Frank


"What kind of animal do you suppose did this?"

Before them, was a dead cow unlike any he had seen before. Its mottled burgundy carcass was parked at the edge of Monument and Bedford, the three-way intersection that heralded the edge of town.

"I don't know," answered James with a shrug. "I'm more curious about the animal in front of you. First it's giant insects, now it's two-headed cows."

Frank hummed in thought. "Can't say that I've ever seen one of those before," he admitted as he leaned in to get a closer look at the creature's shattered bones. "If what we've seen so far is any indication, I'm of half a mind to say it was some big-ass wild pig."

"Why's that?" James asked curiously.

"Just a guess, but I got a feeling that whatever killed it though didn't go too far. For one, the body is still warm."

"How warm?" James asked.

"Probably a couple hours."

"As fascinating as the dead cow is," James planted his fists to his hips as he gaped around at their surroundings, "how about we go before the corpse attracts something I'd rather not know about?"

Frank's instincts were telling him to stay, study and learn more about their environment, but James was a man on a mission; his son had been stolen for no apparent reason and James was going to get him back. Frank liked to think he would have the same obstinate dedication were his little girl still alive.

If James Rodgers, the aloof ninety-day-wonder-child he was, would run balls deep into what was practically uncharted territory for them to find the trail of his son's kidnappers - then damn it, So would he.

They entered Concord speechless. Broken asphalt, litter and leaf piles were strewn along the road.

The buildings themselves seemed to have fared much better. Four in five buildings from where he marched seemed to have retained some semblance of structural integrity. Between them, overgrowth had reclaimed many of the open spaces.

To his right, was the North Bridge Inn. Though its brick construction held firm, other elements such as the fire escape staircase did not. Instead it rested on a roof of an adjacent bus stop broken and toppled.

Around it, many of the less stable houses and shops were boarded up as if they had been marked as age old hazards that looked to be untouched for years.

Following the road further into Concord, they stopped where the road flowed into Monument Square.

To a complete stranger, the rundown square looked a centerpiece for a typical American small town. As a native of Massachusetts though, Frank could damn well remember the long list of things that drew in the tourists to this small city.

Around the proud obelisk were reminders of American history. Ideas born here, that called this town their cradle.

There was the House of Ralph Waldo Emerson, America's first and greatest hippie. Beyond the square was The First Parish where he and his nutjob friends went to church.

Wright's Tavern, a monument to Minuteman times when government affairs were best settled in bars, was settled on the edge of the square by Main Street, opposite of the Concord Town House.

He couldn't place it, but something about the sight of it all made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

James, for his part, looked around briefly then pressed on in the direction of Main Street. As soon as he went three steps, a loud succession of gunshots shattered the eerie tranquillity of the place. In reply, they could hear the dull boom of a laser blast ripping through the air in response to the chatter of another gun's bursts.

"It's coming from Main Street I think," declared James. He pulled back the bolt on his rifle, and took off towards the sound like a fly to a corpse with the dog on his heels. Frank followed James cursing himself for not having more than a 10mm pistol. They passed the old tavern and Fallon's before they could see the scene.

Sure enough, somebody was holed up in the museum.

Idiot, thought Frank. Despite a good field of fire, the building was too big for one man to defend.

Frank counted five figures on the street near the museum entrance. He didn't know who they were, but he had a feeling they weren't law enforcement.

"Give me your hat Musket Boy!" A loud and hoarse voice shouted.

James looked to him, and they made their decision.

"Behind you boss," yelled another of the figures who turned around with his weapon aimed in their direction.

Frank dived for cover behind a Chryslus flatbed parked on the curb. Once in position, he took aim at the nearest one and squeezed the trigger. The shot went low and took the target in the ass, and nearly knocked him over. The target next to him, went limp with the report of a three round burst from the commie rifle.

He lowered his pistol and climbed into the truck bed, where he lined up his next shot.

They had been taken by surprise and were looking for cover when he saved one of them the trouble, with two bullets to the torso. Another burst from James had winged a thug in the arm.

Just then, a black man in a long flowing duster emerged from hiding, and levelled his rifle. A bright red beam nailed one of the targets who didn't even have time to scream as the heat seared through his heart, lungs and ribcage.

What remained of the force scattered from the kill zone, or tried to anyway. He managed to put a round in one of the two who still had the strength to move. The other, who looked like he could have been no older than fifteen, could barely crawl away.

