Scarlett staggered forward. She pried back the warm corrugated steel gate at the tunnel's mouth—encouraged by one last exhale from the cracked lips of Vault 101. The vast white beyond was undreamed of. Perhaps the vault itself was just another womb? She was reborn into light, but only for a moment. And just as her baptized eyes grasped fading formations in a waterless squall, her world went black.
She awoke to a merciful sunset as red as her birth name. Scarlett brought herself to her knees, then to her haunches. The sky dove across the uneven silhouettes of a monstrous landscape. So here at last was the final wakening. The legend that for so long encompassed her tiny reality, was now just the cruel exposé of a ravaged planet. Scarlett had heard it all ever since she could utter her first word, "ra-rote," as in the three-foot long radroaches that consistently scuttled through the vault's ventilation—not to mention through Scarlett's nightmares—and that she would later dissect with a few well-placed shots from her high powered BB gun. But the ribald truth had a way of skewering spirit right along with expectation. For it was plain to see that not even the rocks had secrets anymore in this desert. Everything exposed. Everything lost, and yet found again a thousand times over. There would be no more shelter from the beast.
But time enough to study imponderables.
Scarlett slung the small backpack from her wounded right arm. She produced several particulars, placing them neatly in front of her, including her Pip-Boy 3000—purposely removed and switched off during her escape—half a bottle of Rad-X, a serviceable 10mm pistol with full clip, a small sandwich bag of Sugar Bombs cereal, a pair of old tortoiseshell sunglasses, a 12 ounce bottle of purified water, and a stimpak. The latter two items might allow her to see another 24 hours. The rest might help her to see those 24 hours while still standing. In her initial panic, Scarlett had also grabbed her father's antique collectible bobble head from atop his laboratory desk. But she kept the cartoonish, yellow-haired man holding a giant syringe in her backpack; padded by an old knit scarf and some bathroom tissue. All that, and the Vault 101 standard issue periwinkle jumpsuit on her back and steel-toed boots on her feet. It would have to do. At least until she found the supposedly not-too-far-off village of Megaton. It was there Scarlett hoped to pick up her father's trail, provided that trail wasn't preceded by his corpse.
Without hesitation, Scarlett flicked off the needle cap and jammed the stimpak into her right arm just above the elbow. There was a wince, a deep inhale, and then a sigh. She'd be good to go for the next six hours, after which it was up to the determined will of a 20-year-old body. She activated her Pip-Boy wristtop computer. The GPS was a check, with a course set for Megaton based on archaic data provided by her father. The built-in flashlight was also a check, but would soon need a fresh bulb. The radiation monitor… check (and the RADs were just about everywhere).
Something scuttled in the darkness. Then another. Unmistakable sounds, even when transferred from galvanized sheet metal to rock and dirt. No telling how big they'll be out here. Dammit to hell why hadn't she grabbed that old BB gun?
Scarlett Marie McLarey, runaway fugitive and freedman of Capital Wasteland Vault One Zero One, knew then it was going to be a long night.
Jezebelle DeWitt, or Jessie as she was known in tighter circles, clung to the granite outcropping. The rock was crusty and cold here on the shady side of the ridge, and would surely give away her position with each shedding pebble. She had about two inches of foothold for five feet of rock face. But just that thing's reach could probably clear seven feet without effort. Jessie could try to dissuade it with a blast from her sawed-off, provided the little double-barrel wonder's kick didn't send her sprawling to her doom just the same–though that might be a merciful fate compared to the other option.
For a moment she turned and peered out over the eastern D.C. valley swathed in yellow. This mountain was still a mountain 200 years ago, but perhaps below once dwelt a lush forest canopy, grassy drumlins, and a trickling creek dancing to the Potomac? Hard to believe this wasted space was ever any kind of paradise.
And yet legend always had a way of rearing its fantastic face in the damnedest of circumstances, and the legend she was now having to deal with stood twelve feet from toe to snout.
The creature had come upon her entirely undetected. All Jessie could do was stammer back while the unevenness of the grotto's floor beckoned her ass, and the attacker's digits–the length of halberds–whisked inches from her forehead. Four shots had flashed out from Jessie's pistol.
Deathclaws had been mentioned since Jezebelle's first children's story. But Wally the Clawless Deathclaw was a gentle giant, emasculated and misunderstood. By the time this fairytale monster was being taught in high school biology, Jessie still could only picture sweet Wally. Besides, such an animal defied the basic principles of mutation. Deathclaws were just another scare tactic to keep the good people of the poop deck's thoroughly frightened asses on the ship.
So much for healthy skepticism.
The 10mm slugs had done nothing to the beast. What had saved Jessie instead was a little critter that had survived the war without mutation, an armadillo. The Deathclaw appeared to be spooked by it. Jessie scrambled to her feet. The way she had entered the grotto was blocked by the Deathclaw, so she continued up a rock precipice to the open air. After some momentary whimpers, the beast was snarling again. Jessie holstered her pistol and looked to the jagged rock face. She hadn't even thought of her more powerful weapon, hanging from a makeshift holster at her left.
And now here she was dreaming about grassy drumlins.
Jessie leveled the sawed-off. She could hear her stalker, but only by its breathing. Its movement held amazing stealth. On none of her delivery routes had she ever encountered such a beast (and she'd be goddamned if she wouldn't be speaking to Mr. Chalmers upon her return as to why she hadn't been warned of these things beyond high school science propaganda). And if she survived this, she'd also be sure to ask the next talking human being she came across as to how these Deathclaws hadn't taken over everything. She doubted it was because of an overpopulation of armadillos. But then again…
It appeared at the threshold—claws first, then snout.
No more time to wonder.
