Bound In Blood
Part One: Limited Time Offer
Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with Fallout 3 or anything in the Fallout series. All credit for this story goes to the wonderful minds at Bethesda.
Song Credit: The majority of this chapter was written while listening to the song Vision One by Röyksopp. God Bless Röyksopp.
"And the game begins."
He reaches into the pockets of his coat and pulls out a single, flawless cigarette. It lights itself as he brings it to his face. Embers glow, reflected in dark glasses.
The sun is setting once more. He could stare into it forever. It burns brightly, even as it dies beneath the horizon. It is breathtaking.
"The players are on the board. Knight and Bishop. Rook and Queen." A fierce, canine smile splits his face. "And all the little pawns, ready to be used and abused." He takes a seat on a lone rock and watches the sun. There's a gap in the surrounding cliffs that lets the light in. The effect casts shadows over everything. It suits him.
The sun. It almost feels like the glowing orb is calling out to him. There is something in it. It reminds him of a time long past.
"Enough." The memories fade and he closes his eyes. "Now then," he breathes, the wicked grin splitting his face once more. "Let us see how this turns out."
He sits. He waits. There's time enough for that.
All the time in the world.
Ian West wants to scream, but he can't.
"Honey, it's dinnertime!"
Ian keeps silent. At least, his mouth does. His mind on the other hand...
"Ian!" his mom shouts," Ian, you get off the room and come down and eat this instant!"
Ian doesn't budge. It's there. It's inside him. He has no idea where it's coming from, but that doesn't change the situation in the slightest. He's hungry.
Oh god, he's hungry.
He closes his eyes and takes shallow, strained breaths. The sun beats down on his face like it's taunting him. Ian desperately tries to keep his thoughts away. His fingers clench and unclench. He's suddenly very aware of how high up his house is. Living on an old highway overpass doesn't do much to help his fear of heights.
"Ian West, you come down and get your dinner right now!"
Dinner.
Oh yes, the Voice screams at him from somewhere beyond Hunger, It's dinnertime, Ian. You gotta eat, right? You gotta eat so you can get big and strong. Do as momma says, Ian. Do as momma says. Go on down and get your fill. Just head on down and eat and eat and rip and tear and CONSUME-
"No!" Ian's voice is strained. He bites his lip, hard. Blood trickles down the side of his jaw. It's coppery. He can feel the cut flesh between his teeth.
"Don't you tell me no, young man!" his mother shrills at him. "You're lucky I don't toss you out on your ass for that! You're so ungrateful, and your sister never gave us this much trouble!"
Lucy. Why did she leave? Ian wonders as he struggles against the Hunger. Lucy knew, she knew I was like this and she still left. She left me all alone. Nobody else knows. Nobody else understands.
Even in his wretched state, Ian West knows that he's lying to himself. There is someone else. The man in the long coat, Vance. Ian had been tending the brahmin a few days back and Vance had just appeared, as if from nowhere. Vance, a lanky man with dirty red hair and intelligent silver eyes, had somehow known exactly what Ian had managed to keep a secret from everyone. Well, everyone except Lucy.
The visit was nothing short of disturbing. Vance had thoroughly scared the living hell out of Ian, who promptly ran back to Arefu, shouting some nonsense about bandits just to get someone to show up. Twenty minutes later Evan King had wandered down to the stable, rifle in hand, to find nothing at all. King had chastised Ian for his lie, while Ian had no way to show King the truth.
He had seen the man. The leader of the Family.
The Family. A group of crazed madmen, (and women), who had recently begun terrorizing Arefu with almost nightly attacks on the settlement. Nothing serious at first, the family seemed content with tossing bottles at buildings and screaming obscenities into the night. They had everyone spooked, of course; raiders just killed people, they didn't harass them first. Everyone wanted to know what the Family had planned, but none of them wanted to think about it. Ian didn't bother himself with worrying about it. He was confident that Evan King, the town's appointed 'sheriff', would gun them down and be done with it. Nothing new in the Wasteland. Nothing to worry about.
But today, today Ian finds himself with a lot of things to worry about.
"Ian," his mother shouts, "This is the last time I'm going to say it! Come down and eat!"
Ian West is a good kid. He's hardworking, quiet, and thoughtful of others. He's never been a burden to his family. He's always gotten along with his sister. He's a good kid.
Ian West is also a cannibal.
He grits his teeth, his young, hard teeth. He wipes the blood from his lip on the back of his hand. It leaves a glaring smear across his skin. His heartbeat pounds like a god's drum. He can feel the blood rushing to his face. His stomach growls with unnatural ferocity. It grips him like a vice. He can't escape it. He's trapped in himself.
"You alive up there, Ian?"
Father.
"I can hear your stomach growling from here, young man! C'mon, there's too much Mirelurk on the table for just me and your mother."
Ian's mouth opens, but it's not him who speaks. It has his voice, but it's not him. It's Hunger, and it's controlling him. He's trapped within. He want's to scream, but It won't let him. All it wants is to-
FEED
"Sure," It tells Ian's parents as it uses Ian's body to climb off the roof. "Let's head inside." It grins and Ian can feel his teeth click together. "I'm famished. Starved." It follows Ian's parents inside. "I could eat anything right now. Anything at all." The door closes.
He falls on them like a starved wolf.
Vance opens his eyes.
"Holly," he mutters, "Holly, where are you?"
She's at his side in an instant; a gentle face, hazel eyes and silver-blonde hair. "What's wrong, dear?" she asks softly. She kneels down next to him when she sees the tears in his eyes. "Oh no..."
Vance sobs quietly and leans his head against his wife's shoulder. "It's happened again," he breathes, "the Hunger has taken the boy."
Holly suppresses a gasp. "Poor, poor Ian..." she murmurs. She caresses Vance's head softly. "I'm so sorry, my love."
Vance rises suddenly, breaking Holly's grip. "We must move," he says as he wipes the tears from his eyes. "If we are to have any chance of saving the boy then we must move now." He turns to his wife, his silver eyes bright in the low lighting. "I'm going on ahead to create a distraction and find the boy. Get the others ready and follow behind me. We will need to be swift. Time is against us."
Holly nods and watches her husband walk off into the darkness of the underground train station. She's not like him. She's not a leader. She's not a visionary. She can't feel the Hunger like Vance does. She doesn't know what it's like to be him.
She loves him, though. That's all that matters. He's her life, and she's his support. They're for each other.
Holly gathers up the Family and the supplies they are going to need. The small group makes its way out of the station and into the moonlight. Holly wills the butterflies in her stomach away and steels herself for what lies ahead.
It's going to be a long night.
It's been a long night for Knight Captain Gallows.
He prefers it that way. The super mutants don't see as well in the dark. They're slow and sluggish when the sun goes down. Lack of energy, or something. Gallows doesn't much care.
He's silent as he maneuvers through the ruins of a pre-war building. Silence is impossible when you're wearing power armor, but Gallows has found a way to make it reality. His footsteps are measured and padded. Not even the smallest bit of rubble is displaced as he moves.
There. Fire crackling nearby. Signs of life. Nobody crazy enough to light fires in the DC ruins except for the mutants. He's got his next mark. Gallows moves toward the sound, his laser rifle cradled in his grip. A window on the second story is his destination. Gallows drops to a crawl and inches his way forward. Death is slow, but patient.
He'll never admit it aloud, never, but Sarah Lyons is the best thing that's ever happened in his career. The Pride are good people, but they're still people. Colvin and Dusk always bickering, Vargas, Glade and Kodiak always finding some stupid new game to play. Even Sarah had her vice, though its name was Cleric and he is dead.
Gallows... Gallows is beyond that. Gallows is his work. That's his vice. He's too good at killing to ever stop. Sarah enables him, feeds his addiction.
"You've got free reign," she had told him after he had joined the Pride. "Do what you need to do. Give me reports, but I need you to hunt. Whenever you're able, go out and do your thing. I'll cover for you."
"My thing."
Sarah had nodded, and in her eyes Gallows had seen understanding. She knew what he was, what he needed to do. He was death, at her service. Portable and controllable.
But, as with any hound, death must occasionally be let off the leash. And at night, the DC ruins belong to Gallows.
He sees them. Super mutants. He doesn't even bother with his helmet's night-vision anymore. His eyes are different, better. He can see them. He can see the entire camp.
