The panzer-kampftruppen slashed downward with its fist and the door’s hinges ripped away from the wall. It clomped into the barn, the still-smoking barrels of its right arm swiveling in search of a target.
“And… action!” Reggie called.
Clem and Dr. Scott, positioned in the barn’s loft, dumped their buckets of offal down onto the panzer-kampftruppen, covering it in loops of cow innards and globs of jellified blood.
The walking tank had no neck joints and all its viewports were designed only for ground assault. Awkwardly, it leaned backwards in an attempt to target the source of the raining slop, but before it could bring its machineguns to bear, Reggie pulled the rope to begin phase two of his plan.
It was like he was a kid again, opening the curtains at his neighborhood vaudeville theater. This time, however, it wasn’t the curtain going up, it was a cage door sliding open. The mutant chickens, wild with their new freedom, howled and dashed forward like a swarm of meat-seeking missiles.
The panzer-kampftruppen spun to face them, flinging bits of grime and gore off itself as it turned. Its machinegun spat fire and thunder as the chickens howled. The fight was on.