Kiss the Wolf by Simon Bestwick
I had a gun too, but it was useless against them. I knew because I’d tried. I’d shot one of them three times, chest and face- if you can call a slitted helmet beneath a wide-brimmed hat a face- and knocked it to the ground, but it’d only shaken itself and stood again, then come for me. Now the only chance I had was a rumour I’d heard in the days and weeks of roaming the wastelands looking for food. The kind of rumour you had to be mad or desperate to believe.