Chapter 8: "Another Brick in the Wall Part 2" by Pink Floyd

Cornelu woke from the fist-induced coma. He found himself in a pitch-black lit room of unknown size and something else was in it with him. In the act of moving his head he made a small noise. He froze, hoping it had not heard him.

It had. "Cornelu? You awake?" It was Stevie, who was barely audible.

"Yes. Why are we sitting in the dark?" he asked, relieved.

"Because we don't want to attract anything. Don't talk so loud. What do you remember last?"

He concentrated. There was anger, but he could not remember at what.

Then it all came flooding back. His father was alive and had talked to a guy on the radio. He, Cornelu, had been spoken of, but not by name. Stevie had mentioned his existence to the radio guy.

The anger. A raging hate, mixed with betrayal and abandonment, had overwhelmed him when he found out. His father had left him to rot in the Vault. Left him to be attacked by the Overseer, and shunned by Amata. That was the underlying source of all his discomfort, and had lead to lashing out ineffectually at Stevie, and with more consequences at Simms.

Now it felt cold. A dispassionate hate that had been tempered and cooled by loss and a little bit of time passing. Cornelu had tried to do nothing but help and heal since he left the Vault, killing only when forced and taking mercy when possible. He had left Sam alive, and the raider had changed for the better. All he had received for it was an addiction that still gnawed at his chest and a boot to the curb from the people he had tried to assist.

But tempered as it was, the anger remained. With it was a new sense of hardness, an unyielding feeling. Cast aside by his father, by the Vault, by the refugees he had fallen in with, he had nothing else to lose. He was separated from anything he had ever loved, admired or wanted by a wall of betrayal.

That changed him. Now he had looked death in the eye and dared it to take him, and he had been passed over.

The only thing he wanted now was a reckoning from the man who had started it. Finally, he answered Stevie's question.

"I remember that my father is a fucking asshole, and that I have a lead on where he might be."

"Shhh! Quiet! You're going to get us killed."

"Where are we?" he asked, modulating his voice.

In the quietest whisper possible Stevie answered, "In a tiny underground chamber just under Simms and the others. The tyrannical dick decided to kick us out right before dark. These hills north of the Potomac are incredibility dangerous, especially at night, so I looped around out of sight of the others so we could hide here until morning. We made it just in time, I heard a deathclaw shrieking just before we got inside. To be safe, I turned off the lights as well so nothing can possibly attract attention to us."

"Wait, what? Explain that again."

"The Broadcast Station that the other refugees have taken up residence in just so happens to be directly on top of a small cistern, which I use as a safe haven from time to time. We can rest here for the night and be on our way in the morning, and Simms will never know, but only if we stay quiet. Both so we don't alert creatures that might be outside, like deathclaws, and so we don't let the others above us know we are here. The ceiling of this room and the floor that you cleaned earlier are only separated by a few feet of stone, which for some reason against all logic transmits sound rather well. If you listen you can hear people's footsteps and talking from above."

Cornelu thought about this all for a second. "So let me get this straight. Sheriff Shithead abandoned us to the Wasteland in the middle of the night, and we are now taking shelter from it... right under his nose."

Even in the pitch black Cornelu could tell Stevie smiled at that. "Yes."

A few moments of silence passed between them before a thought struck the boy from the Vault.

"So, do you have a lot of these safehouses around the Wasteland?"

"My travels sometimes take me to dangerous places. These hills, home to larger populations of deathclaws and yao guai than the areas closer to the D.C. ruins, are some of them. The only way to survive around these parts is to find shelter at night. Unless you have a group of seven or eight guns to keep constant watch and have the firepower on hand to take down a deathclaw this is the only way to survive. Hidden, with some spare supplies and a few odds and ends stashed in them, these little holes in the ground allow me to go almost anywhere on my own."

"So... that would be a yes, then. You do have more of these."

The old man chuckled and said, "Shut up and go to sleep."


