Zion Valley, Utah

September 14, 2280

The distinctive sound of gunfire cut through the previously peaceful morning air. By the time Beth realized what was happening and yelled, "Ambush! Get down!" to the rest of the group, it was too late. She dove behind a boulder just as a bullet pierced her sleeve. The two caravan guards in the front were already dead.

"I don't deserve this! My Pip-Boy don't even work!" cried a young man in a dirtied vault suit as he cowered on the ground. "Why the fuck you hire me?"

"Shut the hell up, Ricky!" a young woman said in a loud whisper as she fired her recharger pistol toward the incoming shots. "Might as well be waving at 'em!"

"Stop it, both of you!" Beth hissed. "Focus!"

The woman growled. "Enough of this! We're sitting ducks here! I was a sheriff once, goddamn it!" In blind fury, she charged forward and she shot wildly at the enemy, beams of red light blasting out of her weapon. The sharp metallic scent of energy weapon fire mingled with the pungent gunpowder already filling the air.

"Stella, no! Get down!" The other woman didn't stop and she was too far away to grab. Three shots caught her in the chest, tearing through her armor and into flesh, causing sudden eruptions of blood to spray outward. Too shocked to cry out, she staggered backward before her legs buckled under her and she collapsed into the dirt with a dull thud.

"Shit!" Beth spat, then took a moment to calm herself. She peeked out from behind the rock and fired twice with her rifle, hitting one of the enemy tribals in the stomach, which sent him toppling from the rocky cliff, a guttural scream cracking from his throat. "That was sloppy," she thought to herself. "Focus. Two more." They yelled to each other in a language unknown to her and gave away their positions: one was up on the ridge, the other down below. Grabbing a rock from the ground, she threw it twenty feet to her right. As the area around the rock puffed up with the dust of it and gunfire, she quickly fired at the diverted enemy, the shot bursting through the tribal woman's chest. A look of shock swept over her painted face as she fell, letting out a final halted gasp. "One more."

In the brief interlude, Beth took a moment to reload her rifle and listened for any sound that indicated a change in the last enemy's position. Although her heart was beating fast, her hands were steady and practiced; she had been trained by the best and mainly had him to thank for her continued survival. Besides, she had faced much more formidable opponents than this. It was all a matter of taking her time, staying focused, and forming a plan.

Creeping toward the edge of the cliff, she peered down at the last one and shot him in his nearly unarmored torso before he saw her. Skin ruptured in to a gaping hole as the bullet cut through him, making him roar in pain and collapse to his knees. Before he could raise his gun again, she fired twice more, each shot expanding the wound until blood ran from his mouth in choked coughs and he slumped onto his side.

The peaceful stillness filled the canyon around her, a faint sound of flowing water below nearly the only sound she could hear as she strained her ears to catch further danger. Nothing. The soft breeze began to clear the scent of battle from the air. Her heartbeat calmed as the adrenaline in her veins abated and she could now feel the drying in her throat from exerted breaths. There were some scrapes on her hands where she had caught herself as she dove for cover behind the boulder, but otherwise, she was unscathed. The bullet that had torn through her sleeve somehow missed her skin.

If she had been in the front of the caravan, would she have seen the ambush coming? Or would she have been the first to die? She couldn't help but wonder.

Slowly, she stood up and surveyed the area. "Oh..." she breathed, seeing she was the only one left alive. Stella was lying still in the dirt, fatally wounded and blood-soaked in her ruined armor, weapon still clutched in her hand. Beth put her hand to the woman's face and gently closed her vacant eyes. They had actually started to become friends, since they had a fair bit in common. She wondered how this woman had managed to survive so long being so fool-hardy.

Ricky was also lying on the ground, bullet wounds in his back soaking his blue vault suit into a sickly purple. She shook her head at the sight. From the second she met him, she knew he was a lying psycho addict who had probably never set foot in a vault in his life, but it wasn't her responsibility to stop idiots from getting themselves killed. They just end up finding a way to do it anyway once her back was turned. Besides, he had generously offered to carry some of her gear in exchange for not telling anyone he was a fraud.

She retrieved her belongings from his pack, as well as anything else useful, and added them to hers. The supplies from the brahmin yielded very little that would be useful to her other than a bottle of purified water. Even warm, the liquid was a welcome relief as it washed away the dust and cracks from her throat. She swished and swallowed a mouthful to clear the dry stickiness from her tongue. The scrapes on her hands weren't serious enough to waste a stimpak, so instead she poured the last sip of water over them to clear the dirt and blood, drying them on her pants.

Lacking a shovel, she had no way to bury her former traveling companions; even if she did have one, there was no way she could dig a grave for five people. She reminded herself that proper burial was a luxury most people didn't get these days. For a moment, she wondered if anyone would bother for her.

