The conscripts were halfway to the Anchorage Memorial. Jackrum marched sullenly along the broken highway. To either side, great crumbling ruins of city towers reached for the sky. Rebar and broken concrete dotted the road. Slung across the Sergeant's back was the comforting weight of a Chinese assault rifle. Jackrum had owned the thing for over eight years, and kept it in excellent repair.
Behind the old veteran, the group of conscripts were walking and talking happily. The subject of their conversations didn't particularly interest Jackrum. And he knew what they'd be in any case: macho descriptions of fights, adventures (both their own and the Wanderer's), their plans for their commission money, sexual conquests, and the conflict between the supermutants and the brotherhood of steel. If he were younger, he would have joined in. What he'd learned, mostly through experience, was the fact that very rarely did they possess any real knowledge of the conversation topics; questioning why the brotherhood was having any trouble at all made sense until one was trapped behind a twisted piece of concrete as three masters and an overlord were busily chipping it away with miniguns. Then the Brotherhood's troubles suddenly began to make sense. All the mercs who'd been caught in that trap never questioned the Brotherhood again. And as for the sexual conquests… the whole experience was far more mundane than anything the sick and twisted mind of a young man could dream up. Those who boasted the most, actually got the least.
Jackrum looked backwards and spotted mister 'Fletcher' at the end of the line, bent slightly by the weight of the packs on his back. The young man was taking the punishment stoically, and silently. Instead of taking part in the conversation, his efforts seemed more focused on watching the ruins in the same way that Jackrum was doing. The old sergeant slowed his pace, allowing the group to pass him until he was walking side by side with the kid, both of them watching the shadows of the buildings. The veteran wasn't entirely sure the young man knew that he was doing it. Watching and cataloguing the colors and shapes of the wasteland became second nature to those who wandered it frequently, and the kid's mind had very obviously gone on autopilot. Jackrum's approach brought him back, and he watched the sergeant warily.
"How is it going, 'Fletcher'?" Jackrum asked, lighting a cigarette.
"Can't complain." The kid shrugged.
Jackrum took a drag and puffed out a smoke ring. He examined the liar carefully, taking in the black, mussed hair. "Where were you born, kid?"
"En route," Came the quiet answer.
"From where to where?"
"Point A, Point B. But I'm pretty sure my parents were from the commonwealth if that's any help…"
"Commonwealth, huh?"
"That's right."
"You're not very good at it, you know."
"Good at what, Sarge?"
"Keeping this whole charade going."
"Charade, Sarge?"
"Don't play the fool, boy. I've been on both ends of that one."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Sarge."
"Do I call you Howlett, or Fletcher?"
"Everyone calls me Fletcher." The young man replied.
"Only because they think it's what you're called."
"Funny how that works, isn't it sarge?" the kid asked as they trudged down the dirty street.
Jackrum continued to watch him, "You know what I think?"
"Nope."
"I think you're brotherhood."
This time it was the conscript's turn to give the veteran a sharp look, "What makes you say that, Sarge?"
"You're used to travel, and combat. And it's just in your eyes." Jackrum shrugged, "My first guess was that you were the Lone Wanderer, but a few things don't match up there."
"Like what? The face?"
"People can change their faces." Jackrum told him, glancing at the boy's scalp, "And their hair color. It takes caps and a damned good doc, but it can be done. That tan line screams 'Pipboy' so bad you can hear it for miles. But no, you aren't the Lone Wanderer because he wouldn't bother infiltrating us. We're not important enough for that. Anything he wanted from us, he could walk into Fort Bannister and take. And he could do it without any of us spotting him. Besides, he already interrogated me and my squad, after killing half of us. I told him what I knew, and he left us alone."
"And say I was the Lone Wanderer?" the young man asked carefully.
Jackrum felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Be careful! They were telling him. He said, "If you were, there's not much I could do about it. It'd be suicidal to try anything, and I happen to like my skin enough to want to stay on the inside of it. Look, so long as I don't get caught up in it, I don't much care what he does, or what you do, to the Talon Company. It's my meal ticket. That's it. And I have other options."
The boy nodded silently, staring into the ruins. He slowed to a halt, staring into one of the windows. Jackrum followed his gaze and caught a flash of orange nad the glint of gunmetal.
"Fuck!" he breathed. The kid was already moving. He pulled out an assault rifle, and began firing over the heads of the other recruits, making them panic and dash for the end of the street. A trail of smoke followed a rocket which had flown out of an upper window and impacted where the recruits had been not moments before. The gunfire had panicked them and caused them to run, saving their lives, but leaving Jackrum and Fletcher alone in the ruins.