Stevie woke at the faint sounds of movement from above. If Simms could be up, then goddammit he could be up. He quickly took stock of himself, noting that the spot where the Sheriff had shot him the night before was still quite sore despite the stimpack he had used on it. Those .44 rounds pack a hell of a punch. There were probably pieces of his armor imbedded that he had missed, being unable to see the wound on his back. It was something he would have to have a doctor look at next time he had a chance, and he intended to have one who was not addicted to jet so that ruled out his current follower.

About said follower, Stevie reached over and put a hand to Cornelu's mouth before shaking him awake.

"Shhhh. It's Stevie. Remember to keep silent. We have to go."

They climbed up a ladder and cautiously emerged from the circular cistern, waiting a few moments to watch for movement. It was secluded in a crevice in the natural cliff wall. The sentrybot sat almost on top of them. He had deactivated it the previous night so it did not attract attention, but its bulk blocked the view out.

He motioned to the robot and mouthed 'turn it on.' Cornelu did silently, the fidgeted with it for a few moments and they set off away from Simms and the other settlers without being noticed.

They headed south, keeping low, staying near cover and never putting away their guns. They held them ready, prepared to raise and use them at a moment's notice. Cornelu followed effectively. The sentrybot-handcart could not hug walls and vanish into ravines like they could, or at least Stevie could, but surprisingly whatever Cornelu had done to it made the machine make much less noise than before so they managed to keep a low profile.

For Stevie it felt good to move fast and silent again. The refugees had numbers and firepower on their side, but a group that large was incapable of stealth. He, Cornelu and the sentrybot were unobtrusive enough that they were usually still unnoticed by the time Stevie's sharp senses spotted or heard an enemy. Then they would go around. It was efficient.

They happened upon a raider camp that had sprung up since the last time Stevie had been through the area. The trio came up out of a low lying area and it appeared to their right before they could avoid being seen. He neatly moved through the rabble, downing four crazed men and women almost without effort, his armor absorbing any blows that by chance managed to strike him. Cornelu fired with his own assault rifle, but missed more often than not. The metal pack brahmin turned slowly to join them, but by the time it could pull around all the enemies were dead. That was their only encounter.

By nightfall the small group was out of the dangerous foothills, though still a distance from the river. They were moving at more than twice the speed that the group could achieve.

With no other option they camped out in the open Wasteland. A large rock provided some cover. They divided the night into three shifts. Cornelu took the first, the second they relied solely on the sleepless robot and the third Stevie woke himself to keep watch.

He could tell that the constant physical exertion was wearing on Cornelu. His endurance was not up to it. So the next day they slowed down to a less demanding pace. Now that they were out of the extremely dangerous areas they could afford it.

The second day went much like the first. When the sun started to go down the young Vault boy asked, "Aren't we going to stop and sleep?"

"No, I have an acquaintance nearby. We can be there soon." They pushed on. An hour later they came upon Northwest Seneca Station, across the river from the ruins of Arefu and entrance to the Family's hideout. They entered the fence gate of the metro station and started down the dim passage to the underground home of a ghoul named Murphy.

Stevie paused then. Shit.

"What's wrong?" Cornelu whispered. He raised his gun, expecting something to attack them.

"Nothing, I just need to think for a second."

Murphy was a ghoul who lived in the abandoned rooms of the metro. For a living he brewed something known as Ultrajet. Stevie collected the ingredients of the concoction for him when he came across them in his travels because the pay was extremely good, and that was the extent of their relationship. When the rescue mission for Lucy's brother had passed through on their way to the Family, Murphy had offered information but not assistance. When Stevie had returned leaking vital body fluids from cuts and bullet-shaped holes Murphy had offered only his sympathies, not his stimpacks.

Now Stevie was leading a known jet addict to this person. He had overlooked that detail in the pursuit of a place to sleep in safety.

"Cornelu, we need to talk."

Stevie was abruptly reminded that the man, not boy, behind him had recently gone through some major, possibly life-changing events. He had gone through withdrawals. He had discovered that his father was at least probably alive. He had attempted to shoot Simms. All of this was made very clear to him when Cornelu replied coldly, "About what?"