With the pack brahmin dead, there was nothing left to do but return to the Mojave. Yet when she looked up and across the valley, she was struck by the sight, having never seen such vivid colors in nature before. The scent in the air was sweet from flowering plants and brush she hadn't smelled before. Something drew her forward, deeper into the canyon.
Up ahead across a rope bridge, she spotted another tribal, this one was dressed differently than the others. She approached cautiously with her rifle in her hands, but waited to see if he would attack before she fired.

"Hoi! White Legs don't leave survivors often," he called to her in clear English with a halting accent. "You're some kind of lucky, let me tell you. You came from outside, didn't you? From the civilized lands? Wow... Joshua will want to hear about this."

She studied him quizzically. Jed, the now deceased leader of their doomed caravan expedition, had told her specifically not to mention Joshua Graham to anyone at their destination. Was this the same Joshua, the former Legion second-in-command? Couldn't be.

"Who is this 'Joshua'?" she asked as she approached him.

"Joshua Graham-he leads our tribe. Thanks to him, the Dead Horses are strong, and safe from our enemies. He'll want to talk to anyone coming up from south-ways. Guess that means just you, now."

"Who are you?"

"I'm called Follows-Chalk."

"I'm called Elizabeth."

"Elizabeth, it is good meeting you." Her name was heavy and clumsy in his mouth. "Come, I can take you to Joshua."

The tribal looked innocent enough and he hadn't tried to kill her like the others. With a nod and a feeling of curiosity, she reluctantly followed him.

Novac, Mojave Wasteland
September 14, 2280

Brahmin steak and gecko eggs were his favorite. "Dinner for breakfast for you, breakfast for dinner for me," she said, which made him smile. Actually, everything she said made him smile, except when she would express how unhappy she was here.

He sat down across from her at their little table in the corner of the cramped kitchen and picked up his fork. The savory aroma made his mouth water.

"Ehem," she cleared her throat, looking at him sternly with her deep brown eyes. "Forgetting something?"

He smirked at her. "Grace?"

Shaking her head, she pointed to his head with a freshly polished fingernail. "Hat."

"Right." Still smirking, he reached up and pulled the red beret off his head, setting it down on the table next to him. He raked his dark hair back from his forehead with his fingers and picked up his knife to cut into the steak.

She scoffed. "'Grace.' You're going to need grace if you keep being such a smart ass." A little chuckle emitted from her tight smile.
"Yes, mother."

Scrunching her face, she shook her head again. "Ugh, don't call me that. I hate when couples start doing that when they have kids." She then let out a small squeak of surprise and put her hand to her swollen belly. "Oh, little Craig's awake."

"Little Carla, you mean," he corrected, taking a bite of the juicy meat. As always, it was perfectly medium rare.

Rolling her eyes, she sighed at him. "How are we ever going to decide on a name if we keep insisting on only those two? We have three more months to decide. Can we just agree to not name the baby after either of us?"

"I will make no such deal," he replied with his mouth full, which he saw on her face that she didn't appreciate. He loved how expressive she was, so honest and straight-forward. If she didn't outright tell him what she was thinking, he could always read it on her face. Other people in town didn't like it, though.

"Come on. I can't very well teach our children proper manners when you're talking and spewing bits of chewed brahmin all over the table, now can I?" She laughed, which made him smile again. "But seriously, I want them to be able to be as comfortable and welcome at the Ultra Luxe as they are at...Cliff's shop. That will give them options in life."

"I know, I'm sorry." They continued to eat their breakfast/dinner. "So, you get out at all today? Talk to anyone?"

She held up a finger to give herself a chance to swallow her last bite before she spoke. "No, I was busy."

"You said you'd make an effort to get to know people."

"I know. It's just...everyone is so old. Most of the women here are old enough to be my grandmother. They treat me like I'm a child." She sighed and pursed her lips. "That's even what Jeannie May calls me: 'child.' I hate that."

"She calls me that, too. I think she calls anyone under 60 that."

"Yes, but it's the way she says it to me. Like I'm...I don't know. She's so condescending. Just because I've criticized some things about 'her' town."

"'Some things'?"

"Fine, a lot of things. I'm trying, though. Or I'm trying to try." Her voice trailed off.

While she complained a fair bit, he could see that she had made some effort to make this place a home over the last few weeks. The curtains on the windows and cushions on the couch were newly mended. The kitchen was nearly spotless, the floor was swept, and the windows were washed. She had even planted a couple of banana yucca plants in the front yard. What she hadn't made much of an effort to do was being social with people in town.

"It would be easier if there were more people around here our age," she added. "If we weren't so isolated from everything. And if it wasn't so damned dusty all the time."

"What about Manny? He's not old," he offered, but she frowned at his suggestion. "What? What happened? I thought things were better lately." Setting down his fork, he waited for a response.

Still frowning, she took a deep breath and let it out quickly. "We got into an argument yesterday. I didn't tell you because I knew you'd get upset."

He scowled with frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'll talk to him at the shift switch."

