Anti tank gun

The video chat picked up Wilkins and Burns. It took them a while to get Burns’s computer unmuted since he wasn’t very good with technology. After wasting ten minutes on that, Burns asked, “Did the admins get your BFG?” He had on a baseball cap and was bristle-necked, with the blocky face of someone who might have been a linebacker in high school, a contrast to the fancy hotel room behind him. He was in New Petersburg proper, somewhere, and Wilkins appeared to be inside a dark van, sucking on the paper of a joint. He wore those black-rimmed glasses that were popular among stupid people who wanted to look more like their favorite pundits.
“No idea where on Earth this monster came from, but yeah,” Casper said, holding up the impossible rifle cartridge. It had a red tip and felt ice-cold and heavy. The bullet didn’t look like any metal he’d ever fired.
“Shee-it,” Burns said, “could shoot through a fuckin’ school with that thing.”
“A tank, at least,” Casper agreed.
“This country has a serious gun problem,” Wilkins muttered.


Chapter 12, Page 179