Fallout: New Order
Same as before: I do not own Fallout 3. It belongs to Bethesda Games Studio.
Chapter 1 is up (as I hope you can tell). Remember the M rating? Here it comes...
Chapter 1: Highway under Construction
Time: 7:48
Huh. I missed something.
The remnants of the escapade of the four former Vault members were all too obvious in the dimly lit room. A man dressed in a black leather jacket and battered army pants was bending over one of the four corpses (or three and what was left of the fourth).
Stripped of all worthy items. Including the armour: someone wanted out of here.
His line of vision drew to the hallway beyond the doorway in front of him. It looked mundane and unappealing for human life:
Just like any vault.
The wanderer walked gingerly into the stomach-splattered hall and sifted through the remains.
Hello...
A small part of a black module, with a flipswitch, laid smoking slightly near the west wall.
A sensor module. Seems they knew what they were doing. To assemble a working bottlecap mine...
Scanning the pool more thoroughly, a few fragments of a lunchbox could be seen. Also noticed was part of the shoulder armour of the obliterated Merc. This also got the wanderer's interest.
Talons Company? What were they doing so far out of D.C? Only a private contract could lure them this distance...
The man walked down the hallway and to the right. A rusty set of stairs led upwards at the end.
Must be a terminal around here... I need answers. It seems changes have come over Vault 124... cap-worthy changes, if the Talons were here...
Time: 7:51
'...Didn't mean to tick you off back there, Chris, I-'
'Shanks, it's Shanks, remember?'
'Yeah, yeah. Sorry, i forgot,' said Delaney, whose eyes drew to the encroaching highway.
'And forget it, okay? I ain't gonna get much better out here.' Shanks gazed past the pillars of the high road: it was beyond what any of them had expected. The lifelessness of the world in front of them was energy draining, with no defining landmark to be seen. The shadow of the remaining structure of the highway had engulfed them, and they moved with caution, following the dim light of their pip-boys: the darkened shapes they had seen earlier turned out to be makeshift shacks constructed out of rusting and rusted sheet metal. Wooden planks had been hurriedly placed on the floor to protect against the rock underfoot. A few tables were up against the inner walls. They were under the remnants of the highway, with the shacks about twenty metres ahead of them, surrounded by clusters of rocks and boulders. From what Browning (at the head of the group) could see, there were no inhabitants.
'You see anything up front, Brownie?'
'Nothing moving,' was the reply. He re-scanned the area along the barrel of his readied rifle.
'Whats with the markings on the walls?'
'Dunno, Chris. Maybe it's a gang symbol or something...'
'Well, there ain't no gang here now,' muttered Delaney, 'Finders-keepers, I say.'
'We don't know that Del.'
'Are you fucking blind?! It's empty! It couldn't get-'
'It could be a set-up,' said Shanks, patience once again running thin.
'What do you mean a set-up? We've only been out here about twe-'
'Get down!' hissed Dunway abruptly 'And you two, shut the hell up!'
The four crouched down, and silence swept over the small clearing. The ochre dirt swept up around them as they waited with tension. As in any moment of silence, noises seemed to spring from the most unlikely of places. Although three of the unit had no idea what was the disturbance.
'Dunway!' snapped Browning, 'What the hell are you getting jumpy for? There's nothing-
'Shut up! Listen!' They waited several seconds more for the noise source. Delaney opened his mouth to object, but he didn't get the chance. Through all the noises in the small opening they were in, a high-pitched howling could be heard. After a couple of seconds, it stopped, and scrabbling footsteps could be made out from the stones. The rifles went up... and pointed at a molerat. Delaney lowered his weapon in disbelief, and hissed:
'That's it? A fucking molerat? Jesus, Dunway, you got us worked up for that?'
'Fuck you. I didn't know what it was, it could have been anything.'
The molerat let out another howl, its beaver-like front teeth agape in a yawn. It hadn't seen them yet.
'Why don't you go and shoot it then Del, if it's 'that's it'.
