The Cleansing

Disclaimer: While I do not own Interplay, Black Isle, 14 Degrees East or whatever company that published/made Fallout, its concepts and unique weapons, and its sequels, nor am I an employee of either company, I do own this story, and its characters.

'The only thing necessary for the rise of evil is for good men to do nothing.' -Edmund Burke

Prologue: Smith, Jake, Major, 1386-3456-2343 Nemesis

It was May 9, 2355, according to my Personal Information Processor 2000, commonly called a PIP Boy-2000 by the men of the USM.

I checked the bunkers (one of them is officially called a Transport Container, Bulletproof, Mark 23 Mod 3) I had secured to the back of my Hummer (I have forgotten its official name) with a series of straps that could be unfastened within thirty seconds if one can unlock the lock. The whole thing was covered by a larger container, which was secured by a quick- release series of latches. This vehicle had been modified to run off Fusion Batteries, not uncommon thanks to the gradual return of pre-war technology, partly due to the Brotherhood of Steel. (There were two, but only the second one rose to prominence in late 2197) In the bunkers lay my clothing, supplies, weaponry and ammunition, and so on.

Done.

I checked my twin Para-Ordnance P-14/45 pistols in their Bianchi cross-draw holsters. These pistols were among the most accurate in the world. They were commonly used in IPSC (International Practical Shooting Competition) shooting matches in the early 20th to 21st century, yet rugged enough for combat use. These were loaded with 14-round magazines in .45 ACP. They were fully loaded with one round in the chamber, giving them a total ammunition count of 15 shots each. They had reflex sights instead of the original to provide a better flash-picture index.

