**Disclaimer: I do not own Fallout 3 or anything Fallout-related. If I did, I would be too busy basking in glory and fame to write fanfic ;)**
Adam Zimmer did not consider himself a cowardly man, but as he faced the huge, axe-wielding mutant bearing down on him, he had to admit that he was terrified. Mutated creatures he could deal with easily—he'd killed deathclaws, for Christ's sake—but these were something else. Worse. He'd encountered smaller ones before this mean bastard, and had been surprised by the endurance a bunch of deformed swamp hicks with primitive weapons had shown; hell, they could take more shots than the average super-mutant. Managed to get him good a few times as well. This one, though... this one—huge, bloated, covered in tumors, and dressed in ill-fitting rags, seemed more akin to a fucking behemoth than anything else.
The man—mutant—thing—lunged at him with its axe, cackling maniacally, and Adam narrowly dodged the blow, rolled to the side and drew his lever-action rifle as it turned and prepared for another attack.
The mutant, comprehending what had happened, raised its weapon and charged at Adam whilst roaring something that might have been English. Or just Angrish; Adam couldn't really tell. Whatever it was, the guy was pissed. Adam raised his rifle, aimed as steadily as he could at the enraged man-beast, and fired.
Click.
Empty.
It took a few seconds before realization, in the form of being hurled bodily backwards by a berserker mutant, set in. Adam heard a sickening crack—several sickening cracks as he hit the ground, and hoped fervently that they hadn't been made by his spine. Hopefully just something minor like, oh, his ribs maybe. His vision blurred, his body ached, his rifle was lying in the muck some feet away from him and, because the universe hated him apparently, Adam Zimmer's sunglasses were broken. And then he was hit with an axe. He was having a bad day.
The axe cut into his shoulder blade, the dull metal lodging itself firmly in his flesh through sheer blunt force. Adam cried out as the mutant laughed, attempted to sit up as the thing advanced upon him, warped face further twisted by a sadistic grin, evidently planning a beat-down of the fatal variety. Adam tried to open his backpack, tried to force his trembling hands into co-operation, tried to ignore the pain in his shoulder, unwilling to believe that these were his last moments.
He was going to die.
Adam supposed this shouldn't have surprised him. He'd beaten the forces of the Enclave, blown up an air base, and pretty much saved the goddamned Capital Wastes, so why shouldn't he be chopped into little pieces by a crazed, axe-wielding mutie motherfucker? And all because he'd been stupid enough to leave the pier armed only with a rifle and a knife; what kind of dumb asshole explored unknown territory with weapons like that? Adam shifted, trying to maintain focus through the blood loss, but it was no use; he was losing consciousness fast. He clutched his shoulder and raised his eyes at the blurry mutant in front of him, its axe raised to deal the fatal blow—
And in that instant, Adam Zimmer decided that, if he was going to die in some godforsaken swamp, he might as well go down fighting.
The axe swung downwards and hit the spot where Adam's head had been not a second ago, but the Lone Wanderer had already rolled to the side and kicked viciously at his assailant's knee. Adam felt his booted foot hit its target, and heard the nauseating crunch of breaking bone as the mutant roared in anguish. Seizing his momentary chance, Adam took out his knife, hauled himself to his feet, and punched that mother in the face. The mutant bellowed again as blood spurted from its broken nose, and Adam took the opportunity to stab the fucker in the stomach. Repeatedly. The swamp-man keeled over as Adam stabbed relentlessly at its gut, eyes wild and screaming like a madman, hands becoming covered in gore. After several minutes of this it lay quivering upon the ground, a pitiful heap that Adam could barely believe had seemed so threatening just minutes previously; in fact, he almost felt bad for it. Poor dumb bastard was probably protecting its territory the only way it knew how. Adam knelt down by the dying creature and raised his knife (with some difficulty because of his shaking arm) in preparation for the final blow. The thing opened its eyes one last time as the knife plunged into its neck, its last breath a pathetic gargle as hot blood welled up and spilled out of the gaping hole in its throat.
Adam Zimmer's breath came in ragged gasps as he sank to the ground, clutching at his bleeding shoulder and trying to suppress the shivers that racked his entire body as the world blurred around him. He slumped forward, left arm elbow deep in swamp water to keep himself from falling and drowning in it.