'I ain't wasting my ammo on a fucking molerat. I'll use a knife, if anything.'
'Well, one of you get rid of it,' snapped Shanks.
'Alright, alright,' muttered Dunway, and he took up rifle and slowly aimed. He let out a whistle: the molerat was alerted to this, and charged at the crouching figure. Dunway steadied himself, and opened fire:
The molerat's brains (what little of them there was) splashed out behind it and its body hit the floor with a thump. The gunshots had pierced the silence like a harpoon through a calm body of water. After a couple of seconds, the four of them breathed out: the burst of violence seemed to relieve them of their tension.
'Well now you three now,' said Dunway smugly, standing up to halt sudden cramping, 'That's how it is do-'
A deep gunshot rang out all of a sudden. Dunway was stopped from making his boast, as the majority of his head came splattering off his body and spread out on the ground behind him. His torso remained upright for about three seconds, before slowly dropping down to the floor.
The remaining three watched this in awe and horror as their friend met a truly unpleasant end. Then Delaney let out an unholy yell of anger, and opened fire at the boulders where the round had come from.
'Del, get down!' called out Browning, running over towards him. However, the sniper gave out his second bullet, catching Browning in the back of his head. It went out through his right eye and thudded into the rock wall beyond him. Browning crashed to the floor, a pool of blood and brain remnants already forming.
'Brown!' cried out Shanks, and leapt out at Delaney, who was emptying his magazine uselessly. Del was thrown to one side, just as a third shot rang out. It caught Shanks in the shoulder, twisting the wastelander's body around and down to the ground. Del, in utter fury, reloaded his rifle, and let off another stream of bullets at the unidentified assailant. A sudden flash of red was seen from the ledge, and Delaney cheered as Shanks looked up, clutching the bleeding shoulder.
'Are you okay?' said James, crouching down to Shanks, who turned over slightly to lean on the unharmed, right shoulder.
'I'm fine,' said Chris, and let out a slight cry of pain,' But what about Bro- LOOK OUT!'
Delaney turned around to see a brown skinned man, in battered – what could be almost called tribal – heavy fabric clothes, with a spiked leather shoulder pad attached with a strap, and a sledgehammer on his bare back. A sawn-off shotgun was pointed towards James. The latter suddenly jumped to his side and aimed his rifle, but the raider was too fast. He let off both barrels – they caught Delaney in the chest.
'No!' said Chris weakly from the ground, 'James!' With desperation, the wounded wanderer crawled toward his now motionless body, but a gun barrel was pressed against the back of the stolen helmet.
'Don't move, you piece of shit,' came a deep rustic voice from above. Shanks stopped moving, and watched as two other men went over to Del's corpse and looted anything of value: the remaining 5.56mm clip, the rifle and a stimpack he'd stolen from the Vault clinic. Turning the other way, Shanks could see the same thing happening to the other two, while a small group of raiders stood at the clearing entrance on lookout. Another push on the head from the barrel was reason enough for Shanks to stop moving and go limp. After a minute, the raiders came together around the wounded Shanks, talking amongst themselves and smirking at their work. One of them, in nearly full metal armour, stepped forward and leaned down to Shanks.
'Not such a bad-ass now, are you? I think we'll add him to our wall...' There was a low muttering of agreement and laughter. With a gesture he said 'Bring him. And take that machine thing off his arm.'
Three of the raiders bent down and vehemently pulled off the pip-boy from Shanks' right arm. The .308 sniper round had go through the bone, and with every movement sent paroxysms of pain through the right arm. Shanks kept letting out pained noises – which was stopped with a quick kick in the ribs. As Chris was dragged away, the three corpses were also removed of their pip-boys. Shanks was floating in and out of consciousness, against the deaths of Browning, Delaney and Dunway and the slow-numbing pain of the bullet wound. The raiders walked past the shacks to an open yard area with several metal girders sticking out of the ground and a couple more attaching two to each other. They flung Shanks against one of these, and began to spread out and around in a semi-circle. With a hand against the wound, Shanks looked around for some form of escape route. Behind the set of girders was a wall made of rusty sheet metal, with darkened shapes attached across it and a doorway cut out at the centre – but the shadow of a raider streaked across the rectangular hole. There was also a makeshift set of stairs to a higher level platform, also made of sheet metal. Another sniper stood watch there. The apparent leader of the group bent down to Shanks' level and growled: 'Your last hour on this fucked-up planet is with us. It ain't your lucky day, asshole...'