"Cover me!" James shouted as he moved in with his rifle and the scene.

The man in the longcoat emerged from his cover and sent the wounded fighter to hell with a well-placed shot to the head.

"Hey you!" The man on the balcony called out. "I've got a group of settlers inside! There's raiders inside that are almost through the door up here! Help us! Please!"

The fuck are raiders supposed to be? Frank asked himself.

James opened the door a crack and motioned for Frank to approach. He jumped off the truck and closed the distance as quick as he could manage. "Check it out Frank," James pointed to what Frank had to admit was a pretty interesting do-it-yourself project.

He holstered his pistol and picked up the jury rigged laser carbine. The weapon didn't appear to be semi-automatic as most energy weapons were, and he wasn't certain he should trust his life to what looked like some redneck engineered Gauss Rifle if it was intended for fitting in tight spaces. Even the PLA had better knockoffs than this.

Still, something told him it was a preferable alternative to everything else, and for the Micro Fusion cells he scrounged would give him at least thirty charges. Frank loaded the rifle, and turned the crank. He was instantly rewarded with a red glow in the chamber. Man, that was neat.

A burst of automatic fire in a weaker caliber could be heard behind the door, and James signalled his intention to breach the door. Two seconds later he did just that.

Frank quickly took point, and stepped through the doorway. He checked his surroundings, noting the full extent of the damage to the museum. Much of the upper floors had collapsed under the weight of long decayed timber. Above the devastation, the morning sun shined down on through glass ceiling panes now smashed into shards that no doubt littered the floors below. Instinct kicked in, and they both took cover behind pillars in the lobby.

Somewhere up there was a shooter hiding behind cover. Alert eyes scanned every inch in front of them, like a hawk, but he couldn't spot the person from his vantage point.

He saw the armed figure in question when the shooter suddenly emerged from his hiding place and tried to exchange fire with someone while completely unaware of the newcomers.

Frank calmly lined up his shot before loosing the charge in the direction of the 'raider' before they even saw him. The raider's flesh took on a bright orange glow as he teetered and fell from the third floor. His burning corpse landed with a thud.

"Have at thee!" Some cartoonishly British voice boomed in another room towards his right, like something out of a sketch comedy.

He turned the crank on his new weapon, and gestured for James to take point. His rifle would be better suited for close quarters.

He cautiously walked through the doorway behind James, which went off to the right and down a short corridor. There was another door to the left leading into a poorly lit room.

"No more British occupation!" a voice yelled as the lights in the room came on in a flash. There was a figure right to Franks' left that had an arm raised, which instantly received a burst to the chest.

A moment later, they recovered from the jump scare probably caused by an IR trigger, he realized the James had shot a mannequin. One of many in the room.

"God damned mannequins!" he cursed under his breath.

They navigated the near maze of mannequins in the room as their recorded lines continued to be played through the speakers.

When they entered the next room, a new set lines and sound effects were heard, making it difficult to find enemies in hiding. Here, the lights were already on.

As if to answer his thoughts, a raider sprang out of their position, firing off a pistol at James. The raider managed to squeeze off two rounds, both of which went wild, before a single round from the ssault rifle slammed though the enemy skull.

They made their way to the second floor watching the other's back. James halted at the first doorway and made a few hand motions to indicate the presence of at least two enemies ahead.

Frank slung the laser carbine across his back, and went in drawing his pistol.

He could hear "Battle Hymn of the Republic," quietly play from the ceiling speakers. It did little to drown out the panicked conversation beyond his field of vision.

A desperate voice cut through, giving away their element of surprise. "C'mon man, let's just make a break for the door, no point in waiting around for whoever's out there to come and try an' kill us." The voice sounded like it belonged to someone older compared the others encountered so far.

"Quit bein' such a fuckin' pussy old man." A younger, more impetuous voice challenged him.

"What the fuck, are you deaf?" The older raider roared in reply. "Those punks downstairs are cutting through our people worse than Gunners! Besides why are we even here? So Jared can have a chat with a junkie old enough to be his grandma?"

The younger raider had no chance to give an answer. Frank put three rounds in his torso, then opened up on the older one before he could bring his sawed off shotgun to bear. Over his head came the loud staccado crack of a 556 burst finishing the job. The older raider collapsed onto the rickety timber floor.

They stepped out into the open, and regarded the scene before them. That was when he noticed the mural in the room. A depiction of how far their country had come. He couldn't help but read the plaque that stood in front the concave wall.