There. Two standard mutant by a flaming barrel, warming themselves. Less than five yards away a brute sits against a pile of rubble and munches on a human arm. There's a fourth and final mutant, about twenty yards away from the rest of the group, gazing into the dark streets. keeping watch. He's farthest from Gallows position. They're all below him.
Gallows sights the distant mutant in the scope of his modified laser rifle and fires a single shot. The weapon's enhanced optics give it the punch that Gallows needs in order to do what he does best.
The beam lances out and strikes the back of the creature's head. The super mutant disintegrates from the neck up and manages a brief spasm before falling into the dirt. Its fellows turn to look. It's all the opportunity Gallows needs.
Gallows straps his rifle to his back and drops from his perch, a straight ten feet,. He lands hard. His power armor displaces most of the impact energy. Gallows uses the rest of that energy to drive himself forward.
The rubble at Gallows' feet is smashed to dust as he runs toward the mutants. He yanks a silenced 12.7mm pistol from its holster. The semi-automatic pistol is big, powerful, and quiet. It's Gallows' favorite gun.
Gallows' first shot is fired in mid-run. The brute's head explodes in a shower of green and red gore. It falls over the remains of its last meal, stinking and dead.
The other two mutants turn, hunting rifles in hand and snarling grimaces on their faces.
Gallows fires again, still running toward his foes. A hunting rifle goes spinning into the darkness. The disarmed mutant looks dumbfounded just before a pair of bloody craters erupt in his chest. It falls onto its back and expires.
The remaining mutant fires on Gallows with its rifle. The shot smacks against Gallows' shoulder plate but does nothing to slow the Brotherhood soldier down. The mutant snarls as it pulls the slide on its weapon back and looks up to aim.
Gallows is gone.
A punch to the gut forces the super mutant to double over. Gallows uses his armor's strength enhancements to lift the massive creature off the ground and slam it down onto its back. The creature flails weakly as it tries to get a grip on Gallows, but the Knight Captain doesn't give it the opportunity.
Strengthened by the augmentations in his armor, Gallows clamps his hands around the super mutant's throat. His fingers find purchase in the softer spots, areas he is all too familiar with. There are pressure points to be utilized, even in an irradiated monstrosity.
Gallows' fingers slowly work their way through the hardened skin and puncture the super mutant's flesh. The creature bucks and heaves, but Gallows keeps his grip tight. It's almost over now.
A jet of bloody vomit erupts from the super mutant's maw and splashes into Gallows' face. Blood drips from the narrowed eye slits of his helmet, but Gallows doesn't flinch. His breathing has become heavy. The super mutants eyes are beginning to bulge horribly from their sockets. Despite the iron hands around the creature's throat, the super mutant manages to groan and hiss. Blood flecks from between its gritted teeth.
"Quiet," the Knight-Captain whispers. His grip hardens and he twists the mutant's head to one side, snapping its neck effortlessly. The creature gurgles once and dies.
Gallows pulls himself up and looks out at the ruins of DC. The sun is going to rise in a few hours. The super mutants and Talon Company will be moving soon, and he has ground to cover before returning to the Citadel. Sarah's been out of sorts the last few days, and he doesn't want to risk upsetting her. Something about her trip to Megaton, and some punk wastelander.
Gallows checks the load on both his weapons before turning and heading back the way he came. He doesn't bother cleaning the blood from his armor. It's a good reminder of what he is.
There's abraxo cleaner back at the Citadel anyway.
Ian stares at the corpses of his parents. His face is numb, too numb for tears. There's blood deep under his fingernails. It's stained across the front of his shirt. It's pooled around the floor under their bodies.
It killed them both.
It had waited until Ian's family was inside, the door shut to keep sound in, before attacking. Ian can't remember what happened after that. There's spilled blood and teeth where memory should be. Maybe that's the point.
He stares at them, the dead parents. Mere moments ago they had been raucous and ready to eat. Moments ago they had been people Ian had known all his life. They had been strict, yes. They had been assertive and hard working. They had been good people, despite everything the Wasteland had thrown at them.
Now they're dead. They're dead and there's nothing than Ian wants more than to feast on their flesh.
The Hunger, sated by killing, is sluggish. Something is keeping it at bay. Ian doesn't think it's his willpower.
Do it, the Hunger whispers. It's less insistent, less controlling than before. Ian thinks it's used up a lot of its strength. Taking over a body and using it for murder probably wears the Hunger out.
Still, Ian lurches forward, toward the corpses. Somehow he manages to pull back at the last moment. He clutches himself like a victim of fever and cold.
How long has it been? Minutes? Hours? Ian's mind no longer processes time correctly. There is only the need to feed, and the hollow space where his parents died.
The door to the house swings open. A figure stands, silhouetted in the doorway.
"Ian."
Ian moans. The sound is horrible and dry in his throat. He can hear the chatter of distant gunfire.
"Ian, come with me."
Vance wraps his arms around Ian's shoulders. The boy falls into merciful darkness.
The Next Morning
"Haven't seen that Gabriel kid in a while."
Moriarty looks at Nova from across the bar and gives her an odd look. "Since when do you care about anyone in this town?"
Nova shrugs. "I never said I did."
Moriarty chuckles and straightens his greasy beard with a greasy hand. Business has been slow today, but it's not a bad thing. It'll only be busier tomorrow. Poor bastards who need their booze and poon won't be gone for long. "And yet you bring something so insignificant to the attention of such a cranky old man." He can hear Gob sweeping upstairs. Maybe he'll knock the ghoul around for a few minutes, just for old time's sake.
"Maybe I'm just trying to kill the quiet," Nova says, already weary of the whole conversation.
Moriarty frowns. Nova's concern is more than strange, especially considering that she's had more than enough of Megaton's men. It's that damn kid. He's found a way to get to all the players, big or small.
Colin Moriarty isn't one to promote change. Change is messy and messy can be bad for business. The Gabriel boy has been a pretty big change for such a small town, and all that change is beginning to look like a pretty big annoyance. Sure, the boy saved the town from Burke and his Talon psychos, but he didn't have to spout a bunch of self-assertive bullshit while he was at it. People need to despair and feel bad about themselves. Hopelessness is the key to Moriarty's wealth and power.
"Damn stupid to care," Moriarty says with conviction, "He won't last much longer out here, on account that he's just some stupid punk who thinks he can take on the whole damn world. Wasteland is going to eat him up and spit him out, just like it does with anyone else."
Nova sighs and scratches the back of her head. "Maybe it already has. Haven't seen him around."
Moriarty chuckles and pours himself a shot of whiskey. Not the watered-down stuff he sells to his customers, oh no. This is the good shit. It burns his throat on the way down and warms his belly.
"The miracles of good alcohol," Moriarty says. He looks over at Nova and gives her a wicked smile. "That Gabriel boy got himself tossed into Simms' little in-home prison for smacking that West girl and beating Cromwell half to death. He's not due to be let out for another three days." Nova's eyes drop and Moriarty hides a grin. His abuse of Nova isn't anywhere visible, and Gob's body is so battered that he can get away with hitting the ghoul just about anywhere.
Gob's voice drifts down, scratchy and tired. "Gabriel hit Lucy West? Damn shame, I thought they were getting along pretty well."
Moriarty scowls and glares up at the gantry above him. "You eavesdropping, you little ghoul shit? I've half a bloody mind to come up there and kick some stars into your eyes."
"Sorry boss," Gob says quickly.
"Poor kid," Nova sighs. She pulls a cigarette out of her shirt and slips it between her full lips. "I don't like that he hit that girl, but he's all messed up in his head."
Moriarty glances at his whore. "What kind of bullshit is that? Messed up head?"
Nova shrugs and lights her smoke. "I mean he's not normal. He's smarter than most, for one. Nobody else in this town knew how to put that bomb down, and nobody else in the wasteland has bothered to try. He's also tougher than a lot of people out there. Not many people can say they've gone up against raiders and Talon Company and won."
Moriarty frowns angrily. "There a point to all this exposition, Nova dearest?"
She takes a long drag from her smoke and breathes out. The smoke coils around her, an ashen snake. "The point is that I don't think he thinks like you and me. He does good shit for the wrong reasons, and he feels like he can beat up anybody if he feels like it. Getting his ass beat by that Brotherhood woman hurt his ego, but it's not going to keep him down."
"Nothing can keep that kid down," Gob mutters loudly.
"Shut your mouth!" Moriarty roars.
"Sorry boss." The ghoul shuffles off into another room, out of earshot.