I checked my Smith and Wesson Model 29 revolver in its small-of-the- back holster. The revolver was rugged, accurate, and durable enough to withstand Wasteland use, and battlefield conditions. It was loaded with six .44 Magnum rounds, the kind that can blow a man's head clean off.
I checked my ammunition stocks. I had four magazines for the pistols and four speed loaders for the revolver in specially built pockets, giving me a total of 58 .45 ACP and 36 .44 Magnum bullets with which to face off danger. Several boxes of those two kinds of ammo upgraded my stocks to 300 bullets of each type.
My equipment check was done. I hopped in my vehicle and drove out of Hoosier, CA, to New Sacramento, CA. Both of them had been reclaimed from the wastes sometime in the earlier parts of the century. The world is still pretty much the same.
As I drove, I gave myself a little history lesson.
2240, formation of the United States Militiamen. 2250, National Power Corporation established with the union of several large nuclear reactors. USM has a hand in clearing out the undesirable elements around the sites. 2251, reclamation of several factories, notably Chrysalis and General Electric. USM rumored to own the arms and ammunition producers, along with the Brotherhood of Steel and their owners. Both the USM and BOS each receive 20% of arms and ammo produced monthly. 2270, NPC wires West Coast with power. 2271, raiders attempt to cut off electricity. USM destroys raider bases in the West Coast to retaliate. 2280, NPC wires Southwest with electricity. USM guards key nodes. 2300, raiders try to unite the USA. USM sniper assassinates the raider leader, preventing the plot from taking place. The shot was from one and a half mile away, if reports are to be believed. NPC gains several more nuclear reactors. USM rumored to be part of that. Around this time, several progressive Vaults initiated the Eden Project ( they were brought together by the USM) in an attempt to repopulate the USA using their excess Garden of Eden Creation Kits. 2325, Universal Soldier Project initiated by the USM. Rumored that several Vaults were the original initiators, and the technology used in the Universal Soldier project was stolen from them. 2350, several suitable recruits are selected for the Project's training course. At the end of the course, 6 qualify. These 6 are injected with all sorts of stuff, making them universal soldiers. They also undergo surgery to have all sorts of equipment implanted into them. They can fight in any environment, have accelerated healing, and so on. 2354, Unisols disbanded after a certain incident.
I was one of the Unisols.
The 'incident' was the Unisols (Officially called Special Task Force) taking out a general who had defected to a powerful raider group. We took him on without authorization. After the smoke cleared, we were sent to the hospital, patched up, and discharged without so much as a 'thank you' or 'farewell', or even 'good luck, hope you don't you're die in the Wasteland'.
From then on, we drifted away. I heard that Sam O'Sullivan, 2nd lieutenant, was in New Sacramento, working as a doctor. I decided to pay him a visit.
A day later, I was at its outskirts. There appeared to be something going on between two groups of people. I parked my car a couple of hundred meters away from them, took out my M14 and four magazines, placed a warning sign not to lean on it or even make contact with the car, activated the booby trap on my Hummer, and sneaked towards them.
Let's see if you still got it, Nemesis was the thought that flashed through my head.
There were eight of them; four per side.
One side was clad in leather, armed with Uzis and had long katanas in sheaths at their side. It had to be Yakuza.
Another was clad in business suits and fedoras. They were carrying M1A1 'Tommy guns' in their hands. Their leader-what appeared to be the leader-was a large beefy man who appeared to be strong enough to tear the Yakuza men apart. Mafia.
I loaded my M14 and set the firing mode to automatic. I could handle the 7.62 NATO/ .308 Winchester round at full-auto. The rifle was based on the M1 Garand rifle used in WWI, II, and Korea. Because of this, it was reliable enough to withstand hard use. This rifle was rare as most M14s were built in semiautomatic. This used to be in semiautomatic, but an engineer at a certain USM base converted it to a select-fire rifle.
Unfortunately, it overheated too quickly and only had a 20-round magazine. But no matter. I aimed my rifle at the Mafia head. I crept over to about 50 meters away from them. I wasn't spotted.
"What the f do you want?" Mafia head shouted.
"Your life, demon!" a Yakuza spokesman replied. The Yakuza men had their Uzis pointed at the Mafia men. The gangsters aimed their M1A1s at the Yakuza.
"Like f you can. C'mon boys, let's rock!" Mafia Head spat.
A roar of gunfire from both sides drowned out the Japanese (sure, sure) response. The heavy .45 M1911 bullets slammed into the Yakuza before they had a chance to pull their triggers. The .45 round was originally meant to put down a drugged up crazy in the Philippines in the early 1910s. It was highly successful at its task. A burst of them could tear a man in half. And these bursts did.
I could make out sprays of blood, separation of bodies, and some gunfire. If a bullet enters a brain, it could cause the muscles in the fingers to spasm, causing triggers to be pulled from the grave. However, the 9 mm Parabellum bullets just drove themselves into the air. The Uzis had been directed upwards by the bodies of their ex-owners being pushed down.
"Heh. That'll teach those yellow fers."
"Freeze!" I called out. I had seen enough.
