Ch 25 Scrap yard

Shock, vibration. A roar in her ears and something like the Hand of God pushing against every fibre of her body. She was clinging to the face of the earth as though she were about to fall off it.

The sound, which seemed the loudest she'd ever heard, had caused her ears to ring and bleed. She opened her eyes into drifting smoke. There was a numbness in most of her body except for her head. For a moment she was afraid she'd been paralysed, then realised it was simple shock, and that she was able to move her limbs. Looking sideways through the clearing dust and vapours, she saw Clover lying next to her. She appeared unharmed, and was already shifting herself into a firing position, bringing the sniper scope up to her eye.

Behind them, Jericho was wriggling forward along the sunken road on his belly, leaving a dark red trail snaking across the broken surface, his assault rifle held in one hand. He coughed, then said harshly, "Did you see where it came from?"

"Jesus! You're wounded!" Arta could see the blood oozing from his side, where a piece of metal was embedded.

Jericho ignored her. "Well?"

Clover said, "I saw but … wait … she's standing up again, just by that trench near the crossroads."

"Then shoot for fuck's sake!"

The harsh cough of the sniper rifle was followed by Clover exclaiming excitedly, "Got her! Right through the head."

"What the hell … I meant shoot the launcher, dumbo! That would've been an easier target!"

"I couldn't be sure I'd disable it." Clover sounded hurt. "There's no one else near it, and if they try …" A bullet whistled over their heads. "Anyway it looks like they're lined up on that road to the south, that runs east-west like this one, hiding behind the scrub and fences. It's Raiders, by the way."

"Tell me something I didn't know. Where they are is higher up, but we can still use the dip and edges of this road for cover. Better still we can get behind that old car. It's completely burnt out and shouldn't blow up on us. I'll lay down some suppressing fire. Ready, now move it!"

Clover and Arta scampered towards the vehicle as Jericho rose up and unleashed a long raking burst from his assault rifle. In reply, a single bullet pinged off the ancient blackened metal.

"Now cover me!"

Arta found it easiest to stand up and rest the Chinese assault rifle on the car roof. Short controlled bursts? Why didn't he take his own advice? She figured the answer to that herself. Because he was getting them to keep their heads down, not shoot accurately. However she didn't feel confident enough to use the weapon on full auto, and instead aimed several shorter salvos at different points of the compass. The recoil suppression was better than she expected, but it required effort at first to keep the weapon from bucking out of control. The response of the enemy was intensified, several shots whistling close to Jericho as he sprinted to join them.

Noticing her difficulty Clover asked, "Wanna swap back? You can practice some more when our arses aren't at stake."

Arta gratefully received back her sniper rifle, used it to survey the line of the road to the south, alert for any trace of movement. She gave a low cry of dismay.

"I can see more of them coming to join the others near the cross roads. At least four." She tried to place the crosshairs on one of the scuttling figures, fired. "Got one! Shit, he's still moving; maybe I just hit his armour. The rest have taken cover."

Jericho grunted. "This ain't usual Raider tactics. The dumb fucks normally can't wait to come to grips. Instead they're staying at long range until they get reinforcements. Too damn clever by half."

Arta said, "You weren't dumb enough to do that. Maybe these have learnt the same lesson somehow."

Jericho gave a reluctant nod of acknowledgement. "It's a distinct fucking possibility. We beat 'em enough times using the same tactics."

"I'd say it's more like a certainty. I can see three more coming from the south east."

"Fuck, looks like the whole bloody clan's turning out! If I ain't lost count, that's nearly ten already, far too many for us to rush. For the moment we've got them held up, but they'll be coming at us soon using the cover of that connecting road." He pointed to the right where another fenced road led down from the crossway. "And if any more arrive, they'll try to flank us both sides. In which case its most likely adios muchachos."

Clover said staunchly, "Well I don't know about you, darlin', but I ain't hanging around for that shit to happen."

Jericho gave a grim smile. "Then you're smarter than you look. There's still a way out to the north for us to escape. Problem is, some stupid arsehole's gonna have to stay here to keep them pinned down. That arsehole's gonna be me." He paused and let off a burst of fire at a Raider in a leather hood trying to creep forward towards the fallen launcher. The hooded figure rolled sideways into a ditch.

Arta said horrified, "But that sounds like suicide for you! And you need medical attention!" Is this his idea of atoning for his sins? But which ones?

"Look, I've been in worse situations, and I'm not planning to die. Once you're clear, I'll make a fighting retreat, lay down some grenades and mines as cover. Most of them should follow me, but I'll make for Canterbury. They don't go there … usually."

Arta protested, "Why can't we cover each other and retreat together?"

"Because I don't want you coming with me. I want you to carry on with the mission. If I get out, I'll join you later. Shit!" Two Raiders, a man and a woman, were scurrying along the north-south road, keeping low and using the fencing for cover. Jericho sent a grenade skipping across the ground and they took shelter from the blast behind another wrecked vehicle. A second more accurate throw sent the woman flying into the air with the force of the explosion. The man staggered away to be shot down by Clover, his body twisting like a scarecrow in the wind.

She asked, "Where are we gonna go? And how are we gonna meet up afterwards?"

"Good question. Let me get back to you on that." Several Raiders had broken from the cover of the road opposite, flanking to the left. Jericho and Clover sent a storm of fire at the wildly zigzagging figures. After one had dropped and the others had taken cover in new positions, there was a lull in the fighting. The only sound was the agonised moans of a wounded or dying Raider.

Raising his voice above them, Jericho asked, "D'you know Scrap yard, that junk heap of vehicles west of here?"

"Know it? I used to play there as a kid!" Clover ejected a spent clip and smacked in a new one.