Nova laughs and taps her cigarette into an ashtray. "That kid must be going crazy. Spends his whole life in a vault, forced into rules and never able to do anything. Then he's out here, where the only rules are the ones you make for yourself. His morality is twisted. He's like a dying dog, fighting and biting even though he's got no control."
Moriarty tugs on his beard. "Not like you to be so analytical," he grunts.
Nova smiles sadly. "I was a woman before I became your whore, Moriarty. Might have been a smart one, too. Before..." She doesn't finish. Moriarty already knows. Nova is a jet addict, and a longstanding one.
"God forbid," the Irishman says as he downs the last of his whiskey. "Thank god for booze and chems, otherwise you'd all be insufferable.
"You'd be insufferable if it wasn't for the chems," Nova retorts bitterly.
Moriarty gives her a sickening grin. "And that's why you love me, Nova dearest. I'm your enabler. I'm your savior."
Nova sighs and looks at the floor. Smoke curls around her lips and floats past her ears. "If you're my savior, then this is hell."
Moriarty laughs brightly and pours himself another glass. " Oh, you poor, poor dear." He walks over to Nova and grabs handful of her ass. She looks up, somewhat startled, but she knows where this is going. Moriarty's got that leer in his eyes. Spur of the moment, like always.
His yellow grin disgusts her, but Nova stays quiet as Moriarty pulls her close. "I never said anything otherwise," he breathes. He stinks of foulness and whiskey.
"Now get to work, before I show you just how bad this hell can be." He unzips his fly.
Nova knows better than to say anything. Her life will never be more than this. It's something she's learned to live with.
Dropping to your knees is just like anything else. It gets easier with practice.
I won't forget this, you bitch.
The moment replays in his head, over and over. Defeat. Loss. Humiliation.
Beauty looks down on him, a smug smile on her face. He can see himself in her eyes, battered and weak. No fight left.
You're right, kid. I think you'll remember this for a long time.
Gabriel stares at the wall. He can't get the woman out of his head. She had bested him, in mere moments. She had destroyed him in front of the entire town and shattered his illusions of invincibility. Radiers, Talon Company, Burke, Arkansas. All obstacles, and all overcome with firepower and cold determination. Not her.
Sarah Lyons.
The name rolls around in his head like a grenade in a storm. Volatile. She had beaten him effortlessly. She's faster than he is. She's stronger than he is. The very idea has Gabriel furious and fascinated at the same time.
Gabriel licks his lips. Part of him can still taste her. Warm. Soft. Bittersweet, though he can't quite figure that one out. He shivers and fights off the desire burning in his brain and loins. Damn girl, he thinks. Get out of my head.
He's had plenty of time to think about Sarah Lyons, being stuck in Lucas Simms' at-home prison cell for the last two and a half days. Gabriel shakes his head as he remembers his current predicament. It's a welcome distraction from the thoughts he's been brooding on.
Simms' house is quiet. It's always quiet. Quiet at night and quiet in the day. It's driving Gabriel insane. No computers (Simms had confiscated his Pip-Boy), no meals except the slop Simms pushes through the bars twice a day and no access to the public restroom. There's a pipe sticking out of the floor that flows into the main line, but it doesn't have a seat. He's been wearing the same clothes for two days straight, and he still has another three days of lockup head.
Nobody but Wadsworth and Moira have bothered to visit him, and Moira's visit had been a "psychological study on the effects of the mind in a prison situation." Her questions had been a fate nearly worse than imprisonment.
Wadsworth's visits have been more welcome, but also painful reminders as to Gabriel's situation. Simms doesn't allow the machine to physically interact with Gabriel, so any information the robot passes on has to be acquired and stored verbally. Simms also won't allow Gabriel access to paper and pencil. No notes, other than what he can remember.
"This is punishment for what you did," Lucas had said, his eyes brimming with anger. "This isn't a hotel and I'm not your damn maid. You'll get what I give you, and that's all."
Gabriel is left with his thoughts and nothing else. At least Wadsworth's news on Alpha Project has been promising. Gabriel had concealed his doubts on the project when starting out, his designs were limited and only in their preliminary stages. However, Wadsworth had reported an 18% success rate within the test simulations, a far higher percentage than Gabriel had expected. In addition, Gabriel's weapons had been repaired, re-fitted, and all modifications had been made to Arkansas. Gabriel's gear is ready when he needs it.
Three more days of doing nothing. It's hell for his brain. He's been keeping his body occupied with a simple exercise routine, 100 sit ups and 50 push ups a day, but that's all he's got. Everything stays the same. The same walls, the same meals, the same bullshit. It's almost as bad as the Vault. Almost.
Most of the time Gabriel's only company comes in the form of Harden Simms, the Sheriff's ten year old son. Harden Simms is also responsible for guarding Gabriel, much to the former Vault dweller's chagrin. The boy is smart, too smart to let Gabriel out of his cage without his father's permission. Harden claims not to like Gabriel being there, but the boy is still curious about Gabriel's wasteland antics. Incessant probing from Moira, or childish questions from Harden, Gabriel can't decide which is making him crazier. Of course, it could be the fact that he's not able to actually fuckin' do anything that's making him go mad.
"Are you crazy?" Harden asks.
Yes, Gabriel thinks. "No," he mutters.
"My dad says you're the one who turned off the bomb," Harden says. The boy has been entertaining himself by bouncing an old rubber ball against the wall for the last twenty minutes. In that twenty minutes, Gabriel's sanity has degraded more and more.
Gabriel has decided that he hates children. "Yeah, I did. It was a lot easier than getting you to leave me the hell alone, believe it or not."
Harden frowns. "He says you killed a lot of people and then did something to the bomb that made it shut off," Harden continues. His eyes stay fixed on the prisoner, even as he continues to bounce the ball. Bounce. Catch. Bounce. Catch. Bounce. Catch-
"Can you knock that the fuck off?" Gabriel spits. His anger is almost overwhelming. There's a headache building between his eyes.
Harden's frown hardens into a glare. "I'm telling my dad you said that."
Gabriel groans and slams his hands against the bars of his prison. He still hasn't figured out how to get free without digging through the floor or cutting steel with his hands. "Kid, I'll tell him myself. I've been stuck in here for two days straight, eating the shit they feed to brahmin and crapping into a rusty tube. As soon as I get out of here-"
"Dad says you're sick in the head," Harden says defiantly.
Gabriel's retort dies in his mouth. "He said what?"
"He says you don't care about anyone anymore. He said you had a good thing going and you threw it away like an idiot." The boy bounces his ball and catches it with a deft hand. "I don't know what he means, but I know you're in trouble, whatever you did." Harden goes back to bouncing his ball, a victorious smile on his face.
Gabriel says nothing and his gaze drops to the floor. The voice in his head is unsympathetic. You're a spoiled brat who's angry when he gets his toys taken away. Simms helped you, saved your damn life, and all you've done is spit in his face for it. He trusted you and you betrayed that trust because you can't control yourself.
"I'm in control," he mutters under-breath. "Everything I do is justified. Everything I do has a reason."
Even what you did to Cromwell? That didn't seem excessive to you? Actions have consequences, you moron. Life has meaning. You can't just act however you like. You're better than this. You weren't always like this, you know.
"Shit changed," Gabriel tells himself. "I changed."
Who said you had to stay changed? The only one limiting you is yourself. Just change back. You can be that better person.
Gabriel's hands ball into fists. "Yeah?" He whispers angrily. "Maybe I don't want to."
The voice in his head laughs. Well, aren't you a selfish jackass?
He turns as the door to Simms' house open and the Sheriff walks in. The look on the man's face is grim. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his duster.
Harden rushes over to his father and smiles up into the bearded face. "Hey dad! Officer Harden Simms, reporting that the prisoner is still under lock and key!" The boy scowls. "He also said some bad words."
Simms glares at Gabriel momentarily. "That so?" He looks down at Harden and rubs the boy's shaved head. "Go on outside and play, son. Mr. Matthews and I have a few things we need to discuss."
"Aww, but dad! I want to see him get in trouble!"
"Go on, Harden."
Harden grumbles and walks toward the door. Before he leaves he turns to Gabriel and blows a raspberry at the imprisoned man. Gabriel ignores the boy.
Simms takes off his cowboy hat and places it on his kitchen table. The Sheriff is unashamedly bald, save for the bushy sideburns that mark the start of his beard. He takes a seat in a pre-war chair and sighs, not bothering to look at Gabriel. "Confessor Cromwell had a heart attack this morning."
