Chapter 1: Life in the desert.
All of us have our wars. Some are fought in the flesh. For some, it is a metaphorical war, fought in the mind. Some are personal, between two forces locked in combat. Some, are massive, with hundreds of combatants. But war, battle of all kinds... It leaves wounds, fresh in the body and the mind. You give yourself an excuse; a reason to keep fighting... But after it's over, the war you forced yourself into stays with you the rest of your life... Never relinquishing arms, but pressing onward to smash your adversary's corpse in your mind long after you're out of ammo. It's this battle that consumes soldiers; for once a soldier, forever a soldier. This, is the story of a one such soul...
War started for a man named 'Buddy Hunter', when he was just four years old. It was 2253 in a hot mid-summer on the western edge of the Mojave desert. Buddy was the son of a ex-NCR Ranger who was a proud man, still retaining his strength as the years went on, he stayed with the expanding eastern border of the NCR, not being able to quite keep himself from the hardy life style he used to live and the friends he'd made. He was a quiet man mostly, but a strong figure that Buddy looked up to every day, as his father toiled in their garden to grow hardy crops to feed the family, hunting the local wild life, and keeping his boy, and his wife safe.
He'd built their small home out of scrap wood and metal, down by the highway that lead east, farther into the Mojave, which was a major trading and supply route, allowing them the ability to trade their surplus crops, the hides from the gecko's and other desert critters, to maintain an honest way of life, and to keep Buddy's father's rifle stocked with ammunition. Often times though Buddy, his ma, and pa would sit in the shade of their porch in the summer Mojave heat, enjoying a bit of peace on the NCR frontier.
It was one of these such days, when Buddy lost all he'd ever known.
Buddy was sitting on the edge of the porch, swinging his bare feet back and forth lazily, before yawning. It'd been a long day for the boy. A rad roach had snuck under the porch earlier, and his father let him watch as he lured it out with a bit of meat before stamping it's body with the heel of his boot and killing it. It was enough excitement for the four year old for the day. He didn't see his Pa hunt too much. He imagined it was a lot the same, but couldn't imagine his Pa stepping on a Gecko. His parents sat behind him in old metal patio chairs that they'd made a bit more comfortable with old cushions that his mother made from coyote hide, stuffing it with cotton they'd bought from one of the merchants from the east. His father held his mother's hand, caressing it gently with his callused grip. His rifle, an old trail carbine that he'd had since before Buddy was born, leaned against his right knee, his other hand loosely gripped around the foregrip. Life was like that for the old Ranger. Taking care of your family with one hand, and giving hot death to any that would challenge their happiness.
His wife and son didn't know it, but often times when he'd gone out to "Check if any critters' caught themselves in one of his traps", he'd actually gone east, to push back asshole raider types from the Mojave. They'd been making camps too close for his liking lately; The signs were always clear. Smoke, against the light blue sky from their campfires, their scouts, not hard for the weathered ranger to spot. So the aging man still found it within him to drive them off, killing a few with his rifle, and booby trapping their bodies with a frag, or an IED. It'd kept them away for a few weeks now. He'd killed fifteen so far, by rifle, and then any sorry soul that tried to move the bodies for burial likely didn't live to tell the tale. He didn't want to worry his family; but he himself was worried. They were getting bolder, recently. He'd almost come home with a bullet in him from his last trip into the Mojave; and the raiders certainly didn't have it in their minds to forgive the old man for killing their friends. He'd thought about making the place more defensible, asking for the NCR's assistance to help the old man line his porch with sand bags, barbed wire, and to put in land mines; buried beneath the Mojave dirt...
But he had a four year old son... He didn't want to run the risk of the boy having an accident. So he said nothing, but kept the dusty ham radio he had in the living room, ready to contact the nearest NCR Outpost if the raiders came calling. The old man scanned the horizon with his weary eyes, before spotting a lone figure walking down the road towards the house from the far west. He pulled a pair of old binoculars from around his neck, lifting them to inspect the person.
It was an NCR Trooper. He was around 6'1" ish, wearing the dusty tan fatigues of the NCR, a bandolier of pouches across his chest with a rifle slung over his shoulder. He looked to be a young man, his dark pecan hair covered with one of the 1st Recon berets that were so recognizable, being a deep red, with their golden emblem. The old man smiled wearily - it was one of the friends he'd made at the nearest outpost, and he was carrying with him an old cardboard carton of Nuka Cola - six of them, in the flimsy cardboard case. He'd told the trooper that his son liked Cola, and here he was marching straight up to his house with a case of it. He was a good kid, in his eyes. Just a minute later, and the soldier was walking up from the old highway to the dusty porch with a smile over his young features. Buddy looked up from the ground at the man with curious, and admiring eyes - he loved his Pa's stories from when he was a Ranger.