"Who the f are you?" The mob whipped around to see a gunman dressed in a trench coat that was kneecap long and pants pointing a M14 at them. (Modified) Metal armor (Mk II, but I doubt they would know the difference) was underneath the jacket. A lifetime of conflict had manifested itself in the series of scars across the metal.
"Major Smith, United States Militiaman! You're under arrest for murder in the first degree!" The true purpose of the USM was unclear. It was somewhere between an army and a national police force, with the duties of both. 'Arrest' didn't mean anything to me now that I was out of the group...but what the h.
"F!"
"Maximum efficiency!"
I pulled the trigger, and everything went into slow motion. I released a 5-round burst and hosed down two guys. The first was Mafia Head. 3 .308 Winchester bullets entered his suit and knocked him to the ground. He wasn't dead yet. The second man received a bullet in the heart and another to the skull. Either wound would be fatal; it was just a matter of time. I brought the rifle down fired another 5-round burst. I could see the bullet casings fly out of the ejection port. One bullet entered Mafia Head's head before he hit the ground. The next four bullets were equally split between the last two. The bullets smashed into their chests and entered their hearts and lungs. I followed through with a shot to each of their heads.
The STF had faster reactions than most people due to our treatment.
I reloaded with a fresh magazine and ran over to the bodies. From there, I removed the .45 bullets and placed them in my pockets. While the bullets weren't the 230-grain bullets I was used to, they would do the job. I removed the Uzi mags and placed them in my pocket. I already had a Uzi in the car. I picked up a sheathed katana and inspected the blade. It appeared to be recently made, due to its shine and laser-honed razor edge. It could prove useful. I placed the sheath and katana at my right side.
Around this time, the sheriff and his merry men arrived. They pointed their weapons at me. They were all dressed in leather armor, with the sheriff having a badge on his chest to show his seniority.
"Put down your weapons!" a deputy called. Plenty of sound and fury to soften up the target, while everybody else prepares to splatter the miscreant all over the place. Standard operating procedure for every risky arrest any law enforcer makes.
I did so. No point p o the law.
"Put your hands above you head!"
I complied.
"Spread-eagle! Do it now!"
I lay down and spread my arms and legs out.
I heard footsteps. A minute later, the deputy searched me. He wasn't an expert; he missed several potential weapon hideaways. He removed my weapons and armor.
"Clear!" As if. If I wished, I could kill him in a blink of an eye.
He tied my hands behind my back and pulled me up. Some pressure to my back confirmed that he was still covering me.
"You're under arrest for..."
"Whatever. Let's go."
They led me off.
A couple of long, sweaty hours of marching later, I was in the Sheriff's Department of New Sacramento, California, according to the sign. The building looked like a pre-war building. I could tell by the old design and concrete walls. There were cars, but I figured that nobody wanted to drive them out of the city.
I was marched into the building. I started recording things. The first thing I noticed was a cool blast of air in my face. That's rare. Air conditioning is still a luxury in most places. I looked around. The building was constructed entirely of white-painted concrete. A cop, who was too busy reading his newspaper to look up, manned the receptionist's desk. There were several chairs to the right of the door, ostensibly for people to wait for their turn. That was all.
We stopped in front of the cop, who jumped to his feet.
"Back so soon, sir?" he asked.
"Yup. Score one for the good guys," the Sheriff replied. There were sniggers all around.
"Carry on reading. Ain't nothing worth checking out in town, right boys?" Sheriff No-name carried on.
"No sir," another deputy answered. There were grins all round. I think criminals have gotten to the local law. F.
"By the way, who the f are you, boy?"
"Smith, Jake, Major, 1386-3456-2343," I intoned.
"You Brotherhood of Steel?" The BOS doesn't issue 'Major' as a rank. The BOS equivalent is probably a Knight Commander.
"Smith, Jake, Major, 1386-3456-2343," was my monotonous reply.
"What kinda answer is that?"
I repeated the same thing.
"Ah, who cares? Send him to the cells." The Sheriff walked off.
I was sent to the back of the room. There were two flights of stairs: one going up, another heading down. I was led downstairs. The deputies transferred me to the warden. The basement was full of cells, of course. A pair of electric lights dominated the ceiling. They were bright enough to illuminate the entire area.
There was nobody inside any of the cells. Now, this is strange. I was led to the one closest to the stairs.
A deputy unlocked the cell door with an old-fashioned key. A heavy, greasy click was emitted from the keyhole when the key was turned.
"By the way, who the h are ya?"
"Smith, Jake, Major, 1386-3456-2343," I repeated for this guy's benefit.
"You have military training?"
"Smith, Jake, Major, 1386-3456-2343."
"Is that all you can say?"
"Smith, Jake, Major, 1386-3456-2343."
"..."
He removed the key and swung the door out.
"Get yo' a in."
I walked in. The deputies removed my bonds while covering me.
The door was closed and locked.
I looked around. The cell was a typical cell in the USA: one bed suspended from the wall and one toilet (hole is a better word) at the other end. Period. I went on the bed and closed my eyes. There were no blankets or pillows, just a mattress. I've slept on worse.