Shit. He had to get to his bag, had to find it and get some Stimpaks out. Med-x too. He needed a fix, needed something to keep himself from fainting until—Adam's vision blurred again, more severely this time. He vomited, blood and bile spewing from his mouth as his consciousness faded.
No. No, he couldn't die. Goddamn it, not after all this.Not when he was so close, not now, not—
Adam fell forward, quaking nearly as badly as the mutant he had just slain. He tried vainly to crawl, arms outstretched; searching blindly for something, anything that could save him. It was so hard to breathe, so hard to stay awake, so hard to—focus, Adam, focus! His arm brushed against something; something made of a coarse material—canvas? His bag! He redoubled his efforts, closed his shaking hand around the bag and dragged it feebly towards him. He tried to sit upright, ignored the agony of, well, every fucking part of him, ignored the bloody vomit that had again begun to leak from his mouth. He couldn't die. He wouldn't. With great effort, Adam managed to open the clasp on his backpack (no mean feat, considering how shaky his hands were) and was now fumbling around inside, desperately searching for his Stimpaks.
Please.
His fingers closed around something metallic and cylindrical. He drew it from the bag, almost dropping it several times due to the unsteadiness of his hands, unable to focus clearly on what he dearly hoped was a Stimpak; if it wasn't, well… he was fucking dead.
And, to the Lone Wanderer's joy, it was indeed a Stimpak. He quickly brought it to his shoulder and plunged it into the wound.
The relief was almost immediate. The pain in his shoulder lessened, leaving the area feeling numb and deadened, the blood slowly clotting and forming a brown crust. His vision began to clear up and his thoughts became less scattered; seemed he wasn't gonna die after all. He retrieved the remaining three Stimpaks from his bag, stabbing them into his abdomen, feeling the salve begin to heal his smashed ribs, feeling the pain in his body gradually fade to a dull ache.
He was alive.
He could hardly believe it.
Almost half an hour had passed before Adam felt well enough to move. He dragged himself to his feet slowly, painfully, each movement as deliberate and careful as that of a man four times his age. He wondered if ghouls felt like this whenever they moved; if they did, he was going to have to apologize for all those times he'd told Charon to "get his dead ass moving" during their treks across the Capital Wastes. As it was, every part of Adam ached so badly that he felt as if he would collapse at the slightest touch. He took a step, only to grimace at the sudden pain; there was probably a fracture in his leg. Great; why hadn't he checked that out before he'd used all of his Stimpaks? Stuck in a swamp with no stores in sight and no docs to patch him up, and of course the first thing he did was get his ass handed to him. He was out of ammo, as well; he hoped that broad down at the pier was selling some. He hoped she had some booze, too; he could use a drink. Or five.
Well, sitting in a marsh and moaning was probably not a good way to accomplish that particular goal. And it wasn't exactly likely that someone was going to swing by and carry him back to the pier. There was no helping it; he had to get up. For the second time in the last several minutes, Adam Zimmer made a determined effort to stand. He stood just as slowly as before, this time keeping pressure off of his right leg and leaning on his rifle for support like some sort of hillbilly wizard. He then began to hobble back towards the broken-down buildings at the pier, the abandoned Ferris wheel silhouetted eerily against the setting sun.
The Lone Wanderer rose with the sun, still aching from the previous day's little "adventure". The aforementioned sun was streaming in through the window, the curtains of which having long since deteriorated too badly to provide any cover. He got out of bed promptly, blearily completing his morning rituals before strapping on his green combat armor (painted with a four-leaf clover, for all the luck that had given him) and loading both his rifle and pistol; he'd stocked up on ammunition the night before, as soon as he'd arrived at the pier. He'd also bought an axe; should any mutie motherfucker decide to attack him again, he'd give them a taste of their own medicine. As soon as he had assured himself that everything was in order, Adam Zimmer opened the motel door and stepped outside into the blinding sunlight. Damn that ugly fuck for breaking his shades.
Adam surveyed the foggy marsh that stretched out beyond the fairgrounds, the mansion that was his next destination barely visible in the distance as he set off into the marsh. The Calvert Mansion, it was called. He hoped that he wouldn't encounter any more mutants in the swamp, but, knowing his luck, there'd probably be at least twenty. Probably also some sort of horribly mutated swamp-deathclaw.
He sighed. This was turning out to be one hell of a vacation.