten and swollen. It gurgled and lurched for him again. Dave yelped and Marty drew a combat knife with his off hand and plunged it into the back of the fragile skull, twisting its serrated blade and tugging it down and free with a wet crunching of thin, diseased bone. The zombie jerked, hissed froth from its mouth and collapsed, its broken fingers clawing limply at Dave's trouser leg as what little life finally left it. They dove free of the group of clamouring corpses, not looking back as they heard the Grotesque tearing its way through the zombies, snarls, hisses and gurgles echoing through the delapidated shop.

''You been bit?'' Marty huffed as they skittered around the end of the aisle.
Dave gave himself a quick pat-down, hopping from one foot to the other as he continued to run.
''Nope.'' He said, relief audible in his voice.
''Good. Let's get the fuck out of here!'' Marty snarled and hurled himself bodily at the emergency exit.
He rebounded off the glass panes of the door with a dull thud and sprawled on his back amongst a frond of ferns growing from between the gaps of some shattered floor tiles. He stared stunned at the high ceiling, open mouthed as Dave hammered at the tough door. Marty rolled over onto his front, bringing his rifle up, shaking the dancing spots from his sight. The Grotesque was standing at the end of the aisle on all-fours, staring at them with entrails hanging from its gnarled frame, chunks of rotten flesh stuck between its teeth. Marty swore, slid up smoothly to his knees and opened fire. The Grotesque jerked, twisted and danced under the heavy rounds and finally flipped over onto its back with a grunt in a shower of blood and brain matter when he scored a direct hit to its head.
''Door?'' He asked tensely, re-loading swiftly.
''There's something blocking it.'' Dave grunted, ''Did you get it?''
The Grotesque stirred lazily, groaning, its tail sliding across the floor, side-to-side in a lazy sweeping motion. A knee cracked and came up. It jerked, twisted around, convulsed and pushed itself up, hacking up thick, pungeant bile and lumps of semi-digested meat. Still on all-fours, it twisted around and locked gazes with Marty, snarling softly.
''Bastard's still moving.'' He growled.
''Pulling a pin. Run!'' Dave snarled.
A small green grenade soared over Marty's head, bounced four times and rolled beneath the Grotesque. It cocked its head, watching the thing with interest, temporarily ignoring Dave and Marty as they fled down the nearest aisle. Behind them, the grenade exploded. The Grotesque was thrown up and back, the explosion tearing its flesh from its bones, leaving nothing but charred remains smouldering on the ground. The supermarket shook around them as they barreled through the checkouts and leapt clear of the glassless windows. They hit the cracked tarmac without breaking pace and made a bee-line for the tank. They de-activated the various locks and security precautions, and scrambled in, slamming the hatches shut, locking them from the inside.

There was a moment of respite, a brief lull in activity. Then they started laughing, long and hard.
''But what about the peanut butter?'' Marty finally asked, twisting around in his seat and looking up at Dave who was wiping tears from his bloodshot eyes.
''I dunno.'' He sighed, ''Maybe the old corner shop has some.''
Marty pulled his scarf down and scratched at his boney chin for a moment.
''Nah. 's been too long. It'd be picked clean by now. How about.... Oh! How about Gracen's? It's about ten miles from here, right out on the borders of Red territory. If we're quiet, we could probably filch something from there.''
''You mean their [i]own brand[/i]?'' Dave asked incredulously, ''No one likes that stuff! It tastes like salt baked grit.''
''How would you know? You don't even eat the stuff. You can't stand peanut butter!''
''And that is the reason why.'' Dave replied darkly.
Marty stared at him for a moment then turned around and fired up the tank.
''So, Gracen's Minimart?'' He asked, gripping the controls.
''Fine. We go to Gracen's. Trev'll eat anything, anyway, so long as it's got a vaguely peanutty taste.'' Dave sighed.  