"Good. Go north and circle round towards it. If any of them tag you, it'll be easy peasy to lose them inside. I'll try to meet you near the main gates within six hours. If I don't or you can't wait, go south and follow the Potomac east until you're near opposite the Supa Dupa Mart. Wait for me as long as you can near Farragut West metro. If I still don't show, go east through the metro to Chevy Chase. You'll see the GNR tower from outside there, and good fucking luck with the mutants." Without looking at Arta directly, he asked, "Did you get all that, kid?"

"My pip boy recorded it." Arta realised there was no time to discuss the merits of Jericho's plan. She would have to go along with it and hope. Yet the moment of parting, coming so suddenly, wrenched at her heart. She might never see him again. She wondered if he could sense her eyes, pricking with tears, resting on his intent, grizzled visage, trying to implant it in her mind.

There was no opportunity for elaborate speeches either, so she put a gentle pressure on his shoulder and said simply, "Don't get yourself killed, not yet anyway."

"Yeah, you too. Now get the hell out of here." He spared her the briefest parting glance. "Oh, and watch out for the Wheaton Armoury to the west. It'll likely be stiff with Black Scorpions; the human kind, that is." As Arta turned to go, he added gruffly, "Hey, kid, I believe in you; you'll do it."

The news that Colin Moriarty had been brutally murdered by the ghoul who'd kept bar for him spread like a wild fire around Megaton. It didn't take long for a large number of concerned citizens to converge on Moriarty's, brandishing a variety of weapons and carrying the traditional burning torches of mobs down the ages. There were shouts to 'bring out the monster' 'hang the feral ghoul from the highest part of town' and 'burn the zombie'.

The lynch party was intercepted by Lucas Simms, who was forced to fire several shots over the heads of the rioters to get their attention. After allowing the more excitable elements to let off steam, the Sheriff managed to quieten the crowd enough to listen to Nova, who stood beside him looking the picture of composure. Nova explained that Gob had not gone feral, was even now inside the tavern more in fear of his life than likely to harm anyone, and furthermore was quite prepared to come out and show himself if it was safe to do so. Lucas Simms added that Gob had been oppressed by Moriarty over a long period of time, and that in his opinion the killing had been an act of self-defence by a normally timid creature, pushed over the edge by one final act of savagery. In fact, he'd been trying to protect Nova as well as himself. There was much shouting and exclamation as Nova pulled down the shoulder of her nightdress to reveal what seemed to be bloody welts.

After the worthies of the town had been given the chance to ogle more of the apparently battered whore's wounds, they began to clamour for the appearance of the ghoul himself. Seeing that the mood had changed, Nova went inside along with Lucy West to persuade him to come out. When Gob eventually emerged between them, blinking in the last ruddy light of sunset, the gathered citizens were impressed, not so much by his words, which were hesitant and faltering, but by the cringing and shrunken shape his body had assumed. Even the most belligerent of them concluded it was not the pose of a creature about to run amok.

In his usual reedy tones, Gob reiterated the defence that he'd only been trying to 'stop Mr. Moriarty from hurting poor Miss Nova anymore'. The atmosphere in the crowd was now mostly sympathetic, though there were some cynical and lewd words to the effect that the ghoul had probably been dreaming of getting into 'Miss Nova's' pants, if he hadn't been in them already. Others opined that Moriarty's departure to the next world would most likely improve the quality of the beer and lower its price, comments which met with general agreement. Eventually advocates of this viewpoint loudly acclaimed Gob for doing the town a service, and took it upon themselves to carry him shoulder high in triumph once around the crater. But only after he'd first been sat on a chair, and poles placed underneath. After all, he was still a decaying zombie, and he smelt bad.

"I think we've lost them."

From their perch atop the bow-shaped roof of a dilapidated hut, the whole of Scrap yard was laid out before them, nestling below a rocky ridge, bounded to north and south by wire fences, to east and west by concrete walls. Arta was accustomed by now to the false, sad splendour the evening light could invest in even the most unlikely subjects, slanting at just the right angle to infuse the dust devils and rising vapours with an orange glow, glinting forlornly from the rusting surfaces of decaying metallic hulks. The junkyard was like a record of the detritus of a bygone age of mass rapid transit. Every kind of vehicle seemed to have found its final grave here: from railway coaches and buses, through atom cars to tiny finned rocket ships. Most of them were mere shells, intermingled with broken girders and corrugated iron sheds and piles of garbage of all descriptions. Arta looked at the jagged edges of broken and twisted metal, the shattered glass panes of doors banging in the wind, the steaming and oily radioactive pools.

"This was really your childhood playground? It looks more like a nightmare for your parents."

Clover thoughtfully regarded the wrecked train cars, the destroyed vehicles piled atop one another, the decaying pre-fabricated structures and piles of tyres as though seeing them again through girlish eyes.

"You're forgetting the kind of world I grew up in, darlin'. I wasn't brought up in a Vault where the main peril was bullying. As for my parents, they were dead by then. But I was looked after by Aunt Aggie and Uncle Leo, in this little shack hidden away not far from here. They didn't like me going into Scrapyard, but they didn't stop me. Probably thought it'd help me learn to survive and toughen up. And it did." She gave a slight grimace. "Truth to tell, it was pretty dangerous. What with the Raiders, the wild dogs, molerats, and even bigger critters occasionally … getting trapped in a fridge or falling into an irradiated pool was the least of it."

Arta asked, "Weren't you scared?"

"No, not really. Not enough to stay away. Sometimes, of course. But, I was a kid, you see. This place was like one big adventure park. I used to imagine …" a slight blush touched her cheek "that this was the Lair of the Mirelurk King or the Desert Queen's Palace or the Enchanted Forest that I'd heard about in stories. When I was small anyway. Then one day I discovered an old hunting rifle, and it all got more serious." She shrugged. "Until the time came when I was grown up and ready to leave. No more magical adventures for me."

