Gabriel Shaw had tracked the merchandise to a little shack west of the Falls. Mistress Red had given him the details; the sale had managed to escape like a ghost, nobody had seen her get out—it was like she knew exactly when to leave. The goon in charge of her cage was already a charred corpse on her tinder pile. Mistress Red didn't have any Mark 2 Collars and it made things difficult. He was good at tracking slaves, and maybe that was why she'd decided to hire him. He almost didn't take it. He didn't want to push his luck when it came to working for slavers. It was distasteful—the whole idea of it was turning sour more each day.
The red-haired merchandise was busy dragging a rotting corpse away from the lone shack. She wore one of those vault-dweller suits but there wasn't a number on the. Gabe was sure they always had numbers. He'd heard stories from the slavers whenever he passed through regarding the bad omens of blue jumpsuits, and vault-people. As he watched the redhead struggle to pull away at what looked like the torn clothes of an Enclave officer, he thought back to how lucky he'd been to not be there on that fateful day. He was by no means a slaver, but mostly a gun-for-hire, a bounty hunter, or security if he was low on caps. Luck had smiled on him that day he was certainly sure of that.
He could still remember the acrid, burning stench that filled the air, and the scattered corpses of people he'd once worked with. Only the breezy, dead wind accompanied him. One man could not have done all of that pain and madness. The man himself, Eulogy Jones, was next to the burning pile of tires; his head an exhibit of blood, bone, and mush that had sprayed his already blood-red suit. No slaves remained, but they weren't capable of an uprising like this. Whoever had come had taken them, and left nothing but chaos in their wake. By the time he had worked up the courage to return, Mistress Red had already taken the place over.
She'd bought with her a sadistic band of slavers, raiders, and a somewhat odd kink to the profession. Her bread and butter, it seemed, was the sex-slave trade. It didn't take him long to begin working as a tracker once more—but with her it didn't feel right, and he always ended up postponing the work unless he really needed it. The Falls just gave him the creeps whenever he walked in there.
The redhead had slipped back inside the hut. He didn't like to think as slaves as people—questioning the how and why of their situations only made it harder to maintain focus. As he rubbed at the goggles of his riot gear, he'd decided she wasn't exactly packing an artillery and strolled on down towards the shack. He'd slipped out his 44. Magnum and tapped it against the wooden door, and stood to the side in case they got a little trigger happy.
"Open up."
There was a soft squeak. Gabe sighed and slowly pulled the door open with his revolver aimed in. Once inside, he slammed the door behind him and pressed his back to it. Slithers of sunlight shone through giving off a dusty, warm glaze to the dullish, brown room. By the counter with the till was a mattress, and sat on it with her knees raised to her chin was the redhead. Gabe kept his gun aimed on her and walked forward. He cocked the hammer.
"Do not run."
The redhead nodded. Her face was soft and pale; her pink lips were big, and her eyes shone a bright green that he'd never seen before. Strange colour, almost too green.
"Name?"
She shook her head.
"Cat got your tongue? I asked for your fuckin' name, slave."
"It's Siv."
He holstered his weapon and then offered her a hand. "Get up. Let's go. I ain't got time for this."
She climbed to her feet and looked at him with a defeated gaze. It didn't matter. He needed to get out of here before somebody with a bigger stick came snooping. He guided her to the door, keeping a firm grip of her shoulder. Something in his gut told him to wait. He slowly pushed the door open enough to peek out of the crack and was relieved when he did.
From the horizon line of the hill he could make out shapes. Three of them were approaching Jocko's from the north; tall, earthly-coloured, and with claws. He closed the door and lowered his head. Shit. Just my luck. There was no way he could get out of here with the girl if those big fuckers were going to be sniffing around.
He looked back to Siv who stood patiently. He had to give it to her—most others would have taken the moment to crack him upside the head, or pull a blade. She just stood by quietly, waiting on his order. Don't be a fuckin' moron. She's ran before that's why you're here in the first place. The only reason she hadn't tried to run is because he was blocking the door. He smiled underneath his headgear. She couldn't see it.
"Sit down and be quiet. There's big fuckers outside and I'm not lookin' to get ripped apart over you."
Siv went back to her mattress and slumped down on it. On his left was a metallic shelf stacked with old rotten tins. He gripped it and pulled it across, scratching the floor in the process. It didn't matter. He jammed it against the door, pinning it as much as he could. It would do the job, he hoped, otherwise they'd both be dead. Siv stared at him, her eyes glinted for a second in the piercing rays. Her mouth was shut and that's what mattered.
He sat down, wedging his weight against the shelf. He wouldn't take his helmet off, even though sweat slicked his body underneath the duster he wore. The girl tapped her fingers on the floor beneath.
"I won't resist."
"Quiet."
They sat in silence for two hours; the cracks of sunlight slipped away to welcome the approaching darkness. Outside, they could hear low growls and thudding steps that would louden and then disappear. By the time night had arrived Gabe was sure he could hear one of them snoring just outside the door.
"What is your name?" whispered Siv as Gabe checked his watch; just after midnight.
"Gabriel."
Siv looked like she was mulling it over and then nodded.
"Not a good name, huh?"
Siv shook her head and the left corner of her plump lips turned upwards. Gabe saw her smile, that was a first. She's awful chirpy for a slave heading back for a whipping.
"Why do you do what you do?" asked Siv.
"Money," he whispered.
"What do you spend your money on?"
