The sound of four suits of Power Armor on the metallic floor of Vault 66 echoed loudly, killing any chance of a stealthy entrance. Still, despite the prescience of five members of the Brotherhood of Steel, one Ghoul bodyguard, a raider who'd seen plenty of combat, a highly lethal synthetic soldier and Lucas Simms, Charles was still nervous.
He'd born born in a Vault, lived there for eighteen years and he'd never once felt claustrophobic, rather the opposite. It took years to adjust to that bright blue ceiling they called the sky and every so often he still found himself just a little nervous on particularly clear days. Yet something about Vault 66 made his skin crawl as he felt those cold, metallic walls close in around him, leering down at him like some kind of monster. He felt very trapped indeed.
"It's darker than I figured it would be," Charon rumbled, tapping his finger nervously on his shotgun's trigger. "And something is off about it. I don't know what, it's just a feeling..."
"You aren't wrong there," Jericho murmured, rapping his knuckles against the walls, "Some bad jew-jew in this place, let me tell you. Gives me the friggin creeps."
Charles suddenly had a craving for a cigarette but fought it down. Glancing about the darkened corners, full of ghoulish shadows caused by the headlamps of the Pride and McGraw, Charles muttered, "Seems smaller than I would have expected."
"Many Vaults are," Jericho murmured, as if he were some kind of authority on the matter. He wasn't. Still, no one bothered to contradict him.
The atmosphere of fear was thick in the air. The rushing sound of the water against the hull of the Vault as it went deeper into the Salem harbor reminded everyone they were underwater and that, at any moment, the Vault could buckle inward and spell doom for them all. It wasn't a pleasant revelation. Even Harkness, who'd spent more time around water than any of the others didn't seem thrilled with the overwhelming pressure outside.
"It's more than a bit dark," Charles agreeded, gazing around unhappily, his features ghoulishly illuminated by the green glow of the Pip-boy light. "If anyone's hiding down here I doubt they can see."
"We assume they need human eyes to see," Sarah mumbled cryptically, tapping her finger along the rifle's trigger nervously. Lyons continued glancing about with concern, which, for a warrior as stoic as Sarah Lyons, was paramount to terror. The feeling of unease that Charles felt at the sight of his trusted friend's obvious concern did little to fill him with confidence.
Still, there was nothing to do but move deeper into the Vault. The entrance had led them down a long, narrow tunnel, going deeper into the river. The inky blackness of its depth looked up at them like the throat of a dragon waiting to devour them all.
Despite their trepidation, the heavily armed party made its way down. "Our Father," muttered Charles, letting the old teachings flow through him again. The prescience of the Almighty felt far away in this dark place, a palpable sense of evil that would not leave, no matter how brightly Pip-boy lights and headlamps shone. Yet something drove them on, a desire to see just what evil had been behind the raiders, what was at the bottom of the Vault. Charles had experienced the results of his dangerous curiosity again and again yet still he returned.
In the silence of the moment they went, men and women vs darkness and disrepair, a struggle more akin to old poetry or tapestries than modern post-apocalyptic life. Yet regardless of opinions of epics and histories, they descended, finding the massive Vault door at the end of their tunnel.
"Looks inviting," Simms muttered, adjusting the brim of his Regulator's hat before silently cursing his luck.
"I've been to actual hauntings that looked less foreboding than this," rumbled Charon, his references to the events of Point Lookout and the Dunwich Building were far from lost on Charles. He wouldn't have necessarily called them hauntings, though he admitted there was little he could do to explain those mysterious events.
Crossing himself with the practiced ease of the chaplain he had once been, Charles reloaded his Chinese assault rifle and made for the entrance panel. Getting it open was a simple matter of connecting his Pip-boy to the entrance, hitting a few buttons and watching. He'd done it more times than he could count and yet there was something extra ominous about this particular door, something that set it apart from all the others he'd opened over the years.
It rolled aside without complaint, leaving Vault 66 properly exposed. Inside was an atrium, though devoid of the trees he'd seen in many Vaults. Unlike the tunnel, there was light within the chamber, though it was faint, as if deliberately set to about fifty percent luminosity. Enough to make out the shape of the atrium but not enough to see clearly. On all walls, smaller doors remained sealed, only hinting at the blasphemous realities hidden deeper inside the Vault.