Arta thought about reading Grognak the Barbarian in the safe environment of the Vault, and for the first time wondered whether she'd been privileged after all. She asked, "And what happened to … your aunt and uncle? Were they sad about you leaving?"

"Of course, but they couldn't stop me. I suppose they hoped I'd make my way in the world, like parents usually do. And for a while things went well. I joined up with a caravan as a mercenary. It was exciting, maybe the best time of my life. But risky too. One day we got ambushed by slavers. We had no chance, were outnumbered five to one. But I fought anyway. I took down three before they coshed me. Somebody must've let Eulogy know about that, because after a short time in the pens he came to make me an offer, and you know how that ended."

Arta asked, "What do you think about your time in Paradise Falls now?"

Clover considered, then said slowly, "I guess I'm beginning to think about it differently. You know, to start with, it didn't seem so bad at all. I'd never met anyone like Eulogy before. He seemed … so wise, so powerful. He taught me a lot … and he allowed me to learn. True it was mostly about weapons and … how to make him feel good. The only things I got to read were about fighting and sex. But … he never had to force me. I gave myself to him willingly, because I felt I ought to be grateful for what he did for me. And everything was fine, just so long as I did exactly what he said. So more and more that's what I tried to do, until it was hard for me to think of doing anything else. If he scolded me, I would grovel and beg him to forgive me. Now I can see how, little by little, he was making my world smaller, so that I would become almost a part of him, like an extra arm he could manipulate any way he liked. Sometimes I would dream of what I would do if I was free, but I could never imagine that would really happen."

Arta said gently, "You didn't become part of him though, did you? I could see that, when I talked to you. You still had your own thoughts and feelings and desires."

Clover said, "Yes, somehow I'd kept them, and when you came, it was as though I'd woken after sleep-walking." She sighed. "Maybe I still remembered this place, where I could be whoever I wanted in my imagination." Looking straight at Arta, "Am I really free now?"

Arta said, "You are free to go or stay with me as you wish. I'm no slaver, and I won't compel you to walk into peril with me. But I would much rather that you stayed. And not only because I need your help."

Clover reached out to touch Arta's hand. "Then I choose to stay with you because … because … "

The distant sound of barking intruded on the moment of intimacy. Arta shook herself.

"We shouldn't stay up here where we can be easily seen by anyone or anything that happens along."

They used a toppled girder to climb down into Scrap yard. At this level, Arta could see that the half-shells of vehicles, tyre heaps, trash bins and shacks provided a host of nooks and crannies. Perhaps some hungry creature might sniff you out, and there was the danger of being spotted from above, but for playing hide and seek, whether as a child or an adult, it would be hard to find a better locale.

She said, "We'd best see if we can find somewhere to hole up near the gate, so we don't have to wait in the open."

"Sure, the gate's in the southern fence."

They began to pick their way through the maze of abandoned cabins and ruined transport. The barking had ceased, to be replaced by a mournful and desolate howling. The declining sun made the long shadows of wrecked vehicles look like those of the skeletal remains of extinct animals. Arta shivered, oppressed by a melancholy feeling of dissolution recalling the Ozymandias poem. All things must pass. Had Jericho already embraced that fate? When would her turn come?

"Quick, get down!" Clover pulled her into a crouch behind the front end of a smashed city bus.

"What is it?"

"Raiders! Up on the east wall." As Arta leant forward, she added, "Careful, for Christ's sake, don't let them see you!"

Arta peeked out cautiously from behind the empty wheel arches, exposing just the left side of her head. Through monocular vision, she could see a group of half-a-dozen dark figures standing atop the wall. The last light of evening caught the spikes of their hair, edging them with gold, like the plumage of rare birds.

She said, "One of them's kneeling down looking at something."

"Let me see!" Clover pulled Arta back, then occupied her position. "Shit! I think they may've picked up our trail somehow. Must have some kind of expert tracker. But why the hell are they bothering?"

"I guess they don't like people that kill them and run away. Do they look like they're going to come in?"

"Wait … I don't know … fuck, they're coming all right. Except they're not risking the climb. Looks like they're going round to where the wall's low near the fence." She gave Arta a desperate look. "It's my fault, spending all that time gassing on about my past. We could've found somewhere to hide by now."

"I was the one who asked you. Look we don't have time for an inquest, and it's probably no use hiding. We'll have to set up an ambush. Can you think of a good place?

"Well, yeah. If they're coming from the northeast corner, they'll almost certainly have to go through the gap between that red cabin and the inner wall, and then the two rows of piled up cars. If we wait and catch them in a cross fire, it'll be difficult for them to take cover. You set up by that metro coach, and I'll hide in between the cars."

"Okay, but be careful. Wait until I open fire before you show yourself. Then they'll have their attention distracted."

"Sure, darlin'. Try not to miss." She gave Arta a quick hug, and then, seemingly as an afterthought, pressed her lips warmly against her cheek.

Arta felt a glow at the contact, and a thrill trembled through her, but rather than distracting her, it left her even more focused and determined not to let Clover down. The blonde would be the most exposed should the ambush go awry. The Vault woman decided to lie down near the front wheel of the coach. She would have a steadier aim and a lower profile. With luck, the Raiders would be uncertain about where the shots were coming from.