"This mural commemorates the many sacrifices of the brave men and women of the United States Armed Forces. From Lexington and Concord to the shores of Iwo Jima, from the Sea of Tranquillity to the Anchorage Front Line, Americans have fought and died through the ages to secure our nation's freedom. May their sacrifices remind us all that freedom is a privilege afforded to the many, yet hard won by a noble few."

For some reason, the mural made him feel bitter. What was he really doing here? Frank asked himself. Why was he fighting his fellow Americans? How did it come to this? He didn't have any orders to speak of to kill anybody. Rodgers may have been a captain, but Frank had been discharged not two months before it all happened.

Besides, they had been on ice for at least a few decades. Nobody was around to give Rodgers orders.

No, he decided pushing the angry thoughts away. Frank had volunteered to help as a friend, as a brother in arms.

All the while, James removed the clip on his gun, and shoved in a few rounds from the ammo belt draped across his chest. When he was done, he pointed at a hole in the wall with his gun.

From the hole, it was a surprisingly quick journey to the next staircase. As they climbed the stairs, they could hear the dull boom of a shotgun nearby. Laser fire answered, followed by an uncontrollable scream that came with the concentrated laser burns.

He freed his left hand, and pulled the door open. It swung inwards, and James fired his weapon through the doorway, full auto into the thugs.

When it was over, Rodgers took off and made for the door at the end of the hall. Frank stayed in the doorway, scanning the other half of the museum for hostiles. It was clear.

The man in the long coat he saw on the balcony stepped through the ruins of the splintered door. The most notable thing about him, was his outfit. He wore a dirty, beige long coat over a waist coat colored a fancy blue with an embroidered yellow design. Around his neck was a tattered turquoise scarf.

Two things though really stood out to Frank. One was the slouch hat, one side of the brim pinned up. The other, was a radio attached to a belt slung around his chest and positioned just under his shoulder.

"Hey, in here," spoke the man. He motioned for the duo to enter the room. As they stepped inside, the dog ran ahead past James and up to the man, who look surprised and then smiled with relief. Kneeling down to pet him, the man said, "Hey Dogmeat, good to see you again boy, you brought us some friends, eh?"

Dogmeat? Holy ballsacks, was that the dog's actual name? Frank wondered.

'Dogmeat' walked away and sat himself down next to an old lady sitting on a couch nearby.

The man took another step towards them. "Man, I don't know who you guys are, but your timing's impeccable! Name's Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen," he said with a relieved smile, extending his arm to offer James a handshake.

"Captain James Rodgers, US Army" said James as he shook Preston's hand. "And this here's Frank Dipietro, Boston PD."

"United States Army, Boston PD?" Preston seemed confused. "As in pre-war army?"

It was now Frank's turn to be confused. "What do you mean 'Pre-war' army?"

"You know," Preston tilted his head to address him. "Before the great war, when the bombs dropped."

Something about the way Preston said it unnerved him. He made it sound as if it were many lifetimes ago when the Chinks dropped their missiles on America. "Then yes," answered Frank. "We were there when it happened."

Mr. Garvey stared at him stupidly, then at James.

"I'm not sure I can believe that, but I'm grateful to have you two on our side."

"Who are these people?" James pointed in the direction of the settlers Preston referred to earlier.

"They're just folks looking for a less dangerous place to call home. Been leading them since Quincy. A month ago, there were twenty of us, but now we're down to five." Preston was staring in his direction, but not actually looking at him. They had gone through hell, whoever they were.

"My condolences for what it's worth." James spoke in that deadpan voice of his that most who didn't know him considered empathy starved.

"No time to mourn I'm afraid, they have others on the way."

"More?" asked Frank. "Where the hell are they coming from?"

"They're coming from Lexington," answered Garvey. I suggest we make preparations before they get here."

"Alright Garvey," James responded. "What's your plan?"

A visible wave of relief washed over Preston's face and turned to a man in handyman's clothing with a flowing slick back that made him look like a stereotypical "greastie," something many in the North End called him before his army days.

He was going over something on a computer terminal. "Sturges. Give our new friend the run down. I'm gonna keep an eye on the streets to see when Gristle decides to poke his ugly head out."

"Can do boss," the greaser said. Sturges turned around to face them. "Well now friends, It turns out were sitting on one hell of a pre-war armory."

"Here?" James asked.

