A/N: Just about 12 hours late. Sorry- but same-day-service at least. :)
Unbetaed and unedited, but only 'cause I'm trying to hurry. I'll endeavor to get to it tomorrow, and hopefully not forget. 1st arc is winding up toward the climax- it's probably gonna be next chapter or the one after (next being more likely), but it's gonna be the shortest of the three by several chapters in the longer case and at least a few in the shorter.|
Enjoy!
Chap. 9 Hunter or Hunted
"Are you sure? It's already pretty late. Besides, we haven't seen a new, friendly face in a long time."
The speaker, Simone Cameron, eyed Duncan in a way that made him, truth be told, slightly uncomfortable. She was pretty enough, he guessed, for a woman twice his physical age, making it even worse when considering his mental and emotional state... though, he had the stray thought, those seemed to be catching up pretty rapidly as he adjusted to more adult hormones.
He'd just spent the last hour being 'debriefed' by Alejandra Torres, a younger and much prettier (though he still wasn't really interested) young woman than Simone. He'd told her, in confidence (only she and Simone, there to make sure there was no trickery involved had been in the room), everything. His entire history, at least what he considered relevant, skipping over only Amber's name. He'd only called her a friend, someone from his life before the Vault, someone he had to find again.
"I'm sure. I've got something I need to do, and I have to do it fast. Someone I- someone important to me is counting on me to find her."
The older woman sighed, "All right, fine... I get that, I guess. Listen, I know you said you wanted to join, and I'm in charge up here, but I haven't got the authority as part of the Union's Assembly to bring in new people. If you ever make it down to D.C. Itself, find the Lincoln Memorial, and Hannibal Hamlin. He's our leader, and with my say-so, he'll let you swear in. Okay?"
Duncan nodd, "Hamlin, Lincoln Memorial. Got it."
Simone gestured for him to follow as she turned toward one of the many rebuilt rooms in the courtyard of the fortified Temple of the Union, "I got something that might help you. Bit of a side project me and Bill been workin' on."
A bit hestitantly, could he trust her after her obvious interest in getting him to stay?, Duncan followed.
He considered for a moment shutting the door behind him; it was only polite in her 'house', after all, then thought better of it- his safety was more important, and he needed an escape route. After all, if he was captured by this woman who obviously had plans for him, how could he get to Amber quickly?
"This oughta do it for ya. I think we got all the parts together... we was gonna use it for our messengers down to D.C., but we just finished it and you need it more, I think. Might need some oil, that chain's a bit of a mishmash and doesn't really fit all that good."
While she'd been explaining, Duncan stared. "My... my bike!"
But of course, it wasn't his. There was no way, two centuries and several dozen miles away that this could actually be his. It was the same model, though, with a few modifications. There was a jurry-rigged, but apparently securely welded, triangle gun-mount attached to the handlebars, a basket ahead of that and behind, and somehow, someway, the tires themselves had apparently been replaced with strips of rubber vulcanized together with many small steel (or rust) studs set into them. They almost looked like... studded snow tires. Almost.
"Is... wow. Why're you... I mean, why go through all that work to fix it up and just give it away? I'm not gonna be bought into sleeping with you with this."
Simone actually looked a bit uncomfortable herself at the question, "It's, uh... look at it like this, huh? If you hadn't saved our asses earlier, this bike would go to the slavers in Paradise Falls. It's, well, the least we can do. The least I can do. They wouldn't have made my death pleasant, after all of 'em I've shot 'tween the eyes over the years."
Duncan nodded. It made sense. "So... so you're just giving it to me? Don't expect it back or anything?"
Simone shook her head, "Nah. I mean, if you don't want it at any point sure, but as long as you need it, keep it. We can always send a scav crew from the Memorial to the Red Rider factory and get more parts. There's a whole damned bike, brand new- well, old, but unridden- up in the scaffolding we can't get up to even."
Duncan whistled. "Wow, that's pretty cool."
She blinked, and as she wheeled the bike off it's makeshift stand to put it in front of him, asked, "What's 'cool'?"