"You've seen a little of how I work. How I survive and even prosper in this desolate, destroyed world. I even manage it alone. I have taken the worst this fucked up world can throw at me single-handedly for three decades now. Would you like me to show you how?"

"Conditionally. Why are you offering?"

"Because of what you said to Simms after you tried to kill him."

"...What do you want in return?"

"Well, hopefully your help in staying alive for a few more decades. The situations that a person can find themselves in while wandering the Wasteland are more likely to finish me off than ever before. I'm fifty six, I just can't shrug off wounds and lift cars and crazy things like that anymore. But overall I want you to be able to handle yourself because I think you understand what is best for the people of the Wasteland. I believe that major societies, governments, leaders; they are all evil. They will be corrupted and used as a means of personal gain for a few. They are what led to the Great War. They created this hellish world we live in. They should be opposed in every possible way. From what you said to Simms, I suspect you might understand this. Do you?"

Cornelu considered for a while, which confirmed the solid head Stevie hoped he had on his shoulders. That was the deciding factor. Raiders thought the same way, the differences were intelligence and a macro view of the world instead of a blind anarchistic savagery. Stevie had an informed, self-aware anarchistic savagery instead. It was a fine line, but it made the difference between a complete psychopath and a person who sometimes did nasty, horrible things for a greater good.

The kid answered perfectly, "The Vault was supposed to be a place where humanity survived after the War. Even in a perfect place like that the Overseer became an Overlord instead, ordering around the security forces and eventually killing people. Out here it's just as bad. People do the same thing. You are right. When people get together, they just hurt each other."

"That is what I want from this deal. If I die, I want someone else to know that. Do you want me to teach you how to master this Wasteland?"

"Yes."

Stevie smiled. "First, an important thing to have is willpower. Sometimes only a stubborn disposition will get you through a challenge. Usually things like that are not gunfights or battles, but resisting tempting things. Say you stop by a saloon and a pretty young girl named Nova makes a pass at you, then reveals that the good time you thought you were about to get is going to cost you fifty caps. Things like that. For your first test…."


Once again time seemed to be passing in a blur. Gob spent his days breaking stone under Caleb's instruction or pulling in scrap for the palisade Simms was building around the perimeter of the Island. That is what everyone had taken to calling their new home. The Island, because it was a solitary, solid place in a sea of chaos and enemies.

Of course, things were happening. They just never affected Gob's mind-numbing routine work. He never got to be there for any of the important events, instead he got secondhand news from the others.

He heard that Moria had emerged from her coma, but her condition was still uncertain so she stayed in the Station. Because of the limited space in the stone building Gob and a few others slept in a hastily constructed shack built against the side of it farthest from the stairs. It was planned to be the new Common House, but so far it was just a shanty.

Soon after the Island was founded Crazy Wolfgang disappeared. Three days later he returned leading Doc Hoff, a fellow trader. Doc specialized in food, water and drugs, and was both one of the most beloved and most unwelcome doctor in the Wasteland. Those who purchased his more addictive merchandise awaited his visits with anticipation. From the expression Gob saw on his face during the trading, Simms disliked the trader and only begrudgingly bought a small fortune's worth of food, water and stimpacks from the man. Of course all of the settlement's money had been pooled to get the necessary supplies, and because of the destitution of the former refugees most of it had at one point been Simms's own caps. But now it was everyone's caps. When the deal was done Crazy left with Doc Hoff.

Though the resupply of essentials was a welcome relief to the gradually dwindling stockpile, the really important part was that the Island was put on the trader's circuit. Every four or five days either Lucky Harith, who dealt in guns and ammo, Crow, who carried clothing and armor, or Doc Hoff would stop by.

The next time Hoff completed the circuit, which took two weeks, he was accompanied by Wolfgang and a few others who wanted to join the settlement. The odd man had decided to quit traveling and had brought his entire inventory from the trading hub of Canterbury Commons so that he could set up shop on the Island.

