I do not own the Fallout series. Anyway after doing some thinking I decided to keep updating this occasionally, regardless of how many people see it. The Couriers' journey to Flagstaff continues, but he runs into an unexpected hurdle, and an unexpected assist.
Once again, sunlight was the cause of the Courier's early rise. But that wasn't the only factor, voices from beyond the door. "Hey, that's Jackson on the ground there." "Yeah, he was shot too, do you think that the asshole who did this is still there?" "Maybe, look through the window Mitch." The Courier immediately scooted behind one of the desks his rifle at the ready, and waited. "Nothing inside, wait a minute, there's a bedroll and a backpack on the floor." "Well throw a stick of dynamite in there you idiot."
A single stick of dynamite crashed through the window, acting fast the Courier dove behind a row of filing cabinets. He was spared the brunt of the blast, but one of the cabinets fell onto his leg. An intense pain shot through his entire body, and his left leg went numb. Through the smoke emerged the two cannibals, with .357 Magnums at the ready. The Courier reached for his rifle, but to no avail as the rifle was blown across the room. Instead he eyed his backpack, more specifically he eyed the .44 Magnum inside it; grabbing it as stealthily as possible he cocked it and prepared to defend himself.
"Hey there's the asshole Mitch, the guy who shot Jackson!" "Yeah, I say we skin him alive a-and cut off his hands so he can't shoot nobody no more!" "Sounds good to me Mitch, grab him!" The Courier shot before they got close to him, striking one in the arm. The two dove to cover behind some desks. "Goddamit Rick he shot me!" "I know Mitch, let's flank him on both sides; that'll show him!" The two got up and sprinted to his sides, before the Courier could get a shot off. Then everything went black.
Nothing, blackness enveloped him. Maybe he was blindfolded, nope the darkness is actual darkness. Where was he, in a prison cell somewhere but where; voices from the other side of the door drew his attention. "Hey take this one to processing." "You got it man, hey I'll meet you for lunch after." The cell door crept open and a burly man dragged him out of the room and down the hall. At least ten cells, with blood soaked drains at each cell door. "This place is a fucking butchers shop." He muttered to himself while planning his escape.
A temporary lapse in judgement gave him his time to act. His captor released his shirt, to stretch. So the Courier lashed out, elbowing the man in his crotch. While he was down, the Courier swiftly punched the man in the throat. Now alone in the hallway, he stood up and walked away from the "Processing" room. After a few minutes the Courier found the main entrance, guarded by five men. Before going closer, the Courier climbed to the rafters and surveyed the area. Two things stuck out to him, a working gas line and a man smoking a cigarette.
The air vent on the outside of the building opened up, and out slid the Courier who began jogging away from the building. Not five seconds later the larger pneumatic door was blown off its hinges as the roof collapsed into the building. The gas line had more in it than originally thought.
Now back on track, the Courier had to pick up the pace to reach Flagstaff by six o'clock. But that might not happen, there was too much ground to cover in too little time. The rumbling behind him however, might change his journey for the better, or worse. Behind him was a truck, a working, moving truck. With a lone driver, and an open passenger seat. "Hey! Hey slow up, can you offer a ride!?" The truck stopped and the driver stepped out. "Where you headed kid?" "Flagstaff, it's only a few miles that way I-" "I know where it is son, hop in I'll take you. In fact I'm making a delivery to a suburb of Flagstaff anyway." The Courier climbed in and sat down, looking ahead as the truck rumbled to life and sputtered along down the road. "Well, I'm assuming that you want to know how I got this truck working. I found this thing in a ditch about a mile from Goodsprings, pretty good condition. This thing wasn't nuclear powered either, internal combustion engine. Gasoline my dear friend, and it still had a full tank too. So after fixing it up, applying some new paint and getting some new tires it was ready to go. That made my job as a Courier much easier, even made enough on the side to quit the Mojave Express too. Started my own business, you ever hear of Davidson Caravans? Well that's me kid, making a killing at the Strip, and making a killing at my job. All because I found a rusted out pickup truck."
After some more small talk, the Courier drifted off into sleep, the last thing he heard was. "We'll be at Flagstaff by six, get some rest."