Chapter 1: Failed recruitment

Eons later, I heard the door unlock. I got up.
"Get yo' a out. The sheriff wants to see ya."
I was led out and to the third floor.
The whole floor was an office, separated into various sections marked out by cubicles with signs. The cubicles seemed to be of cheap cardboard. The whole place could be wiped clean by a trained machine gunner and a decent weapon. I was walked over to the other end, passing by signs reading 'Dep. Howard Suarez', 'Dep. Frank Hardy', and so on. At the other end was a door made of oak. The words 'Sheriff Cain Shillington' were inscribed on the door. A deputy knocked on it.
Shillington called out, "Enter."
The door was opened for me, and I was led in. The deputies closed the door after me.
The room had a desk made of mahogany with two flags on it: a flag of the State of California and a flag of the United States of America. A pair of chairs was in front of the desk. Shillington was behind it. He still had his armor on. He was a middle-aged man who appeared to be fit enough for the pre-war military, but not the USM. His muscles were visible at the exposed areas of his body. He had nothing remarkable. He was just an OWG (Ordinary White Guy), of which CA had plenty of, with the exception of his muscles.
He motioned for me to sit down. I did so.
"Some people have bailed you. You do not need to show your face around here. Your stuff's in the store downstairs. Is that clear?"
"Yes sir. But, if you don't mind, can you tell me about this city?"
"You can talk, eh? Well, you need to know this: there are four gangs here. They run things. I like it, and I intend to keep it that way. They are the Yakuza, Mafia, Triad, and a buncha guys who fought their way up. Donno what they do. The Yakuza are in Chinatown in the largest house in the area. Their head is Makoto Ishii. The Triad is based in the same area. They work out of a bar called Fat (he pronounced it as 'fat'. It's really pronounced as 'f-AH-t') Danny. Their head is Danny Yong. The Mafia is downtown in the casino called 'Lucky Numbers'. Their head is Anthony Puzo. The last has a bar called 'Caspian'. Their head is Thomas Lake.
"All of them fight and kill each other every day. But, what with the money I'm being paid, I ain't gonna do nothin'. There. Now leave."
"Yessir."
I walked out, and was escorted to the armory. There, the quartermaster returned my equipment without a word. The guns were still in their previous condition. Everything that I had was returned. I replaced my handguns, and placed the M14 in one of the two holsters on the back of my armor, specifically designed to hold long arms. My katana was placed on the right side of my belt.
I was then released from the station, told, in the deputy's words, to 'f off', and set loose on the pavement.
And was met by a Japanese-American man. He was dressed in a business suit. He had an earnest expression on his face. There was nobody near him. Even the prostitutes had gone. Something's not right. I placed my right hand on my chin while my left supported it. It was called the 'Jack Benny stance'. I modified it though.
"My name is Akira Watanabe. I work for Mr. Ishii. My-" His accent sounded Asian, all right.
"-Boss wants to thank you for avenging the death of whoever it was that died and holds my abilities in high regard. He wants to recruit you, and so, has sent me here. Am I right?" I was offered roughly the same proposition some time ago.
"How did you know?"
"Some of your colleagues from other cities said pretty much the same thing."
"So, what is your answer?"
"F off. I don't want to join you." That was my answer to the original proposition.
"But, you don't really have a choice in the matter." He reached into his jacket.
I moved up to him and gave him an open palm strike (more like a push, by stepping forward while executing the strike, adding momentum to the blow) to his chin with my right hand while bringing his head forward with my left. I applied enough force to break his neck. That took slightly less than a second. He collapsed soundlessly. I searched him and came up with a Micro-Uzi. I broke it down, and tossed its parts into a nearby garbage can. I pocketed the 9 mm rounds from it first.
I walked to my car, letting him lie on the street. I retraced my footsteps.
There were four bodies on the car, all victims of a fatal electric shock. They were dressed like the Mafia men. It seemed that they tried to lean against it. They evidently didn't read the sign. It's their fault.
The booby trap on my car was a massive electric current running throughout the body of the vehicle. Anyone who touched it would be instantly transformed into a smoking corpse. The bunkers weren't affected since they were insulated against electric shock. I deactivated the trap with a turn of my key. A team of mechanics had modified my car to repay a debt some years ago.
"Sir?" The accent was Chinese.
I turned around. A Triad man, flanked by a pair of burly men, was in my sights. I slowly moved my hands to my cocked and locked pistols. My rifle would be useless at the range they were at.
"My name is Wong Jun (pronounced 'gene' at high speed) Jie. I-"
"No."
"Then-" 'I have to kill you' was the sentence he didn't quite get to finish.
I pulled out my pistols at lightning speed. The pistol in my right hand aligned itself with the face of the gangster on Wong's left, and the pistol on my left went to the other enforcer's face. I pulled the trigger once, and both faces caved inwards, blowing out copious amounts of blood, brains, and bone out the other side.
Wong turned to run. That only changed the point of impact.
His head suddenly disappeared in a flash of light. His murderer was about 25 meters in front of me, revealed by Wong's collapse. I holstered my pistols and switched to my M14. I aimed at the shooter. He was holding a smoking pistol. It had to be an energy gun, but I couldn't make it out. He walked forward, hands in the air. My trigger finger came off its index point and touched the trigger. I aligned the rifle's front sight with his face.
"That problem's solved. You must be the new guy. I've heard all about you. I'm offering you a chance to join us. My boss is Mr. Lake. A lifetime of-" he wheedled on.
"Crime awaits me. Tell your boss no."
He shook his head resignedly. He sighed. I applied more pressure on the trigger. The first stage of the custom two-stage military trigger broke.
His pistol came down as he dove back. My sights were aligned with his neck. The trigger broke at 4 pounds, starting a process that terminated in the firing off a round, causing its replacement to move up upon ejection. That bullet missed by a hair. I aimed low. He got off a shot that collided with one of the corpses on the car. A smoking hole replaced its burnt flesh at the POI. He had missed by a centimeter. He tried to correct his aim when I fired a burst of three.
My burst struck true, riddling his abdomen with NATO rounds, creating a very bloody, jagged hole. He was down, but not out, incredible as it may seem. He was still breathing. He would either bleed to death or ...get a bullet in the head.
I walked over to him. He tried to raise his pistol, but didn't have the strength to do so. He whispered, "F you..." and coughed out a mouthful of blood. He bled out when I reached him.
"Right back at you."
I checked the pistol. It was a Glock 68 plasma pistol, designed by Glock of (former) Austria, meant for military and police work. It had a 16- shot clip, and is popular with elite units that needed a compact and heavy- hitting pistol that is extremely reliable. I already had one, so I ejected the clip and placed it with my ammunition container.
The fact that these criminals could get their hands on energy weapons meant that something was wrong.
A quick search of every body yielded 3 Browning High Powers, 36 bullets of 9 mm Parabellum, 1 Thompson M1A1, 30 bullets of .45 ACP, 3 FN FALs, 90 .308 Winchester bullets, and $800. I kept the money and ammo, and discarded the rest.
I entered my car, and drove off. The 'Sheriff' wouldn't do anything, so there's no point informing him of this incident.