There was a sharp blast, followed by another. Errant chunks of rock pelted Jessie. The second blast also brought a strange yelp. The Deathclaw took two steps forward and swaggered. Then came a third reddish blast, and part of its dragon-like head exploded. The fiendish mutant toppled over the ledge. Jessie's shotgun had hardly moved an inch, both barrels still loaded and cocked. No, those shots came from below, and from 300 yards at that. She recognized her savior on the third discharge: a laser rifle. Who was behind that rifle was another matter, and what they wanted from Jessie another matter yet.
But with how things had been going since she'd left Rivet City, Jezebelle, for the first time in memory, wasn't exactly eager to learn the answers.
Norma Jean approached the caravan.
Three brahmin, a large covered wagon, a ferret-faced hocker, and two seasoned armed guardsmen comprised the party. The men had spotted her from a quarter mile out, a pink blouse and white shawl fluttering in the midday burn. As she got closer, they paid special attention to her petite yet hourglass figure, cat eye sunglasses and platinum blonde bangs (obviously a whig) peeking from her head wrap. Her mouth, too, was covered by the dirt-stained shawl.
The traveling hocker studied her for a long moment. If he hadn't already known she was a ghoul, he'd probably be taking more than money. She was either crazy or stupid, with the former being more likely.
"Ye got the sharp?"
"Pardon?" Norma Jean had a fairly feminine voice. Unlike most of her ilk, her vocal chords hadn't been deformed along with everything else. Indeed, she even had most of her nose and a decent pair of breasts.
"The sharp. The plugs. Let's see 'em."
"Oh… dear me, yes." With her left hand, Norma Jean cross-reached into her pink purse with the white poke a dots. From the purse she produced a plump leather pouch. She gave it over to the hocker, who in turn simply felt its weight and stole a quick peek inside.
"Don't usually do no business with zombas, stand it? Thissy here's 'bout fiddy caps. Where's the rest?"
"You'll receive the other fifty when I make safe passage to Megaton," replied Norma Jean.
The hocker sneered. He spit a stream of greased cigarette tobacco while glancing back at his entourage. Both of the guardsmen, Bear and Gaston as they were called, seemed quite bored with the exchange.
"That weren't the deal. That goddamned Murphy's got credit with me, but I'm still doin'm favor totin' a zomba on my run. Ye got the rest of the plugs on ye or what?"
"The other half is with a friend in Megaton."
"Ye got a lot of friends, have ye?"
"And I would never make any of them look bad. The method of payment is just an insurance policy. You know a girl can't be too careful these days."
"Ha! Too careful, ye say? Lookin' the way ye do, ever shiteater from here to Big Town'll be wantin' a prod at ye… and askin' whether yer fer sale to boot. Yer price just doubled."
Norma Jean didn't like this, but knew she was in too deep to turn back now. She had made a decision upon leaving the colony that this would be her last good deed–her last adventure as it was–before her mind altered any further. She had lived a long and rewarding life, and it would be high time to finally give something back.
"Fine," she sighed. "I'll arrange for the rest from Glob in Megaton. I shan't be a bit of trouble, sir. The journey is only a day and a half, is that correct?"
The hocker took longer than was comfortable before his next words. "Give 'er taker pendin' on my trades. Name's Dollard. Them two's the muscle. In a fix they can shoot straight… at least with the guns thar shoulderin'."
This pried a grin from Bear. Gaston didn't find the same amusement.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Dollard." Norma Jean extended her hand. "I'm Norma Jean Tuttlemocker."
Dollard looked down at her hand without taking it. "Ye always use that hand? What's in the other?"
It's true during the whole exchange Norma Jean had kept her right hand concealed at her side beneath her purse.
"It's a lame hand… so I don't use it much," she said. "Quite useless not too mention embarrassing."
"That so?" Dollard wasn't convinced.
"Oh… I'm a terrible liar, Mr. Dollard." And she was frighteningly sincere. Norma Jean pulled up the right sleeve of her blouse. Underneath attached to her wrist was an electronic device, similar to a Pip-Boy. However, this device had two curly wires running from it to the inside of her purse.
Gaston was the first to react, and his rifle was leveled faster than Dollard could speak. Luckily for everyone, Gaston wasn't as fast to pull the trigger.
Dollard saw the rifle in his peripheral, "Jesus in a shit storm! Don't shoot!"
Gaston didn't. Bear had clutched his own rifle, but hadn't brought it to aim.
Dollard turned back to Norma Jean, but spoke so the others could hear him. "That there's a pulsometer rigged to a bomb. Ye kill her, ye kill us all."
Gaston kept his bead. "Then I'll shoot her rotting legs off."
"Nah, nah… this lil' sugar's crazy as shit but she ain't a dummy," said Dollard, still watching Norma Jean. "She'd have a manual detonator, stand it?"
Norma Jean had remained calm. And, right as rain, her finger was touching a manual detonator. "This is my other insurance policy, Mr. Dollard."
Dollard spit another stream of syrupy brown, this time directly in front of Norma Jean's red pre-War Clara Vol pumps. "Just so I know ye ain't bluffin', whereby we'd blow yer fuckin' puss-stained head off, show what's in the bag."
With a slight nod, Norma Jean fully unzipped her purse. Her hidden right hand pushed up to half reveal the evidence.
Dollard had to cackle. "Jesus and Atom and all that ever was… ye got ye a nuke. Ready to send ever'thin' around a holy fuckin' mile straight to purgatory."
Norma Jean recovered the mini-nuke and zipped up her purse.
"We'll get ye to Megaton. And once I'm paid, our business is done fer ever more. But so help me Atom the whole shittin' wasteland'll know what ye pulled here. Ye stand it?"
Gaston still hadn't lowered his weapon. This time Dollard turned to him. "Put that fuckin' pecker away! We're had 'til Megaton."
Beneath her shawl, Norma Jean Tuttlemocker was smiling.