Gracen's Minimart was no better, with broken windows, battered shelving and the occasional zombie shuffling around the corpse littered aisles. The two dispatched the zombies quietly, with silenced guns so as not to attract the neighboring Red Brigade, a rogue group of special ops soldiers who had claimed the northern housing estates as their own with Brigadier Lee Marks at their centre as the self-proclaimed Emperor of the little sub-kingdom. No one wanted to attract the attention of the Reds and no one wanted to be involved with them, even the packs of lunatics and bandits who made habits of raiding the small settlements that were dotted around the country.
''Found some!'' Marty hissed as he rummaged through a pile of boxes in the sapling encrusted stock room.
Dave, standing sentry in the shadows at the door, looked over his shoulder.
''How much?''
''Several plastic jars of the stuff. Ugh, it looks like someone's jarred up some diarrhea and passed it off as a sandwich filling... Eh, it'll do.'' He sighed.
''Fantastic, grab 'em and let's get the fuck out of here before anyone notices us.''
Marty stuffed the jars of watery brown peanut butter into the sack they'd brought with them and slung it over a shoulder.
''Ain't no more nasty surprises out here?'' He asked as he took a peek into the shop.
A small bird swooped in and alighted on a crooked stack of rusting hand baskets by the door and started singing merrily. Nothing else moved within the grassy shop. They headed out of the store room and back onto the shop floor, Marty with his silenced pistol in hand, his assault rifle strapped securely to his back. Dave swept forward, his own rifle raised, not taking any chances on the local wildlife and local nutcases.
''Who the bloody hell is in our shop!?'' Roared a voice from outside.
Dave and marty dropped to the ground and rolled behind a shelf that had somehow managed to remain upright. They peered over the top of the metal shelving unit and in the direction of the voice. Stood in the doorway were three figures, all clad in heavy jungle camo gear, armour and helmets. Their weapons were a smaller caliber compared to Dave and Marty's filched Silvings .50 Cal assault rifles, but they were numerous and well stocked. 
''Go Big or Go Home'' was the motto of their one-hundred and fifty year old batallion and they intended to live every day of their existence by it by getting their hands on the biggest, cruelest weapons that were considered semi-legal by the laws of their military and the allied forces.
The leading armoured figure swaggered across the threshold, his rifle held in the crook of his half decomposed elbow as he looked at the fallen zombies.
''They were taken down efficiently, Lieutenant.'' One the reptiles said, a tall skeleton in patchwork uniform.
Marty squinted at the men, trying to make out the badges on their uniforms. He nudged Dave gently, who nodded by way of answering. He'd noticed the badges too. He abruptly stepped around the shelf, and declared himself to the Red Brigade soldiers.
''I didn't think the Bitch Brigade was allowed out after curfew.'' He made a show of looking at his watch, ''I'm pretty sure it's past your bedtime, boys.''

The lieutenant snarled derisively.
''You little shit stains are tresspassing.''
''Is that all? I was expecting something better.'' Marty muttered from behind the shelf.
''What? No snappy comeback? Typical, you lot never did have any imagination.'' Dave added.
''Why are you here?'' One of the other soldiers asked firmly.
''Just taking in the sights.'' Marty's muffled voice replied.
''Bullshit. Mercs don't tread on our turf unless they want something.'' He grunted and spat a lump of yellowish phlegm out, ''[i]Especially[/i] tanker scum like [i]you[/i].''
''Funny, I didn't see your fence wrapped around this here shop. Did you see one, Marty?''
''Nope.''
''This plot of land became ours at oh-nine-hundred, yesterday. We just haven't got as far as fencing it off.'' The Lieutenant said matter-of-factly.
Dave raised an eyebrow.
''I call BS.'' Marty muttered, ''I reckon their just pissy because we got past their guards.''
''Why don't your little girlfriend come out from hiding, eh?'' The Lieutenant said, pointing his gun in Dave's general direction. Dave pulled back some of the slack in his trigger, ready to open fire.
''I wouldn't do that if I were you, little man.'' The Red skeleton warned flatly.
''And why not?'' Dave enquired casually. ''I am merely preparing to defend myself against a raving lunatic and his merry band of idiots. Do you have a problem with that, [i]Sir[/i]? It is, after all, within every citizen's rights to defend themselves when in dire straights.''
The Lieutenant snarled.
''The rules have changed. Either he stands up and shows us what you came to steal from us, or I'm gonna have you both killed.''
''You'll kill us either way.'' Marty said, finally standing up, hefting the potato brown sack over a bony shoulder.
''What's in the sack?''
''I'd say your testicles, but I highly doubt you were born with them in the first place.'' The skeleton replied blithely, with a wave of his free hand.
Dave snorted, as did the Lieutenant's subordinates. He slapped one across the nose and snarled angrily at the other before regaining his composure.

