Fingers rustled in Jackrum's money purse. Unfortunately for the thief, the veteran Merc was a light sleeper, a useful quality for someone who spent his life wandering the wastes. His hand struck like a cobra and caught the culprit by the front of his shirt.
Jackrum opened his eyes and looked at the boy, who was struggling in the forlorn hope of loosening the Merc's iron grip. The veteran rose to a sitting position and examined the urchin, "What's your name, kid?"
"James!" the child said defiantly, pulling at Jackrum's arm. He hadn't yet realized the effort was futile.
The veteran held out a hand, "My money."
"I don't-"
Jackrum lifted the kid clear into the air, surprised at just how light the young one actually was. With his shoes dangling a foot off the ground, the child considered his position, then reluctantly produced five bottlecaps and laid them in Jackrum's palm. The Sergeant's hand remained outstretched, "And the rest of it?"
From various horrible pockets, the child produced another ten caps. Jackrum set him down, still keeping a tight hold on the child's shirt. The sergeant considered his new acquaintance, "You're good, kid. Fast. Anyone who manages to dip that far into my wallet without waking me up deserves to keep the extra half-dozen caps he has hidden in his coat."
The child stared at Jackrum in astonishment.
"Don't deny it," the merc warned, "My name is Jackrum. I know every trick in the book. If you try the old dippitydoodah on me again, I'll tan your ass until you start shitting blood. Do you understand me?"
The child nodded, terrified.
"Good." Jackrum let him go, "Use that cash to buy yourself a meal. Looks say you haven't eaten properly in what, four days?"
The grimy urchin nodded. It was probably closer to six.
Jackrum heard a harsh woman shouting, "James? James? Where are you ya little shit?"
The enormous iron door opened and said woman stepped through, her face diverting Jackrum down memory lane. What had it been? Ten years? Fifteen? She was older now, and what once had been a pretty face, time, cigarette smoke, and alcohol, had ruined.
"There you are!" the woman said as Jackrum let the pickpocket go. He noticed that the child did not run to his mother, but instead ran to the corner furthest away from her. So…Tammy abused more than alcohol these days…
The woman caught sight of him and put her hands on her hips, a false look of joy on her face, "Jonathon Rumsfeld," She said, "I always wondered when you'd come crawling back."
"People call me 'Jackrum' now." The merc told her, lighting a cigarette. He leaned back against the cold metal wall, letting the temperature shock wake him up further.
"I don't' care," she told him in a tone of sarcastic sweetness, "You'll always be 'Fuckface' to me. As in 'Fuckface, where's my money?'."
"That was ten years ago." Jackrum replied, "Give it up."
"Thirteen, to be exact!" she said, pointing at the child, who had curled up in the corner.
"Oh, shut up you stupid drunken whore!" Jackrum motioned at the kid with his cigarette, "I remember how you were back then. Every single man on this ship coulda bin his father. You're just lookin' to pin him on someone. An' it ain't me."
"How do you know?" the woman demanded angrily.
"Cos you took it in the mouth, remember?"
"Fuck you!
"And ya swallowed it, too." He rose and stretched, feeling his back crack.
Tammy Hargrave was moving towards him at high speed. He blocked her clumsy slap and responded with one of his own which sent her reeling to the floor. She glared up at him, nursing the new welt on her cheek.
"I'm a true believer in Equality." Jackrum said, scratching himself, "If you try to hit me, I'll hit you back, whether you're a man, or a woman, it doesn't matter to me."
"Fuckface!" she spat, "I'll call Rivet City Security!"
"Yeah?" Jackrum asked, sizing her up, "I spent almost a hundred caps at the Muddy Rudder last night, and that ain't half of what I brought with me. Reckon your bar tab is longer than a deathclaw's tail. I know Rivet City Security, and they side with those who have the money to bribe'em. Now if you'd excuse me, I have a Job to do. Maybe you should get one. Then your kid wouldn't have to steal for you."
"I loved you once!" the woman shouted, a last ditch attempt to elicit some sympathy.
Jackrum stepped out the door, saying: "Only because I had the money to buy you Jet."
As he walked away, he heard Tammy begin to scream at her son.
Wasteland life… he thought sullenly.
Jackrum bought himself breakfast at Gary's Galley, a cantina situated at the far end of the Rivet City marketplace, formerly the beached aircraft carrier's hanger. He ate a dry Mirelurk cake along with a tepid, disgusting Nuka-Cola and a bottle of purified water. He bought a dozen more bottles for the trip, and sidled out the front door of Rivet city.