However, none of those details were particularly interesting compared to the occupants of the room. Candles were set in a pattern none of the team could understand. Between the sinister flicker of the lights were patterns, drawn in the floor in a dark liquid frighteningly close to blood. At each point in the esoteric pattern were further candles, as well as small, fleshy lumps of an unknown origin and pungent freshness. Around those lumps sat figures in dark robes, their faces hidden. There were four of them in total, three further away from the entrance Charles and his team had entered from and one directly in the center of the swirling sigil. That fourth figure was chanting in a low, ominous voice, speaking in a language Charles didn't understand.
"Seems like we interrupted prayer time," Jericho growled, far too loudly to be ignored. Considering the clanking of Power Armor it was unlikely that the cultists would have failed to notice the team's arrival even without him.
The chanting ceased mid-syllable as the central figure spun to face them. In his gnarled left hand was a staff made of bone and dark wood; in his right was a book covered in flesh. "It can't be..." Charles muttered, gazing at the book with obvious horror. "But we destroyed the..."
"The Krivbeknih?" The voice that echoed out from beneath the hood, was eerily familiar to Charles and some of his companions. That reedy, wheezing voice that he'd heard during his darkest hour, at the far away island that still haunted his nightmares. "I'll admit, it took me far longer than I would have liked to recover a replacement text. This copy is far from as complete as the one I had back at Point Lookout but it'll have to do." The hood fell back to reveal the wrinkled old face of Obadiah Blackhall, sneering outward with the same yellow teeth and crooked leer Charles remember. "Hello, Charles. It's been some time."
"Blackhall," he responded as neutrally as possible, "I'm surprised to see you here. I figured you were dead, killed by the Swampfolk?"
"Point Lookout is an island of ghosts now, Charles, thanks to your intervention. The Swampfolk have died off, the tribals died or retreated deeper into the swamps, even the smugglers are gone. No one was left on that dead island but me." Yet even as he said those words, there was an aura of dark confidence about them, as if Blackhall was proud of his position of sole survivor aboard an empty island.
"And you're mad about that?" Charles ventured, cautiously.
"Hardly," Blackhall snorted, "That island was a means to an end. It was a place where my dark lord made his prescience known easily, and it had been in my family for generations but, when the ever-changer spoke to me, it was time to leave."
"Now you're here," McGraw said simply, "In the United Commonwealth, seems a hell of a way to come for a sleepover with your buddies." He aimed his laser rifle was a casual disdain that suggested he didn't think much of Blackhall's chances.
"I don't expect you to understand the depths of mystery and power that required this council to meet together here, to summon forth the end of days. It matters not even if you did. But now, the stars are finally right, and my lord will move among us as a lion moves among sheep. This world, this broken, diseased carcass of a world that was killed long ago, shall fade away into the mass of glorious chaos long intended and everything will be made right."
"It's a shame the Artist isn't here to witness this," came another voice, old, like Blackhall's.
"He had promised to prepare the Vault for our arrival," another voice, studious, articulate.
"Yet it is far too small for the energy required!" A mad, sing-song voice echoed throughout the chamber, dangerously on the verge of collapsing into shrieks and cries, "We have to amend the summoning! Incorrect space! Incorrect book!"
"Silence, Clown." Blackhall said without raising his voice, or looking back and the third, shorter, figure who spoke in the mad tones. As soon as he ordered it, the ramblings stopped. "There is no need for fear, Ug-Qualtoth will ensure his arrival without fail, despite these obstacles." Blackhall took a dramatic step forward, his cloak brushing against the ground. "A few minor inconveniences, like you all," he sneered at the armed band as if they were nothing more than radroaches, "will barely be a speedbump on his path to glorious reinvention of all reality!"
"Huh," was all Graves said, pulling back the bolt on his sniper rifle as punctuation.
Charles was far less subtle. "Look, Blackhall, I hate to break this to you but..." he gestured at his companions with his fully loaded Chinese assault rifle, "You and your creepy little knitting circle are badly outnumbered and outgunned here. I'd love to offer you terms of surrender but I doubt very much that my compatriots here will be letting you walk."
"Odds aren't good." Charon rumbled, slapping the bottom of his combat shotgun's magazine for emphasis.