''So, this is how you want to play it, eh? Hurl some insults before you die?'' He growled, stepping further into the shop.
''Er, Lieutenant -''
''shut up Winslow.''
''But sir, I really think you should know this...''
He cocked his head, not taking his eyes off Dave and Marty who still stood at the opposite end of the aisle. Before he could growl at Winslow, the young reptile's chest exploded, his heart speared on long, twisting blackened spikes. The other soldier yelled and immediately opened fire, taking several steps back as he poured all his loaded ammo into the thing that had crept up on them. Dave and Marty dove behind a wooden display to their left and made their way around to the opposite side of the shop where there was a long service counter with three tills.
''Just wanted some gods-fucking [i]peanut butter[/i]!'' Dave snarled as the startled, frantic fighting continued.
They heard Lieutenant Marks shouting orders, then swear profusely. There was an explosion that shook the building, freeing several ceiling tiles and a light fixture, sending them clattering hard to the mossy floor. He then ended up behind the counter with Dave and Marty, a large tear running down his left flank. Blood oozed free of the deep wound and he was breathing heavily. Dave seized the moment and punched him hard in the face, ignoring the painful crack of his knuckles as his fist connected with the Red's jaw. Marks toppled backwards, sprawling in the cramped space, eyes rolling.
''Heh,''
''It's still alive!'' Marty hissed anxiously, scooting back after peering around the corner of the counter, ''That son of a whore's still [i]alive[/i]!''
''What is?''
''The Grotesque you dense bastard! We should've checked to see it was properly dead!'' He said, his voice almost rising to a squeak as he hissed in Dave's face, his bony hands grabbing his friend's vest tight.
''Well shit. It should be dead. It took a fucking grenade to the face! It shouldn't, technically, have a fucking head!''
''I know! But it does! Sort of...''
''Sort of...?''
Marty shoved Dave away from him. He took the hint and crawled quickly and quietly to the end of the counter and peered carefully around the corner.

The Grotesque was there, hunched over one of the bodies of Lieutenant Marks's men, it's distended jaws chomping away at a length of large intestine. Half of its skull was missing, it's body was blackened and the thick sack of puss was now just two flaps of skin hanging down either side of a warped trachea. It's chest had had its flesh scorched and blown away, the grenade having basically flayed the creature from chin to hips, exposing charred bone and putrescent organs. It sat quite comfortably on a pile of its own churning, puss-yellow innards as it chewed thoughtfully on Corporal Winslow's intestines. It picked a stray scale from between some teeth, flicked it away then sniffed the air. It looked into the shop, its shrivelled, feral eyes staring into the gathering darkness. 
Dave fell back and scurried back to Marty.
''We can make it back to Bone King.'' He announced matter-of-factly.
''Only if we distract it.'' Marty added.
''You whore merchants will go to hell and be fucked up the arse with red hot pokers for all eternity by the devil's bastard sons for the mess you've created!'' Lieutenant Marks growled, prodding gingerly at the new split in his lip.
Dave and Marty stared at him for a moment, then exchanged looks.
''We'll be doing the world favour.'' Marty said.
''Agreed.'' Dave concurred without hesitation.
Behind them came a clatter of metal and a snarl. There was the scraping of long, insanely hard claws. They grabbed Marks and hauled him upright, confiscating his guns as they did so. He fought them as they forced him onto the counter top between two dusty tills. Dave punched him again. He flailed listlessly for a moment, disoriented. Then the world tipped over and rolled as the two tankers heaved him over the side of the counter. Marty whistled through his teeth, drawing the attention of the prowling Grotesque. Marks scrabbled to his feet, turned on Dave and Marty who ducked back down behind cover, then looked behind him. He screamed and went for the guns that were no longer strapped to him. The Grotesque leapt fifteen feet clear from where it stood and landed heavily against Marks. He screamed as teeth gnashed at his slender throat and fought back with fist and combat knife, driving the thing back by sheer force of fury driven by the raw need to survive. Whilst the Grotesque was busy, Dave and Marty took the opportunity to run from the shop with their prize. The tank wasn't too far away; it was parked amongst a cluster of lorry trailers, an old tarp that was found in one of them pulled harphazardly across it. They climbed in and fired it up, Dave checking the gun and the autoloader, wiping grit from the breech with an oily rag and checking the round count.

