Chapter 21: The Invasion
After what seemed like days of wandering through a more flat wasteland; roads, sidewalks, what was left after the atomic war, me and Jeremy could see it in the distance - Weston Ranch… or at least we thought so. It was an old, raggedy ranch house with surprisingly more fertile land than the rest. We were walking from behind it, and clouds started to form.. Thank heavens - who knows
what those bombs did to the rain? Most likely the same in what the Outcasts gave me in that murky water.
In real-time, the walk took us one and a half hours, but this land was so unfamiliar it could have been days for all we knew; it felt so long. Especially with the threat of those things Hamsworth called "Slavers". The answer was in the name; bad people willing to sell good people for caps. The thought of it made me shutter. What a regular Joe does out here is beyond me, but a slaver? Yikes.
I shook the thought away from my head and continued moving forward with Jeremy, who was clutching his pistol for dear life. As we approached the ass-end of the ranch, we stopped to see two badly put together windows with no glass covering them. Just two small squares really. Part of me was thinking that robot screwed us with a long abandoned building, or perhaps it's memories were that of before the war when this truly was a ranch. That is, until a huge plume of smoke and a loud gunshot absolutely flooded out of the hollow window, making me jump, and Jeremy fall flat on his back.
"Holy shit!" He yelled in excitement and fear, capping the gun all throughout the outside of the ranch house. He was hoping to nail whoever set off the gunshot like a fool, while I remained behind a long, burned-out tree with my gun handy. "Dammit Jeremy, HOLD IT!" I yelled out to him as he halted his fire. He would keep shooting if he still had ammo though. The loud clicking of an empty clip was all that remained before he realized he was nothing more than a sitting duck. There was a long pause of silence before we heard another cock of the large gun in the house, ready to shoot again. We were told this place was friendly, so I made it visible to our attacker that I threw my gun from behind the tree. "Don't shoot!" I yelled, "We're friendlies!" I added. The shooter was no doubt on the upstairs window-hole, ready to take us kids down. To add onto my submission, I slowly headed out where Jeremy was; in the open, with my hands behind my head. When I reached my friend's side, I dropped to my knees while he remained sitting down with an empty gun on the dirt.
Still, silence…
The suspense was killing me, and Jeremy was just getting mad; he hated being bested. I could tell with the heavy breathing and shivering of pure anger. Even in a situation like this I wouldn't mind telling him to get over it, but it's in his nature unfortunately. Someday he'll realize that the wasteland wouldn't always be in his favor..
Within seconds, we heard from the ranch window, "who is it!? Whad'ya want!?"
It was a girl's voice. A very rough-voiced country accent.
I took a deep breath to calm myself and said, "Our robot told us we could come here. That it's a safe place!" I yelled back to her.
"...Oh yeah? Well that robot done lied to you! Ain't shit safe here! Who the hell are you anyway?!" Said the voice.
"We're… we're kids of Carlile's." He's apparently a big wig out here, what other credibility do I have? "...Just trying to find Greensville - maybe bunk in here for the night.."
The lady finally revealed herself through the window: she had a dirty light blue button-down shirt with rolled up sleeves and jeans. Typical farm hand clothes, and a classic farmer gun in-hand, an old Winchester rifle, lever-action. One of those cowboy series I used to listen to on the holotapes back in the vault mentioned a rifle like that could launch a man straight off his horse. I see she was a force not to be reckoned with.
"Carlile, huh?"
"Yes ma'am." I replied as polite as I could.
"Damn." she cursed while looking down at us, "You boys ain't but, what, fourteen, fifteen?"
"Sixteen." We both said at the same time.
"Well shoot, I've shot plum one of everything on this earth, but kids? Hell no."
I sighed in relief.
"I know you boys must be new to the wasteland game, but rule number one: don't walk in the dead center of a rifleman's sights! Walkin' the road is fine, but don't you ever suspect an empty house is empty. Poor friend of yours there nearly got a hole blown in his belly!"
I took a breath, "Got it!"
"Now get up, the both of ya! I already got enough debts with folks of ill-repute! Don't want to be the gal with the seed of Carlile's blood on ma' hands."