In the silence that followed, she was aware of her heart beating. The feeling of the rifle stock as she cuddled it into her shoulder was comforting. And, yes, now they were coming through the gathering twilight, two walking in front, and the others following in file. Of the leading pair, one frequently stooped to examine the ground, so she focused her sniper scope on the chest of the other, younger warrior, bare except for crossed bandoliers, the black shape of the scorpion tattoo clearly visible. But she must wait for exactly the right moment …

When the last of the Raiders had passed the red cabin, Arta fired. Her target fell, clutching at his heart. She switched her aim to the crouching tracker. At the same time she heard the chatter of Clover's automatic, spraying on full auto. The tracker's head exploded in a shower of red, and behind him another warrior staggered back with bloody holes in his leather armour. The Raiders were scattering in panic, trying to take cover. With her gun empty, Clover hurled a grenade. It looked like being the perfect ambush.

But not quite. Whether through extraordinary level-headedness, instinct or crazy courage, one of the female Raiders, distinguished by her height and the chain mail bikini she wore, fielded the grenade, then instantly threw it back from whence it came. Clover dove behind the cars to avoid the explosion, which occurred in mid-air just before the grenade reached her.

Arta realised with horror that one of the cars had been close enough to be set ablaze by the fireball. "Clover!" she screamed. "Get out of there!" The Raiders had begun firing in Clover's direction, making it look suicidal for her to leave cover and increasing the likelihood of a secondary detonation. A second passed and another, with no sign of her emerging.

The ground shook. Arta closed her eyes against the blinding light, could feel the blast vibrating through her body. When she looked again, twin mushroom clouds were rising through the air. The explosion had set off a chain reaction along the entire line of cars, which were all burning fiercely.

She couldn't possibly have survived that. Tears pricked Arta's eyes. She must be dead. A hot wrath arose in her chest. The Raiders had all taken cover and survived, except for one staggering around holding her head.

"Bastards!" Arta shrieked. She rose up and pumped two rounds into the stunned Raider, felt a fierce satisfaction to see her fall. But two of the three remaining Raiders were starting to fire in her direction. Bullets whined past and bounced off the metro coach, and she was forced to retreat behind it.

The pad of approaching footsteps. She dropped her sniper rifle, and the next instant was confronted by the Raider in the chain mail bikini. The woman bared her teeth in a crazy grin, the tail of a scorpion tattoo arching above her breasts, her sub-machine gun swinging to level at Arta.

In a single motion, the Vault woman drew her shish kebab and slashed it through the Raider's arm, setting it aflame and slicing the hand holding the gun off at the wrist. The woman gave a scream, her cauterised stump held up helplessly, then redoubled it in volume as Arta mercilessly plunged the burning sword into her unprotected belly. She held the Raider impaled on the blade, as she writhed in agony, the scorpion tail jiggling as though alive. Then she withdrew it, allowing the woman to collapse. She felt a savage desire to take more life, at the same time knowing that no matter how many she killed, it would not assuage her grief.

A bullet whistled within inches of her head. She turned. A Raider had somehow worked his way around the other side of the coach. He was about thirty yards away, his hunting rifle raised and pointing right at her. She drew her submachine gun and fired, but the Raider's position behind a car made targeting difficult.

There was the sound of snarling, and a black shape leapt from the top of the car, knocking the Raider and his rifle to the ground. A dog of a similar breed to the scavenger's which she had killed stood above the man, worrying at his throat, while he shouted and tried to keep it off. She blinked in astonishment.

"Drop the gun." She froze. The voice behind her was harsh and triumphant. "Now, before I shoot you in the back, bitch." She complied, feeling a sense of resignation; that it no longer mattered.

"Take off that fucking weapon belt!"

Slowly, contemptuously, Arta removed the belt holding her sword, and dropped it. She did not even think to try anything. Clover was dead. Jericho was probably dead. It was all over.

A chuckle followed. "Turn around." She did so, and faced a bearded Raider with a high blonde crest of hair, covering her with a pistol. He looked dirty and ill favoured, his grin revealing gaps in his teeth. His face and tone showed gleeful satisfaction. "Well, looks like I've bagged me a beauty. And all mine too. Seeing as you've killed everyone else. Just goes to show it's an ill wind." His voice hardened. "Now start taking off that armour. We can have us a little fun right here."

Arta looked at him, wondering whether she should just provoke him into shooting her. Again it didn't seem important. Spiritlessly, she began to unfasten her flak jacket.

Before she could remove it, there was a sudden burst of gunfire. The bearded Raider choked, dropped the gun and fell to his knees, then forward on his face. A neat row of bullet holes was revealed across his right arm, shoulder and back.

Arta looked up. Clover stood a short distance away, holding a smoking assault rifle. Her hair was tousled and she was perspiring, but she looked completely unharmed.

Arta suddenly felt a huge and inexpressible joy. Without thinking she ran forward and threw herself into Clover's arms. The warmth and softness of her living body felt like bliss. She held her close, pressing cheek to cheek, almost overwhelmed with the ecstasy of touching, the sweetness of relief. After what seemed like an age of hugging, they pressed their foreheads together, smiling at one another.

Arta said breathlessly, "You're … alive. How … I thought that you …"

Clover said, "I know. There was an opening through the middle of the cars, where there was a door in the side of an old bus. I got through it, then jumped into a trash bin which protected me from the blast. I guess you haven't noticed how bad I smell." She pinched Arta's nose affectionately. "Hey, did you think I'd leave myself without a way to get out? I told you this place was like my nursery."

Arta said, "I'm so glad that …"

"So am I, darlin'."

They became aware of barking and snarling, and desperate cries. "Help me, call off your dog, for pity's sake!"

Looking to where the Alsatian was tugging savagely at the Raider's leg, Clover said, "We should just leave it to eat him."

Arta considered, then said reluctantly, "Wait, he might be useful to us alive." She bent to recover her weapons.

"I hardly ever find that to be the case with these scum." But Clover slung her rifle and followed her towards the one-sided battle.