"Uh... nevermind. Long story."
(O)(O)(O)
Amber knew she'd groaned, but couldn't tell how long ago it had been. She ached, everywhere, but especially her wrists, ankles, and buttocks. Her hands and feet, unfortunately, she couldn't feel at all. Shit, I'm tied up!
Not only that, but she was bouncing uncomfortably, hanging upside down, bent half-way over... and whatever was making her rear hurt hit again with loud whap. She whimpered, unable to stop herself.
"Heh heh, hear that, boyos?" It was the same speaker from before, when she'd been... oh crap, I've been caught by Raiders! And the Brotherhood's days away!
"Sweet Meat here's wakin' up ag'in! You like it, Sweet Meat?" His hand slapped her ass again, harder this time, and she cried out, but he never slowed down his pace, even with her slung awkwardly over his shoulder. Her head was to the front, leaving her staring either at his muscled (but filthy, even bloodstained) abdomen, or lower to his crotch, which was covered only by a metal plate, probably hammered from an ancient piece of a car. It covered so little she could see tufts of pubic hair peeking out. The smell alone made her want to vomit.
"Fuck- fuck you!" she gasped, but voices- many of them, at least six- only started to laugh, while the man carrying her whispered in her ear in a chilling voice.
"Oh, I plan ta', Sweet Meat... Boyos' right, I cain't touch ya much 'till the Boss has his way, but he don't much like the back. Yer still gon' be a sweet, untouched thing when I stick my pecker in your tight, virgin hole and make you cry for me."
Unable, even unwilling, to hold it back, no matter how much it shamed her, Amber whimpered again.
No seventeen year old- or twenty-two, whatever she was- wanted to be gang-raped... and she knew full well that that, and worse, was coming. She had no hope left.
(O)(O)(O)
Duncan's thighs ached, but he couldn't stop. The muscles were different than walking, but, he mused as he closed in on the high walls of the Canterbury Trading Post (he assumed that's what it was, since it was the only structure of any large size he'd seen since arriving in this dangerous new world) it was interesting... more than two centuries since he'd last done it, and he still remembered. I guess riding a bike really is something you never forget how to do.
Somehow, Scratches had kept even or just slightly behind him, despite his much-increased speed. He could feel and hear the creature panting, but it hadn't yet slowed down. It seemed almost dog-like in it's enjoyment of the simple act of running. Still, it would need to rest, and so would he. They'd been going hard since midnight or so when they had left the fortress-Temple, climbing mostly uphill the whole way as they crossed what looked, in the wane, haze-filtered starlight, like farmland. At least, if the herds of brahmin grazing at sparse grass and fences were any indication.
The Trading Post ahead was, if anything, even more formidable a defensive structure than the Temple had been. From the hill to the south, where he could see an old... grocery store? Atop a large hill, to the north where a few smaller hills anchored it, there was a single, two-story (he guessed) wall, put together not just from the wood, steel bar, and fence pieces he'd seen previously, but from actual stone, buttressed with large beams, likely from sky scrapers that had long since crumbled. "Hell, I'm glad I'm not attacking this place."
Fortunately, what he guessed was the only large gate was on their side, and the ten guards around it weren't watching out for a lone traveller. He was able to get fairly close before one of them called out, "Whoah the- what the fuck? Deathclaw!"
Duncan and Scratches, fortunately, were able to duck behind the stump of a large tree before the bullets started flying in earnest.
Once the first volley had died down, he shouted, "Hold your fire! He's tame! I'm comin' out!"
First one hand, then the other, was stuck out past the tree.
They didn't shoot.
Slowly, he growled, "Stay, boy. Stay," then stood and stepped out, hands high in the air. The guards and gate were about fifteen yards out, each had their weapons, mostly carbines, he thought, trained either on him or the stump.
"Seriously, he's totally tame. I've never seen him attack anyone that wasn't trying to kill either of us, so... unless you want him to attack you, I'd lower the guns. I'm not here to fight anyone. I'm just looking for a friend."
One, just one, of the guards allowed the barrel of his rifle to dip slightly. He called out, "Who? What's your friend's name?"
