Scrap Iron
What's an internationally wanted terrorist with a primary specialty of "Tank Destroyer" to do when the enemy isn't in a 68-ton M1A2 Abrams and instead is a twenty-thousand-deep horde of jaw-gnashing undead ghouls?
For Scrap Iron, the answer was simple, "FIRE!" He squeezed the triggering device, letting over a hundred FGM-148 Javelins loose, and Hellfire rained upon the land. The blood and ichor of the undead that wasn't instantly vaporized in the massive explosion fell from the sky and coated everything in a layer of sickening ooze. Scrap Iron laughed and stumbled as the blast waves hit him from the target two and a half miles away. "That'll teach them." He mumbled to himself. Before the smoke cleared, the Cleansers moved in, like locusts, to sanitize the area. To no one in particular, Scrap Iron said, "And people think the Leaky Suit Brigade is the worst job,"
With the rising of the undead, Scrap Iron had been living his best life. Like a kid in a candy store, he spent the beginning of The Turning traveling from military installation to proving ground, gathering any explosives that his convoy of HISS Tanks and Stingers could tow. Then, like a sadistic bully, he tested the instruments of death in ways that would have once labeled him and his H.E.A.T. Viper Platoon as "War Criminals," though no one seemed to care when the targets wanted to eat their flesh.
He had arrived at New Springfield soon after the Alley Vipers, the first of Cobra High Command on the scene. While the urban troopers secured the town street by street and building by building, Scrap Iron and his team secured the perimeter. Any undead unfortunate enough to get within firing range of Scrap Iron's arsenal found themselves eradicated with prejudice.