The other two Talon Company recruiters had already arrived, and were busy setting their new charges in a line. Behind them was a pile of knapsacks, full of supplies. A stack of assault rifles was sitting beside it. The recruits were gathered in a loose gaggle. Young Spadge was at the far end, an arm around his woman's waist. She herself looked half dead, having been kept up for far too long and drinking far too much. But Jackrum's eyes were fixed on a young, black-haired recruit, the most lucid of the lot. The kid kept glancing down the beach at a nearby supermutant camp. Jackrum could see the heavy green shapes moving about between the giant twisted steel defenses.
The Sergeant leaned against the wall next to a Rivet City guard and watched the recruiters set to work organizing the party.
"Morning Joey." He muttered.
"Morning Jackrum." The Guard replied, "Have a good time?"
"Mostly." Jackrum shrugged. After a moment he said, "I slapped Tammy Hargrave."
The Guard shrugged, "Noone likes her. Noone'll care. Besides, she beats her kid."
A surge of guilt flowed through Jackrum's system. He felt a small desire to go back and find the bitch, but resisted, reminding himself that it wasn't his business.
Instead he focused his attention on the suspicious recruit, "Have you ever heard the name Jason Howlett?" he asked.
"Nope." The guard replied, "Who is he?"
"That's just it." Jackrum told him, "I don't know. I'm calling in the favor you owe me."
"I can dig around in the archives and the city's residents list, but if he ain't there…" the guard shrugged.
"Just try."
"I will."
They watched as one of the recruiters began yelling at his new charges, trying to whip them into shape for the long journey back to fort bannister. 'Fletcher' seemed almost relaxed, obeying the given orders and completely ignoring the drill sergeant's tone of voice. Jackrum squinted as he noticed the kid's left hand. It was almost pure white. He propelled himself off the wall and walked along the drawbridge. The drill sergeant, misinterpreting his actions, shouted, "And now Sergeant Jackrum'll give you a few words.
Jackrum glowered at the man, but turned to the ragged conscripts and examined them. Fletcher aside, they were the usual motley crew of drunkards, waifs, strays, and young men with far too much testosterone for their own damn good health. Most of them were swaying in the morning sun, suffering from hangovers. The rest looked as if they hadn't reached the hangover stage yet, having put the bottle down just ten minutes before being marched out. Jackrum ran his eyes along their tired, bedraggled ranks (a dozen in total) and wondered how many were going to live to see their next birthdays.
"It's a good life," he said, "If you survive. Keep your head down, listen to the more experienced guys, and follow orders. That's no guarantee, but it will increase your chances. Everyone say yes Sarge."
The assembled mob mumbled the phrase. Down at the end of the line, his arm still around his woman, Spadge vomited, the ugly chunk-filled yellow sludge dripping through the holes in the tread of the bridge and splashing in the shallow water far below.
Jackrum ignored him, lighting a cigarette, "Listen up!" he ordered, making a few ears perk, "I don't want to hear about your momma, your girl, your kid sister, your kid brother, growing up in Rivet city or wherever you came from… don't show me any pictures, don't tell me your first name. I don't want to hear how many supermutants you think you're going to kill, or what you plan to do after you finish up with us. Above all, don't tell me that it's too quiet." He puffed his cigarette and blew the smoke out over their heads, "If there's one thing I've learned about being a Merc, it's that it can never be too quiet. My name's Jackrum. Most of you will be dead by next week, and I don't feel like getting to know you."
Speech made, he was finally able to focus his attention Fletcher's hand. He walked over and stood in front of the conscript, who gazed back blankly. Jackrum's gaze traveled down to the kid's chalk-white hand. His fingers were very dark, calloused, and worn, obviously used to hard work. But the palm and the back of the hand, stretching all the way up into the sleeve, were covered in the lightest skin Jackrum had ever seen. IT looked as if it had never touched true sunlight. He grabbed the hand and pulled the sleeve up revealing the alabaster skin going all the way up to the kid's elbow.
Jackrum looked at him sharply, "The only thing I've seen which would leave a tan like that is some very fine lingerie."
"I do indulge occasionally…" the kid said, "…Sarge."