Chapter 2: Ambush at Hope Hospital

I drove to the city's hospital. It was named, rather appropriately, 'Hope'. It was, after all, the only hope any seriously ill and/or wounded person had here. It was founded a little over a year ago.
A man named Doctor (real MD. Trained by Vault 3's successors) Sam O'Sullivan was its founder and chief surgeon. He was the finest medic and doctor I had ever worked with. He was also part of the STF. He was a genius at battlefield medicine, as the men whose lives he saved will say. His call sign was 'Doc'.
Hope was split into three levels. The first floor had the waiting room, ER, and other areas associated with the immediate treatment of wounds. The second floor held the Intensive Care Unit, where those with major wounds and illnesses were housed under constant vigilance, or for those who are waiting for surgery. The third floor was for everybody else.
Gunfire constitutes 99% of the injuries Hope deals with, thus leading to a massive search for surgeons. Fortunately enough, there are still surgeons to meet demands. The Auto-doc machine, supposedly capable of treating anything, was shot up by mobsters a week after being sent there, so surgery was required until the hospital could buy a new model. Good luck: nobody has figured out a way to build one from scratch.
I parked the car in the car park, and got out. It was 1200, according to the Personal Information Processor I had.
"Hey!"
I spun around, hands on my Condition 1 pistols. My M14 was in the Hummer. It was a bunch of Japanese guys. Their attire proclaimed them to be Yakuza. No point trying to negotiate with them except using bullets.
"You kill Akira, yes?"
"So what if I did?"
"We come to avenge him. Attack!"
The Yakuza were armed with the same complement of weapons I saw: Uzis and katanas. I drew and ran behind the open car door.
The Japanese gangsters fired their weapons. The 9 mm Parabellum rounds connected against the bulletproof door, making a loud rattle as they did so. I peeped out of the door and fired a pair of pairs at two Yakuza's heads, blowing them apart. The hot bullet casings flew into the Hummer.
I dived out during a lull in the shooting and landed behind a Chrysalis Highwayman, firing all the while to keep them occupied. I stood up, and engaged the remaining two with double taps to the head. The guns went silent. The cases fell to the ground. I reloaded. I walked over to them and covered them with my pistols. All four were dead.
I heard an explosion and dove to the right, catching a couple dozen of what had to be pellets in the back. If I had stayed where I was, my head would have been blown off. I turned around, feeling a warm trickling from my back. I saw a group of four mobsters armed with Winchester Model 12 shotguns. The shotgun was built for Allied troops during WWI and II for clearing out trenches, and it is still going strong, thanks to its quality design. I use something else, though.
"He ain't dead yet!"
"Maximum efficiency," I whispered. And everything became slower. I heard my heartbeat. I stood up and aimed at the mobsters. I pulled the triggers. The trigger broke after a nanosecond. Two bullets were issued from the barrels of the pistols. I could see their top slides move back and feed a new round. I shifted fire and pulled the triggers again when the slides stopped. And again. And again. And again. The cartridge casings flew out of the ejection ports almost simultaneously. They landed with a quiet but clear tink-tink. I could almost see the bullets fly. The gunshots sounded diffused and muted. The slugs blew the mobsters' heads apart. I heard the crystal-clear weapons effects. They collapsed without a noise. The fall felt like it took an hour.
I raced over, and checked the whole area.
I saw a glint of glass from one of the windows of some nearby houses. I dove forward. The proceeding gunshot sounded muted and distant.
A bullet roared by, missing by head by a hair. I heard it impact against the road. I got up and emptied my pistols into the window. When the last cartridge casing fell, I reloaded, and broke out a high explosive grenade from my Hummer. I ran up to the house, primed the grenade, and tossed it through the window. Six seconds later, the grenade detonated. A bullet-ridden body was thrown out by the shockwave. A sniper rifle (now completely useless) was gripped in his right hand.
"Stand down." Time resumed its pace. This was the STF's ability. One must have undergone the Ultimate Soldier Project treatment to withstand the stresses caused by moving at that speed. I stumbled back to the car park.
I reloaded. More blood gushed out of the wounds on my back. I had been struck with enough force to break the armor. I had to repair it afterwards. Some nurses ran over to me.
"He's still alive!" one called. I was getting dizzy due to blood loss. Everything felt warm and comfortable, but I knew that I had to get my message out first.
"Get the Sheriff!"
"Fat lot of good that'll do. Get me to the ER!" I called out before collapsing and blacking out.