''Let's go finish that ugly bastard off.'' Dave muttered.
Marty revved the engine hard, let off the brake and Bone King lurched forward heavily with a diesel snort and plowed through the trailers, mine plow down, ramming everything out of its way that it didn't just roll over. The shop quickly came into view. Marty flicked the turret mounted spot light on to illuminate the shop's gloomy interior. Lieutenant Marks was swiftly losing the fight, his right arm shredded to the bone, a punctured eyeball oozing down his cheek and his tail hanging by a few tendons. The Grotesque had him on his back and was playfully batting away any attempts he made to get it off him as his adrenaline rush wore off. The Grotesque looked up at the tank, it's idleness turning to recognition. Somewhere, deep in its brain, it knew what the hulking green and black machine was. Operating on an instinct that harkened back to the days when the creature still retained the cognitive skills and intelligence of a fully alive member of society, it backpedalled, its mouth opening impossibly wide in a defiant scream. It turned and leapt clumsily for the door, colliding with the stack of hand baskets. It tumbled to floor in a mess of limbs and wire baskets, screeching in rage. The turret lined up with a whirr and the whole tank shook as the main gun boomed, puffing smoke and spitting fire. The shop exploded in a gout of brickwork and bright heat. After a minute, something tumbled out of the flames, stick thin limbs flailing, trailing dripping fire.
''You've got be fucking kidding me.'' Marty groaned as he watched the burning Grotesque clawing at itself.
''If a napalm mix won't down it, then we have a major problem.'' Dave said, watching through his periscope in horror.
''Yeah. The gits are evolving.''
Dave nodded as he continued to watch, transfixed.
''I'm going up top.'' He said and popped the hatch, sliding the safety off the chain gun.
He liberally sprayed the napalm coated Grotesque as it squirmed listlessly about on the cracked concrete of the road. It twitched and jerked, and opened its flaming mouth to screech soundlessly at Dave. Three bullets from the end of the belt, the thing finally stopped moving. Dave watched it for a moment. The flames were dying down, the fire eating rapidly through its sticky fuel to leave nothing but a charred skeleton glowing a hot orange in the middle of the road. Marty popped the driver's hatch and chucked a spanner at it. Still, it did not move.
''I think it's dead.'' He concluded.
''I reckon you're right.'' Dave conceded, loaded a fresh belt then slipped back into the turret, ''You got the peanut butter?''
''Yep,'' Marty replied, patting the sack of plastic jars in the seat next to him, ''just gotta get them to Trev.''
He turned the tank around, taking a wide arc to roll one of the thick treads over the Grotesque's skeleton. The tank shuddered and there was a series of loud cracks and snaps as the tough skeleton shattered under the 69.7 tonnes of war machine.

Trevor was currently hunched over another land mine, its casing tossed to one side, the bomb's innards strewn haphazardly across his cluttered, greasy desk. He had his magnifying glasses over his eyes and his desk lamp's beam shone directly into the casing. He was currently pulling something apart with a pair of tweezers in one hand and a pair of wire cutters in the other. 
''Come in.'' He said distractedly, pulling a wire free and holding it up to one magnifying lense to stare at it critically.
Dave and Marty walked into the little bunker that the reptile had built under his shed.
''We got your peanut butter.'' Dave announced, dumping the sack of jars on a relatively clutter-free surface.
''You're late.'' Trevor said bluntly, ''A day and three hours late, to be precise.''
''We ran into a problem which required immediate contact with an old friend of ours.'' Marty said.
''An Old Friend? You only met the Admiral, what? Ten weeks ago?'' Trevor snorted, ''What's so special about him?''
''My bullets, Trev. Or I'm taking the peanut butter and selling it to Ben. [i]All[/i] of it.''
Trevor looked up at Dave, then looked to Marty. Neither men looked ready to argue. They both looked tired and frightened. It disturbed him. They always looked tired, but never frightened. And if they were frightened, he needed to know why.
''What? Tell me. I need to know. You're freaking me out. Stop freaking me out!''
''We came across a Grotesque on our little snack run. It survived a lot of punishment.'' Marty said.

''How much?'' Trevor asked, suddenly all business.
''Three rifle mags, a grenade and a napalm mix shell at close range, plus ninety-seven rounds out of a one-hundred round belt on the cupola gun.'' Dave said.
''Range? For the main gun?'' Trevor pried, mentally taking notes.
Dave looked to Marty, ''About twenty feet. It was still moving when it was burning.''
Trevor stared at them, mouth hanging open, aghast.
''Shouldn't be able to take that much punishment. Mebbe a Mutant, but not a Grote. Not a Grote. Nope, nope. Definately wrong. Something... Something is [i]wrong[/i]. Rad levels?''
''Low level, habitable. No one's hauled the meteor out of the river, so it's at safe levels for today's standards.'' Marty said.
Dave opened the sack and started stacking the peanut butter jars. Trevor's gaze slid from the skeleton standing in the corner with his arms crossed to the twenty-two plastic jars. They were all sealed tight and well within their two year expiry date.
''Consider this our tab.'' Dave said. ''We need stronger payloads for all guns. Better grenades. Tougher armour, too, if possible. Deal?''
Trevor nodded,salivating at the sight of the stack of peanut butter. He ducked beneath his desk and pulled out a dark green ammo crate with B.K-150.50 stencilled onto the lid. He handed it to Dave and waved them off.
''I'll contact you when I come up with an idea. In the meantime, keep me posted about any more anomalies.''
''Alright, see y'around.'' Dave said, shaking the box gently.
Inside, something clinked and rattled.
He grinned hugely as they made their way back out into the sweltering heat of the day.
''I cannot wait to try these out.'' He grinned mischievously.