Duncan hesitated only a moment. What would they do if she was inside? But the Union members, Simone and Torres in particular, had spoken at length about the Post's general neutrality- fighting was bad for business, unless you were an arms dealer- and honorability in dealings, as long as you didn't try to cheat them. "Her name's Amber. Brown hair, green eyes. Almost as tall as me, bit, uh... curvy. She might have been wearing a Vault Suit, with the number one hundred. She came in with a Brotherhood of Steel patrol, last I heard."
More of the guards lowered their weapons, only three kept them trained, and on the tree, not him. The first spoke again, "Yeah, I remember her. Left this morning, really early. 'bout four hours ago, now."
Duncan's eyes widened slightly. He was that close? If she was walking, he'd be caught up by noon, if he pushed hard. Resting would have to wait until he'd caught up."Cool... which way did she go?"
The guard thought for a moment, then pointed south-southwest, "'round that way. Not much down there for a ways, think she might'a been headin' to the Corvega factory, 's about all that's there until you hit D.C. itself."
Duncan nodded, "Thanks, man. Hey... I don't really know how this works, I'm new to the area, but since you guys haven't shot me and even helped me, can I buy you guys a round of drinks or something?"
One of the guards cheered, a few others smiled.
Strangely, to Duncan, the one who'd been speaking frowned. "Not supposed to accept tips on the job. Sorry."
Reluctantly, Duncan shrugged. "Well, next time I'm passing by, I'll stop in then and take care of it, okay? Uh... don't shoot at me and Scratches here, all right? I swear he's tame."
The speaker, who appeared to be their leader at the least, nodded, "Can't make no promises, but I'll talk to Roe about it. He's the guy in charge, it's his call. Might make you leave him outside if you come in, though. We gotta lotta civilians and livestock in the walls he could rip through, even young's he looks."
Duncan nodded, "I get it. All right, well, thanks again. I'll be goin'. Come on, Scratches," he called back as he turned to pick up the fallen bike.
Two minutes later, the guards breathed a collective sigh of relief when the young Deathclaw was finally out of sight on the other side of the hill the old Mechanist's Lair sat atop.
(O)(O)(O)
Amber whimpered in fear. The man who had been carrying her for the last three miles without complaint had apparently grown bored with groping and fondling her butt, and slid a hand up between her legs. He hadn't gone too high; she guessed that perhaps he really was worried that the boss would consider her 'touched' if he used even his fingers. That wasn't, however, why she'd had a sudden increase in fear.
No, that was simply because the older woman- she had, at least, some gray hair in her twintails- who'd been scouting ahead had returned, and informed the group that the last mile to their base was clear of enemies.
The big man, obviously wanting to get closer to his own turn (she gathered he would be second after the boss), had urged them to even greater speed. Now, they were practically jogging across the Wasteland, with her bouncing heavily on his muscled shoulder. The young woman supposed, in a rare moment of clinical dispassion (she feared she would enter hysterics otherwise), she should be thankful she wasn't bouncing on the studded metal plate over the man's other shoulder.
"Gonna eat me some sweeeeet meeeats," the large man whispered huskily. Amber shuddered, though he didn't seem to be talking specifically to her. A younger, even filthier and thin man near her chuckled and licked his lips, never taking his eyes from her bouncing rear.
"Home sweet home's just a little ways ahead, Sweet Meat... you'n me's gonna have us a grand ol' time. Right, Sweet Meat?"
This time, she was able to remain silent, though it was difficult. By tilting her head back painfully and turning to the right, she was able to catch just a glimpse of a dark building set against the yellow sand and dust of the Wastes. The thin man giggled to himself and nodded, having followed her eyes, "Yep, Sweet Meat, dat's it! The Grizzly Diner, we calls it. Gonna be your home too, least-a-ways until we's done wit' ya!" He giggled again, and didn't stop until the larger man backhanded him roughly, jostling Amber's head directly into the metal plate guarding his privates hard enough to make her wince and him to grunt.