Chapter 3: O'Sullivan, Sam, Sergeant, 5647-3657-0231 Doc

"Uh..."
I sat up. A large number of bandages were swathed around my torso. I blinked several times to let my eyes focus. I was in a hospital room. Sunlight poured in from the windows. The air was cool. Had to be air conditioning. There were three other beds, but none were occupied.
"How did I get here?" Then, I remembered. I felt a presence to my left.
"Relax. You're safe now."
It was a feminine voice. I turned left. There was a nurse dressed in a nurse's uniform of a knee-long skirt and a blouse, all white. Her surgical mask obscured her face. Her hair was blonde and shoulder-length. Her eyes were of a sparkling blue. A nametag read Deborah Peterson. Her hands were small enough for me to enclose. There were no rings on any of the fingers.
She took off her mask. She had a small, button-like nose, small red lips, and had a smile that lit up the room.
"It can't be...No, you're not."
"Hmm?"
The resemblance was uncanny.
"No, no..."
"Are you all right?"
"N-...I'm fine. It's just that you resemble someone I know."
"Oh? Is she your sweetheart?" she asked in jest. That only served to deepen the pain.
"Used to be."
"Oh?"
"She died in my arms."
"Oh! Oh...I'm sorry..." She meant it. I could tell by her eyes.
"That's all right."
A person walked in. It was...
"Doc, it's Nemesis."
"Neme-? Major? D! I thought you looked familiar!"
He was dressed in a doctor's coat and brown trousers. A scar on his left cheek, caused by a 7.62 Soviet bullet that grazed his cheek a couple of ears ago, marred his ruggedly handsome face. He still kept his brown hair precisely two inches long.
"Relax. We're civilians now. Call me whatever you want."
"Right. Debbie, meet a former colleague of mine. He's Jake Smith, formerly a major in the United States Militiamen."
"Nice to meet you." She shook my hands.
He walked over and sat down on the other chair to my left. He whispered something into Deborah's ear. She whispered something on the order of "I've already found out."
He nodded, and turned to me.
"Jake, there seems to be a lot of new scars."
"I know."
"What've you been doing? Fighting?"
"With guns."
"Right..."
"You know what happened to Corporal O'Toole?" She was the team sniper. And the hardest to contact.
"Yes. It's Malloy now. She finally married Tony Malloy (one of the Unisols. We tried to ignore the romance as best as we could) last month."
"Hmm...well...send my congratulations to them.
"Say, why are you working here?"
"Well, NS needs a hospital, and I figured I could help out. You won't believe the previous death rate here."
"Try me."
"Five people die a day."
"This city's gonna die out at this rate."
"Yeah, well, we managed to cut it down to two a week."
"Great."
"Well, on to your wounds. The good news is that there will not be any lasting damage apart from a few dozen new scars. Your armor absorbed most of the shock. It's modifications also served to absorb the impact of the blow. None of the pellets hit your spine, and none of them went beyond a half-inch penetration depth. Thank the craftsman of your armor if you can; he saved your life. I'll have it repaired."
"What's the bad news?"
"Well...you need to stay here for about four days. It'll take that long before you can fully recover."
"Are you sure, Doctor? I've never seen such extensive wounds before." It was from Deborah.
"Yes. Deb...this man represents the best of the best of the best. I can't tell you precisely why, so you must accept my explanation at face value. He is the among the fittest persons on Earth." The US project also involved giving us prototype nanomachines that speeds up healing. In fact, I only needed a couple of days for recovery.
"If you say so, Doctor."
"You know, you made history today."
"Again?"
"Yes. You have killed nine people this morning, and another nine this afternoon, making a total of eighteen, if reports are to be believed. No one has done that before." 'In this city' were the words he didn't say.
"Actually, thirteen. Four of them killed themselves by leaning on a high-voltage electric field, and one was shot by another guy."
"Right..."
"Good riddance, anyway," Deborah said.
"Oh?"
"Yes. They are the ones responsible for so much of the evil that's happened."
The doctor whispered into my ear.
"Her fiancé was shot dead by the Yakuza a day before they were supposed to be married."
"Say...if someone decided to clean up this town, and if you're asked to join him/her, will you-"
"Definitely." 'Because, you're my CO' was the answer he didn't say.
"I'll take you on that."
"Right. Deb, take care of him."
"Sure thing, Doctor O'Sullivan." Her expression didn't give away anything.
"Jake...get some rest."
"Doctor's orders." Then, I realized how tired I was. I closed my eyes.
And went back...
Back to when the pain started...
Precisely ten years ago...