Gabriel's eyes go wide. "He what?"
Simms rubs his eyes. "Doc tried his best, but the man damn near died. Something about a clot in his brain, or somesuch. Stable now, but Doc says that Cromwell might never fully recover. Probably won't walk again, either."
Gabriel shakes his head, bitter anger entering his voice. "He probably had high blood pressure and had himself a friggin' aneurysm. That's just great. Fan-fuckin'-tastic."
Simms looks at Gabriel, his eyes tired. "Cromwell's people are saying you tried to kill him."
Gabriel is on his feet instantly. "Bullshit. That man stood in irradiated water every day for hours on end. He had advanced radiation poisoning and was obviously malnourished. He was killing himself."
"He was sixty six years old, Mr. Matthews." The disheartening quiet of Simms' voice is enough to stop Gabriel's protesting. "You kicked the shit out of his ribs and fractured his jaw. Cromwell had heart palpitations most of his life, and his people never let his radiation get too out of hand. Church is of the opinion that the beating you gave him was what sent him over the edge." Simms stands and places his hat back on his head. "And I'm in agreement."
Gabriel's eyes go wide. "Let me see him, I'll-"
"Enough!" the Sheriff roars. His voice is a bellow that fills the house and silences Gabriel instantly. "I don't want you anywhere near that man. He's suffered enough because of you." Long gone is the smiling, gruff soul that had saved Gabriel's life outside Vault 101. In his place is a man bristling with anger and authority, one who has fought against the wasteland his entire life.
"I've had nothing but trouble from you since you showed your face in this town," Simms spits. "I put up with the nonsense between you and Jericho. I gave you the benefit of the doubt when that business with the bomb happened. But this? This is where I draw the line. You don't get to hit a girl when you're feeling pissy and you sure as hell don't get to beat an old man half to death just because he says something you don't like." Simms' glare is heavy. "If you were anyone else I'd throw you out of town myself."
Gabriel measures his response. The threat of another exile has sobered his attitude somewhat. "So what exactly do you have in store for me?"
Simms sighs and sits back in his chair. Gabriel notes that the keys to his cell are in the Sheriff's hand. "Much as I hate to admit it, this town would be in dire straights without the help you've given us. Most folk aren't happy about what you did, but the important ones, Walter, Moira and a few others, want you around. Fact remains that we need people like you. Problem is, there's a batch of people angry and they want you turned out on your ass for what you did. I don't think I can say no to them."
Gabriel senses that the Sheriff is offering a way out. "But?"
Simms' shoots the vault dweller an angry look. "There's a job that needs doing, and you need to get out of this city for a while. At least long enough for people to cool off. I'd say no more than a week. After that, long as you keep a low profile and don't do anything stupid, I'll let you back in."
Gabriel raises an eyebrow. "One week. That's all?"
Simms shrugs. "This is the Wasteland, Mr. Matthews. Forgiveness practically doesn't exist out here. But at the same time, people tend to focus on themselves and survival more than anything else. Do this job, let me smooth things over with the town, and in time you'll be welcome here again."
Gabriel scratches his chin. He hasn't shaved since leaving the Vault and a thin layer of dark stubble has spread across his chin and around his mouth. The fresh hair is rough against his skin. "And this is my only option?"
"The only option I'm giving you," Simms says flatly. "And I'm only apt to give it once. You're only getting this because you're useful, and against my better judgement I still like you. This is it. A limited time offer."
Gabriel weighs his options. I either take the deal and see what's in store, or I say no and lose what little I've got. All the equipment, all the research. Gone.
After a moment of consideration, he nods. "Okay. You've got a deal." He sticks his hand through the cell bars.
Simms gives the offered hand a suspicious look. "No tricks?" he wonders aloud.
"No tricks." Gabriel's tone is flat and without anger.
The Sheriff shakes the younger man's hand. "All right then." He slides the cell key into the door and opens it with a click. "I'm trusting you with this. Don't disappoint me." He opens the cell door.
Gabriel steps out, sighing with relief as he leaves the confines of his cell behind him. "I'll try not to make your life more difficult, Sheriff." He looks down at his clothes, the same clothes he's been wearing since Sarah beat him. "I'll need to get ready before I head out." A thought goes off in Gabriel's head. "So, what exactly is this job you need me to do?"
Simms tells him. Gabriel groans aloud and rubs the space between his eyes with a tired hand.
"Fuck my life," he mutters.
A few hours later and Gabriel finds himself waiting for Jericho by the main gate. He's fully geared in his combat armor and kevlar vest. His face is clean shaven and he's managed to clean himself up with a bucket of water and a bar of old soap. His feet shuffle impatiently. The afternoon sun beats down without mercy. Jericho is taking longer than he should.
"Why exactly am I waiting for that moron?" he questions aloud. "I've got enough ordinance on me to level a small town."
He's not far off. A belt of grenades is wrapped around his middle, along with his combat knife and laser pistol. A pre-war assault rifle, a trade from Moira that he's restored to excellent condition, is cradled lightly in his arms. Arkansas is strapped across his back, deadly and quiet with its new silencer. A duffel bag at Gabriel's feet is filled with supplies he'll need for the journey ahead; food, water, extra ammo and medical supplies.
Gabriel spots movement in the corner of his eye and turns. Jericho approaches slowly, a lit cigarette pursed between his lips and supply bag slung of his shoulder. He's wearing his old leather armor, and Gabriel can see the collapsible stock of the man's Chinese assault rifle sticking out from behind him. There are also a pair of grenades on the older man's belt, as well as a sawed off shotgun that hangs loosly in a hip holster. As he inspects Jericho's gear, Gabriel can't help but feel somewhat over-prepared.
Jericho notices. "Christ, you bringin' all that with ya? We ain't goin' to war, just doin' a quick check on the place."
Gabriel shrugs and reaches down with one hand to pick up his supplies. The assault rifle sits comfortably in the crook of his arm, loaded and ready. "This is a two day job for you, but I'm gone for longer. I'll need the extra gear."
Jericho shrugs and breathes deep from his cigarette. "Whateva you say, kid. Me? I travel light."
Gabriel glances at the gate. "Thought Simms needed you around. Not enough people to defend the town."
Jericho laughs a little. The sound is raspy and grates on Gabriel's nerves. "Billy Creel's taking my shift for the next couple'a days. Sure, he looks like he can't do shit with that bad eye of his, but Simms thinks he's okay for the job." He shifts his gaze over to Gabriel. "Besides, Sheriff wants this job done without you fuckin' things up, so I'm babysitting."
"Fuck you, old man."
Jericho cackles. "Oh, this is gonna be some sweet shit." Smoke pours from his nostrils as he walks up to the gate and pounds a fist against the metal. "Stock, wake the fuck up! Me and the kid are heading out!"
"I'm awake, quit making that racket!" Stockholm pokes his head over the banister railing and glares down at the two men. "Your momma ever teach you manners?"
Jericho laughs bitterly. "No, but yours sure showed me how good she could throat it!" He humps the air and cackles madly.
"Shut your pilehole, you washed up raider fuck!" Stockholm says, laughing. His gaze shifts to Gabriel and his eyes narrow under his dust-stained goggles. "And lookie' you, Vault boy! Gonna head out into the wastes to find yourself a new gal for smackin' around! Sure there's plenty of fish in the sea for jackasses like yourself!" He whoops and slaps his knee.
Gabriel glares up at the Stockholm and flicks his rifle's safety to 'off'. "Open the door."
Stockholms rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "Jesus, you Vault people got no sense of humor." He disappears from sight. A few moments later the scream of an airplane engine sounds and Megaton's gates screech open. "It's open, you chickenshits! Get on outta here!"
Gabriel sighs and looks over his shoulder at his home. He's got Wadsworth to manage his work until he gets back, but the lack of supervision is bothersome. Still, his Pip-Boy is back on his arm where it belongs, and Wadsworth has updated the machine with plenty of notes and status reports for Gabriel to look over. No chance to work on the data himself, but it's better than being stuck in prison.
"Let's head out," Jericho mutters. "We ain't getting there standing around." His cigarette spent, he tosses the smoldering butt onto the ground and kills it with the heel of his boot.
Gabriel slings the strap of his bag over his shoulder. His hands on his rifle, he follows the old raider out into the wasteland.
The wind wails. It beckons them onward.