She headed downstairs, and I stood back up to help Jeremy to his feet. He was still baffled that we were still alive, but it was obvious anything can happen out here. After dusting himself off, Jeremy holstered his gun and muttered, "don't trust her for a second." "Don't think I will - but keep in mind that we're royalty out here now.." With that, we made our way around to the front of the ranch house. It was a little bit more fixed up around front, but still dingy. There were actually some lush produce from the ground out there, despite the radiation. When we headed up the small flight of stairs, there she was; still holding that rifle downwards. Up close, she had a quite wrinkled face; grime too - nothing unusual for a wastelander. "Come on in boys" she said gruffly, "Ya'll can stay here for the night."
"That's very nice of you, ma'am." I replied with a smile.
"This ain't to benefit you cause I like you - this be a benefit to you because if I don't, yer' father's gonna find out I didn't. Now get inside before the ghouls come out!"
It was… interesting, this place. Felt a tad more cozy than the sewer, though it still smelled like it. The place was just a bunch of old wood overlapped by new wood by the owner. Hardly any light either; just some lanterns nicely placed across the house's few tables. She was doing it for a reason though. This was a little after the sun began to set which was why. The woman who still had no name just had us sit down and eat some stew/soup called "Molerat". I truly hope it wasn't the main ingredient, but all in all, it was alright.
Jeremy remained silent again - he sure didn't like it when nothing was going on, but to me, that was heaven.
I didn't want to impose, so after dinner, I offered to help wash the few dishes she had sitting in the sink for her, but it was obvious that she was paranoid as hell about strangers. So as Jeremy licked the bowl like a dog, I turned the chair around towards the kitchen where I sat informally with the back between my legs. She had a very droll look on her face, like something bothered her, but was hiding it..
"So are you scared of our, uhh, father? Miss…"
She continued to wipe the plates with ease, but puffed air through her nose, "Shoot, I ain't scared of Mr. Carlile."
I tipped my head, "Then why are you giving us all this food and shelter?"
"Cause like I said: I ain't got no reason to kill kids, not unless they're tryin' to kill me. So far, you two look harmless."
Jeremy cut in, "Don't count on it, sister."
I turned around to meet his eyes and give him the "shut up!" look. He did.
"Pfft! With the way you were shootin', you couldn't even nail a Deathclaw in it's chest to save your life!" The woman spat.
I stopped my friend before he could say anything more.
"But what I mean is.. Why are you so cautious with us? Just because Carlile is our dad? What is he, some kind of mobster?"
"Heh, might as well be." She huffed, "surprised the man hasn't told you of your fortune yet."
"What fortune?"
"Well.. Ya' didn't hear this from me, but your father Mr. Carlile be one of the biggest- well, the biggest investors in Texas. Hell, whatever's left of the wasteland really. In short, man's a big, BIG wig. Own just about a piece of everything here… Even my ranch."
That news lit me up more than the stars forming outside. That one fact that we could be virtually untouchable out here made me feel lucky again. Though, when Carlile finds out we aren't his children, things will be different. Maybe we should just carry around that title and avoid the man..
"So business still means something out here?" Jeremiah asked to her.
"Not really.. But Carlile makes it a thing again. That's good, but mainly bad for us normal folk out here. Cause you see, ain't none of his have any money to pay 'em."
Holding out my hand, I said, "whoa whoa whoa, he invests in you, and you have to pay for him?"
The woman looked around and paced to us while looking around frantically, "It's different, you see? It ain't no option! Carlile gets what he wants you see? We don't ask a damn thing you hear?"
Her sudden eccentric nature had me alert about this now. But I played it off like I was taking in regular information. Nodding in the most chilled-out way I could, she walked back to the kitchen. Jeremy started twirling his finger around his ear, symbolizing she was crazy; I was wondering the same thing, but as down to earth as this woman seemed to be - there had to be substance to that outburst…
After she competed the plates, she pointed down the pitch black hallway and stated, "furthest room on the right is ya'lls room. Don't complain about not havin' your own rooms - it ain't like your father's damn casino and hotel in here."
"Aw hell yes!" Jeremy exclaimed with that new information as we made our way down the spooky hall that creaked with every step we took.
Something didn't sit right with all this.