Time: 8:00
The grilled door of Vault 124 closed with a dull thud, and the leather clad wanderer stepped out, fiddling with his modified pip-boy 3000, reading and re-reading the information gained from the vault's master terminal. His assumption had been correct: a private contract had been assigned to the Talon Company, although not for a random assassination.
To think that this is what they are doing. Things must be really desperate in D.C if they are resorting to such volatile methods.
He verified the location of the nearest big town: Megaton, northeast, a day's he began to walk toward the highway remnants in his path, a single thought ran through his mind:
People need to know their limitations.
Time: 8:01
The raider leader pushed his head very closely against Shanks' helmeted one. His breath reeked with heavy spirits and raw meat. His dark-tanned skin was encrusted with blisters and sores (as were most of the others). He scratched his chin stubble with a semi-gloved hand. He reached towards Shanks, and brushed the slightly battered armour. 'You think wearing that armour makes you powerful? Well look at you now: you've got nothing on us. You're not a fucking Merc. What the hell are you, to walk into our camp? A dumbass, that's what.' The raiders let out burst of laughter. 'So what were you and those three retards doing here?' Shanks, feeling it was the best thing to do, didn't answer. 'Playing the tough guy... let's see how long it lasts with me. Cos at the end of it all, you're just a brick on my wall.'
With another gesture, he pointed at the metal wall. Shanks looked again – and suddenly saw what the lumps were.
Human corpses. Decapitated, dismembered, torn open, left to slowly rot in the burning sun. Metal bars rammed through them to hold them aloft. Shanks stared with rising terror at the congealed limb holes and blackening skin – and tried to get up and away, but the leading raider stopped that.
'We keep the heads behind there. It'll be good to see another one added to the collection - it's been so long, hasn't it, boys?' There were loud calls of agreement. 'So let's see how ugly this motherfucker is.' With that, he reached down and grabbed the bottom of the visor, and pulled off Shanks' helmet.
As it hit the floor with a dull thud, the raiders stared in surprise for a moment – then smiled maliciously and with perverse reasons. For it turned out that Chris Shanks, was in fact Christine Shanks. Her brown hair unravelled from being inside the helmet, falling to below her shoulder blades. She looked up at the leader, high levels of fear inside her hazel eyes. The metal armoured psycho tilted up her chin and stared directly into her well-defined face.
'Well now. This is a turn-up... and a turn-on as well.' The other raiders laughed again. 'I wonder how good you are... heh.' He stared down at her chest armour. 'That must be awful tight on your titties. How about I relieve them?' Christine backed against the girder fully - and felt the combat knife she'd hidden adroitly behind her back. She watched him reached over and grab the bottom of the armour, and he spoke to his comrades: 'Help me out here.' For this brief moment, he took his eyes off Shanks, which was all she needed. She quickly brought her head forward, and bit down viciously on his upper lip. The blood spurted out as he yelled in pain, and Christine struck out again: she revealed the knife, and drove it into his crotch.
His scrotum split open, and the blade cut into his penis, spewing out blood and a yellowish liquid. The raider screamed as Christine pulled it back out, the edge slicing into his right testis. As he fell to his knees, she stood up and raised the knife above her head. However, before she could drive it into his neck, a raider surged up to her and swung at her with a tire iron. It caught her squarely in the right cheek, sending a spray of red and one of her molars outward. Shanks was thrown off balance, but managed to stay on her feet, and held out the combat knife at arm's length. The raiders slowly circled her, although they kept their distance for the moment, and kept their guns away in case of an accidental quick death. A few helped the leader to his feet: the latter's face was an image of pure contorted rage. A baseball bat-wielding raider lurched toward Shanks, who cut at his arm, leaving a shallow wound. Another threw a spiked-gauntlet punch, but she ducked and backed away.