Vargas motions for the Pride to move up.
It's him, Colvin, Glade and Kodiak. Not the usual scouting party, but Vargas knows how to play their strengths. When it comes to tactics, Vargas is one of the best. He's almost as good as Sarah. Almost.
They're in the trenches today. The plan is to shred a few super mutant outposts and clear an opening to the Capital building. The Pride has encountered little resistance so far, and what little they've come across has been easily dispatched by Colvin and Kodiak's excellent scouting technique. A slow but steady progression is exactly Vargas' style, and he's using it to the best of his ability.
Being stealthy in power armor isn't easy, (unless the person sneaking happened to be Gallows, creepy bastard), but Vargas manages well enough. The belt-fed minigun he's holding with both hands doesn't make the task any easier, not to mention the large metal ammo pack he's got strapped to his back. He's got a 12.7mm submachine gun holstered to his hip, but he hasn't had to use it yet. He and Glade are on heavy weapon duty, and as such won't use their bigger guns until the situation demands it. Kodiak is leading right now, Colvin close behind. Vargas is center position, and Glade is bringing up the rear with his custom flamer, the 'Burnmaster.'
Kodiak stops and holds up a fist, signalling the Pride to stop. "I've got contact," Kodiak whispers into his helmet mic. "Seven hostiles around the next bend. Permission to engage."
Vargas checks the safety on his minigun. "Permission granted. Col, you and Greg hit him from low. Glade and I will cover.
The scouts move into position, keeping low with one man on either side of the trench wall for cover. Colvin is the first to fire, as usual. The sharp crack of his laser rifle is broken up by the chattering fire coming from Kodiak's advanced marksman carbine. Kodiak and Colvin take out two mutants before the rest realize they're under attack, but soon the sounds of return fire and the snarls of angry mutants fill the air.
Vargas pulls himself up and begins spinning the barrel of his minigun, depressing the trigger enough to get it spooled. He turns the corner and stands between the two scouts, glaring through the dark lenses of his helmet. Gunfire pings off his armor. He pulls the trigger.
"Targets acquired."
Hot death spews out of the minigun. The first super mutant caught in the spray is cut in half from the sheer weight of the gunfire. Vargas lets the barrel breathe for a moment before focusing his fire on a brute with a sledgehammer that's rushing toward him. A concentrated burst turns the mutant's chest into pulpy mess of steaming gore. Next to him, Colvin fires a shot that vaporizes a first-stage mutant as it fumbles with its hunting rifle.
"Grenade in!" Glade shouts from behind them. A glowing plasma grenade bounces into the fray and detonates a moment later. The two remaining mutants are killed instantly, one thrown aside in a heap of gore, the other dissolving into a puddle of radioactive goo before it hits the ground.
Vargas' thumb eases off the minigun's trigger. "Clear, form up." He's all business. "Secure the sight and scrounge whatever you can. We move in five."
Colvin takes position near the trench camp's exit, his rifle held at the ready. Kodiak and Glade rummage around the camp, digging up what ammo and supplies they can.
"My lucky day," Kodiak says happily. In his hands is a medical kit, rife with stimpacks and a few bottles of rad-x. He pulls the supplies from the kit and stashes them in container ports set in his armor. "Wasn't expecting to find anything, really."
Glade yanks an old metal ammo box from under a pile of stinking gore. "You got that right." He opens the green container and pulls out several belts of 5mm ammo. "Hey Commander, here's a free reload." He passes the ammo to Vargas before moving up to join Colvin at point.
Vargas sets his minigun on the ground and begins feeding the ammo into his weapon. "Keep sharp," he says over the radio in his helmet. "Bound to be more where that came from."
An inhuman scream of rage splits the air, as if to underline Vargas' command. The Paladin-Commander looks up and swears colorfully. "Mother fuck."
Barreling toward them, a super sledge raised high over its head, is a mutant overlord. Bigger and meaner than the average super mutant, the overlord is on its way to becoming a full-fledged behemoth. Its skin is thicker and more resilient than the already thick skin of the average mutant, and its stooped posture and muscle-tight form make it the the second strongest abomination encountered in the Wasteland. Uncontrolled rage and superior combat prowess make the overlord a fearsome opponent, even though it's just one monster. The ground beneath the creature is ripped up as it sprints. Its war cry shakes the very air.
True to their training, the Pride open fire without hesitation. The combined firepower from Kodiak and Colvin is enough to hurt it a little, but the overlord doesn't slow down in the slightest. If anything, the pain seems to drive it forward with renewed ambition. There's nothing but hate in its glazed yellow eyes.
It's like he's moving in slow motion. Vargas lifts his minigun off the ground and spools it without a second thought. Bullets fly and impact against the mutant with frightening speed, but Vargas can only slow the creature down. The loose ammo belts flap in the air as the gun shakes with the weight of its fire.
Vargas snarls in bloody anger. He's seen what an overlord can do to a man in power armor. Sometimes, when he's dreaming, can still hear the screams of Initiate Harding. Fresh-faced and eager, the boy had been pulled out of his armor, his limbs ripping off even as his torso was yanked through four inches of plated steel. Ripping. Breaking. The overlord had started eating Harding before he was dead. Vargas had killed them both with a missile launcher, one out of anger and the other out of mercy.
The overlord is nearly upon them when Glade thumbs the trigger of the Burnmaster. A cone of fire erupts from the weapon's barrel and engulfs the mutant instantly. The creature drops to its knees as the combined weight of the Pride's firepower overwhelms its formidable defenses. The super sledge falls from its grip as the overlord slowly but surely begins to die.
As the monster's screams taper off, so too does the firepower the Pride pours into it. Glade is the last to let up. He lets the Burnmaster roast the mutant's corpse a little longer, just to be sure. "Whew," he breathes, relieved. "Almost thought that wouldn't do the trick."
Kodiak slaps a fresh clip into his carbine. "Hate those things. Take too many bullets to kill, you know? Damn."
Colvin sighs and crosses himself. "Let those tortured souls who pass from this earth know peace, and hold hate in their hearts no longer. Let them find mercy at the seat of our Lord. Let Him calm their spirits, so that they may be restored to Providence."
"Enough with the sermon," Vargas barks. His voice is laced with irritation. He's down to about half of his ammo count in the minigun and they're not even halfway to their intended destination. The pack on his back only holds enough for three more reloads.
"Here's the situation," he tells the Pride. "That overlord took way too much punch out of our gear, so we're going to hit the next target and hold ground. We find extra supplies, then we continue to the next target. If nothing turns up then we hike it back to the Citadel and try again in a few days time."
Glade sighs and does a pressure check on the Burnmaster. "Shit's the same each time. We cut a path, can't keep our momentum and then we pull back and do it again. Meanwhile the muties just move in and set up shop while the corpses of their buddies are still fresh. This ain't no way to fight a damn war."
"We keep going," Vargas says as he finishes readying his weapons. "As long as they exist, we'll hit them. And someday we won't need to hit them anymore, because they'll all be dead."
Glade shrugs and hefts the Burnmaster in his hands. "I certainly hope so."
Colvin pops a fresh microfusion cell into his laser rifle. "I have faith in our mission. We do holy work, and the Lord understands. He gives and He takes away, but He walks with us."
Glade shakes his head. "Yeah? Well ask Him if He can take the Burnmaster for a little bit. Been so long since I last used it I forgot how heavy this damn thing is."
Colvin laughs with good humor. "He gives us our burdens to bear, Paladin. You carry that weight well and God will provide for you."
Glade pats Colvin's shoulder plate. "Man, I hope by provide you mean, 'Glade gets a new mini-nuke.' I miss that SOB."
"Sonofabitch."
Jericho tosses his empty book of matches aside and pats himself down, his hands searching for a replacement. "You have got to be shitting me. All this way and no goddamn matches?"
Gabriel digs into his bag and tosses Jericho an old metal lighter. "Here."
Jericho snatches the metal canister out of the air and nods his appreciation. "Guess you were right to pack all that shit after all."
Gabriel ignores the man. They've been walking for a few hours now, avoiding the pre-war roads in an effort to discourage the chance of raider attacks. Though with all the talking Jericho has been doing, it's a miracle that they haven't been shot at.
"Anyway," the ex-raider continues as he lights his smoke. "It's like I was saying. Raiders always take the high ground. If they don't then they're fuckin' stupid. Their armor is crap and they can't shoot for shit. Caravans learn that real quick." He holds out the lighter to Gabriel, but the younger man shakes his head.