Chapter 4: Pamela McRae

It was May 10, 2345.
"Hey Jake." Pamela McRae called. She was a nurse-in-training at a USM base in Southern California.
We were in the cafeteria. She sat down in front of me. I could make out the bulge of a pistol and two magazines in her jacket's built-in holster. Everybody in the base who was trained to shoot a firearm is supposed to carry at least one all the time. In her case, it was her Browning HP-SA, successor to the Browning High Power. It was among the best- designed pistols in the world, although I preferred M1911s.
She was dressed in her white jacket, white knee-length skirt, and matching blouse. I was in my highly polished metal armor, with my black trench coat and pants over the suit to conceal it. My pistols and six magazines were in their holsters.
I was the Quartermaster's assistant. This was because I was only fifteen. Formal military training would start next year.
"Hi Pam."
There were some glances directed towards the two of us as we exchanged the usual pleasantries.
"Leave 'em alone," was my advice to her. She heeded that. After all, let them think.
"So...how's life?" she asked, after a few silent mouthfuls. She kept staring into my eyes.
"You know. Boring. Routine."
"You should see things at my end."
"I know. I heard a couple of critically injured men are due in a day."
"Yeah. And that's usually when all hell breaks loose."
"True."
The rest of the meal carried on in silence.
"...Er...why do you keep staring into my eyes?" I asked, when we had finished.
"Oh! I was?" She blushed. She looked down. She got up.
"Umm...excuse me," she said.
She ran off, after placing her plate and utensils in the wash area.
Then, I realized why she did that. After that, I commanded myself to stay focused.
The General Alarm sounded an hour after that. By then, I was back at my post, and Pam was back at hers.
"S!" The QM exclaimed. He was a tall, strong man, dressed in leather armor. His weather-lined and scarred face reflected his many years in operations until a bullet to his left hip severed a nerve and sent him to a job as the new QM eight years ago.
He didn't swear much, but he had good reason to.
The Alarm meant that we had been invaded.
"Jake! Ready the arms and ammo! Get a few cocked and locked in case they come here!"
"Already done, sir!" I always keep one half of the armory's weapons in Condition One (fully loaded, cocked and locked) at any point of time.
"Good boy!"
"Intruders at Transport. All personnel draw arms and repel invaders..."
The alarm lights mounted every three feet started to flash and rotate. The Armory was next to Transport, so-
The QM rushed (gimped, really) to the lockdown button. I had readied my twin P-O pistols. I didn't have any formal training, but the QM noticed my flair with the twin pistols and taught me how to use them since I was ten.
I went to prep the other arms when I saw the QM draw his Colt National Match. He hurried to the button, firing one-handedly at something. He got off three shots before being cut down by several bursts. He was separated into several parts. The blood spray decorated the metal floor.
His death spurred me into action. I raised the pistols and stood up. The table provided enough cover for my abdomen.
A trio of raiders ran in. They were dressed in leather armor and were armed with AK-47s. I aimed my pistols at their heads. I pulled the customized 4-pound triggers straight back with the first pad of my index fingers, just like what the QM and his buddies taught me. The pistols jumped lightly, and sent two rounds into the heads of the raider I shifted fire, killing the second one. The third whipped his head around in time to receive a double-tap to the forehead. The whole process took three seconds. The gunfire sounded exceptionally loud in the cramped Store. I ran out of the room.
The SOP for the area that was breached by invaders was to hit the lockdown button. That was located next to the massive steel door. I covered the door while running for it. The sound of gunfire from the other rooms became audible. A raider appeared in front of my sights. I didn't think about anything, I just pulled the triggers. He collapsed in a spray of blood, brains and bone. I reached the button and pressed it. The door responded immediately.
Outside, the raiders tried to rush the door. One almost made it, but crashed into the steel door just when it closed. I heard his cursing from the other side. I heard a crunch. He could have broken his nose.
I released my fingers from the triggers, and placed them on my index points on the guns. Index point refers to a spot on the weapon where your finger can instinctively travel to when the finger is off the trigger. It's easier to do that than to point your finger straight out. Besides, one's finger may be blown off by a freak chance.
The guards rushed in. There were twelve of them. Standard Operating Procedure dictated that four guards armed with Remington 870 shotguns enter the room to fill it with buckshot if it is full of targets. Four MP-5-armed guards follow behind to deliver any precision shots if required. The next four were armed with M60E4 machineguns to mop up. All had Desert Eagles as backup weapons.
"You all right, kid?" the leader asked. I nodded. Everybody covered the openings.
"D. The QM's dead," one of the guardsmen said.
"S...who shot the raiders?"
"I did, sir."
He looked at me incredulously. That was until he smelt the cordite and saw the gun smoke curling up from my twin P-14/45s.
"D! That's some real fancy shooting, kid. I don't think even I could do it." His tone projected his incredulity.
"Thank s...
"No-!" Pam was there. I had to get to her!
"What is it?"
"The Infirmary! We gotta-"
"Kid, yo-"
I had rushed out before I heard what he had to say.
I had to take the long route to the Infirmary since the shortcut had been cut off. I left the Store by the east exit.
I turned right. A long corridor greeted me. A stream of warriors ran towards me.
"Half of the armory's weapons are in Condition One! Pick 'em and load the rest!" I pushed through the crowd and turned left at the left turn.
"Where're you going?"
"Infirmary!"
I made my way to the junction. The corridor had been locked down. I deactivated it, ran through, and pushed the lockdown button again before anyone could say a word.
The base was connected by a series of corridors connected to a common one. Only authorized personnel could lock all of the corridors down. When I pressed the lockdown button, an iris scanner scanned my eyes to ensure that I was properly authorized to lockdown the area. And the lockdown buttons only work if the Alarm has been sounded.
I reloaded. I ran down the corridor.
I saw a bunch of raiders coming my way. All were armed with AK-47s. They had not spotted me yet.
Training dictates that one should find cover. But, the corridor had no cover. I made do.
I raised my pistols lightning-quick, and fired off at the raiders while strafing left and right. A hail of lead was issued from my almost continuously firing guns. The bullets traveled down the narrow corridor, smashing into heads, spraying the walls with blood, brains and bone. Muzzle flashes and reports complemented each trigger pull. I kept on firing. They all died before the hit the ground. Then, I heard the loudest sound in the world. Meanwhile, the security cameras later showed that I looked like some sort of cool-looking big hero with two blazing pistols.
Click, click.
I ejected the magazines, drew a fresh one with two fingers gripping the base (my magazine was already oriented outwards thanks to the configuration of the magazine holders), and rammed it home into the right pistol before grabbing a fresh one and doing the same to the left pistol. I slapped the bottom of each magazine with my forearm to ensure that the mag was seated properly. I disengaged the slide lock by crossing over and using the other pistol's side to disengage it, and moved back to disengage the other pistol's slide lock with the barrel of the first pistol. I completed the process at a speed I never thought possible: 2.5 seconds, according to the security footage.