As they approached, the dog was shaking the man like a rat, which, in truth, he resembled, his skin and hair filthy, his clothes ragged. His eyes were wide with fear.

"Call it off! Call it off!"

Arta was trying to work out how to do so, when Clover solved the problem for her. Strolling up, she spoke firmly to the dog.

"Leave!"

To Arta's surprise, the dog instantly let go of the man's leg, then sat on its haunches panting, looking towards Clover with an expression that seemed expectant and friendly. The fur on its back and head was black, that of the lower part of its face and belly sand coloured. Its ears were sharply pointed and pricked up.

"Come here, boy!"

The dog got up and advanced, its tail wagging. It allowed Clover to touch and fuss it, giving a quick lick in response.

"Who's a smart doggie then?"

Deciding to leave Clover to deal with the dog, Arta turned her attention to the cowering Raider. The man was nervously feeling his lacerated throat. Drawing her shish kebab, she ignited it and held it in front of him. "You! Why were you following us?"

Quivering with fear, the man said, "We weren't, we just happened to be …"

"If you lie again, I won't repeat myself, I'll shove this up your arse instead."

"A … alright. We were following you … to avenge the death of our War Chief's woman. A matter of honour."

Clover paused in her petting of the dog to laugh. "Honour! What do you vermin know about that?"

"A vendetta, eh?" Arta gripped him by the throat. "How many? How many of you were following?"

"Just us." Arta increased the pressure, and he choked, "I swear it! The rest were sent after the other outlander, the one who fought like a demon. If any more came this way, I know nothing of it."

Arta released him, thought for a moment. Then she said, "I'll give you a vendetta. Go back to your War Chief. Tell him or her what you've seen here."

The Raider stared back at her as though uncomprehending. Clover said, "Arta you're not going to let him go. He'll bring more of the fuckers back with him."

"He looks pretty lame. By the time he does, we'll be long gone." She addressed the Raider again, this time holding the weapon right before his eyes. "Tell your tribe this: when you see the flaming sword, you will know that the Angel of Death is near you. And those of you who do not flee far, far away will perish in the fire of her wrath."

The man's face showed stark terror. He wriggled away from Arta, his eyes bulging as though staring at a nightmare. "Y, you, k, keep away from me!" Panting with his efforts, he crawled several yards, before managing to get to his feet to limp away.

Once he was out of earshot, Clover said, "Wow! The Angel of Death! You certainly put the wind up him with that! And it's a pretty cool title. I'll remember it."

Uneasily Arta said, "It was just something to scare him." But she was wondering what had moved her to speak in this way. The legend of 'The White Sword' which had so impressed the Deathseeker clan? Or had the exploding vehicles reminded her of Brian Wilks? Outside of her dreams he alone had spoken without prompting of the Angel of Death. Amata had described her affectionately as an angel, Manya had been reading from the Bible, Caleb and Alessandra had merely been repeating ideas she had already placed in their heads. Otherwise there was nothing to associate her with this mythical figure, except easily explained coincidence and nonsensical dreams.

But she had a sense that her words had somehow created reality out of these fantasies. She imagined the legend spreading out and out, until there was no stopping it, no way for her to avoid the path of destruction prophesied. You cannot escape your destiny. It is in your very name.

"Who's gonna have a nice dinner of Raider meat, eh?" Clover cooed.

The moon peeped from behind the eastern hills, revealing a trail of silver running alongside the broken lines of the railway bridge nearby. The girders overhead creaked in the gusts of the night wind, which also rattled the gates in the metal fence marking the southern side of Scrap yard.

Clover said, "I don't think we should wait any longer."

Arta said, "One more hour, we owe him that at least."

Clover's face showed that she wasn't impressed by this sentiment. But she said, "What we owe him is to carry on with the mission, darlin'. That's what he put himself on the line for."

Arta indicated the half-bus they'd been hiding in. "We need to rest up for the night anyway. This is as good a place as any we're likely to find. And we might as well make the most of our guard dog." She pointed to the Alsatian, which was lying down quietly, but with ears erect and alert.

"Not if those Raider scum decide to come back," Clover objected. "And Dogmeat's gonna be coming with us, aren't you boy?"

Arta sighed. Clover showed every sign of forming an attachment to the animal. The idea of keeping pets was something alien to a Vault dweller. There was, of course, very little opportunity to do so underground. She remembered a boy who'd tried keeping a Radroach in a cage. Once discovered, it had been pummelled into tiny pieces, and its unfortunate owner forced to wear a label round his neck with the legend, I must not defile the purity of my body.

Up to now, her immediate reaction to most animals was either to kill and eat them, or avoid them. She'd assumed they would do likewise. Despite Clover's assurances that 'Dogmeat', as the blonde had christened him, was perfectly safe, she wasn't about to put her trust in an unpredictable Wasteland creature.

She said, "I'm sorry, Clover, but I'm afraid he isn't."

"What!" Clover looked at her in confusion. "Why?"

"You see we're probably not going to get through this mission by fighting every enemy we come across. We'll need to sneak through. And this … animal will be barking and growling at everything and everyone. He'll give away our position."

"No, he won't. He'll have been trained not to bark. Come here, Dogmeat." The dog rose and walked over to her, its tongue hanging out. "Now, lie down boy, stay quiet." Dogmeat lay down on the floor, pounding his tail firmly on it. He barked.

Arta shook her head. "Yes, well, that didn't quite work out, did it?"

"But Arta …" Clover tried to make her eyes appealing and puppy-like. "He's a really intelligent animal, and I'm sure I could get him to …"

"No buts. He's not coming." Dogmeat thrust his head close to her face, his expression apparently as woebegone as Clover's. Arta pushed him away. "He's not very clean, and his breath stinks. And we can't be sure he won't turn on us unexpectedly, particularly if he gets …" She fended off the affectionate licks Dogmeat was trying to give her "… overexcited."