"Keep it, I don't need you harassing me every time you need a light. I've got a spare in the bag."
Jericho shrugs and stuffs the lighter into a pocket. "Whateva' you say." He resumes walking at a steady pace and once again begins to spout raider know-how. "You get the drop on a bunch of raiders and they'll have no idea what to do. They're scared shits when they're the ones getting raided. Hit 'em from high ground, hit 'em from where they can't see you and they're easy pickings."
Gabriel follows, his rifle cradled in his arms. Despite his outward apathy, the younger man silently takes Jericho's words to heart. Strategies form in his mind, ones that use distraction, stealth, and high ground to lethal effect.
"You kill a lot of raiders back in your day?" Gabriel asks.
"Some," Jericho replies. A wracking cough shakes the older man as he wheezes the smoke from his worn lungs. "You don't get to the top of a raider band by being a nice guy. Runnin' with'em as long as I did, I learned how the shitstains fight. Hell, half the reason we did so well was because I made them change things up. Raiders live on ambushes and scaring people. Take that from them, make them the ones getting 'bushed and scared, and they fall apart. It's fact."
Gabriel decides that a change in conversation is in order. "So what do you think we'll find at Arefu?"
Jericho scratches his beard. Dirt puffs around his fingers. "Hard to say. Arefu ain't a big settlement, but it's up high on an old overpass. Raiders would have a tough time taking the place out, even if it was only a couple of guys guarding the place. Only one way in and out. That's how they've managed to stay alive that long."
Gabriel nods. "Easy fire-lanes," he mutters. "You think they've been hit?"
"We'll know when we get there." Jericho trudges on, his boots kicking up dust. "If we see fire, it's raiders or Talon Company. If the place is a ghost town, it's slavers. If the bodies are mauled, it's deathclaws or some other waste beast. If it's occupied..." Jericho trails off and pulls deep from his cigarette. "Super mutants. Fuckin' hate those things."
Gabriel keeps his eyes on the horizon, scanning for potential threats. "And what if they're all okay?"
Jericho laughs bitterly. "Kid, if Arefu was all good they wouldn't go dark. No settlement survives without help from the caravans, and when caravans say a place has gone dark, shit's hit the fan."
The two men continue on in silence. Gabriel glances at his Pip-Boy map. From what Jericho has told him, they're about halfway to their destination. Lucy's parents and younger brother live in Arefu. Jericho is carrying a letter from their daughter with him. Gabriel made a point not to see her before he left. Thinking about her puts a bad taste in his mouth.
That's called regret, Gabe-my-boy. You feel bad for what you did to that girl, and for what you did to that old man.
Gabriel doesn't say a word. He keeps step with Jericho and eventually the words fade from his thoughts.
Jericho stops suddenly and holds up a hand. "Wait. I got movement." He reaches into his bag and pulls out a pair of binoculars. He scans the horizon with the binoculars and cracks a grin. "Yep, raiders." He crouches low and Gabriel quickly follows suit.
Jericho points at a skeletal wooden building in the distance. "See that place? That's the old bed and breakfast. It's a raider hotspot. Place is full of the bastards."
Gabriel places his rifle on the ground next to him and slowly pulls Arkansas off his back. He uses the weapon's scope to get a better view of the ruins ahead. Sure enough, Gabriel can spot a pair of raiders camping up on the building's second story, along with a trio of raider and their two guard dogs on the ground. "Five in sight, and they've got dogs," he mutters.
Jericho curses. "Always with the fuckin' dogs."
"Can we get around them? I'd rather avoid the hassle all together."
Jericho shakes his head. "No chance. We go around right and we run smack into the ambush they've got over by the ruins of the old car bridge. We go left into those cliffs and we hit Vault 106." The raider shivers. "I ain't goin' near that place." He nods at a nearby rock formation. Gabriel can see a small entrance leading into the rocks, but it doesn't look very hospitable. There's a sense of foreboding coming from the area.
Gabriel brushes it off with a quick shake of his head. "Then we cut our way through them." He looks Jericho in the eyes and catches the older man's gaze. "Think you can sneak up on them from here?"
Jericho snorts in contempt. "Kid, I've been doing this shit since before your pops jacked it into your mom's cooze."
"Charming." Gabriel points at the cliff face nearby. "Here's the deal. You get in as close as you can. Stay hidden. I'll climb the cliffs and get into a better position. The moment you see a raider's head pop, toss in a couple of frag grenades to stir up the nest."
Jericho nods as understanding lights in his eyes. "Then when they come hauling ass after me, you pick them off. Good plan, kid. Guess you're not as useless as I thought."
Gabriel chooses to ignore the older man's banter. "As soon as I'm up on the cliffs, you get in position. I'll keep you covered."
"You'd better, or I'll put my boot up your ass." Jericho checks the safety on his rifle. "All right. Let's tear these bastards apart."
Gabriel straps his weapons across his back in an X shape, with his bag strapped over both. He slowly makes his way to the cliffs, keeping low as he moves. The sense of foreboding from earlier returns as Gabriel nears the rocks. Goosebumps flare on the back of his hands and neck. He tries to will them away. They remain.
He passes the entrance to the cliffs. A strange howl fills the air and the wind tugs at his boots. It swirls dust around him and ruffles his hair. The goosebumps are more pronounced than ever before. It'd be nice if the guy in the sunglasses wasn't staring at him-
Wait.
Gabriel's head snaps around, his eyes wide. Nothing. Not even a whisper on the wind. Just a stone low enough to be a bench and a whirl of dust.
"I saw someone," Gabriel breathes. "He was right there. Right fuckin' there."
Trick of the eyes, the voice in his head tells him. It happens. Shimmering light. Don't you have a job to do, Gabe-my-boy?
Gabriel blinks rapidly. "God damn. I'm going crazy." He turns back to the cliff wall. Getting a firm grip on the rock ahead of him, he begins to climb.
The wall itself isn't that difficult to traverse. Doing so with a plethora of weaponry and supplies is what's making navigation difficult. He has to compensate for the increased weight and shifting balance. He almost falls on more than one occasion, but Gabriel manages to keep moving upward. After a few harrowing minutes of climbing, Gabriel finds himself at the top of the cliffs. He looks down at the ruins below him and smiles darkly. Setting his rifle and bag off to one side, Gabriel lies one his stomach and rests Arkansas' stock gently against his shoulder.
A quick glance through the scope is all Gabriel needs in order to see that Jericho is in position. At least he listens, Gabriel thinks. He shifts his gaze over to one of the two raiders in the building, a filthy brute with a shotgun and a pair of skulls strapped to his belt. "I got yer number," Gabriel says with an old man's drawl. "I got yer number, ya' piss-bag sumbitch." Gabriel holds his breath and pulls the trigger.
Though the rifle is silenced, Arkansas still emits an audible 'crack' that is strangely soothing to hear. The raider's head pops and sends gore flying in all directions. The other raider, a filthy woman with a hunting rifle, sits up in shock. She tries to scream, but Gabriel slices her head from her shoulders with a well placed shot.
"Here's the next course, assholes!" Jericho tosses a pair of grenades into the remaining raiders. Their dogs turn, snarling, just as the explosives detonate.
The result is satisfyingly brutal. Two of the raiders are killed outright and the third drops to one knee, his left arm a ruined mess. One of the dogs manages to escape the explosion, and races toward Jericho with feral anger. Gabriel tracks the target and puts a bullet in its hindquarters. The animal whines in pain just before Jericho finishes it off with a smattering of rounds from his rifle.
Gabriel surveys the slaughter with approval and focuses on the last raider. He fires a shot square between the man's eyes and watches as his head explodes.
Each of the man's limbs follow suit.
They aren't torn off by the force of the shot, they're not even collapsing under the weight of the lifeless body they're attached too. Arms and legs explode outward in chunks of steaming gore that go flying out in all directions. All that's left is a shattered torso, dripping blood and baking in the hot sun.
Gabriel blinks once. Twice. Three times. "The hell?"
Jericho shares his astonishment. "The fuck did you just do?" the older man shouts.
Gabriel stands and looks down at him. "You saw that too?"
"You fuckin' kiddin' me? Course I fuckin' did! You got explosive rounds in that thing?"
Gabriel glances down at Arkansas and looks the rifle over. "No, just hollow points!"