The soldier nodded with a smile to the old Ranger.
"Hey there, Gunny." He said in a cheerful, deep tone. The old man chuckled slightly, lifting his old hand from the rifle to shake the soldier's hand.
"Afternoon, Corporal." The old sergeant said with a weathered smile as the soldier took his handshake firmly, out of respect for his elder.
"I see you brought cola for my boy?" He asked with a small chuckle, looking down at Buddy, who was, indeed, fixated with the carton of Cola. The soldier looked down with a smile and a soft laugh, pulling a bottle from the carton, setting it down on the railing and pulling his glistening combat knife, using the tip to pop the bottle cap cleanly off, handing it to the boy, who took it in his small hands happily, tilting the glass bottle up to drink down the soda greedily, drawing another laugh from the young soldier. His Pa grabbed the foregrip of the old rifle, his other hand pushed down on the arm rest of his chair, helping him to stand with a grunt. He looked down at his son with a slight, proud grin. "Pick up the cap boy, it's yours! A cap saved is a cap earned." he said with a chuckle, fondly watching his son stoop to pick it up, turning it over in his hand, looking at it with wide eyes, studying it. His Pa turned, pulling their screen door opening and leading the soldier inside. Buddy sat down on the edge of the porch again, setting the bottle of cola in between his legs and further studying the cap, holding it between his small grubby fingers. His mother looked at him proudly as he put the bottle cap in his pocket to save it, before drinking more of the caramel coloured liquid. He could hear his father's low, rumbling voice from inside the house, as well as the soldier conversing, but couldn't quite make out the words. It didn't occur to him at the time, that their conversation was secret, but he didn't care at the moment, largely distracted by the soda. A minute or two later, and the screen door rasped as it was pushed open, the soldier walking out onto the porch, followed by his Pa. Both of them looked rather serious now, striking Buddy's curiousity.
"We'll have our scouts watch the highway a bit closer. We'll radio you if they see any... Activity... But if by chance something gets past them... Call us and we'll send the Cav your way." The soldier said with a serious nod. The old man wringed his hands slightly, nodding gratefully.
"I'd appreciate it. Thanks for stopping by." He said, tipping his hat to the young man, recieving a slight smile.
"Of course, Gunny. Oorah!" He said with confidence, starting back down the road whence he came, his dark boots kicking up a bit of dust as he left the family. Buddy's mother looked up to her wife with a worried look. "Jerry, what was that all about?" She asked fretfully, only recieving a compassionate look from her husband.
"Nothing to worry about honey. Everything's fine." He said reassuringly, before looking at his boy, who was still watching the soldier leave, captivated by his confident demeanor...
As the Mojave sun fell slowly towards the western horizon, dusk coming, the family gathered around the dinner table, Buddy's Ma bringing with her a few large plates of food, putting them in the middle of the table. It appeared today they were having wild Big horner shoulder, potatoes from the garden, and Banana Yucca, the elongated sweet fruit being Buddy's favorite, so his Pa always tried to bring some back whenever he was checking the traps for game.
Buddy and his Pa waited patiently for his mother to make her plate; Buddy was always taught it was polite to wait until every one has food before eating yourself. Once she was seated, Buddy picked up a Yucca fruit right off, biting into the soft, sweet fruit happily, evoking a smile from his Pa, and a thin frown from his mother.
"Use your fork, Bud" She said quietly as she cut a thin portion from the Big horner.
"Awwh, let the boy eat, he's fine." His Pa said chuckling, looking at his wife with a smile, earning himself a glare for undermining her as she quietly ate. Buddy didn't seem to notice though, happily munching away on the fruit.
"So Pa..." He said between bites. "Who was the soldier?" He asked, looking at his father curiously, who smiled as he washed a bite down with a drink of water.
"That was Corporal McKinnley, from the outpost down the highway." He said, wiping his mouth with the cloth beside his plate. "It was nice of him to drop off that cola, wasn't it?" He asked, getting a nod from his son. "Will he come back soon?" He asked hopefully, wanting to see the soldier again. His Pa chuckled, amused. "Maybe Bud. Maybe."
Suddenly, in the other room the old radio buzzed and crackled, a faint voice coming over it. Buddy's parents exchanged a worried glance, and his father set his fork down and headed in the other room silently, Buddy stared curiously at him, before pushing his chair back and standing at the edge of the doorway, watching him. His father turned a dial on the radio slowly, the voice coming into focus...
"... Sergeant Hunters, do you copy? Respond!" A man's voice came over the radio. The aging man pulled the microphone closer to the edge of the desk, leaning towards it and wetting his lips slightly, nervous. "Yes, yes, this is Hunters, who is this?" He said in a worried tone. Only static came over the radio for a few moments, before the voice on the other end spoke again.