Back in Greensville, where there was to be an expected abandonment, the town was lit up like it was every night. If drinks couldn't keep the gears going, then the gambling den will. Atop the outer wall, there stood about three men in overalls and coveralls, all holding rifles. Beyond the wall were miles upon miles of desert land – as far as the eye could see. But it was dark.. And the nights could be dangerous.
"ain't a mole rat in sight." Said a guard with a scruffy mustache.
"Even if there was, you can't hit it." Replied another.
"Shoot, I'd make you eat those words! Ten caps, next time a mole rat comes up."
"Deal." The other one said while exchanging handshakes.
Behind them, the cheers of a hundred men and women muffled beyond the buildings within the small town. Inside the Greensville saloon, beer bottles cracked, the ever so rare champagne popped, and the only radio within the bar blasted to their hearts contempt. The night was just getting started…
The four that remained at bay with guarding the drunken town wished they could be among them - as they usually would anyway, but tonight wasn't their night; and never would there be any.
The mustached man spat on the floor of the guardwall and began to say, "...You know, I -"
A speeding bullet caught the man in his cheek, sending him to the ground in a flurry or blood and confusion.
As he writhed around, moaning in pain, the other three guards immediately began to take aim and fire blindly into the desert. Rifles at their aim. Then after what seemed like a split second later, a second gunshot in the distance was heard, sending the other three to the safety of the sandbag barricades that were intended to keep the guards safe. After one more missed round in the air, one of the men hit the ground to crawl over to his injured comrade. When flipping the larger man over, they were each disgusted by the damage done to his face: A large hole penetrated his left cheek, sending blood to ooze down his mouth, making the man gurgle.
"Them fuckers got John!" He screamed to his men, looking more horrified than ever.
Another bullet struck the outer end of the sandbags, busting a gash so powerfully, it sent the two guards flying sideways. They were not prepared for what was coming.
One of the skinnier men took a glance overhead to see who was attacking them, and what he saw only brought on more distress: Unidentified beings, literally rising out of the sand below them… it was something out of a twisted nightmare. As they rose by what seemed like hundreds, sand dripped off their figures, as they slowly advanced the wall.
"There they are! Open fire!" The man yelled, taking potshots at the zombie-like group. It was no use, as a second bullet from an unknown area of the advancement clipped his head from his shoulders - making him fall back in a pool of blood. "Tim!" The last man yelled in agony. Seeing his men lay on the floor bleeding to death, set him off - no mercy, he stood up in plain sight to follow his buddies in shooting an invader. But before he could do so, the loudest explosion rocked the very foundation of the wall he stood on, making him fall back to the floor with the fallen. It was clear that the town was breached - and easy too.
The goal was still in mind though, stand up, shoot, and hope for the best. It was cut short again, as the remaining guard succumbed to the gravity of the wall crumbling below his feet. With a scream of terror, all three guards were no more, as they were now to plummet beneath the sands.
Down below, the party still raged on. No true exchange of fire ensued, so suspicion was at absolute zero. Amidst the rubble of the once protective wall? The heavy frame of a man in custom power armor in the night with an army of young soldiers marching behind him. It was Bishop and the Good Fighters.
The number of men he carried with him actually made a slight sound of marching under the loose sands. Bishop couldn't have been prouder: he, a leader of what he assumed the biggest search party in the world, and a band of dedicated militants willing to die for him were on the march for their first score, Greensville.
And when the head revolutionary had all his men formed up behind him, he held up his heavily armored hand to halt them, and they did. All his men, dressed up in ragged clothes that shielded their faces from sand, gazed upon the only other sign of life outside Vault 58. Greensville…
After a long break of silence, the large man tightened his hand into a fisted grip, and immediately, the draped soldiers raised their weapons to the core three buildings of the city: the mayor's office to the left, trade center to the right, and the infamous bar in the middle.
"FIRE!" Bishop yelled. Instantly, the young ones opened fire and unleashed a hail of bullets - tearing through the walls, and smashing through the windows. The gunfire was loud enough to deafen a Behemoth, and send the strongest man in the world running for dear life.
It was something extraordinarily pleasurable to their leader. Watching outer walls begin to crumble, and hearing laughter become shrieks. The illuminating muzzle flare against his helmet… He didn't want it to stop.