"He attacked the Raider and not us. You saw that."

"Well, exactly! I mean how can he tell the difference between one human and another? It was probably just a random attack," Arta sniffed.

"Arta, you don't know about dogs. They protect those that look after them, attack those who threaten them. While we were searching the Raider bodies, we also came across a dead scavenger."

"Yeah, and we got some good loot. But so what?"

"Dogmeat went and whined near the body. It was almost certainly his old master that Raiders had killed. He probably thought the Raider he attacked smelled pretty much like the ones responsible for his master's death."

"So we're relying on the vagaries of his doggie revenge? Forget it!"

"No! Now he considers us his new masters, he'll protect us instead."

Arta decided it was time to assert herself. Even if Clover wasn't her slave, she, Arta, was running this show, and Clover would have to accept that. "No means no. We can do without his protection if it means the mission's going to fail. Seriously!" When she saw Clover's lip trembling a little, she added kindly, "I can see this means a lot to you. Maybe when everything's over, you can find yourself another dog. Or perhaps this one will still be living here in Scrap Yard." Like that's gonna happen but it might make her feel better.

Clover had the air of someone trying to comfort herself. "I guess. Maybe Eulogy will keep the dog from the Temple of the Union. You know, he's actually quite fond of animals. I bet he was joking about getting Jotun to cook him."

"Yes, I'm sure he was," Arta soothed. Yeah right. Dream on, Clover. "And you can play with this one until we have to go."

As though struck by a sudden inspiration, Clover exclaimed, "We can go to Aunt Aggie's and Uncle Leo's! Like I said, it's hardly any distance away, and we'd be about as safe as you can be, these days."

Arta asked dubiously, "But you said you haven't been back for years; how can you be sure they're still living there?"

"Well obviously I can't. But their home is very well hidden, and they weren't the kind of folks to go wandering. And caravans used to regularly pass by."

What have we got to lose? Arta said decisively, "Okay we'll wait for Jericho a little longer. Then we'll go find this place."

Clover said happily, "Then Dogmeat can come with us at least that far. Oh, Arta, please!"

Arta decided to give up for now. "Okay, he can come as far as Aunt Aggie's." And absolutely no further.

"Yay! We're gonna see Aunt Aggie and Uncle Leo, Dogmeat!"

Dogmeat gave what sounded like an enthusiastic bark.

It was a bridge from nowhere, going to nowhere. It was unsurprising that in the darkness she had overlooked it, until Clover had pointed it out. But it could easily have escaped notice even during the daytime, Arta thought. What the mind doesn't expect to see, it often edits out. Especially as the bridge was very small, only wide enough for one person to cross in file, and built out of materials that blended into the rocky background of the dry gully it spanned. She was still unable to see any purpose in it.

"There's nothing on the other side! Just a rock wall."

"Aha! Let's go across, and take a closer look."

In single file they crossed the rickety structure, Clover ahead with Dogmeat at her heel. Arta raised her eyes to look at the massive trellises of the railway bridge, now on their left as they went back on themselves to the east. In doing so, she observed the moonlight glinting off a metal pylon rising from the outcropping of rocks ahead. Again this was so unexpected that she had almost taken it to be one of the petrified trees dotted around. What could it be for, and why was it in such an isolated locale?

Once across the bridge, Clover motioned Arta forward, "Now do you see?"

Examining the rocks ahead, Arta saw that there was in fact a very narrow passage between them, but twisting in such a way that it was nearly impossible to spot from any distance away. She began to feel more optimistic about meeting Clover's relatives. Whoever lived here was screened from notice by one of the most naturally effective means of concealment imaginable.

It took them less than half a minute to thread their way through the narrow defile. On the other side Arta stopped, gaping with surprise. They were in a natural depression within the rock, with high crags surrounding them. On the furthest side of this stony dell the remains of a white picket fence fronted a small and ramshackle structure made mostly of corrugated iron. To the left of what appeared to be a boarded up door was a tiny statue of a bearded man in a strange hat like an upturned sock. To the right the latticed metal pylon towered even higher than the cliffs.

Clover said excitedly, "I think Aunt Aggie's at home. That's her garden gnome outside." She turned to look apprehensively at Arta. The Vault woman perceived that her companion was torn between the hope of a joyful homecoming and the dread of finding something terribly amiss.

She said encouragingly, "Hadn't you better knock or call out?

Clover said hesitantly, "Yes, of course." Raising her voice, "Aunt Aggie, Uncle Leo, are you there?"

A high, slightly quavering female voice shrilled in reply, "Who is it? Who's calling?"

"It's me, Clover! I've come back, Aunt Aggie." Caught up in the excitement of the moment, Dogmeat began to bark loudly.

"Clover? After all this time? Can it be true?" There was the sound of a bolt being drawn back, and the rickety door opened.

The woman standing inside had a deeply lined face with silvery hair, and wore clothes that looked as though they'd seen almost as many winters as their owner. But the joy that brightened her eyes seemed to bestow upon her the vigour of youth.

"Clover! It is you. My little girl's come home!"

They fell sobbing into each other's arms. Arta watched feeling at one and the same time relief that all seemed well, and sadness that she was left out and unable to take part in such a reunion. It reminded her that she had yet to find her father, and made her yearn for the comfort of his embrace. Why aren't you here, daddy? How long will it be before I can hold you again?

Clover pushed her fork into the crust of a pie filled with Dandy Boy Apples, and sighed contentedly. "I've been dreaming for years about your homemade pies, Aunt Aggie." Then with the fork halfway to her mouth, she said, "Tell me about Uncle Leo. You said he isn't here."