Putting her hand up to wave the idea away, she replied, "No, don't do that. You've been in the middle too often. I think that's making it worse. He just sees you taking my side."

"Of course I'm taking your side. You're my wife!"

"I appreciate that, but you confronting him isn't going to convince him that I'm not getting between you and ruining your friendship."

He groaned. "Fine." Finishing up the last bite of his food, he picked up his plate and placed it in the sink. "Thanks for dinner. I better get to my shift. I'll see you in the morning." He leaned over and kissed her tenderly on the lips.

Standing up with her own plate, she put it on top of his. Out of the refrigerator, she pulled out a small canvas bag, his "midnight lunch," and handed it to him. "Have a good shift. Be careful."

"I will." He turned to walk to the door.

"Craig? Forgetting something?" When he turned back to her, he saw his beret twirling on her finger. "Hat."

"Thanks." Taking it, he kissed her again, longer this time. "Love you."

She smiled sweetly at him. "I love you, too."

Zion Valley, Utah
September 14, 2280

Beth cautiously walked into the cave, the young tribal following beside her. Inside was dimly lit by blazing torches and up on a raised rock platform sat a figure behind a desk, checking and repairing a sizable collection of handguns. He wore a black vest over a white cotton shirt, with bandages covering his head, neck, and hands. Piercing blue eyes were all that were visible of the man inside.

Follows-Chalk spoke up, "Joshua, I have an outsider from the civilized lands to the south-ways. Elizabeth. The White-Legs attacked her and the other outsiders." He shook his head sadly.

Joshua glanced up at them, then back down to his task. "We should have given you a better welcome on your first visit to Zion, but apparently the White Legs beat us to it." An edge of fatigue dampened his smooth, deep voice. "White Legs seem to be the only visitors we have these days, and I wouldn't have expected anyone from the Mojave to come looking for us."

"We weren't looking for you," the she corrected. "We were with the Happy Trails Caravan Company on our way to New Canaan. I'm all that's left of the caravan."

"I see. I don't know if you were close to the other members of your group, but you have my sympathy." Removing the magazine from one gun, he cleared the chamber, checked the barrel, then replaced the magazine, and put the weapon down. "I pray for the safety of all good people who come to Zion, even Gentiles."

Pray? She scoffed and commented, "If God were listening to prayers for safety, the world wouldn't have ended 200 years ago."

She saw his shoulders tense and he paused to look at her, clearly not used to being spoken to with such boldness. After studying her for a moment, he replied, "We can't expect God to do all the work. Man must take some responsibility."

He didn't sound like the ruthless and cruel legate she had heard about. The pile of guns, on the other hand, made it seem like he was preparing for war. "Is that what the guns are for?" she asked, staring at him in the eyes. Despite the man's reputation, she wasn't about to show submission. He was armed, but so was she. No matter what the myth said, he was a man of flesh and blood like any other; if it came to it, he would die like any other. The young tribal next to her didn't seem the type to turn a weapon on an innocent woman, regardless of his allegiances, so she didn't count him as a threat.

"Yes. This type of .45 Automatic pistol was designed by one of my tribe almost four hundred years ago. Learning its use is a New Canaanite rite of passage. Or was. New Canaan was destroyed, its citizens scattered. All because of the White Legs. And Caesar, of course." Strangely, he pronounced the name with a soft c, rather than the usual hard k as the Legion did. "The White Legs want to join the Legion. Caesar's rite of passage is the destruction of the New Canaanites, almost assuredly because of me."

This was all too surreal and whatever was going on here, she didn't want to get involved in anything having to do with the Legion. "That's unfortunate, but if that's all, I should be going."

He resumed his work. "Even though you made your way in, there's no easy way back. Without a map, you'll die in the wilderness. Daniel, one of our missionaries, can help you, but you've caught us at an...inconvenient time."

"Listen, I don't need a map. I can find the way back quite well on my own." Her Pip-Boy had recorded the path they had taken into the valley.

"There are only so many ways you could have entered Zion from the south. You descended by routes that you cannot safely ascend to return to the Mojave. I'm not telling you this as a trick. I'm sure Daniel will be willing to assist you, but we have other responsibilities at the moment."

"Oh, here we go," she thought with a sigh. "And I suppose you want my help?" she said, crossing her arms.

"The choice is yours, of course. Whether you want to help us or not, you can't get back without Daniel's assistance. He and I need Pre-War tools to help us navigate beyond Zion. Should we need to evacuate, these instruments will be vital to us. Normally, we would have some of the Dead Horses or Sorrows look for them, but many Pre-War buildings in the valley are 'taboo.' They won't go inside."

She wasn't sure she should be helping him, but he already had a full arsenal of guns. What harm could some navigational equipment do? "Fine. I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you. Follows-Chalk can help you find your way around the valley. He's inexperienced, but he knows enough of our language to ignore his tribe's taboos."

The tribal motioned to her to follow him and she complied with a frustrated sigh.