"They might be better than you think." Blackhall's words were cryptic but his smile was worse. It was that damned confident gaze of a man who believes he's won the hand before anyone's laid out their cards. "Step forward please Doctor."
One of the other robed cultists moved forward on Blackhall's command. In his hand was some sort of computer, possibly a Pip-boy 2500, there was no way to be certain. "You don't know me, Lone Wanderer." He said in a blank, un-emotive tone.
"Should he?" Asked Jericho sarcastically, "We meet and kill alotta people, you know that?"
"You knew my predecessor," the voice continued blankly as if Jericho had never spoken, "He was called the Surgeon. He worked out of the Red Racer factory in the Capital Wasteland."
The Red Racer factory...I haven't thought of that place in years. The whispering, the darkness, the insane experiments. Damn it all to hell.
"The hell's he talking about, Charles?" Paladin McGraw asked with a notable uptick in his voice, jabbing the laser rifle in the direction of the Doctor.
"Some sick freak operating out of Red Rider, it was a bombed out factory downtown. The guy was working on mind-control chips, used them on mutants and ferals first but planned to spread it to the world, which he'd rule, standard bad guy stuff."
"A crude, but mostly accurate description," Blackhall interjected, "Except the Surgeon was no madman, he was an inspired genius working on behalf of Ug-Qualtoth and his purpose wasn't nearly so crass as world domination. Instead he was focused on moving pieces across the board of life. And, his work was completed by his disciple. Control of a human is possible after all."
"And you know this...how?" Jericho asked skeptically.
"Because I've done it." The Doctor's words were delivered in the same deadpan tone he'd said everything else thus far. Without fan fair, he pressed a few buttons on his handheld Pip-boy.
The silence was deafening. Nothing seemed to happen at all.
Then suddenly, without warning, Sarah Lyons screamed out in pain. It was a horrific sound, the edge on her voice was one of panic and torturous pain in equal amount. "Sentinel?" Kodiak asked with concern evident in his deep voice. He took a step towards her, hand outstretched.
Sarah turned towards him, tears streaming down her face. "Sorry Kodiak," she said, and shot him with her laser rifle. The sudden attack shattered the silence as Sarah's laser bolt slammed into Kodiak's face. It was fortunate the Knight was wearing Power Armor otherwise his head would have disintegrated beneath the force of the laser blast, yet the impact was still sudden and painful. Kodiak's head snapped back, the mighty frame of the power armor keeping him standing as he instinctively went for eyes temporarily blinded by the sudden flash of laser energy.
"What the hell?" Graves shouted, aiming his weapon towards the Scientist, "What the hell did you do?" His words were interrupted by Sarah opening fire on him with her rifle on full automatic. Laser blasts ricocheted around the room as Sarah fired indiscriminately into her allies. Both sides shattered, fleeing around the room to what little cover remained. Charles got behind a small bulkhead that had once been intended to hold up a second floor but now remained painfully unfinished. He heard the clatter of automatic rifle fire and the booming of a shotgun as battle began. Sarah was still firing and screaming uncontrollably but the volley of laser rifle fire made it difficult to pinpoint exactly where she was.
Yet through it all, came the ominous low chanting of Obadiah Blackhall, speaking in a blasphemous language that, despite the near silent tone of his voice, was clearly heard above the screams and gunfire. The chanting grew louder in pitch and Charles determined he better put a stop to Blackhall before he finished whatever diabolical plot he intended.
It was too late. Something happened, something Charles could barely explain. There was a rippling in the air, as if the world faded out for a moment, and then it returned to normal. Yet something far from normal remained.
Despite the cries from one of the other cultists of, "Blackhall you fool! We didn't set the wards for a Servant! It could kill us all!"
The Servant was the most horrific thing Charles had ever seen and he'd seen a lot. For a moment, just one, he almost lost his mind at the sight of it. The Servant was a writhing mess of tentacles and eyeballs, with too many of either. Its body resembled a massive melted ball of wax covered in mouths full of jagged teeth. A horrific screeching sound echoed from the mouths, an eldritch sound not like anything of the earth either before or after the wasteland.