"Yes, I'm afraid that's so." Agatha's grey eyes were downcast for a moment. Then looking up seriously, she said, "I'll tell you how it happened."

After the initially ecstatic reunion, Agatha had warmly received both of them into her small dwelling. For the most part it appeared simple and homily, taking into account the great age of everything, including its occupant. The room was windowless but lit by the warm glow of an electric lamp. The battered frame of a double bed occupied a corner, there was an oven for cooking, and the bathroom consisted of a screened off area with a sink and tub. The main decoration was a wall poster of Captain Cosmos and his space-faring chimp, and there were a few other eccentrically placed items, such as a teddy bear in a broken toilet bowl.

Arta wondered where Agatha went to the toilet. Did she pee in the bath perhaps? She hadn't had the opportunity to question the strange old woman about anything as yet, because she and Clover had been talking nineteen to the dozen. Arta had been fascinated to see how Clover would handle the delicate matter of what she'd been doing all the time she'd been away. An explanation to the effect that she'd been Eulogy Jones' sex slave and bodyguard seemed unlikely to go down well. But Arta soon realised that Agatha had been living in her own world for many years, and had only a faint grasp of the realities of life outside. She clearly had no notion of the function of the slave collar which Clover still wore, and quite happily swallowed her adopted daughter's story of a kind gentleman who looked after me.

Now for the first time Agatha was about to tell them something about her own life. "As you know, we've always relied on the caravans passing regularly for supplies. It so happened that one summer they were delayed for a long time. We were getting short on food, so your Uncle Leo decided he'd try and see if he could bag us some game. He went out about mid-morning, and …" Agatha gave a sniff "that was the last I ever saw of him. I waited and I waited but … he never came back."

"Oh, Aunt Aggie, that's a terrible shame!" Clover put a comforting arm around the old woman, at the same time making frantic signs in Arta's direction. The Vault woman interpreted these as meaning she should express her sympathy, and perhaps distract Agatha from her grief.

"I'm certainly sorry to hear about your husband's disappearance," she said. "It must be difficult for you here on your own. I was wondering how you manage trading with the caravans. I mean they usually want something in exchange for their goods."

"Ah yes, I can see that must seem curious to you." Agatha dabbed one eye with a faded handkerchief. "But it's quite simple. I provide them with the gift of my music. I have a homemade violin and some equipment to make recordings with. I can even broadcast it across the Wasteland using the transmitter you may have noticed outside."

Arta had seen pictures of stringed instruments in the Vault archives, but she had never heard a violin. "I would love to hear you play, Agatha," she said with enthusiasm.

Clover nodded. "Aunt Aggie's a true master of her instrument. She can play all the great composers from the pre-war."

"I certainly can," Agatha said, getting to her feet with renewed vigour. "But you girls don't want to hear those dusty old arias right now. Our Clover's come home. It's time for a celebration. I'll play you a fiddling ditty that'll set your feet a-tappin'."

Clover said, "Yes, play us a dancing tune, Aunt Aggie!"

Agatha strode across the room and picked up a wooden instrument with four strings. She placed the violin under her chin, and drew a bow across it. The resulting sound at first seemed to Arta like a high pitched squealing, but eventually her ear picked up the strange, wild harmonics.

Agatha laid on her bow zealously. "This here's called The Devil went down to Georgia." As she fiddled, both she and Clover sang:

Fire on the mountain, run boys, run,

The devil's in the house of the rising sun,

Chicken in the bread pan pickin' out dough,

"Granny does your dog bite?"

"No, child no."

Clover grabbed Arta's arm to pull her to her feet. "Dance, Arta!"

But I don't know how! But without quite knowing how she was managing it, she found herself dancing in a ring with Clover, leaning back to swing each other round with arms fully stretched, then clasping hands and pressing their bodies together in a wild tango, then alternately bopping and grinding their hips together. All the time Agatha fiddled away in a frenzied fashion, playing one tune after another, and Dogmeat added his own chorus of barks and howls.

Arta became hot and excited; not only by the crazy music but by the close physical contact. She could see that Clover was enjoying it too, from the looks and smiles she was giving her. I wish I could've danced with Amata like this in the Vault.

Although Agatha seemed happy to keep up her fiddling all night, eventually Clover declared she was out of breath, and the two of them collapsed onto the floor to rest. Agatha put down her violin, and sat down on a creaking chair.

"Oh me, I don't think I've had so much fun for years! Does my old heart good, I tell you."

"It was good for us too, Aunt Aggie." Clover gave Arta a wink and a significant smouldering look.

"Do you know much about the pre-war period, Agatha?"

It was later in the evening. Agatha was sitting with her instrument resting on her chin, slowly drawing the bow across it, her fingers almost seeming to caress the strings. Arta listened enchanted. The music was very different to the tunes she had heard before. Slow, stately, the notes clear and poignant, it seemed to stir something in her soul. She was beginning to realise that there was far more to Agatha than she had at first thought. She was not merely a kindly and slightly eccentric old lady.

Agatha continued to play. "I wouldn't be surprised if I knew as much as anyone alive these days. It's been my habit to collect … certain items of value from the past."

"Like music?"

"Yes. This piece, Air on the G String, was written by a composer who lived centuries before the Apocalypse. His name was Johan Sebastian Bach. At the time it was believed to be so beautiful that it could only be divinely inspired; the music of heaven." She sighed, and laid aside her bow. "Its amongst my most treasured possessions, one that cannot be taken from me because it remains written in my memory. But I have other treasures that I'd hope to be able to pass on to … well, a future time when people will prize them again."

Arta said, "Perhaps there are some who would do so now. You have records?"