"Yep, went through the curator's terminal here just to make sure. It seems that every branch of the military donated surplus hardware to the Museum. I suppose its fitting considering the building's history."

"I'm assuming none of these donations were decommissioned," Frank asked curiously.

"You'd be right, It seems that most of the stuff was waiting on the basement level behind locked doors to become exhibits. This key card should be all you need to get in."

Sturges waved around what had to be an employee ID and handed it to Frank who now happened to be closer. "The door should be easy enough to find."

He exchanged a look with James, and rushed down to the basement floor as quick as they safely could.

The first thing they saw, going down the slanted floor, was a generator room.

Next, they came by an enclosed chamber secured by high grade mag locks. Frank inserted the card into the terminal reader. The credentials were acknowledged, and with a couple of clicks the locks disengaged.

Frank grinned despite himself. He suddenly felt like a kid in a candy shop.

Against the walls and lining the shelves of the narrow chamber were more than a few high end arms. Though they had clearly seen better days, they looked more than serviceable.

The first piece to catch his eye, was a scoped M74 Gauss rifle. A note in front of it specified that it had seen action in the Alaska Front from Seventy-Five until the end of China's occupation of Anchorage.

A quick inspection of the gun revealed that the only thing keeping it from working, were a few deliberately loosened pins. Pushing them back in was child's play.

Satisfied, he put down the discount Gauss carbine, and replaced it with the heavier weapon.

There were other items, but none as appealing to him save for a clearly well used carbon steel survival knife like those carried by Air Force Pilots which he pocketed.

"Fuck yes!" James suddenly shouted with excitement. Frank looked over his shoulder to see what the big deal was.

He had been hunched over a terminal which was connected to an automated defense turret. It wasn't just any turret though. It was a portable turret specially designed for airdrops. They were easy to carry, and could be up in as little as a minute from landing.

Now if only they find a good vantage point to put it. Then he noticed the powered down Mr. Gutsy.

"Good Morning Maggot!" Frank flinched when he heard the sound of a Mister Gutsy powering on.

He could see James pulling out his military ID, and holding it out for the robot to identify.

"Identity confirmed sir," came its reply.

"Good, pick up the turret and follow me." The turret was light enough that the robot could carry it. James meanwhile picked up the terminal and the wiring. "Let's see if our friend knows a good spot for this."

They left the room and climbed to the third floor with their finds.

Preston let out a low whistle when he saw the hardware. "Damn, that's some pretty serious stuff there."

"Know a good place to put it?" James asked the man.

"That depends, can it power itself?" asked Sturges.

"It runs with a fission battery, I just need a good place to set it up."

"The roof should work just fine, just pass through that door and go to your left."

They found the entrance to the roof easily enough. From there, Frank eyed their surroundings. "What direction do you suppose they'll come from?"

James shrugged as he set the terminal on a rusted AC fixture. "I don't know any more than you do, hell I take that back. You spent a lot more time than I did fighting insurgents. You were also with OPFOR when you were stateside. You should be lecturing me about their playbook. I'll probably regret asking this, but what did those fighters remind you of?"

Frank didn't hesitate with his answer. "They remind me of those Mujaheddin, or 'Holy Warriors' as they called themselves in the Stans. Part criminal, part fighter, completely nuts and stoned halfway to paradise."

"Not to be confused with the People's Front or anyone else?" James grunted.

Frank nodded. "The Commies managed to do without chems for the most part. They were proper fanatics who could charge the Gates of Hell with a water pistol. You could look the dying in their slanted eyes knowing they'd go sober as a priest. Those two bit Mountain Goat fuckers from Pashtostan or whatever they call that movement north of the Kyber, on the other hand couldn't even engage an American without shooting up some liquid courage. It made them unpredictable as fuck."

"Well," James replied. "If we can set it to watch the south and western approaches, they won't be able to pin us down. I'll find the targets before they find us."

"Probably the best option," Frank agreed. He helped James unpack the turret and connect it to the terminal. From there, it was only a manner of powering up the terminal and mounting the radar and IFF systems.

James removed the Military ID from his pack and handed it to him. "Take the Gutsy, and make sure they can't approach from elsewhere. I'm setting up a Comm link with the Gutsy who should help you with spotting. Kill anything that hasn't already been identified as friendly."

He took the Gutsy with him, and went inside. No sooner had he come in view of the lobby, the Gutsy piped up. "Unidentified targets inbound for Main Entrance!" It finished the sentence soon enough for the heavy laser turret to come to life with an ear-splitting buzz.