With the professional merchants around and the new people with all of their stuff, trade really took off. The newcomers were all Wastelanders, mostly lone scavengers and acquaintances of Wolfgang who wanted to take advantage of getting in with a new settlement as it started out. They joined Simms's scavenging parties eagerly, knowing full well the jewels that could be uncovered on such loot trips. They were grateful for the security provided by the walls and the many allied weapons, and because of that they were nothing but cordial to the original refugees. They even expanded the Common House themselves to accommodate their presence.

In the Broadcast Station the power had been turned on. Apparently the generators worked, they had just been shut off. With the dependability of compact pre-war fusion power, they were expected to last longer than anyone on the Island would live. That assured power source was invaluable.

The power led to the discovery that the radio equipment still worked, despite a few bullet holes and loose wires caused by the raiders that had occupied the building previously. With the machines up and running they heard updates from Three Dog and by the tenth day after they arrived he started mentioning them. He announced that there was a new settlement on the trader circuit called 'the Island,' but he did not say where it was or who populated it.

The most recent news had caused a minor panic in everyone because the charismatic radio man said that a dozen or so Talon Company had amassed and that they 'may be looking for some refugees.' No one was sure if that meant them or not, but it seemed to be the general sentiment. The wall's progress helped alleviate the fearful mood, thought, and that made Gob feel a sense of achievement.

Not only could the Islanders listen to GNR whenever they wanted, but they had they ability to broadcast messages. Simms planned to use it to attract more Wastelanders and settlers from other places like Rivet City once the wall was complete and they cold fend off any unwelcome visitors the advertisements might bring.

The main wall came along quickly. Caleb was very good at managing several people at once. With improvised pickaxes and chisels Gob and the other workers carved out fifty uniform blocks. They only carved out of the stone cliffs in places where they would be the easiest to scale, so they created building materials and also made the natural defenses more sheer and difficult to climb. The blocks were not finely cut like the precise pre-war wall, but they were sturdy and they fit together like bricks.

Then the work was to move the blocks up the stairs to the lip of the wall. Each one took two people an hour to carry. The goal was eventually to have four feet of solid cover at the top of the already impressive twenty foot wall, which would put it out of reach of all but the largest deathclaws and also provide solid cover from gunfire. The main wall ended thirty feet to either side of the stairs, and there a tin and scrap palisade started, much like the rusty one that had encircled Megaton. It ringed the cliff tops to add a bit of protection from bullets and to deter attempts to climb the natural defenses.

During the work they had a few small raider attacks and even the occasional deathclaw scare. The raiders were dealt with easily and construction continued. The deathclaws were quickly spotted each time by Sam, who had made himself a sniper's nest halfway up the center radio tower, and when the monsters showed up the stone workers and scavenging parties retreated to the safety of the Island. Most of the time they passed by, giving the large and growing human population a large berth.

Sometimes they did not, which was why the number of cleaned deathclaw skulls adorning Sam's nest had grown from one to three. Each had a neat circular hole or two somewhere along the off-white surface of the bone. Unwaveringly, the killing shot always came from the ex-raider's sniper rifle. Unfortunately the giant mutated lizards thrashed around quite a lot even after Sam's bullet through the brain had ensured their eventual death, which had caused some injuries. Gob liked the guy, and he was not the only one. The group's general feeling for the man had changed from distrust when he had first arrived, to acceptance after the losses and solidarity experienced at Arefu, to comfort that his keen eye was keeping watch.

Gob worked hard and the only physical things he received for his trouble were enough food and water to live on and a place to sleep. In fact, with the others in the Common House he got the worst place to sleep short of freezing to death out in the open at night. But he was not a slave, like he had been in all but name before the explosion. Now he could take breaks when he wanted or needed them. Now he did not have to constantly fear a beating. Now he could see the fruits of his labor as the wall slowly went up and everyone became more and more relaxed. He was even accepted to a degree, having done his part in the battle of Arefu. That was better than almost any other ghoul in the Wasteland had.

The work was numbing, but all in all Gob was content. Happy, even. Comfortable.