"Sir, this is Lance Corporeal Harlond, 1st Recon Battalion, Second Company - You've got bogey's in your AO, looks like raider types from the desert, they're closing in pretty fast, I'd suggest you get dug in right quick, over"
...
Buddy's Pa was silent for a good few moments, looking, seemingly at nothing as he was lost in thought.
"Sergeant Hunters, are you there?" The voice said again, and his father's brow furrowed, before he pressed the transmittion key again.
"This is Hunters... How many of them are there?" He asked quietly.
"Can't quiet tell in this light... But I would say twelve or so, and they don't look like they're coming for a cup of tea. Hang in there pal, I've already called the outpost and their sending a full platoon your way." The voice said quietly. Buddy's father stood, walking over to the shelf and pulling down a small cardboard box, full of shells for the old rifle, setting it on the table next to the radio, sitting down with a quiet groan, pulling his rifle over and working the lever action forwards, putting a shell from the magazine tube into the chamber. He opened the box of shells carefully, sliding one into the tube to replace the one he'd put in the chamber, before arranging a line of several more of the brass cartridges on the edge of the desk. He looked towards his wife, who stood behind her son with her hands on his shoulders, looking at him with a worried expression. "Jerry... What's going on?" She asked fearfully, in a quiet voice. The old man sighed for a moment, a vacant expression hiding his feelings. "Take Buddy upstairs, in our room, and don't come out until I come up there..." He said quietly. His wife faltered for a moment. "But... Jerry..." She began, but he cut her off quietly. "Upstairs..." He said, standing with his rifle in his hands. She obeyed, ushering the young boy up the stairs and into their bedroom, locking the door and sitting on the edge of the bed on his mother's lap.
Gerald sighed wearily, his rifle in hand as he slowly turned off all the lights in the house - It was still light outside, but the shade from the porch would make seeing inside against the dark backdrop very hard to make him out, so while firing outside he was well concealed, other than the muzzle flash from his rifle. He opened the hall closet built under the stairs, pulling a small wooden crate out from under a tarp, pushing back the lid and pulling a small box with three or four old fragmentation grenades out, as well a small IED with a button-switch. He quickly pushed the screen door open, knowing that the raiders were liable to come down the road any moment. He slide the IED into the shadows beneath the old wooden stairs, and partially buried the button switch a few feet in front of them, along with the cord. The switch would, once stepped on trigger an electrical current to a small starter explosive, which would trigger the larger explosion from the half-stick of TNT inside the lunch box. All in all, it'd create a nice bit of shrapnel, and a bad day for the bastard who tripped it. Gerald threw a glance up the road, before rushing back inside, pushing the couch in front of the door as a make shift barricade. He kneeled behind the front window, just in time as he began to hear clumsy footsteps outside - boots crunching gravel and dirt under foot. He pressed the transmittal key again, whispering to it. "Harlond, you read?"
A reply came a second later. "Yeah, I hear you." Gerald paused for a moment, listening to the men outside. "If I go down... You get these bastards. All of them." He said quietly, trembling with rage.
Only silence, came from the other end for a few seconds, before Harlond said "I'll make sure of it. I promise. But that ain't gonna happen, because you're gonna live through this. You're a Ranger, remember? So show these assholes what a Ranger is made of."
Gerald smiled silently, as he heard the quiet metallic click of the button switch.
A moment later, the house shook slightly from the force of the IED's explosion, the stairs exploding outwards, up into the air. The raiders opened fire on the house, sub machine guns and pistols ripping through the wood, splintering it as the small caliber bullets punched through the walls. One of the raiders, a young man in his mid twenties with rough, dirty, but handsome features lay on the ground, thrown back from the explosion with a large, sharp piece of wood through his chest. He sputtered quietly, spitting up blood on the dusty Mojave dirt. One of his friends ran over with a cry of sorrow.