The pain, if there had been any, didn't seem to bother him any, unfortunately, because he started to grope her rear again, but more roughly, increasing as they neared home.
All the while, Amber's despair only increased.
(O)(O)(O)
Duncan dismounted from the bike. Memories... fuzzy, hazy, mist not just in the past two centuries, but in his own childhood.
(O)(O)(O)
A park across the street from a tree-lined row of houses, each with nearly identical picket fences, interspersed with the occasionally stonework wall. Baseball, playing with Cody and a few other boys his friend's cousins had brought from the neighborhood. He had been the odd man out, being the stranger, but had quickly proven with his batting skill and accurate throwing arm that he should have been one of the first picks.
But, of course, for that one unfortunate foul ball. It hadn't been his fault, he had only been pitching, but he was still the stranger, the best scapegoat.
Cody's father had been furious, the car, an expensive black sedan, would not only need a new rear window, but body work done on the trunk as well, since the baseball had richoceted off of that before going through the window. He'd been invited- sternly- not to come back with Cody next time his and Cheryl's parents had brought them by. He'd also later found out that his father had been forced to pay for all of the damage, despite it not truly being Duncan's fault, which had explained the rather skim Christmas that year.
And, like any child would, he blamed the most logical choice- Cody, who had invited him and then sided with his cousin and his friends against Duncan to keep himself from getting in trouble.
That had been the betrayal, in Duncan's eyes, that ruined their friendship.
(O)(O)(O)
"Get a hold of yourself, Walker," he whispered, idly scratching the Deathclaw's head between the two larger, forward-jutting spikes, right where it seemed to like it, "Cody's been dead two hundred years. It's ancient history. It was ancient history before the bombs fell, you were just too young to know it. There's more important things."
Why that particular memory had chosen that moment to come to him, Duncan didn't know. Except... there had been a low-grade hill between the park and the homes, just like this downgrade here, and it was facing south-west, and... was it? That one house? Could it really be, that in a suburban town of several thousand homes, just one had survived the passing years, and it was that one?
"Come on, boy," Duncan said, unable to keep the quiet tremor of excitement from his voice. Surely, Amber would have recognized it. Surely she would be there.
But the house was empty, both entrances on the ground floor boarded up, even what had once been sliding glass doors in the back yard. But it was the same house, he identified it by the staircase leading from the sloped street down into the park, the top of which was just visible in the dust, and directly across from the home. There were no other tracks around.
"Damn it... lost the trail. Come on, though, we might find a clue. Let's go inside... keep your eyes open, okay boy?"
The Deathclaw only gave him a strange, cross-eyed look, whined, and started to pant. Duncan muttered, "No, no meat right now. You ate all the canned stuff I have anyway. Uh... go, hunt?"
The waist-high monster jumped two feet in the air with a low bark, and on landing, immediately sprinted off to the west, down the hill toward the park. There wasn't much cover but for a few stones and long-dead stumps, but maybe it had scented something.
"Now how'm I gonna get these boards off..."
(O)(O)(O)
"Whoo-hee!" the high-pitched, nasal voice called. Amber screwed her eyes shut, she didn't want to look at the thin, mottled face of the rad-sick- it had to be- man the others called 'boss'. Didn't want to hear his voice, or the rasp in his throat as he breathed in obvious excitement, didn't want to feel the bulge on her stomach as he pressed himself against her, or smell his rancid breath as she-
Amber gagged, but 'boss' didn't seem to mind. The other raiders, many of them already shooting up for doing their best to screw each other senseless, laughed. Those that were paying more attention cat-called.
"Don'chu worry, Sweet Meat, Bossy gun' let-chu in-joy't allll day! Mebbe we's even gun' keep yeew 'round, Sweet Meat! Now..." he suddenly grabbed her arms roughly and lifted, displaying surprising strength in his thin frame and lifting her completely from the ground, "le'ss git yew more- comfta-bull."
'Boss' then threw her back onto the thin mattress- barely more than a layer of ancient, flattened foam- laying attop the shallow diner counter and started tugging at the straps to her vault suit.
She screamed, but again, the raiders only laughed.