A few fighters made it across the street, and poured in through the front door.

Frank readied his rifle, and primed it for a single stroke firing. He found his first target, and squeezed the trigger. The weapon shuddered in his arms as if it puffed up for a second, and hit a raider square in the chest. His body exploded in every possible direction making for a gruesome spectacle to the rest.

The others took cover wisely, but by then he was on the way down. Frank passed through the office where Preston holed up, and made his way to the second floor.

"Where are they?" Frank yelled at the combat bot.

"Two commie bastards on the first floor!"

Sure enough, two enemies emerged from a doorway and into the hall. He waited for them to approach the foot of the staircase before hitting them.

The first one was hit by a beam from the Gauss rifle. The second burned to death under a burst of bright red laser fire from the robot's energy piece.

"Building clear of hostiles sir!"

"Good," Frank replied. "Where are they now?"

"They're in the street, and they're pulling back."

Why were they suddenly doing that? he wondered. Frank ran for the entryway, and suddenly understood why.

In the middle of the street, was a massive two legged beast that vaguely took on a resemblance to a crocodile. One quick look at its arms and legs was all it took to know that this was the predator he had been trying to learn about earlier. Three toes made its feet, and big stubby claws formed its hands. A massive tail and an elongated snout suggested that it was a reptile that spent most of its time in a grimy sewer where it must have come from.

'If I see another stupid teenager flush a baby gator down the toilet, I'm putting them in the fuking ER' he decided. if they still have those.

The thing looked like something that belonged in a comic book rather than the real world.

A nearby raider fired on the monster, the bullets did next to nothing against its hide. The raider kept shooting until the clumsy animal lumbered towards him and snapped his jaws around the bandit.

It raised its jaws and lifted the paralyzed raider from the ground. With a vicious shake of its head, the lower half of the man tore away and fell to the street in gruesome chunks.

Another raider, who had to be on psycho or some other amphetamine, came in close with a sawed off shotgun and a machete. He gave it both barrels which seemed to have been enough to wound it. The raider then tried to strike at the wound with his machete only to be swatted away like an insect with the monster's giant claws. The raider hit the wall with a force that must have severed his spine.

"Typical Chinese communist, you look like a lizard!" Roared the Mister Gutsy who charged headlong towards the monster and opened up with his laser.

The shots though well placed, did little to slow the killer crocodile who turned his attention to the duo. It charged in their direction, its gait wide and clumsy.

The turret system overhead laid down suppressing laser fire on the other remaining hostiles.

Frank knew that the system had about as much chance as the Gutsy in putting down the creature, as it closed the distance. He cranked the Gauss Rifle to its maximum charge.

The gator, when it was close enough, smacked the combat robot hard enough to ground it. Gutsy went down with a thud. Powerful jaws wrapped themselves around the robot's central housing and crushed it.

This gave Frank the time he needed to aim his rifle between the eyes and loose a five charge round on its long scaly face. The rifle spoke with a roar and the monster's head disintegrated on impact.

He looked around main street with the creature dead in the middle. It was over as quick as it had began. In the ruins before them, no living being remained on the field. Except for the crows who began to fly over the ruins.

Scavengers, the truest winners of every battle, would have their rewards.

Note: I wrestled quite a bit with this chapter. I wanted something that much like my depicted layout of Concord (seriously look up this place on wikipedia and think of all the cool quests and dungeons this place could have had if the town hadn't been as compacted for the sake of fitting to the rest of the map), would break the mold, while not feeling too deviant from the canon that it felt unrecognizible.

I chose to cut out the Vertibird from the chapter because its established in previous games that Vertbirds in operational form are an Enclave development rather than a prewar one, and I'd rather not restle with some of the inconsistencies in Fallout 4 with the rest of the series. More importantly though, a crashed Vertibird should draw scavvers like flies to a corpse, so I chose to offer deliverance in a more subtle form.

M74 is the designation I gave for the scoped gauss rifle featured in Fallout 3/New vegas (one with the crank), hence its use of Micro fusion cells rather than other ammo types.

With the power armor, I decided that it would be better, if a few more chapters pass before we even see a set.

Lastly, I decided to replace the Deathclaw with a Gatorclaw. Not only is this "Nuka World Confirmed," but I feel like an invasive sewer dwelling Gatorclaw which is supposed to be a more reclusive ambush predator is an easier sell than a deathclaw, who generally live in small packs.