Eventually, the mostly intoxicated bar realized the fun was cut short, and many began to clear the room - only to be met with hot lead, head on. Men and women stormed from the Greensville bar mainly, to be dropped like flies once out.
Little commotion came from the office or trade center, due to most of its occupants being drunk off their asses - but either way, the bar was getting hit the hardest. Continuous fire pummeled the inside, as the bullets cut through the old walls like butter. Those who were sober enough ended up hitting the deck to avoid being shot, and the dim-witted bartender hunkered below the bar with his ears covered. Drinks and glasses shattered with every millisecond that passed by; splashing booze and glass over the dead or hiding.
And when it seemed like the townspeople had stopped screaming, Bishop placed two fingers in the air to signal a next command: he then shot said fingers forward to let his men know to advance. That, they did in a heartbeat.
It was like a legion of Romans sacking a village with no problems. The not so Good Fighters stormed the two first buildings without even looking for hostiles as Bishop slowly walked towards the alcoholic center of the town. A few screams, followed by some gunshots came from the office and the trade center, letting their leader know the place was cleared. The now, once happy bar, was filled with holes now… And groaning bodies crawling on the bloodied floor.
Bishop wasted no time entering the smelly facility: his smaller shotgun was by his side now, the one that killed Marlowe - ready for action. As he scanned the area while his henchmen sacked the rest of the town, the man in power armor noticed his men were trained well, as only a few survived the bullet hail.
On the floor, a poor looking girl in black pigtails crawled for cover, leaving a trail of blood along the ground. Bishop only watched as she failed due to her injuries. To him, this was like a long awaited sculpture being finally finished. But of course, this was only the beginning for his plans..
Bodies of ragged old Wastelanders propped the walls, and littered the floors - some groaning as they latched on to life. A few guns were in their hands from the initial onslaught - natural wasteland instinct to stick to your guns first, but none of them were prepared for this…
Bishop took a deep inhale under his helmet and slowly walked toward the bar itself, only to be met with the long barrell of the bartender's shotgun, who popped up instantly once he heard Bishop's armored steps. With teeth grit, he tightened his grip on the gun and muttered, "'the hell outta' my town."
In turn, Bishop wasted no time in simply grabbing the barrel and twisting it away from his face, triggering the man to shoot wherever his firm grip held the gun. Both shells fired, setting the Good Fighter leader to yank the entire gun from the man's grip, flip it around, and club him in the face. Sending the bartender stumbling back and hitting the broken glass that was once his booze..
Blood was pouring out of his mouth, and the man was knocked out cold. Bishop saw to it that he wouldn't wake up. He dropped the double barrell and lifted his short pump action to meet the man's face. Once done, he pulled the trigger…
Though unlike most bars, there was a large hatch lying below the man's body, obviously meant for some secretive business. But that business belonged to Bishop now. With the simple swipe of a foot, he cast aside the brutally murdered bartender to make way for entry. He stomped the hatch, making it rattle, letting him know it was locked. Childsplay to Bishop though: he cocked the shotgun a few more times to blast the small lock out of place, and stomped the door, making the hatch fall downwards. Once open, he didn't make any effort to climb the basement-like steps. Instead, he simply hopped an inch from the floor, sending him crashing through the cheap stairs like a rock through paper.
The impact from his forceful entry caused whoever was down there to scramble and scurry like rats, shrieking like mad. When the dust cleared, Bishop analyzed his surroundings: really nothing more than a shady basement with a nice looking poker table; cards and caps all around it. There was surely some gaming taking place before all this madness. Too bad the money and supplies were about to be in the hands of Bishop. The last man they'd want with it.
Four men with biker jackets and white cowboy hats must've been the gamers, as they were the ones occupying it. They had planned on defending the town from perhaps, some gang of rustlers, but never for this. They all had petrified faces with mouths agape. No guns either. The first man who tripped backwards held his hand up in defense, while the rest stayed frozen.
The glowing eyes of Bishop's power armor helmet gazed upon the man sitting down. He then walked up to him, heavy steps rumbling on the ground…
He looked him directly in the eye as the fearful man hyperventilated, "... Please…"
But that was all he could mutter before Bishop waved that shotgun in his face in his fired.
