I don't own Fallout 1-3 or New Vegas, or anythign else which people might possibly think I own after reading this.
By the time the slavers had finished gutting Ridgefield the sun had already rose over the wastes, it's light adding to the bonfires constructed outside the run of rubble and remarkably intact pre-war buildings. Ridgefield had always been lucky in that regard: far enough from D.C. to not get flattened, yet close enough to a power station to be worthwhile colonising. It had certainly been attractive enough for Ridgefield's current, now enslaved, populace: a collection of families descended from the pre-war army, which meant they'd had lots of weaponry and enough to training to know how to use them. And yet, for all the benefits it offered, Ridgefield was painfully noticeable from miles away in the south and south-east: to settlers and slavers alike.
The siege had started quickly and, for the most part, cleanly. The settlers didn't know they were being hit until they were cut off from each other, each family holed up in it's own house, and by then it was too late: superior weaponry was one thing, but it was useless against an enemy who had already divided your forces and was more than willing to take however many loses you could inflict. Most of them gave up after the slavers massacred the first family that refused to surrender. Those that still persisted were added to the bonfire, which steadily grew in size as the night dragged out, spawning offspring that burned as many dead slavers as it did settlers.
All in all the slavers had captured around nineteen souls, far less than the amount they'd lost in gaining them: a pyrrhic victory that was severely pissing off some of the younger slavers. One, either drunk on vodka or high on jet, pulled a chunk off the bonfire and made as if to throw it into the houses before he was shot in the leg. The man who'd taken the shot stood up from beside one of the other bonfires, and, calmly brushing the dirt off his leather duster, began to amble towards the screaming slaver.
"What you think you're doin?'" whispered Isaiah Red, his light brown hair blowing in the breeze as he stepped forwards, eyes concentrating on reloading his magnum. Some of the younger slavers made as if to move before the older ones pulled them back.
"I said what the fuck you think you doin'?" Isaiah called out again, shooting the already whimpering slaver in the other leg. "You thinking of trying to burn down them buildings?" he pointed them out in case the offending slaver might have forgotten before stamping on the wounded leg. Slave and slaver alike winced at the screams.
Isaiah Red wasn't a man who really stood out much from first perspective: not that tall, though he often seemed taller, and with a plain if somewhat pleasant face. All of this hid the fact that he was one of the most sadistic bastards left in the wastes, which had caused him to rise quickly and bloodily through the slaver ranks, often taking care to piss on the shoes he was about to leave. Ridgefield was his first assignment in command, and he'd been talking about it with malicious glee in his eyes for weeks, unnerving everyone who'd been forcibly conscripted into going with him.
"You know why we came here in the first place? You know why we took this place, even though we knew it was gonna hit us hard?" Isaiah spat, pulling the slaver up onto his knees and glaring into his face.
"Look at them buildings." he continued, grabbing the slaver's face by his hands and twisted it towards the settlement. "Those some damn beautiful buildings. People see those buildings from miles around and they start thinkin' 'bout home, safety and other kindsa bullshit." Isaiah turned the slaver's face back around, taking care to dig his finger in.
"What they don't think is that slavers know 'bout them buildings: that we've got those buildings mapped out and marked. They don't think they're goin' into the biggest fucking trap of their entire life. You burn my buildings, they gonna think that. They gonna know somethin's up, cos ain't none of them as stupid as you."
Gus stepped out of one of those buildings, the cigarette in his right hand sprinkling ash onto the floor as Isaiah fired the final shot into the slaver's head. Left hand rubbing over his balding head in an attempt to relieve the headache that was ripping through it, Gus absent-mindedly adjusted his leather armour before a burst of movement behind one of the cars drew his attention. Keeping his head still, Gus watched with his eyes as two boys, one about fourteen and the other nearer seven, ducked their heads back down. 'Shit' Gus thought to himself. 'Why the fuck are they still here.'
He'd worked out they're were a few more missing before, of course: it didn't exactly take mentats to figure out that families with kids rooms and no kids were missing someone. Yet Gus had kept his mouth sealed and had been surprised when no-one else had noticed. It wasn't that he was opposed to slavery (how could he be, he was a slaver), yet there was something entirely different about enslaving children. Maybe it was because Gus still saw slavery as being the same as shooting someone, only you kept their body around to do things for you and he wasn't sick enough to think it was okay to shoot a child. Or maybe it was that even the most hardened slaver would think twice before handing children over to an asshole like Isaiah Red. Reasons aside, he'd left them be, and now he'd come out to find the silly gits were not only still in Ridgefield but were close enough to the slaver's bonfires to be spotted. And, Gus realised with mounting dread, he'd be the one who'd end up waist deep in shit for this: as second in command he was meant to know how many people they should have captured, and he'd already told Isaiah that they had all there were.
Walking over towards Isaiah and the dead slaver, and trying not to throw up as Issiah brushed brains and bits of bloody skull off himself, Gus chucked his cigarette into the fire before pulling out another one.
"What did he do?" Gus asked, gesturing at the corpse.
"Fucked around with my bad mood." Isaiah replied, not looking up from wiping himself clean as if in a frenzy, which he was as far as Gus could see.