"Johnny, NOO!" He yelled, sliding to his knees beside his friend, who looked down at the shaft of wood in his chest. He tried to laugh for a moment, spitting up blood. "Fuck... Didn't think I'd go this way..." He said quietly. His friend shook his head "No dude, you're fine, just hang in there... Just don't die on me..." He said with a look of agony as his friend looked up at him with a smile. "Stop... Being a pussy and kill that bastard for me." He said quietly, between coughs, as his eyes began to glaze with death. His friend, keeled over his body, sobbing softly in the quiet loll as the gunsmoke rolled, the raiders ceasing fire momentarily. He looked over by his friends feet, at the AK47 on the ground he'd dropped when the IED went off. He yelled with a fit of rage, picking up the assault rifle and beginning to spray into the house. He saw a shadow, shift slightly in one of the windows, and swung the rifle to fire on it, but it was too late, as a rifle barked from inside the house, fire spitting from the window as a thick .44 punched a new home in the raider's skull dropping him dead. The raiders began to fire again as they scattered for cover, behind rocks, destroyed cars, anthing they could find, refocused on the window and the area around it. Gerald crawled across the wooden floor with a soft groan, his rifle cradled in the crooks of his elbows as he carefully stood up in the dining room window, taking aim at one of the raiders behind their cover and sending another round through them, before cycling the action again and hastily making his way upstairs, relocating his position again to keep them guessing. He peeked out of the second story window in the stairwell carefully as the rattle of small arms fire increased in sparsity. A raider ran from behind a rock formation towards the porch, intent on getting in. Gerald dropped him with a single shell through the chest, and refocused on another who was behind cover, waiting for him to peek his head out, and then tagging it with a round, killing him instantly as the bullet smashed through the front of his skull, and blew out the back of his head, cranial matter staining the Mojave dust red with his blood. Through the gunfire, Buddy sat in his mother's arms cowering at his first taste of what his life would be littered with.
Gerald took a deep breath, pressing his back against the wall, looking down at his shaky hands with a smile. He was getting old. He'd gotten too comfortable though, as he heard someone struggling downstairs with the door, bashing their shoulder against it to shift the couch out of the way. He cursed under his breath, creeping down the stairs in the dark with a curse, his rifle raised even though he couldn't see the sights in the poor lighting. He looked at the Fragmentation grenades, regretful that he didn't use them when he had the chance; it'd be too risky to use them inside or on the porch, shrapnel might hurt his family. He waited for a moment, before firing two rounds quickly through the door. He heard someone fall down on the other side, and assumed he'd killed them. He stood there for a moment, before pushing the action forward, the brass bouncing across the wooden floor, before rolling. It was silent for a moment, before a raider kicked the door, the couch sliding a bit further away.*
Damn these fucks are determined. Gerald though, raising his rifle, and pulling the trigger. The firearm emitted a clicking noise, but no shot, evoking a curse from the old man as he looked up, the remaining raiders pushing their way into the house. He climbed up the stairs slowly, into the bedroom with his wife and child. She started to speak for a moment, but Gerald closed the door slowly, a finger in front of his mouth as he leaned the rifle in the corner of the room, pulling a long bowie knife from the sheath on his hip. He pressed his ear to the wall, hearing footsteps come up the creaky stairs. Buddy began to whimper slightly, clinging to his mother. Gerald slid a bit further away from the doorway, his back pressed to the wall. The door slowly creaked open a tad, as a scruffy looking man looked inside, and smiled widely as he spotted the old woman and her son, only managing a step forwards into the room before his father lunged forward with strength and energy uncommon in men his age, slamming his head against the wall and jamming the knife up through the bottom of his jaw, the thick knife crushing it's way through the roof of his mouth easily and piercing his brain. Jerry struggled with him for a moment, twisting the knife as his son watched, terrified.
His father threw the raider down onto the ground outside the room. The other raiders heard the noise, looking up towards the cieling.
Five. Jerry thought. Five left.
He leaned down to pick up his freshly killed victim's SMG, but a round tore through his side, fired from the stairwell. He sputtered for a moment, before his knees gave way.
"Paa!" Buddy yelled fearfully, escaping his mother's arms to kneel beside his father's body. A shout of disgust was heard from the stairwell, by a middle aged man, with a disgusted look on his face. He stomped into the room, before shooting Gerald in the back of the head with his pistol. "So, this is the bastard who's killed half my men huh? A fucking old man..." He said angrily, kicking Buddy in the face with his boot, opening up a cut on the outside of his right eye, making the boy cry. He raised his handgun as Buddy watched, shooting his mother twice through the chest as she stood, making her fall back down with a silent gasp of pain. Buddy sobbed, rolling on the ground as the man kicked him again, angrily.
"Welcome to life, shithead." The raider spat, leveling his pistol down at Buddy. "Now, goodbye." Buddy looked between his legs, down at the hallway, seeing Corporeal McKinnley leaning around the corner, a rifle in his hands as he fired four rounds straight through the raider, who fell with a gasp, on top of Buddy.
Buddy was, saved, from being killed that day, but his life ended with it. Instead, a soldier was born. He was tooken into the custody of the NCR, and whisked far away from the frontlines, into a peaceful family of share croppers, in California, where the boy grew up. He was quiet, and estranged from other youths his age growing up, preferring his own company to anyone else's. His foster parents were loving and nurturing, but it did nothing to ease the scars caused by his parents murder, but Buddy hid it well. No one really knew the festering depression of the boy, or the feelings of rage - hurt. They wrote him off as just being a solitary soul, and went back to their day. It was to everyone's surprise, when Buddy enlisted with the NCR on his 17th birthday, leaving his foster home with a small goodbye. He shed no tears...