"I have something more than that." Agatha hesitated. "I have kept this hidden for many years, but I suppose I should show someone who's interested, lest the secret be lost with me. Clover knows, but she doesn't really understand the value of such things." She nodded to where Clover was cheerfully basting a gecko on top of the oven, watched intently by Dogmeat.

Arta said, "I would cherish such knowledge, and keep it from anyone unworthy of it."

"That is all I ask." Agatha rose stiffly and carefully from her chair, and pointed. "Do you see that old piece of carpet? Pull it aside. Now put your fingers in that gap, and pull up." Arta did so, and a hinged square section of the floor swung easily upwards. Below a set of wooden steps descended into darkness. Agatha switched on an electric lamp. "Let's go down."

The steps had a handrail, and were quite shallow. As Arta went down them, she could see she was entering a brick-walled basement, actually much larger than the hut above it. The air was warm, though not excessively so, without any hint of dampness. Everywhere there were rows of wooden shelves, and on them books and manuscripts.

But such books as Arta had rarely seen. Not burnt with torn pages, but intact and bound in cloth or even leather. Many had the spines decorated or lettered in gold. And there were so many of them, that Arta became dizzy contemplating all the words they must contain. There were documents too, of fine paper, with delicate writing and bold illustrations. She turned to Agatha, bewildered.

"How did these come to be here? Surely you couldn't have collected them all?"

"No, not even in a lifetime. This hidden library was here before, and we built our own humble abode above it. But I've been inspired to add to it and, when possible, I buy books from caravan traders, though in truth there are seldom any that deserve to sit alongside these.

Arta said slowly, "This is a vast treasure beyond anything I could've imagined discovering."

"I'm glad to have met someone who recognises its true worth. All these years, this library has been enjoyed only by myself and, of course, poor Leo. I can still see him sitting there reading late into the night until he fell asleep." She pointed to a solitary rocking chair, the only other furniture apart from a single bed. "And now you're welcome to do the same, even if you must travel on tomorrow. "

"Oh, Aunt Aggie?" Clover stood at the bottom of the stairs. "I wonder if its time for us to take ourselves off to bed? Arta will be okay down here, won't she? I'll give her a blanket."

"Ah, yes, very selfish of me. You've had a long day travelling, and must be exhausted. Yes, of course." Agatha made towards the steps.

Clover quickly approached Arta with the blanket. When she was close enough, she whispered, "I've got to sleep with Aunt Aggie, of course. But I wouldn't be surprised if she nods off pretty quickly after all that's gone on. So if you want to stay awake, then perhaps in a while I can sneak down. Then we can stay up and talk … or do whatever we like." She brushed her hand against Arta's shoulder, massaging it a little, and lightly ran her tongue over slightly parted, cherubic lips. Their eyes met and held, and Arta felt a shiver of excitement.

"Goodnight!" Clover passed her aunt waiting at the bottom of the stairs, blowing Arta a kiss behind her back. The Vault woman apprised that Agatha had something more to say.

"Before I leave you to rest, I was wondering if I could help you find something to read. Is there anything in particular that attracts your interest?"

Arta scanned the nearby shelves, feeling overwhelmed. How could she choose from such a wealth of material? Suddenly her eye was caught by a title: Angels and Demons of the Ancient World

With a strange feeling of premonition, she walked over and took the book from the shelf. The front piece showed a white robed figure holding under its heel a frightful shaggy horned monster into which it was thrusting a shining sword. Intrigued Arta opened the volume in the middle. She found a chapter headed the Seraphim, and turned over several pages, marvelling at the rich colours and detail of the illustrations, the fineness of the calligraphy.

Standing behind her, Agatha said, "An interesting choice, which I myself have found fascinating. Here you see a catalogue of the principle angels of the Judaeo-Christian mythology; and specifically those seven who stand in the presence of God." Pointing she said, "Here's Michael, commander of the heavenly host and Gabriel, the messenger of God." Arta leafed carefully through the following pages, noting the names: Raphael, Uriel, Chamuel, Jophiel and Zadkiel.

After the Seven, she turned the page one more time, to see a picture of an angel perched on a rock in the midst of a desolate wilderness. It had two faces, one male, one female, and four vast feathered wings. In one hand it held a sword of pure flame, in the other a book from which it appeared to read.

Moved by a peculiar feeling of sadness, Arta asked, "Who's this, and why does he … or she … sit all alone?"

Agatha's tone was wry. "Perhaps because this is not the most beloved of God's angels. Whether it appears as a man or a woman, it's seldom welcomed."

Arta asked, "But why, what has it done?"

"Its more to do with what it does. In its right hand you see the Sword of Annihilation, in its left the Book of Souls which contains the names of every living creature."

"But why does it need to know them?"

"So that when the time comes, they can be erased from the book, and from existence. This angel has had many names but is most commonly known as Azrael, the Angel of Death."

*The first battle with the Raiders is not quite in the location some of you might expect, considering that it would normally be triggered by the appearance of a Wastelander rigged with a bomb just south of the Temple of the Union. It's even further south, and can be reached by taking the road west from the Robot Repair Centre. And yes, some people reading the story really do notice such things I can assure you!

Fallout grenades seem to explode on impact, but I can't see why in theory you shouldn't be able to catch a grenade with a timer and throw it back, if you're crazy enough, which most Raiders are.

The mythology of angels varies according to religion, denomination and other factors, so I've put together my own version from the different traditions. As it happens, the angel of death is not usually shown with a flaming sword (but there's a comic book character, also called Azrael who does have one). And it's supposed to have four thousand wings (gulp!) Try drawing a picture of that.

Don't expect to find a library hidden under Agatha's floor, there isn't one.*