In the face of such an unholy, eldritch abomination only one thing could be said. "Aw shit." While Charles heartily meant each syllable of those words they paled in the face of the beast before him.
Sarah continued firing wildly; Blackhall fell further back behind his monster. The Doctor drew a 10 millimetre and fired it at Jericho, while the short cultist made a beeline towards Charles.
Before the Lone Wanderer could open fire on the beast, the short cultist was in his face. The hood fell off the short cultist's head and revealed something almost as horrific as the servant. Underneath the hood wasn't a man's face, it was a mask.
The mask was a grinning, leering, thing, with a wide horrific smile. It was a clown mask that had haunted his nightmares since he'd spent time on Point Lookout, or read the police reports. "You can't be..." He whispered in horror.
The Pint-Sized Slasher chuckled manically as he drew both knives from his belt, "But I caannnn be! He works in mysterious ways!" The clown dived at Charles, his knives point first in an attempt to slash Charles open. The Lone Wanderer slid out of the way, firing wildly in the Slasher's direction. The small cultist moved remarkably fast for a man of his size, slashing across Charles' right arm with a knife. The pain was blinding. The second cut across the back was worse. Charles' armoured Vault-Suit proved little protection from the killer's knives, leaving his blue suit red with blood. The assault rifle slipped from his fingers and clattered against the floor.
"Shit!" Charles growled between grit teeth both in pain and in disappointment with himself for dropping the weapon. The maniacal laughter continued and the Slasher moved in again, stabbing the Lone Wanderer in the leg this time. The blade punched deep, pain increased by the Slasher twisting the point within the leg. Charles growled and punched the Slasher in his face. The clown mask may have been terrifying to look at but it did nothing for protection. The killer fell back, momentarily letting go of the knife. Charles snatched Wild Bill's sidearm from its traditional place at his side and fired in one smooth motion. The first 38 round connected with the Pint-Sized Slasher at close range, sending a spray of blood in all direction. The little clown sank back, his maniacal laughter slowly fading in a rasping cough. Not content with one bullet, Charles shot a second and third time, putting the two additional slugs into the clown's chest. "But, but.." Coughed the slasher, blood leaking from beneath his mask. "I saw death..." He sank to his knees, feeling around helplessly from a pulse that was slipping away like so much blood. "It was too small..." Then he was silent.
With grim determination, Charles aimed and fired again, putting a fourth and final bullet through the Slasher's brain. "Rot in hell," Charles murmured while reloading his revolver. Snatching the handle of the knife buried in his leg, Charles pulled the weapon free with a cry of pain. A quick Stim-Pak was applied to the leg and the flesh began knitting itself back together but still, the pain was immense. His other wounds were painful but not dangerous, they'd heal in time.
Without waiting for the flesh to heal fully, Charles retrieved his Chinese assault rifle and took stock of the situation.
The massive creature was shrieking, flailing its tentacles in all directions while biting with its many mouths. Jericho, Charon and most of the Pride were firing on it with their various weapons to little effect. For every chunk of twisting flesh or gibbering bit that was sliced away by bullet or laser the creature seemed immune, is if its body were never ending.
Sarah was continuing to fire on her allies, despite the obvious anguish the action caused her. Tears of pain and sorrow ran freely down her face but she couldn't seem to stop. Kodiak and McGraw seemed to be the primary target of her attacks, both men returning fire cautiously, more to dissuade than harm.
Simms and Harkness were trading fire with one of the cultists, his face hidden beneath a hood but with a slickly customized 10 millimetre pistol. The Doctor's own 10 millimetre barked with each shot but he himself continued to slink deeper into the shadows of the Vault. Only Blackhall seemed immune to the chaos around him, head thrown back as he spoke out dark twisted words that Charles didn't understand. The book was open in his hand, the staff in the other and the source of malice that radiated from him was palpable. Yet, with the giant monster blocking their path none of the heroic band could get to Blackhall and whatever vile sorcery he intended would go off without a hitch.
Charles shook his head and began firing his Chinese assault rifle towards the Servant. It might be pointless, but he'd go down fighting, he owed Riley that much.
Duke felt the hairs on his neck rise, a remarkable feat since they'd been on end since combat had started. He'd been in Vaults before, hell, the Enclave bunkers he'd spent time in growing up were practically Vaults themselves and they'd never bothered him. Yet there was something about this one, something about its darkened corridors that gave him a feeling of deep dread.