I fired down the corridor at a new batch of raiders that appeared. A storm of bullets was once more unleashed from my hot and smoking guns, blowing apart heads and decorating the area with more organic matter. Screams were issued from the raiders' mouths. I kept pulling triggers, firing on and on and on. The bullets streaked down the blood-soaked corridor at supersonic velocities before impacting on their targets and blowing out whatever they hit when they exited the targets (I had loaded my pistols with hardball bullets, not jacketed hollow points. JHPs were more expensive, and I intended to get some range time after I had finished my duties). They fell down, dead.
I reloaded. I stood, ready to fire some more. I was temporarily deaf from firing so many bullets in an enclosed area. All I heard was a ringing in my ears. The cordite tickled my throat. Sweat poured down my face.
I decided I had waited enough. I picked up an AK-47 and three magazines, which were stuffed into my rifle magazine holders in my trousers.
I made my way to the Infirmary, careful not to slip. I heard the guardsmen's cries when I stepped into the Infirmary.
I looked around.
The area I could see was awash in blood, mostly that of the medics, but some of the raiders had been shot down. Cartridge cases littered the floor, along with fallen guns. There were three areas in the Infirmary. The one I could see was for 'ordinary' people. The beds were empty, with medication packs standing by. We had incoming wounded, after all. Pam was assigned to the Intensive Care Unit, next to the ordinary wards. I turned left, and headed for the door, full of adrenaline and dread.
It automatically opened, and my worst fears were confirmed.
The area was full of blood, bullet casings, bullet holes, and bodies. I made my way to the end of the room, passing by a dozen slumped bodies, some with guns in their hands. Some were unarmed.
"F."
I reached the end of the room. A raider was lying face up. Fourteen bullet holes decorated his armor, torso, and face. His blood was quickly forming a pool around his corpse. An AK-47 was in his hands.
I saw Pam's body. She was riddled with bullet holes, still issuing blood. An IV line was stuck into her left arm, which explained her longevity. Its fluid packet was almost empty of artificial blood. Her Browning was locked back on empty. Fourteen bullet casings were around her body. Her mouth issued some blood. Her chest heaved. She was alive, but just.
"Jake...?"
"I'm here."
"Jake-" she coughed up more blood.
"Hush. Don't talk. Rest now."
"No. Jake, I, I need to-"
"Save it for later."
"Jake, I must tell you-"
"Pam?"
"Jake...since we met, I've always felt-" she coughed up more blood.
"Pam, you're just stressing yourself..."
"-Some...kind of bond between the both of us..."
"Pam?' She was fading out.
"I've never...realized it, but, Jake...I..." She coughed up more blood. Her wounds continued to stain her clothing.
"I've...always...loved...you..."
There was a final rush of air from her body. She stopped breathing. Her eyes lost their spark.
She was dead. The only person who declared her love for me was dead.
"Pam?"
I checked for a pulse. There was none. There was no point trying to use CPR.
"NO!" Somehow, that sounded diffused.
I brought her up to my face.
"Farewell, Pam. I'll always remember. I love you too."
I kissed her on the lips. Hers were soft and red. The kiss felt like it took forever. I had never hugged her, much less kissed her, when she was alive, and I never will.
After letting go, I lowered her gently to the ground.
Perhaps the fact that I still had a job to do suppressed the initial rush of emotion. I could cry later. I ran out, and headed to the ER.
The ER was the room adjacent to Transport. That way, the more severely injured people could receive immediate treatment upon arrival. I ran in, the auto doors opening and closing in the seconds I took to enter.
There were only a couple of Auto-docs in the room, primed for immediate treatment. The bright white lights were switched on. The whole room smelt of disinfectant. Dust was in massive quantities on the floor. Nothing more. It was a stark contrast to the rest of the areas I had gone through.
The door leading to Transport was still open. I ran over.
And almost collided with a raider.
We stared dumbfounded at each other for a second.
Then, I remembered. I reacted first, and sent a burst of 7.62 Soviet into his lower torso. They managed to blow through his leather armor. He clutched his mortal wounds as he fell over, groaning.
"You b! You shot me in the gut!"
"Sorry." I corrected that aberration with a bullet to the head. I ran over to Transport.
There were two fixed machinegun nests at the back of Transport to provide cover for any incoming friendlies. I made my way there after locking the Infirmary down.
"HEY!"
I turned left.
There were a large number of raiders milling about. One of them spotted me. S!
"KILL HIM!"
I ran for the nest, knowing that I would have an advantage in firepower upon arrival. If I could make it.
I sprayed wildly at the mass, not caring to aim, so long as I kept their heads down. I kept on running, and felt the impact of two bullets into my torso. They had to be yellow jacket (ordinary FMJs coated with tungsten) bullets; only they could penetrate my armor with one strike. I felt the burn, but I carried on. The pain soon faded.
The rifle clicked on empty when I was almost at the nest. I tossed it aside, and dove the remaining distance. I rolled, and found myself behind the nest.
The nest was a bunker built of sandbags with a Browning M2HB. It fires massive .50 inch depleted uranium rounds meant for antiaircraft and antivehicle use. Obviously, human flesh was too soft a target to resist it. I gritted my teeth at the pain. And it disappeared due to adrenaline.
I gripped both handles and swiveled the weapon such that it pointed at the raiders, and pulled the triggers.
The first thing that hit me was the recoil, followed by the roar of the HMG. I struggled to keep the weapon pointed at the right direction. I moved it around, mowing down the raiders with the DU bullets. I spotted a group of them and sprayed a burst into them. Upon their collapse, I turned to another and pulled the triggers. The hot brass flew out and hit the floor. There were no vehicles in Transport at this period of time, so there was no cover for the raiders.
I felt a stab into my chest, and fell to the ground. Nanoseconds later, I felt a burn and started to bleed. The sensation faded out soon after due to adrenaline. I got up, and remounted the HMG. I swiveled and returned fire, causing the raider's group to disintegrate.
The weapon clicked on empty. There were no more targets.
I staggered to the lockdown button, and activated it. The recoil had taken a lot out of my battered body. I realized could not hear anything at all save for a loud ringing. My eyes had bright blue spots burned into it by the muzzle flash.
I looked at the carnage I had wrought. The raiders were all blown apart. None of their bodies were intact. The blood flowed like a river. The raiders had been eliminated, all messily dead.
I slumped against the wall, spent. The adrenaline rush I had fed off was gone. The pain from all of the wounds I had came through to my brain. I coughed out some blood.
The guards came rushing in.
"What the f happened here?! It looked like a war had been fought here." The shouts sounded like whispers.
"A war had been fought here! Search for survivors."
"Suh, there be no point," a not-so-bright guard pointed out.
"OVER HERE!" I called out. And coughed up some blood. S. Good thing the Auto-docs were prepped for immediate treatment.
"There's someone living?"
"Go on, get him!" The ringing became less severe.
A pair of guards got over to me and pulled me up. They placed my arms over their shoulders and picked me up.
"You did all this?" the right guardsman asked.
I nodded.
"Don't worry now. You did good, you hear me? Almost no one could do what you just did. You're a hero.
"By the way, are you in the Special Operations Group?"
"No. I'm the Quartermaster's assistant!" I sprayed blood on the floor

"Huh?" And then, it ended.
I sat up. It was night.
Deborah was sitting at my left, reading a book under a single light. It was titled The Storm. One of my favorite books, largely because it imitates my life story. Books were coming out, ever since some engineers rebuilt printing presses. Its first edition was in 2340.
"What're you doing here?"
"Listening to your nightmare. You know, you really should-" Get a shrink.
"I know."