He went to open his mouth and then stopped. He didn't want to tell her anything, so why had he suddenly felt the need to just before? He shook his head at her and she remained quiet. He didn't want to talk anymore, and he didn't like how she seemed to be pushing and prodding him. There was something about being stuck in here that was getting to him, or was it something about her?
It had been hours since any noises had come from outside. Darkness slowly gave way to a lighter welcoming tinge of blue through the cracks. Through one of them Gabe peeked out and couldn't see anything across the way. But it didn't matter—he knew better than most how sneaky those deathclaws were. He wasn't taking the bait right now. Eventually they'd slip away but not right now.
"You're having second thoughts," said Siv.
"I'm makin' sure they're gone."
"We have had plenty of chances to leave."
She was right on that part. Why didn't he take her immediately? A thought popped into his head. You're having doubts. It felt like a foreign intrusion but when he looked over to Siv her eyes bored into him, like she knew exactly what was going on. He shook his head.
"No, I'm not," he whispered.
You won't take me back. Even knowing Mistress Red will kill you. I can feel it.
He got to his feet and approached her. "Stop it," he snapped as he pulled her up.
He dragged her over the doorway and yanked the shelf out of the way. Cans and tin plates fell onto the floor and spilled out as Gabe almost tore the door off its hinges. With his free hand he gripped the handle of the 44. and kept it close. Once outside he scanned around. No threats in sight. Siv squeaked as she slid out of the shack and sighed, but she still didn't try to run.
It's okay to admit it. I know I'm getting to you. Siv raised her hand to his mask and cupped it. For a second he smelled something sweet; it was pleasant but it escaped his nose as he bit his tongue and knocked her hand away. "Just move. Jesus Christ," he whispered.
From behind the shack came a guttural, flowing growl. He turned back and saw the black eyes, and the yawning jaw. The black horns glinted even with the sun barely rising. He turned and fired—Siv dropped to the floor as if she'd done this a hundred times. The beast lunged forward and took him in one swoop. It leered over him and gripped him tightly with its large claw like a child's doll. He felt the gun slide out of his hand and away.
The beast opened its mouth wide and he could smell the putrid stench of rotten meat. He slid his knife from its sheathe and slashed at the beast across the face, barely marking it. It bought down its other claw across his side, slicing his duster to ribbons as the rush of fresh pain shot down his left side. He felt the wetness of blood and thrashed the blade blindly as pressure went across his helmet.
The roar of two gunshots echoed. The deathclaw turned its head up as Gabe turned his head, gritting his teeth. Siv held the magnum in both her hands, like a child who'd never meant to fire; the shooter looked too big for her. She leant back on the edge of the baby-blue car behind her and aimed again. This time the bullet hit the flesh of the beasts shoulder and it leapt from Gabe. He turned over onto his front and gasped for air; the thing had nearly crushed him. All he could do was reach out to Siv, blood and muck covering his visor. Run.
He tore off his helmet and watched as the deathclaw launched at Siv. Three more rounds went off and a deafening roar from the beast rang out as it stumbled over Siv, over the car, and into the dirt behind it. Where did she go? He got to his knees and took a deep breath, and then fell back onto his front. The wound wasn't deep but it hurt like hell. His blood-soaked hands reached into his satchel and he pulled out a stimpak. It would do the job. With the sound of the needle pressurizing, he jammed it into his side, took a deep breath of air, and found enough strength to get up and stumble over to the other side of the car. The deathclaw lay on its front, sprawled out on its belly and underneath it was Siv. Her lower portion was caked in blood, and beneath the beast he could make out the deep claw which was still half in her. She laid still, breathing heavily.
"It—got—me," she said.
He knelt down on one knee.
"Why did you do that?" he asked, frustrated.
She took little breaths, her eyes wide as blood pooled underneath her. She looked at him. "Because you weren't going to take me back—you'd have let me go before we made it. I wanted to return the favour."
He slumped down and wiped blood out of his eyes. He felt the lump in his throat at her words and tightened his fists as he leant over her. "You don't know that."
"I just—I just do," she whispered dreamily. "I saw it."
"No," he said. "No. I'm not. You should have ran."
"It's okay," she whispered. "It's okay."
He leaned back and sucked in air. "Tell me what I can do."
"Just—" She looked at him. "Just stay with me. I knew this was how it was going to happen."
"What? What are you talkin—" He wiped the last of the blood out of his eyes and let out a cough. His chest felt like it was on fire as he looked at her.
"No matter what," she whispered. "This is how it was supposed to be."
"I don't understand."
She was gone. Her radioactive eyes were bright, beaming against the light of the sky and a faint smile would remain on her face forever. The last words she'd spoken were as cryptic as everything else. When he felt for her pulse there was nothing, and no breath went against the fingers he placed near her mouth. Silence. The adrenaline rushed at him and he clenched his fist down and slammed it onto the deathclaw—its left eye nothing but a hollow hole of mush and blood. Mistress Red's gonna kill me.
"I'm sorry," he said as he took his revolver from out of Siv's hand and unbuckled the deactivated Pip-boy on her right arm; it was soaked in blood. He cleared his throat, and limped away back towards Paradise Falls, leaving behind a small trail of blood. Ironic, he thought. Stepping away from one death only to march into his own. He considered running but knew it wouldn't matter—if she wanted to find him, she would. Don't look back. He couldn't bring himself to turn and look over. As he limped away, he couldn't understand anything of what had happened.