"Messed up my suit, look." he continued, showing a bloodstained patch with great anguish. "Fuck knew I liked bein' clean, and bled out all over me."
"We'd best move out, then." Gus said, looking round and ignoring one of the many manifestations of Isaiah's madness. "Before someone else does something you don't like."
Isaiah stopped cleaning and looked up at Gus, grinning boldly from ear to ear.
"Now there's some wise words, Gus. Should of thought of that myself, shouldn't I? Damn: I wish I had your smarts." before he turned off and walked back towards the slaves, kicking up men into standing positions as he went.
'Don't be too intelligent.' Gus warned himself, cautiously following. 'He sees intelligence as a threat, remember that. Don't give him any reason to think you're worth his attention.'
By the time the slavers and slaves had moved out, Gus had long forgotten about the two boys they'd left behind in Ridgefield, his mind bent entirely on ways to avoid his superior like he was a mirelurk plague.
It was three hours after the slavers had gone that the larger boy, Billy Gibson, finally let the smaller one off the ground. Jumping to his feet, and accidentally ramming the older boy in the stomach as he did so, the kid ran out from behind the rusting car and stood there, breathing heavily and trying to peer through the smoke thrown up by the dying bonfires. Billy shrugged his tattered denim jacket back in to place as he watched the younger kid, suppressing the urge to either hit him or follow him out there. 'I don't know what to do' he realised, with a jolt of surprise. 'I have no idea what I'm meant to do.'
Up until that morning he'd known what he was supposed to do: get up, clean his gun and help his Pa hunt. Except his Pa was gone: they were all gone, everyone except for him and Manson's stupid kid Arkansas, and he'd be no use at all. The idiot had even tried to call out when the slavers were taking everyone away: he'd had to wrestle him to the ground in order to stop him, and even then he'd fought against it. It dawned on him that he'd probably have to look after Arkansas as well as himself. Two mouths to feed and keep alive: as if having to look after himself wasn't bad enough.
Unbidden, an old memory returned: Pa, speaking to him from next to the kitchen table, his Ma preparing squirrel stew on the stove.
"Robert Heart (the settlement's Doctor) was lucky, Billy; most people wouldn't be able to make it back here on foot, even if they'd been rescued. Remember: if you're caught and manage to escape, head for Megaton or Rivet city and put word out on the caravans. We'll come get you, you hear?"
The last part was useless: Billy knew they'd never come get him, but they were right, in a way: head to Rivet City or Megaton, whichever was nearer.
"Arkansas!" He called out to the other boy, whose back was still defiantly turned away from him. "Hey, Arkansas, you dumb idiot, we need to get moving. It ain't safe here any more."
Arkansas said nothing, and continued to stare out over the wastes, the blood red of the setting sun contrasting against the smoke still coming from the bonfires to make him look like he was standing in hell. Looking around, Billy felt as if that 'like' was misplaced.
"We need to get to either Rivet city or Megaton: somewhere where we'll be okay. I'm gonna go see if there's any supplies left over, or any weapons we can take with us."
"We need to go after them." Arkansas said, and Billy paused mid turn, his foot hanging in the air. He lowered it, and turned back to face him again.
"We can't: they're too powerful. We'll be killed."
"Then we'll die with honour!" Arkansas shouted turning round to face him, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Billy knew what was going through his mind at the moment: Arkansas wanted blood, fire and ruin to satisfy his drive for vengeance, and two years ago he'd have been right there with him. But two years ago his Dad had taken him out to see a an abandoned raiders outpost, and Billy had never thrown up as much as he had that day. And whilst his Dad was nursing him, having carried him away from the rotting mutilated bodies that were hung everywhere, he'd taught him the single lesson you needed to survive. Don't fuck with the wastes: just keep you head down and don't let trouble see you. Honour had no place in a world where people could do things like that.
"I don't wanta die at all." Billy said, calmly, turning his back and walking away.
As he'd packed up to leave, Arkansas had just remained standing there, sullenly looking out into the wasteland as if daring it to notice him. He was kinda stupid for an eight-year old, Billy thought to himself, as the sun set completely and night flooded over the ground. Swinging his bag onto his shoulder, Billy raised his head to the sky, eyes shinning from the stars above, and then back down at the only home he'd ever known. And then, picking up the other bag, he walked over to Arkansas, listing slightly to one side from the weight.
"Hey. I'm leaving, now. You coming or what?" he called out to the shadow facing away from him, it's outline hidden even from the last lights coming off the bonfires.
"I'm not going. I'm gonna get them all back." he replied, and for the first time Billy realised how young he sounded. Pity stayed him from walking off and leaving him there, to be eaten by whatever found him first.
"Well, I've got all the guns and food on me. Your not going to get very far." Arkansas shuffled his feet slightly, but didn't say anything. Billy decided to try another tactic. "Here." he called out, throwing the bag.
Without turning round, Arkansas caught it perfectly with his left hand before staggering slightly under the weight. Leaving him there, Billy trudged off into the night. After a few moments, the sound of Arkansas's footsteps followed him.
Author's notes
Thanks for reading: I should have the second part up shortly if you're interested. If your lucky/unlucky, it may even extend to three parts. Reviews always welcome.