The light from Danse's headlamp seemed pathetic in the face of such oppressive darkness. It was better than nothing but Duke was utterly aware that this was a place where mortal men were not meant to travel.
"Where do you think they went?" Danse asked, more to break the silence than for any actual information that might be gleaned.
"Somewhere further in, no doubt Colonel," Maxson's voice was steely, his face locked in the picture of resolve.
Before Duke could give his two cents on the matter, the sound of laser fire echoed throughout the vault, accompanied by screams and other sounds associated with the mayhem of combat. "I think we should take a look in this direction," Duke said, aiming his laser pistol with barely contained glee.
"You know something, Duke," Danse responded with a smile, "I think you're absolutely right."
The men rushed off quickly, determined to find their comrades and aid them as needed. Judging from the amount of gunfire they heard, it was likely quite a serious situation.
The thundering of Danse's boots against the steel floor of the Vault, normally a sound without equal, was drowned beneath the inhuman screeching echoing from beyond. Duke gripped his laser pistol tighter and steadied himself. He'd seen plenty of terrible things over the years; the Enclave had never shied away from doing difficult things that needed doing. He'd seen massacres, twisted genetic experiments and the horrifying aftereffects of radiation on bodies and minds. Yet nothing prepared him for this sight before him.
It was a creature of chaos, too many eyes, too many mouths and tentacles beyond counting. The bizarre cry that came from its many mouths blasted past his flesh into his soul. Maxson's horror was obvious, though it seemed more directed at the screaming, pained form of Sarah Lyons who was firing at her fellow Paladins, seemingly against her will. Danse's features were hidden by the helmet, but the gasped utterance of "By the Codex!" made it clear that this monstrosity affected him as well.
Danse immediately added the fire from his laser rifle to the attack on the monster. Maxson took a step into the room, shouting, "Ad Victorium brothers! We will defeat this abomination! Together!" The roar of his Gatling laser was the only sound that seemed capable of matching the eldritch horror before them and yet even that burst of firepower didn't seem to stop the creature. It roared in pain as pieces of its flesh fell away in chunks but still it continued lashing out with its tentacles and hollowing with its gnashing mouths.
Duke didn't immediately open fire on the beast, shocking though it was. His laser pistol would add little to the onslaught of fire already striking the unearthly creature, seemingly to little effect. Instead, he gazed cautiously around the battlefield despite the chaos, looking for any way to make an impact large enough to tip the scales of power.
His caution was rewarded.
Towards the back of the battle, trying desperately to avoid front line combat was a man in a dark robe. His plain features were unadorned by anything save a simple beard and his hands were wrapped tightly around a small handheld device, likely an older Pip-Boy model. He seemed intently focused on it, constantly making adjustments to the computer with his free hand. He seemed well aware of the band of warriors he had been fighting, but hadn't seen Duke's less than obvious entrance.
An opening presented itself.
Duke took careful aim with his pistol and fired, sending a laser bolt clean through the cultist's throat. The foe never knew what hit him. As he collapsed, fingers scraping against his throat, the Pip-Boy fell from his hand. Duke took the opportunity to shoot it as well. He wasn't sure what had compelled him to destroy the computer but it was worth a try.
His instincts proved to be right once again.
Sarah Lyons felt the pounding, aching pain of the Doctor's control fade away. Tears of relief chased the tears of pain down her face as she once again found herself in control of her own body. She stood, dazed, rubbing her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts and get moving again.
Standing still on the battlefield was a good way to get yourself killed.
She wasn't sure if she'd killed Kodiak, or any of the others and she couldn't dwell on it, lest she go mad with grief. Right now, in this moment, the only thing she wanted was revenge on these cultists.
Unfortunately, the Doctor was now dead and thus she could not take her just vengeance out on him. Fortunately, there were several other worthwhile targets in the room about her. The old man that Charles had called Blackhall would do nicely.
Blackhall continued chanting loudly, head leaned back, screaming the words above even the din of Maxson's laser rifle. Maxson...In the flesh.
It was Arthur, he came! He survived! I wasn't sure he had survived... Focus!