The air began to hiss and whine as the windows all around them filled with orange and green Supermutants. Jackrum fought down his shock at the speed of the ambush and bolted for cover: a set of old concrete dividers. A mutant got a bead on him, and chunks of asphalt chased him the last few feet as he dove over the side of the concrete cover and untangled his Chinese assault rifle. He leaned out slightly, trying to figure out what the hell had happened to the conscripts.
Jackrum watched the group scatter as the mutants above opened fire with assault rifles. The more alert mercenaries fired back. And within seconds the entire area was filled with gunsmoke. Jackrum spotted a supermutant with a hunting rifle peeking out of a second story window. He raised his own assault rifle, steadying it against the edge of the concrete divider, and opened fire, watching the little puffs of shrapnel crawl across the window, driving the monster back into the shadows A second abomination spotted him and began to pepper the area with 5.56mm rounds. Jack sat back in his cover, itching for a cigarette, wincing at the chips of concrete landing around him. He rolled onto his stomach and crawled along the line of dividers until he reached the edge. A supermutant with a hunting rifle was peeking out of the window of a bombed out building. The veteran set its neck in his sights and pulled the trigger. He was rewarded with a shower of red as the supermutant's brains splattered on the window frame.
More bullets spattered down at him and he crawled back. He leaned against the divider, pulled out a cigarette, and struck a match on the barricade. He took a few puffs to calm his nerves, then tried to think. A grenade landed beside him and he tossed it back over the barricade, not caring where it landed.
Down the street, the recruiters had formed the terrified recruits into a solid base of fire, and were slowly moving away from the ambush zone. Straight ahead of him, an empty building sat invitingly. The only thing stopping him from a frantic dash to safety was the wall of lead slowly chewing away his cover. A bullet ricocheted in the narrow space between two dividers and took the end off of his cigarette.
There was a sudden thud and Fletcher landed beside him. The kid was bleeding in a dozen places, but still functional, and grinning, "Times like this makes you feel alive, eh Sarge?"
"Don't be a fucking idiot!" Jackrum snarled, pulling the kid's smoking gun barrel towards him. The veteran pressed the shredded end of his cigarette against the heat of the barrel and took another experimental puff, "Where the hell have you been?"
Fletcher gestured freely at the empty silent buildings in front of them. Behind them, the mutants kept up a continuous stream of bullets.
"Making sure they didn't fire at you from this side." The kid explained, reloading.
Jackrum leaned out of cover and spat a dozen rounds at an orange silhouette. Something else began firing at him from further down the street. The old Sergeant flashed his middle finger at it and kept shooting, taking down another supermutant before he ducked back behind cover.
The kid motioned for him to stop, and sat silently, eyes shut, listening to the noise of the battle. Eventually he opened his eyes and nodded, "Sixteen supermutants. Six assault rifles, one Chinese assault rifle, a minigun, the rest have hunting rifles. Assault rifles on second and third floors, hunting rifles on first floor." He frowned, "Organized."
They both ducked as a missile passed inches over their heads and hit the wall in front of them, blowing a giant hole in it. Dust billowed from the fresh hole, obscuring the entire battlefield.
"…And the one with the missile." The kid added as an afterthought, "But don't worry, they have awful aim!"
"Comforting!" the old sergeant yelled, peeking out between two dividers to attack another mutant, blinding it. The kid got on one knee and fired five three-round bursts, his face blank. The amount of incoming fire lessened considerably with the action. On top of that, Jackrum couldn't hear the whoosh of the missile launcher anymore either.
"Go for the building!" The kid ordered, reloading, "I'll cover you! Three, two one, move!"
Jackrum bolted for the opening in the building, trying to ignore the zip and zing of hot metal. He entered the gap and turned backwards, feeling much more secure. He leaned against the wall beside the gap and took aim at the closest mutant. His assault rifle bucked against his shoulder six times and the mutant fell, a bullet in its brain. Gunpowder stung his eyes, and Jackrum made a private note to buy some goggles the next time he was in Rivet City. He moved on to the next mutant and opened fire, bathing it's doorway in lead. One of his bullets caught a lucky opening in its armour because the thing keeled over, it's hand going into spasms and spraying the entire area with a full magazine's worth of assault rifle rounds.
