The hollow click which echoed on the tiled walls of the subway ruins was a little embarrassing. The irradiated mutant thugs who were scattering in terror from my shotgun blasts were now closing in on me with snaggletoothed grins. One minute you’re a harbinger of death, the next minute you’re just another hunk of meat brandishing an empty gun.

I reach back into my pack and grip the rubberized handle of my Ripper. It’s weight is reassuring as I put the serrated end in between me and the mutants. So deadly, so utilitarian, and so frightening. It’s battle scarred and work worn, but this chainsaw sword and its whirling serrated edge can do anything I ask it to do. It has seen blood, hard work, and plenty of years, but don’t think it’s worn out.

I press down on the trigger mechanism of the grip and it roars to life. First contact with mutant flesh makes one helluva mess on the scenery and wipes those grins right off. I’m sawing my way to the top of the food chain with each cut.

God bless the Ripper.