Chapter Two

As I stepped out of Doc Mitchell's house, I continued looking through the menus of the PipBoy he'd given me. It was a fancy piece of tech, able to keep track of my health, the items in my pack, even the weight and cost of everything. The coolest thing, though, was the compass, health meter, and ammo counter it projected on the edges of my vision. Hurt like a bitch getting them there, but it seemed worth it. It was like the HUD in my old Ranger helmet, but much less obtrusive. The compass even had a way to identify friend or foe, though I didn't have the slightest clue how. I stopped at the edge of Mitchell's property, checking my weapons one last time. My Sig was already loaded, so I slipped my old M4 off my back and quickly went through the motions of checking and loading the chamber. As I slipped the mag back into the well, I paused to read the inscription I had engraved there just above the trigger: "The strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack."

It was from an old poem my father used to read to me. I didn't really understand what it meant until after he died and I had enlisted. It helped me through boot camp and Ranger training, and guided my actions throughout my service. Not so much so after I was discharged, pissed off as I was. Started believing in the lone wolf, fuck everyone else way of thinking. Even then, I still remembered the poem. It's why I stepped between that girl and her death, why I'm part robot. Even when I hated the world, I couldn't stand by and watch her die.

That got me thinking of what I was gonna do next. I had basically been given a second chance at life. As I thought about it more and more, the angrier I got. Some fuck face shot me in the head for a fucking poker chip. Honestly, who does that? I figured I should try to get the package back, but I wanted to return the favor to the little shit more than anything.

I must have been standing there for longer than I thought because I heard Doc Mitchell hollering at me from his porch, wondering if I was all right. I waved and reassured him before making my way into town. It was close to noon, but there was enough cloud cover that it wasn't unbearable out. I broke into a huge grin when I saw my truck was right where I left her, untouched by the locals.

As I approached, I was still examining my weapon. My rifle had a unique scope, something I hadn't seen anywhere else but on my rifle. I had taken it from the collection of scopes and optics that my father had collected before I was born. It was an old world optic, some kind of square piece of glass and a red aim point projected on it, useful for close quarters. It didn't really magnify any more than the iron sights did, but it made picking targets easier. However, mounted behind it on a hinge was a short 3x magnification scope. I could switch between the two in less than a second, and it really helped out in a firefight when situations were always changing. It also had an angled fore grip and flashlight mounted on the rail under the barrel and that helped with my accuracy if I was aiming and moving. It might have been a normal setup back before the war, but most people treated my rifle like it was from outer space.

Seeing that my truck was clear, I went to the back and opened the rear gate. The old lockbox welded to the bed near the wheel well was still secured, so I slid the key into the lock and popped it open, placing my pack inside and pulling out a bag of caps. Might as well stock up on supplies if I'm gonna get that package back and shoot the motherfucker who shot me in the head. Some information might not hurt either. Maybe somebody had seen who shot me.

As I took a quick inventory of my supplies, my eyes went to my father's rifle, in perfect condition though rarely used. It was some old pre-war rifle my father found somewhere called Coronado. It was heavier than my M4, but my M4 could only fire 5.56 rounds. My father's rifle was chambered in .308 caliber, an old civilian rifle called an AR-10, and customized with an Aimpoint PRO red dot sight. Lately the only time I touched was to clean it.

With just my weapons and the caps, I shut the gate and wandered over to the saloon. Nodding to the old man on the porch, I opened the door only to receive a growl from a dog standing next to a redhead in leather armor. She wasn't much more than a kid. Well, neither was I but I spent 10 years killing people for a living. She looked more like a hunter than anything. She stepped forward as she quieted the dog down.

"You must be the guy the Doc patched up," she said as she walked up to me. "Should you be up and walking around so soon?"

"I'm fine, just had a bullet pass through my skull," I responded with a grin.

"Just that huh? To be honest, you don't look like you got shot in the head, but I suppose that's a good thing."

"I suppose it is, Miss...?"

"Sunny. Just Sunny," she replied. "Look, you look like you can use that rifle. Wanna give me a hand with some geckos out by the water source. Usually me and Cheyenne take care of them, but a little company doesn't hurt."

"Sure thing, might be fun. I'm James, by the way."