Jericho glances from the exploded corpse and back up to Gabriel. "Never seen no fuckin' hollows do that!"
Still unbelieving, Gabriel looks at the body once more. "You didn't throw another grenade?" he ventures. "He didn't step on a landmine or anything?"
Jericho throws his hands into the air as if to say, 'Does it look like I had anything to do with that?'
Gabriel looks down at his rifle. "Did I do that?" he whispers. His head snaps up at the sound of gunfire.
Jericho, rifle in hand, is swearing up a storm. "C'mon you pussy motherfuckers! I see you there, crawling out of the rubble! Come on and die, you rat pricks!" His shouting is angry, distracting and has the raiders riled up and firing sporadically. Gabriel quietly appreciates the effectiveness of Jericho's style, despite how crude it may be. He now knows exactly where the targets are.
Gabriel crouches and looks through Arkansas' scope. A held breath. A trigger pull. A raider's arm is sliced off at the shoulder.
On the ground, Jericho yanks another grenade off his belt and tosses it into the oncoming mob. There's a lot of them, anywhere between seven and ten, but he's handled numbers like this before, and on his own. The grenade rolls to a stop at the feet of a raider and explodes, killing one in the detonation and another with shrapnel. Jericho laughs madly and fires his rifle into the chest of another raider and she drops to the dirt. It's good to be killing like this again, even if he's only reliving the glory days.
A raider runs toward him, grenade primed and ready to throw, but it explodes at the crack of Gabriel's rifle. Half a corpse goes flying. Jericho uses the opening to gun down two more raiders, puffing on his cigarette all the while. Smoke creates a cloud around his head as he cackles and kills. He fires his rifle one-handed at one raider and draws his shotgun with his free hand. Double barreled buckshot rips into the chest of a woman who had been closing in with a bloodstained cleaver.
"C'mon you fuckers!" Jericho shouts as gunfire screams around him. "You can't fuckin' touch me! Hear that? You can't fuckin' touch me!"
Demoralized and their numbers thinned, Gabriel and Jericho finish off the last few raiders with little effort. The sounds of battle die off, quickly replaced by the cold silence of the Wasteland.
Jericho reloads his weapons and nods as Gabriel climbs down and approaches, sniper rifle in hand.
"Good work," the ex-raider tells him. "Haven't seen shooting that good in a long-ass time. Feels good to be back in the shit, 'specially with someone I can count on."
Gabriel raises an eyebrow. "Thanks. I think."
Jericho cackles and brushes dust from his armor. "Meant it as a compliment, dipshit. You ever need backup, just let me know. People like you get shit done."
"I'll keep it in mind." Gabriel spies movement in the corner of his eye and turns, Arkansas tight in his grip. The source, a gutshot raider reaching weakly for her weapon, gets a bullet in the torso that ends her life.
She explodes a fraction of a second later.
Gore showers the two men, who back away and cover their faces. A smattering of offal sprays over both of them. Jericho swears loudly. Gabriel is too stunned for words.
"What the fuckin' fuck?" Jericho exclaims. "Cut that out!"
"I didn't do anything!"
Jericho makes a face and brushes a bloody eyeball off his shoulder. "Dammit. I don't know what the fuck is wrong with you, but you're making a bloody mess. Watch that shit around me, you hear?"
Gabriel rubs the space between his eyes as he tries to comprehend exactly how a single bullet could cause explosive tissue damage. "Enough," he mutters. "Let's just take what we can and keep going."
Jericho shrugs and lights a fresh cigarette. "Yeah yeah, quit bein' so damn melodramatic. Doesn't suit you." He walks over to a nearby corpse, one that's relatively intact, and looks for ammo and spare caps.
Gabriel looks down at the rifle in his hands. "I don't know how I did that," he mutters, "But it's overkill."
Jericho, who has overheard Gabriel's whispering, laughs darkly. "Kid, you and I both know there's no such thing as overkill. Not here, in the wastes."
Gabriel sighs and kneels by a corpse. "You have a point," he admits as he searches the body. "We do what we can, I guess."
Jericho's voice takes one a slightly less gruff tone. "It's all we got, kid. It's always gonna suck. Up to you to make sure it sucks less."
Silence is Gabriel's answer, but he listens.
"He'll listen to you, Tristan."
Sarah stares the Paladin-Commander down, not an easy feat by any means. Tristan is the highest-ranked Paladin in the Brotherhood, equal to Vargas and only outranked by Sarah and her father. A thirty year veteran, Tristan is the man in charge of nearly all Brotherhood field operations. He's a model soldier, one who thinks with his heart as much as his head.
"It doesn't matter if he'll listen," Tristan tells her, his voice tired and strong at the same time. "The Elder has no more control over the situation than I do. We can't afford to set up any more stations in the Mall area."
Sarah, in her full suit of power armor, frowns. "So what are we supposed to do? Wait for the super mutants to fill the holes before trying to push again? Vargas and the others didn't get more than halfway through the trench network before he had to turn back."
Tristan doesn't budge. The years, though fraught with war and conflict, have been relatively kind to him. His face is just starting to show lines of age, and though his blue-gray hair is balding on top, it doesn't diminish the man's presence in the slightest. His hard brown eyes look directly into Sarah's, and she realizes that he's not going to fold.
"Sarah, we just don't have the manpower." He's one of the few members of the Brotherhood that calls the Sentinel by her name. "I wish we could spare the troops, by we're spread thin enough in the DC ruins as it is." Tristan resumes his slow walk through the A-Ring and Sarah keeps pace with him. "Hell, when was the last time you heard about a scavenge patrol heading out into the Wasteland?"
Sarah's scowl deepens. "We keep out of the wastes because my father doesn't want us bumping into the Outcasts."
Tristan shakes his head. "It's not that simple. The Elder recognizes that the Outcasts are a problem, but we've got bigger issues. We're not sending out any patrols into the wastes because we need to keep our manpower here where we can manage it." The Paladin-Commander sighs and scratches fresh stubble on the side of his face. He wants to shave, badly, but his water ration isn't due for another two days. "We've got outposts at the Washington Monument, GNR, and I just got a secondary outpost outside of Capitol East. That's all the men we can afford to have stationed outside the Citadel." He levels a knowing gaze at the Sentinel. "You and I both know what happened to the last two checkpoints we set up in the trenches."
Sarah winces. She remembers clearly. Four Initiates and two Knights dead. Another three men injured so badly that they were never able to fight again. "We need to do something," Sarah says despite the facts presented to her. "We'll never hit the Capitol building if we can't set up any forward bases."
Tristan's voice begins to take on an bitter tone. "Maybe I'm missing the point, by why exactly are you so hell bent on taking the Capitol building anyway? Let Talon and the muties fight over it." He turns as Knight Artemis approaches with a clipboard containing the latest scouting reports and updates from the active outposts.
"They're obviously fighting over something," Sarah says angrily while Tristan looks over the papers. "There's bound to be tech stashed away in there. What happens if the mutants get access to something like that? What happens if those psychos from Talon Company gets his hands on it?"
Tristan levels a hard gaze at her. "Talk to me when you've got more than hypothetical situations, Sentinel. Otherwise, my hands are tied. If you'll excuse me, I need to go over these field reports." He salutes sharply.
Sarah is angry, but returns the gesture. "We'll speak soon, Paladin Commander."
"I look forward to it," Tristan says with a half smile. He marches down the stairs to the Lab area, Artemis following close behind.
Sarah sighs and makes her way to the Den. The Pride is all accounted for, save for the one she misses most. Sarah quickly pushes thoughts of Nathan Cain from her mind. She has to be focused and ready to lead the ones who are still alive.
They're scattered around the room. Gallows, the only one with his helmet on, is leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed. Vargas sits on an old chair, thumbing through his copy of Guns and Bullets. Dusk, Glade and Kodiak are centered around a small round table, playing Go Fish with a deck of worn cards. Colvin is the only one not wearing his armor, opting instead to work in a simple white shirt and pair of worn jeans. True to his faith and dedication, Colvin is methodically reapplying ink to the verses scrawled across his armor. His hands are steady and his pen patient. Not one word is above his scrutiny.
Vargas notices Sarah and stands quickly. He throws up a hand in salute. "Sentinel." Each member of the Pride follows suit, save for Gallows. Sarah doesn't mind. Gallows has is own ways of showing respect, and Sarah understands that.
"At ease," she tells them. Kodiak, Glade and Dusk go back to their card game, while Colvin resumes the painstaking task he's been doing for over an hour.