She returned her gaze to Blackhall; the old man was lost in his dark sorcery and was shielded by the great Servant he'd summoned. No one could get a clear shot at him, no one but her.
Sarah trusted her instincts, her years of training and fired. Despite the lingering pain, the guilt, the chaos around her and the abomination in her peripheral vision her shot was true. The laser took Blackhall in the side and punch clean through his decrepit body. The words abruptly stopped as man and beast both delivered a great cry of pain. Obadiah Blackhall sunk to his knees, gazing blankly out at nothing. "But..." he whispered through cracked lips, his words some how reaching her ears despite the noise. "But the stars were right...he...he promised me."
With those last words, Blackhall fell on his face and breathed his last.
Charles couldn't believe his eyes. Blackhall was dead and Sarah was back, in the span of a few seconds everything had changed.
The great beast, despite still be horrific, was changed by the old man's death. It's form became translucent and faded at the edges, like a television set that was horrifically out of tune. It howled from its many mouths, the connection between Blackhall and beast shattered.
"Now! Give it everything you've got!" Maxson ordered, directing the fire from his Gatling laser towards a cluster of eyes midway up the creature. Charles responded enthusiastically, the rattling of his assault rifle seemed almost cheerful.
The creature bucked and shuddered as pieces of it fell away. It howled one last eerie, inhuman cry and faded away, leaving no evidence for its existence save a patch of burned metal and a strange small that lingered in the air.
The room was silent, eerily so considering what had just occurred.
"What the hell just happened." Simms' words seemed accurate to everyone still standing.
"I think we won," McGraw said without his usual conviction.
Charles understood the Paladin's tone. He'd seen plenty of horrific stuff out in the wasteland, he'd seen plenty of strange, unexplained phenomenon but never anything like this. One thing was certain, he'd sleep with the lights on after this.
"Sarah..." Maxson's word was cautious, wounded. "Are you...alright?"
"I...I..." Sarah Lyons paused and caught her breath, "I don't know."
"We'll have Curie take a look at you," Danse announced stoically, "If anyone can see what the freak did your head and fix it, it's her."
Maxson did not protest the idea of the synth looking at Sarah.
He must be desperate.
"Let's get the hell out of here," Charles said after a momentary pause. "I don't want to see this place ever again."
"Don't worry, boss," Charon responded with a yellow-toothed grin, "I'll get a few detonators and seal this place up for good."
"Actually," Danse interjected, "The Minutemen might have a tool more than capable of doing the job..."
"Why wait for artillery," a dazed Kodiak announced, leaning heavily against Colvin for support, "Liberty Prime can sink this damned Vault."
No one was more pleased to hear Kodiak speak than Sarah Lyons, who smiled and nodded at the Pride member with obvious reflief.
"That's acceptable," Maxson said. "Let's get out of here and let the robot do its work, the seas can have this place."
And everyone agreed that was the best solution for it.
Daniel Littlehorn had been in tight scraps before, that came with the territory of a contract killer, but never one as close as this. The Servant had provided an excellent distraction, as had the death of the others, allowing him to slip away in the chaos that had followed.
He'd made his way rapidly up the ramp, shedding his robes as he went and picked his way gingerly through the ruins of Salem without incident. If any of the Minutemen or their Brotherhood allies saw him he'd be nothing more than another wastelander in a tattered business suit. Thankfully, none of them saw him and he avoided all manner of questions.
Now he stood alone in the wilderness, safely removed from the battle. The others in the cult were dead, only he alone remembered the words of Ug-Qualtoth. And yet, what had their devotion gotten them? Death in a dingy Vault?
Littlehorn shook his head, more to himself than to the others. He was done with this life, done at long last. He had quite a large amount of capital invested in Littlehorn and Associates, perhaps it was time to open a new branch, somewhere far away from here...
He'd always heard good things about Navada.
Alexander Blackwood's Journal
Fight on, fight on no matter the odds, no matter the cost, no matter what stands before you. If you give up, if you turn back, you die. I saw it in the war, grandpa saw it in his and my ancestors saw it in theirs. We fight so that we may finally know piece.
Only one threat remains.
AN: Three chapters to go! It's been a wild ride and I thank everyone who has followed along and supported this story. I've loved writting it and I hope you have enjoyed reading it!