Some of the more alert members of the crowd laughed. Someone wolf-whistled. Jackrum and Fletcher glared at each other. The veteran had originally thought the kid to be very young, but at this distance, he began to notice things: the kid's face was covered in small nicks and scars. His stubble was much fuller than Jackrum had originally thought. In the kid's blue eyes, concealed behind the innocent look, was that steel wall. There were other signs which the old sergeant recognized; the kid had killed before, and grown used to it, too. Jackrum could tell by the kid's build that he was also used to hard travel and a hard diet.
Jackrum stepped back and pointed at the pile of knapsacks, "Pick up a bag, Mister Fletcher."
The kid obeyed, hefting the pack, which was full of water, beans, and ammunition. Heavy; At least twenty pounds. Jackrum circled, watching the kid's expression. Fletcher seemed completely unconcerned.
"Spadge over there is not in any shape to carry his supplies." Jackrum told the conscript, "Pick up another pack."
The kid obeyed, still unconcerned. Jackrum turned to the group at large, "Does anyone else not want to carry their shit?"
The smallest conscript in the division raised a cautious hand. Jackrum turned back to Fletcher, "Pick up another pack, son."
The kid obeyed, grunting slightly. A few members of the squad were wincing in sympathy. Jackrum walked over to the stack of assault rifles and pulled out three. He hung them over Fletcher's shoulder.
"Let's see…" he said, doing some mental calculations, "That's three packs, at fifteen pounds a pack." His lips moved as he silently worked through the equation. He was quite proud of his ability to do 'sums' as the old woman who had taught him called it.
"Forty-five pounds, Sarge." Fletcher told him, prompting some laughter among the ranks.
"And the rifles at seven pounds each?"
"Sixty-six." The kid answered.
"Sixty-six pounds and you're still being a smart-ass." Jackrum said to the group at large. The other recruiters watched in amusement, "Pick up another pack and another rifle, Mister Fletcher."
At this point, the kid began to strain visibly as he bent down and retrieved the items.
"Gods…you're a pack mule." Jackrum turned to the division, "We have a long haul ahead of us." He began to pass out the bottles of water he had bought from Gary's Galley, "Take a drink and save the rest. Everyone pick up something, the bigger ones take a pack, the smaller ones, take a rifle. The biggest take both. Do it!"
The group moved towards the piles and began sorting through the supplies.
One of the recruiters came up to him. Jackrum recalled the man from the previous night. A peevish little runt named Hakeswill, "Two more teams are meeting us at the anchorage memorial. They want this group brought in intact. The last shipment got tagged by muties."
"Alright," Jackrum said, "Get'em moving."
Glanced at the group and spotted Spadge, who was leaning on his girlfriend for support. Jackrum marched over and surveyed the pair of them. He addressed the girl first, as she seemed the more capable of answering, "You coming with us all the way to fort bannister?"
She gave him a toothy grin, and then burst into a fit of giggles. Spadge started laughing too, for no apparent reason. Jackrum ripped them apart and cuffed his protégé. This only made the girl laugh so hard she had to turn away. Jackrum, fed up, gave her a kick in the bum which sent her sprawling across the surface of the bridge like a ragdoll, a half-used Jet inhaler flying from her pocket. Joey the security guard came forward to retrieve her. As the man in combat armour lead the girl away, Jackrum looked back to Spadge, who was giving him a half-lidded idiot grin.
"You're baked, aren't you?" the veteran asked.
"You bet Sarge!"
"Jet?"
"Uh-huh."
"I think you need a cold shower." Jackrum said.
"Might help, Sarge." Spadge agreed, still giggling. His voice faltered as he realized what his sergeant meant. Jackrum nodded, and then pushed him over the railing and into the ice-cold water below.
"Catch up when you can!" he ordered at the figure who was dogpaddling desperately towards the shore, shouting curses.
Calvert mansion was a disheartening sight. An area of square foundation upon which had been piled large mounds of rubbish and detritus. Bits of wood and stone, some white planking which had obviously been the outer walls of the house, were all that was left of the family's former home.
Colvin crouched beside one particularly large mound and examined the edge of the wood, "Charred." He told them.
Sarah shut her eyes tightly, and then cleared her thoughts. She refused to believe that the G.E.C.K. had been in there when the building had gone up. That wasn't an option. IT was somewhere in Point Lookout, and they were going to find it!
"Spread out!" she ordered, "Look for advanced technology, maps, documents, or something else which might tell us where the G.E.C.K. is."