"How'd it go?" Vargas asks. He's practically shaking with anticipation.
Sarah's shoulders slump. "No go. I tried to go through Tristan, but he's not buying the idea of an outpost in the trenches. Says we don't have the men."
"We don't," Kodiak says with a sigh. "Pride's got more breathing room than the rest of the Brotherhood. Hell, last time I checked we're the only offensive branch left. Everybody else is stuck doing guard rotations."
Glade glances up at the scout. "Got any jacks?"
Kodiak groans and places three jacks on the table. "Go fuck yourself."
Glade grins like a loon and scoops his newly acquired set into a pile. "And that's how you get things done."
"It's stagnant," Gallows says in agreement. Everyone in the room turns to look at him. "We can do nothing but push, and can do so only when we're able."
Dusk nods and places her cards face-down on the table. "And meanwhile the muties and Talon tear up the place fighting over... over something."
"It worries me," Vargas says quietly. "It worries me that we're not able to keep pace with these monsters and maniacs."
Colvin looks over at Vargas and Sarah. "Keep strong. It is said, 'For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but of power, of love and self-discipline.'" He smiles and Sarah is reminded of just how attractive Colvin is. He isn't often seen outside of his armor. The face beneath the helmet is a gentle one, framed by a blonde buzzcut, a tuft of chin-hair and warm hazel eyes.
"Where's that one from?" Sarah asks him.
Colvin's smile grows bigger "It's 2nd Timothy; 1:7." He looks down at his armor, covered in Bible verses. "That one does not decorate my armor."
Vargas walks over and leans in to get a better look at Colvin's armor. "Why not?"
Colvin's smile falters. "The scripture displayed on this instrument of war reflect its purpose. Solace is spoken. War is seen." He points to a verse just below the left shoulder plate. "Psalm 144:1. 'Blessed the Lord, my rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle.'" He points to another that is scrawled across the front of his chest-plate. "This one is a personal favorite. It is the first I wrote upon my shell. I wrote it the day I joined the Pride."
Vargas' eyes have trouble making out the script. "I can't read your handwriting, Colvin."
Sarah cracks a grin. "I think I remember that one." She clears her throat and recites the verse from memory. "'The wicked flee when no man gives chase, but the righteous are as bold as lions.'" She looks at Colvin for confirmation and the Knight Captain smiles.
"Proverbs 28:1. I am surprised you remember."
Sarah manages a small laugh. "It's got a nice ring to it."
Glade's voice cuts from across the room. "Flamethrowers are rad bitchin'. The book of Glade chapter 1, verse 1."
Sarah turns to glare at the heavy weapons specialist, but Colvin's warm laughter stops her short. "You are so predictable," Colvin says as he turns back to his work. "Haven't we already had the talk about blasphemy?"
Glade waves his hand in the air. "Yadda yadda yadda, God gets mad when I talk bad. Deuteronomy forget-the-spot."
"Mark 2:7. 'Why doth this man speak blasphemies? Who can forgive but God only?.'" Colvin says with a grin. "Jesus loves you, Paladin Glade."
"Yes He does," Glade says with a wink at Dusk. "Hey Knight Captain, got any sevens?"
Dusk throws her cards on the table. "For the love of God, Glade."
"Jesus Christ."
Jericho and Gabriel are just outside the overpass to Arefu. The sun beats down on them, but they have other concerns. The sounds of thousands of buzzing flies fill the air. The area stinks of rotted meat.
"Gunshot wounds," Gabriel says as he inspects one of the dead brahmin. There are four of the creatures in total, all very dead and starting to bloat. Several bloody holes puncture each mutant cow. The spread of the gunfire suggests an overlapping spray from assault rifles, but Gabriel can't be sure without digging the bullets out of the diseased and fly-covered corpses.
Jericho makes a discovery. "Got shell casings over here." He kneels in the dirt and lifts up spent 5.56mm bullet. "Somebody knew what they were doing. Close spread and shit. They came here to kill brahmin, no doubt."
Gabriel moves away from the corpses. "Strange that predators haven't been at them."
Jericho nods and pulls himself up. "Musta' been recent kills. The bigger monsters usually don't come out unless it's dark. Twenty caps says that this place will be crawling with radscorpions when the sun sets."
Gabriel readies his assault rifle. "In that case we should get moving." He walks up the aged pavement of the overpass, Jericho following close behind.
Why would somebody kill the livestock? Gabriel wonders.
Jericho's train of thought is similar to Gabriel's. "Raiders and Talon would'a cut steaks out of 'em before they left. Slavers would'a taken 'em with. Nobody's stupid enough to leave food out to rot like this. Doesn't make any sense." The older man looks up the rise as a few buildings come into view. "Doesn't look like the town got hit, but we won't know until we get up there."
Gabriel holds up a hand to block the blazing sunlight. He can make out a hazy figure ahead, standing behind a low wall of sandbags. "Hey there," he calls out. "We-"
The explosion makes his teeth shake. He stumbles back against Jericho, blinking rapidly. There's a dull ringing in his ears.
Jericho snarls and pushes Gabriel behind him. The ex-raider raises his rifle. "You wanna dance, you fucker?"
A fearful voice answers, though Gabriel can barely hear it. "Christ alive, you're not one of them! I nearly blasted you in two!"
Jericho's reply is tinged with outrage. "And I'mma 'bout to cut you in two, unless you tell me who the fuck you are!"
Gabriel moves in front of the older man and pushes the barrel of Jericho's rifle down. His vision is still hazy and his ears are still ringing, but he's able to see that his attacker is nothing more than a scared old man. "We're here from Megaton!" Gabriel shouts, louder than he needs to. It's all he can do to hear his own voice.
The old man looks from Jericho to Gabriel and back again. "They... they sent someone? They sent someone to help us?"
"Hold on just a minute," Jericho growls. "We-"
"Come on!" the old man shouts, waving his hand to beckon them over. "I only had the one mine! Please, hurry!"
Gabriel stumbles forward, a caution hand on his rifle's grip. "What the hell is going on here?" he says, straining to hear himself.
"No idea," Jericho replies. His face is stony and his eyes betray a flicker of apprehension.
"Whatever it is, I don't fuckin' like it."
LM here,
So yeah. It's almost the end of May. First half of a two-part story arch.
Fuck my life.
Seriously though, I think I went through 5 rewrites before I found something I was satisfied with. FaW got closed out, Fire Eternal hasn't quite taken off yet, and here I sit with what I believe is the best story I've written, and I can't bring myself to call a chapter done.
Until now.
The most fun I probably had with this chapter rests with Sarah's segment and the situations involving the Pride. There's something about working with that cast of characters, getting to see how they work and react to one another, that really brings life to the storytelling process. I especially enjoyed bringing Colvin's character into a bit more light. Quoting from the Bible isn't easy, but it makes for some wonderful scenes. (I'm not religious, I just think that faiths in general are fascinating and that Holy texts can make for some great character dialogue and plot devices.)
Putting Gabriel in jail was probably the best thing I did for this chapter. He's had to suffer the consequences of his actions, and now he's in a situation where he loses everything if he doesn't put his crap aside. I'm also glad I paired him up with Jericho. What a fun character.
I think I could have done the whole 'Gabriel goes to Arefu' thing a little better, but it didn't make any sense for Gabriel to just make amends with Lucy and do her a favor. It didn't taste right. Being blackmailed into the delivery tasted right. This whiskey tastes right. (Stay thirsty, my friends.)
As a final note, I included some firearms and weapon additions from Fallout New Vegas into the story. If there was anything in Fallout 3 that I wanted more of, it was guns and lots of variety in those guns. Though we certainly got some memorable firearms (everybody's got that story of how they took out a behemoth with their trusty scoped .44), I felt like the selections could have been broader and more unique. New Vegas capitalized on this idea, allowing players to create a truly custom arsenal that fit their needs, rather than just having to settle for whatever weapon happened to fit the bill like you had to in Fallout 3 (I'm looking at you, Silenced 10mm and Infiltrator). The expansions did what Fallout 3 expansions should have; giving us more guns, different and tactical ammo types, as well as a slew of optional (and awesome), weapon modifications. That was one of the big things that FNV did right, and now that I'm in my new play-through, I'm starting to see even more that they did right.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this latest installment. I'm finally satisfied with the damn thing.
All my best, and review if you liked!
Levi Matthews