The three other men screamed in terror and tried to find a way around the hulking man with the gun. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!" One of them yelled while trying to rush past Bishop. Like nothing, Bishop caught him by the neck of his collar and held him close as he easily nailed the other two men who tried to run away. Just like that - gone.
Once they were down, the man was yanked violently to Bishop's face and told, "Where, is, Mr. Green…?"
Within the Greensville trade center, the militia group posted around the inner walls of a very fancy looking office. Small, but in shape for the wasteland. Red wallpaper, carpet floors, and a velvet-looking chair sitting behind a large desk, in which a bloody and beaten man sat. He was rather rich looking, and wore a now, broken monocle. His bottom lip was popped open due to the Good Fighter's beating, and on the other end of that table, Bishop. Still with his full "Bowie Jacket", or custom made power armor on.
The older rich man sat with his head slumped - still taking in the shock of what these kids have given him. The room was absolutely lined with Good Fighters, while the rest waited outside in anticipation. This was what they wanted.
After a long pause of Bishop just staring at the suited man, his top guard placed a burned lock on the desk and said, "he locked himself in the room safe. We busted it open when we heard him screaming.." And walked back to his post.
Bishop grabbed the lock and examined it… "Your town is occupied, mayor…." He began with the deep tone that his armor's voice filter supplied, "..your citizens are either dead, dying, it captured. And we are not of the preference that takes many prisoners, Mr. Green…"
The man puffed out air with his head still low.
"Something funny to you, Mr. Green?" Bishop asked.
He puffed out some more, making it look like he was prepared to laugh. That was until, tears started to flow from his eyes - snot from his nose. The man was beginning to bawl.
That's all he could do.
"...But the question is… Shall we leave you among the living..or the dead?"
Only more crying.
The Good Fighters could only watch awkwardly as practically the only man left in town saw his community die within the course of minutes.
None of them were prepared for this.
Bishop continued, "though, incompetent your town's fighting skills or preparedness may have been, it's clear that income and economy have been Greensville's fort'e." "We want to know where and who you trade with.."
Mr. Green shook his head, saying, "this isn't happening.." In a quivering fashion.
"Yet it is, Mr. Green." Bishop replied.
He broke out crying again, letting Bishop know it was time to push him harder.
"Look." Bishop said, leaning in closer to the man, "if life in this desolate place is what you desire, then maybe I can grant that to you… But no one leaves this life… Or this town with valuable information to me. So get talking, or we force it out of you…"
That set the man strait. He looked up at the hulking kid in power armor, waiting for an answer. He too a deep breath between sobs, "I.. I don't wanna die!" He said.
"Do not concern yourself with death, Mr. Green… I want answers, and we will set you free."
Green looked around to notice he was really screwed here. This was no bad dream while on some Jet; he was truly in peril. And no one was there to save him.
So all the man could do was reply.
"We-we don't want any trouble. Never have. Only people we ever shot were raiders or rustlers in here.. No man in Greensville ever wronged no one…" He cried, "I.. Just wanted to make money and nothing more!"
"And who supplies your money?" Bishop asked.
"..Tons of people.. Everyone you just murdered."
"I want outside sources, Green. Are there any more like you..?"
He genuinely laughed over his crying slightly, "Hmph, used to be many like us out here… Tekki, over in Saltgrass, Frank over in the Roadhouse… But now they all belong to Carlile."
Bioshop leaned in more, "Carlile? Who's Carlile?"
"Only the biggest shot in Texas… Takes anything he wants in a snap… Kept me around though. Don't know why… He-he even warned me about this happening today." He sobbed some more with clenched fists on his eyes.
Bishop sat back in his chair, pondering on how this Carlile character knew…
But that wasn't important now. Though the Good Fighters wanted more blood to sate their lust, Bioshop remained clear headed enough to know Mayor Green was a key link to future victories, and knowledge of this new world.. Just throw more hope at him, a chef be putty.
Jeremiah's brother took a deep exhale and motioned his soldiers to grasp Mister Green, "...Take him to the gambling den… I want to know everything…"
And as the dirty rebels latched on and forcefully dragged the shooken-up man to the next building, he whimpered with fear of what was to come, as Bishop followed...