Fletcher dove through the doorway and joined him. The kid fought with calm precision, his accurate three-round bursts putting Jackrum's own Pump-enough-lead-into-it-and-it'll-fall-down-eventually method to shame.
They stayed there for what seemed like an eternity, reloading and firing, reloading and firing. The battle ended pathetically. There was no triumphant climax, no dangerous charge. The incoming fire just became less and less until just one lonely supermutant with a hunting rifle was taking potshots at the hole in the wall. Fletcher ended it with a single well-aimed assault rifle round.
Jackrum sank to the floor of the pre-war building, gripping his Chinese assault rifle between his legs, its butt resting on the floor, the tip in the air, smoke rising from it. Even at this distance he could feel the barrel's heat on his grimy, dust-covered face. The old veteran searched, his fingers scrambling amongst the dust and pebbles, but he couldn't' find the remains of his cigarette, so he pulled the pack out from under his chest armour. The tantalizing orange tip of the filtered deathstick shone like a diamond in a chimney sweep's ear. He pulled the bent fag out with his teeth and buried the packet away.
A match flared, and Fletcher held it out, lighting the Sergeant's cigarette for him. Jackrum took a puff, then leaned back and let his head hit the wall with a thump, "I'll tell you something, kid." He said, "You continue fighting like that and you'll be real popular around fort bannister."
In old times, a common trade was that of 'The Rag and Bone Man'. A ghoulish walker, making his way from door to door with a horse drawn cart. The man collected junk, rags, and yes, bodies and bones. Human, animal, it didn't matter. Everything was useful to someone. Things were passed down until someone low enough on the social scale was willing to use it. The collector moved through the streets ringing a deadened bell to let the locals know he was around. The emotions of the listeners as they heard the death toll was oft one of loathing and sickened disgust.
As she negotiated her way down through the blackened rocks to the coarse sand beach, Sarah felt that same sickness. She had no idea where the ringing was coming from. She strongly suspected it was a bell attached to one of the buoys, being bucked and rocked by the rolling ocean waves, but she wished for absolutely nothing more than to dive off one of the shredded, salt-caked docks, swim out, and dismantle it, or wrap a cloth around the knocker. Blow up the entire buoy, even. Anything to stop the death toll.
Their objective sat on a small rocky mound, too small to be a peninsula, and too high to be a spit. An old, unused word crept into her mind; byland.
The lighthouse itself was a tall building, seven stories painted white and green. Black windows crawled up the sides. The paint itself was cracked and chipped, revealing the ancient stone beneath. Eldritch hanging moss and strange creeping vines had overtaken the sides
This structure had been old when the bombs fell. It was still standing two hundred years after. Sarah suspected that, if left untouched, it would stand until the end of time itself. As would the rest of Point Lookout. What was happening to the building was not decay; it was being claimed by Point Lookout, becoming a natural part of the landscape instead of a human construct atop it.
However at that moment, it was still a human structure, and solid enough to use as a defensible position. The small island was connected to the mainland by a narrow bridge, covered in water during the high tide, and wet and slippery during low tide ancient strands of aquatic plant life covered it. As the expedition made their way across, fields of the bulbous green growths crackled and squished beneath their feet, the slime coating their boots and making it difficult to move. The small island had been overtaken by weeds and punga plants leaving only a worn, steep, and narrow path to the door of the lighthouse.
The expedition was forced to ascend the slope one at a time, and Sarah regretted how open and exposed they were. Any competent sharp-shooter could have made short work of them. She reminded herself that anyone or anything else attempting to reach the heavy door of the building would encounter the same disadvantage. Colvin was a competent sniper. Gallows was so much more than that.
She was the first to step inside the lighthouse. As her training dictated, she scanned the room twice. Once to verify it was clear of enemies, and the second time to actually examine it. The dusk sunlight shone through a window on the far wall. A dirty jukebox sat in the corner, though the room's most identifiable feature was an enormous ornate winding staircase spiraling up the inside of the tower. Bones and skeletons were scattered all over the floor. Sarah suspected that a few of them had fallen from the top of the staircase.
She took a few steps forward, scanning the ceiling, and the floor of the lighthouse opened up beneath her feet.
To me, one of the subtle, though ultimate signs of badass is lighting a cigarette with the barrel of a gun. It's just awsome.
One of my favorite books in the entire world is Nightwatch by Terry Pratchett. Vimes is amazing and that book is the best of the entire series. Jackrum is at least partially based on Sam Vimes.