The man plodded his way along the remains of highway 97, leading a scrawny pack brahman. He wore a faded leather duster covered with so much dust it was the same color as the blasted rocks and dirt around him. A floppy brimmed hat hid most of his face, but a close look showed hints of a respirator; even here at the edge of the Capital Wasteland the wind blown dust could be radioactive. A hunting rifle was visible strapped to the side of the brahmin, and he carried an assegei-style spear as a walking stick. A close look at the spearhead would have shown the world "CHESTNUT" was still visible, a remnant of its previous life as a street sign.
Sometime since the Great War a landslide had narrowed the highway to only six feet or so. As the man passed the blockage, three men appeared at the other end. A quick glance showed two more climbing down the rocks behind him. The man stopped, eyes downcast.
The five wore a motley assortment of leather and pre-war clothing, supplemented by the occasional piece of metal tied on with leather or fabric. By their lack of cohesion or discipline the man knew them: raiders. Brutal nihilists, preying on others for food, water, and drugs. When their victims did not have enough food, the raiders frequently ate them, too.
The five closed in. Corvega, the leader, was point of a wedge formation, strutting foreward with his sawed off shotgun resting casually over his shoulder. Chevy, his right hand girl, took a hit from a jet inhaler and followed with a hunting rifle. Mack was to her right, and he rocked a sledgehammer and enough psycho in his veins to kill two ordinary men. Behind the man was Thunderbolt, armed with a 10mm pistol and also fortified with jet. Last was Bumper, at fifteen the youngest of the gang, carrying a tire iron and too junior to be granted access to their chems.
"Close enough, Tink," Corvega warned. He smiled, showing a mouth of rotting and broken teeth. "We don't want anyone to get hurt." The gang giggles, because they talked all day about hurting someone. "Put down the spear."
The man turns the spear horizontal, crouches, and lowers the spear to the ground, moving slowly to not provoke the twitchy raiders.
"Get up, Tink," Corvega demands.
"My name's not Tink," the man says.
Corvega reacted to the defiance by hitting the man on the head with the barrels of his shotgun. The hat was knocked off, but the shotgun bounced off the helmet hidden underneath. The goggles and respirator of the filter mask gave the man an insectile appearance, and the raiders gasped.
"It's Grendel."
Grendel surged to his feet, drawing a .44 revolver from under his duster. Bracing his wrist on Covega's shoulder, he put the first bullet in the middle of Chevy's forehead. Corvega did not flinch. Staying close to Corvega, he twisted back around and put two bullets in Thunderbolt's chest. Turning back to the front, Mack was running forward, and received two bullets to the head, but the raider took another two steps before realizing he was dead.
Grendel yanked his knife out of Corvega's sternum, letting the body slump to the ground. He turned to face Bumper, who, after realizing the rest of his gang was dead, had stopped about ten feet away, and was looking, wild eyed, from body to body.
"How many?" Grendel asked. "Was that five shots, or six?" He cocked the pistol. "Ready to find out?"
Bumper turned and ran. He made it two steps before the sixth bullet hit his right leg at the knee. He collapsed on the road.
Grendel, the Dark Stranger, was there quickly, applying a tourniquet and a dose of MedX to keep the young raider from going into shock.
"Please," Bumper whispered. "Please."
"Mercy?" Grendel asked. "Oh, you'll get more mercy from me than I would have from you. But first, you're going to tell me everything you know about what had been going on in the Capital Wasteland."