25
Leaving his bags behind and equipped with a re-breather and oxygen tank, he left the airfield and veered wide left. A small stream led to the lake. He was surprised at how clear and clean the lake was.
Stripping off everything but his undergarments, he waded waist deep into the cold water, putting on the mask and tasting rubber. He pulled goggles down over his eyes, then put the tank on his back and fastened the straps.
Everything was quiet and calm. Ripples spread across the surface, bursting into life and disappearing all the time. He could have almost been on a holiday, if such a thing still existed. He shivered. Leaving the packs and the detonator by the shore he submerged. First he thought it best to catch a glimpse of this beast, to make sure it was still there.
The lake was deep, extending down for what seemed like forever. In actuality it was only a short way, but Tristram was not a strong swimmer – the wasteland didn't necessitate that anyone had to be. Among the reeds and rocks was a slim, rusting length of tube that looked like something futuristic from a comic book. Good condition. Even the wings were only missing small chunks and strips of metal. There was no longer a propeller, snapped off and broken somewhere. That would take a long time to rectify. Satisfied, he drifted to the top, wishing for a pair of flippers on his feet.
The bomber was no great threat even for how well it had stood against time. It would be decades before the Boomers could dream of doing anything with it, hundreds of hours needed to master flight and no one alive that could teach them. An Enclave vertibird would be one thing, but a plane was a whole different ball game.
On the surface he found himself in the middle of the body of water. He removed the re-breather on his face and floated on his back for a short time, as best he could with the weight of the tank. The sky was clear. The wind now felt refreshing on his drenched face.
As he paddled close to the shore where he had left his belongings, an odd shape took form. An ugly blue thing, like a shark that had learned to walk on two feet, tall as a man, with great hulking claws. Its face was flat and hidden inside a hard shell. A Mirelurk: as homely as a mule's butt to look at, but deadly too.
"Hey!" he shouted, voice echoing around the valley. "Piss off!"
The Mirelurk turned. It was near the equipment, Tristram's pistol included. The Mirelurk waded into the water, picking up speed and heading toward him. Tristram was not good with Mirelurks.
He diagonal, away from the creature fast as his inexperience allowed, headed for shore. The Mirelurk trailed, snapping at his heels. Shandy scrambled up the edge of the lake and made a dash. Taking the pistol from the holster resting on his shirt, he turned and fired.
The optimal place to fire at a Mirelurk was at the face. The problem is the face is concealed in a thin hole, surrounded on both sides by tough, ornery shell. It was like trying to shoot a disgruntled tortoise in the head for some reason.
Shots rang out. One flew high, one hit low, almost bouncing off its skin and the third hit the face. It shrieked but did not back down. Tristram stumbled back to escape the swing of its claws, ready to cut through his ageing bones, and fell back on the parachute packs that would be used for floating the bomber. If he lived to use them. He hit the dirt.
Gun still in hand, he held on tight and fired the remaining bullets. Enough hit the sweet spot for the mutant to lurch forward, collapsed, knocking the wind out of him as it landed. It was cold and slimy and generally eww.
Tristram wriggled out from underneath and turned to lay face down in the dirt, breathing hard and coughing.
"You son of a bitch," he wheezed.
When the sun was a little higher in the sky and he had recovered, Tristram picked up a pack and strapped it to his back. The lake was deep, but no so deep as he needed the tank, necessarily. If he stuck to the surface until he was directly above the target, he could attach one at a time, then come back for another. He would be done by nightfall.
But Mirelurks do not generally live alone. Low visibility meant certain death from a surprise attack. Then he would say goodbye to an arm or leg. An arm of leg if he was lucky.
Slowly, one by one, he attached the little care packages to the wings of the plane, including the smaller ones near the tail. The sun began to set, bringing with it cold, as if the water itself was not bad enough after extended periods of time. Tristram was coated in a thin layer of sludge. His chest was sore, as if he had just run from one end of the wastes to the other.
With the last one attached he headed back. He traced a finger over the square red button on the trigger. Perfect timing. No one would come by at night, if anyone ever came by here at all, so no one would discover the prize. They probably couldn't even see it in the pitch black. In the morning the Boomers would send out their robots and people to haul the plane in. Minimal risk. He wondered if they had ever seen a Mirelurk or super mutant before.
No sound from under the water reached him, but he spied bubbles in the centre of the lake. The plane exploded from the water like it was taking off, like an Enclave helicopter from a secret underwater base. It sank a way, then came back up again, bobbing up and down until it eventually settled, water falling from its long slender shape. With the wind it might drift a way, but that was no problem. In fact the Boomers would count on that to make the job easier.
When they weren't getting robots to do their work for them the Boomers were no strangers to physical labour. It would take them no time at all. The rest, however, would take an age.
Tristram collected his things, reloaded the pistol, and headed back shivering, either from cold, or something else.