'Screw this!' said another raider, pulled out a .32 pistol, aimed and fired. The bullet went into her gut, and embedded itself there. Christine doubled up, then dropped to her knees and coughed up blood. The raiders then moved in for the kill. With a hefty swing, another raider swung his sledgehammer into the bottom of her jaw: it cracked as her head lolled backwards. The castrated leader screamed in fury, and pushed aside his followers to get at his prey. Christine had slumped face up onto the ground, and as she tried to get up, the leader punched her squarely in the forehead, sending her crashing backwards. He then knelt down on her stomach, making her cry out in agony, and slid on his brass knuckles. As Christine looked up at him, he crashed his fist into her cheekbone, slamming her head back again. He them did a continuous procedure of punching left-right, left-right, for about a minute. On the final punch, two more teeth found their way out of her swelling mouth. Her face was streaked with blood, and she was barely conscious. He then gestured to his raiders: 'Get this bitch's armour off, we're hooking her up.'
They pulled the chest plate off her with slight difficulty, and then removed the leather padded pants. While this was happening, a separate raider handed two rusty hooks to the leader, who armed himself professionally with them. When she was removed of all protection clothing, he grabbed the front of her under vest, and pulled her back up. Two raiders held her up, each one forcing out one arm. The leader took hold of his hooks, and drove one of them through her right palm. Christine let out a scream despite her mashed face, and again as he did the same with the other. He then tied a rope to one, threw it over one of the horizontal girders, and attached the other end to the other hook. Shanks groaned in agony as the blood streamed down her arms. Her feet brushed against the ground, relieving her hands of a small amount of the pain. Before he stood aside, he reached up, took hold of the front of her under vest and tore it off, and then pulled off her denim shorts. He smiled despite the numbing torture of his disabled testicles, and turned to his raiders.
'Alright, bitches, take it away. Just make sure you don't kill her, all right dumbasses?' Then, he stepped aside.
The next fifteen minutes were the most ghastly, sickening and painful minutes of her life up to that point. Each and every raider (a grand total of fifteen) spent a minute inflicting as much pain on Christine as possible, while keeping her alive and conscious. All swung a melee weapon of some sort at her body, breaking bones and raising bruises and cutting her skin. Many of them also fingered her (as an added bonus). When each of them had their fill, the leader stepped up to her limp, blood strewn, broken body, and took hold of the knife she had carried. With two quick flashes, he made a cut in each of her breasts, to make sure she was awake. He then thrust it into her side, between her two lowest ribs. The blood leaked out, and Christine gasped weakly at the dull jolt in her chest, knowing some organ haad been pierced. He twisted the blade a bit, and then pulled it out, allowing the blood to flow with ease. There was a small pool beneath her motionless feet. He tossed the knife aside, and pulled out his own .32 calibre revolver.
'Well, princess, this is where it ends. But I need to pay you back for what you did to me.' Shanks looked at him through blackened, puffy eyes. 'An eye for an eye.' He suddenly slid the gun barrel into her groin. Christine would've made some noise to indicate pain, but all her energy could only make a wince. Most of her body, particularly her right shoulder and her navel, had gone numb with the pain. Her normally lightly tanned skin had gone pale with blood loss, which was over most of her body. Her consciousness swam and began to fade as the leader spoke again: 'I bet it was as good for you as it was good for us. So, nighty-night, you little bitch.' He cocked his gun, and slowly squeezed the trigger: the very last thing before Christine blacked out, was the single, solitary gunshot.
There you are. A bit of thrill (i hope), violence (i know) and story expansion (I'm dreaming). I hope this is an improvement from the prologue.
Rate and review if you wish. Sorry for those who waited for this chapter to come out (talking to myself here).
Until next chapter, farewell.