The scribes and soldiers fanned out amongst the ruins, picking through the debris. Those in power armour were lifting the larger chunks of wood out of the way, allowing the scribes access to whatever was underneath. It was dirty work. The constant fog and oceanic moisture had resulted in rot and bugs taking refuge in the rubbish. Small land-crabs would snap at exposed fingers, though no one who'd been at the wrong end of a mirelurk attack was really bothered by it.
Sarah watched them for a while, then wandered over to Gallows, who was once again standing stock still, staring into the foreboding forest.
"Report." She ordered quietly.
"It's still in the trees," Gallows passed her the sniper rifle, "One O'clock from that old tree, edge of the forest."
Sarah followed his instructions and peered into the murky depths of the thick growth. She could make out a very faint light in the distance, shining through the tree branches. An enormous bloated shape blocked the light for just a moment, and then disappeared. Sarah squinted and searched the treeline for it, but the creature, whatever it was, had gone.
"There are also Mirelurks on the shoreline." Gallows said, pulling the rifle away, "Giant ones."
Sarah glanced at the shoreline and did indeed spot the crab-like bipedal shapes. These ones were about one-third larger than the capital wasteland mirelurks. They also differed in their coloring. Whereas the mirelurks Sarah was used to dealing with had pale, bleached shells, these giant possessed dark green shells and significantly larger pincers.
"Add to that, the sun, and we're in real trouble." Gallows observed.
"The sun?" Sarah squinted up into the pale, colorless sky at the faint yellow glow.
"How many hours has it been since we woke up?" The Scout asked.
"Two. Three tops." Sarah guessed, glancing at the forest, hoping for a glimpse of the watcher.
"Then why is it already setting?" Gallows demanded. He pointed in the direction of his own faint shadow, "That way is east, the sun is on the west side and falling."
She looked up at the sky, and down at her own shadow. It took her a moment to get her bearings, but once she did, Sarah felt the deep, subtle and consuming fear grab hold of her. "How?" she choked, "How could the sun move?"
Gallows held a finger up against his helmet's filter, and she understood; to point it out to the expedition could only spell disaster.
"Find Shelter." He said.
"We'll head back to the hotel after we're done here." She decided.
Gallows shook his head, "The walls are as soft and flimsy as toilet paper. We need a defensible position for when they come."
"They?"
"The watchers." The scout told her, "That forest is full of them."
A voice cried out from the search party. Sarah turned, glad of the distraction, and hurried over to Colvin, who was crouched in front of a hatchway. She felt a small amount of excitement as the Knight-Captain opened it. Artemis went down first and shouted the all clear. Sarah herself clambered down the ladder and found herself in a small cramped space loaded with supplies. Television sets with blank screens had been piled all over.
"It's a survival shelter." Artemis told her as the rest of the expedition gazed down through the hatch.
A computer had been placed on a small desk. Sarah called for Rothchild and the scribe climbed gingerly down the ladder.
"Do you se anything which looks like a G.E.C.K.?" Sarah asked as the Scribe examined the room. Rothchild shook his head. He edged past her bulky, power-armoured form and began leafing through the papers on the top of the desk. He pulled out a map and held it up to the faint light for Sarah to see. The map itself was an old, prewar tourist guide to Point Lookout. Recently someone had scratched over it in pencil. Neat straight lines formed a giant triangle. Several calculations had been written beside it. The entire thing looked like gibberish to Sarah, but Rothchild was smiling.
"It's triangulation!" he said excitedly. Sarah exchanged a bewildered glance with Artemis.
"You pick three points which you know the location of, and use geometry to discern a fourth!" Rothchild grinned and stared down at the ancient map, "Whoever did this was quite clever, and looking for something very specific."
"Where was this person trying to find?"
"The lighthouse, by the looks of it." The Scribe said, engrossed in the little scrap of paper.
"Because that one's just so hard to see." Artemis observed sourly.
"Someone was interested in it," Sarah said, "I want to know why. Lets move."
I know Jackrum's first scene may have seemed really harsh, and really dark, but this story is rated Mature for a reason.
I love writing Jackrum. He's more fun than Sarah.
The observant will realize that the map Rothchild found was Desmond figuring out where Calvert was hiding.
And a mystery has been solved: I found out why I see the supermutants as orange. This one really shocked me: apparently I'm red/green colorblind. I'm not entirely sure whether I really believe it either, but I took the test http:/ and yeah...
Anyway yeah, I don't see the green in the supermutants' hides because I can't see the green. All I see is the orange and man, is it bright. Damned useful, too. Kinda like a permanent version of Boone's Spotter perk.