(O)(O)(O)
Duncan wiped the grimy sweat from his brow with the back of his jacket arm. The search of the home had been quick, but largely fruitless. Once he'd pried the boards off (after having smashed them in half first with a large rock), he'd moved from room to room, pistol out, but found nothing more dangerous than a few mangy-looking rats. They had scurried into the shadows, and he'd ignored them.
Once he'd confirmed again that there was no one there, Duncan had searched the rooms again, one by one, relying on his memories of a time long before to help guide him to secrets that may have stayed hidden. There was no stash of pornography in Cody's cousin's room that he found, though he hadn't been looking. There had, though, been several rifle rounds he could use, and a laser pistol that might just fire, judging by the condition, if it had had power cells, taped underneath the bathroom sink.
But currently, Duncan was staring at something he'd have willingly given his right eye to own, back in the days when such things were important.
(O)(O)(O)
"The challengers, the Minnesota Marauders, have been ranked at 15-14 for the season until this last week, when they've gone on a sudden winning streak, placing them at 18-14. However, they're also coming off a two-day break after back-to-back games. Are they going to be rested?"
Another commentator's voice had floated over the radio in his bedroom, where he had quietly been reading comics- Grognak at the moment- after having finished his Saturday chores before noon. He hadn't wanted to be outside in the muggy east-coast summer heat any longer than necessary.
"That remains to be seen, Stevie. The Marauders have certainly been a team to watch this year, but the Capitol Congressmen are having a pretty good year themselves. Off to a slow start in the first three games, they'd only one one. Now, though, they're looking at a 14-14 record themselves,. While they did just have a game yesterday, they've both been home games, so the Congressmen have been resting in their own beds instead of on the road, and we all know how much the D.C. crowds love their team!"
"Too true, Benny! If the-"
(O)(O)(O)
Deep underneath the house, in a room that had been sealed behind an air-tight vault door accessed through a hidden door in the cellar he, Cody, and his cousin had played in just the day before that fateful baseball game, Duncan frowned. He'd known the man, Cody's cousin's father, had been a fan of baseball, but this collection was crazy. Several rookie cards from decades before the war. Four autographed baseballs, one by then-President Dickerson. And the prize of the collection, in what looked like literally half-inch thick, probably bullet-resistant glass, undoubtedly wired up to a long-gone security system...
A baseball bat.
But not just any baseball bat. It was cedar-and-oak, if he remembered right, with a light cherry finish. Mint condition, if you didn't count the many signatures on it as 'damage'. Duncan, as a bit of a collector himself, did not.
Sammy "The Bombshell" Davies. Miles "Longshot" Ritchie. Boomer "Big Man" Johnson. Ricky Steppes, who'd come to the team the year after the United States had annexed Canada, from the state of First Lady's Land (which had once, almost heretically, been called 'Queensland' before the barbarian Canadians had been enlightened by the U. S. Army).
The team owner, manager, and coaches, too, of course.
Without even thinking consciously about what he was doing, Duncan raised the rifle and fired.
The bullet scratched the glass, rebounded, and whizzed by the young man's head to embed itself in the ceiling behind him.
A little more consciously, Duncan stepped back into the cellar and paused. "Okay... no security's gonna be powered, it's amazing the display lights are even half-functional. Just shoot and don't miss..."
The second round, fired at a different angle, punched two inches into the webbing of the glass before stopping, but that, Duncan thought, would be enough.
It was. Just a few minutes later, Duncan was lovingly caressing the wood, calling it 'baby', and idly tossing a lit match into the baseball cards. Amber, he knew, had never particularly liked either the uncle or his obsession with baseball.
He was even whistling as he left the house, until he spotted Scratches idling toward him with... was that a giant rat? It... well... whatever. Mutations aside...
There was a distant, echoing scream. Female.
"Amber."
Duncan didn't drop the bat, but stuck it loosely through the top carry-strap of his backpack and sprinted for the bicycle. North... she was north, and she needed him now.
A/N2: You like? Let me know!
So much for getting it up in the morning- had to fix several scenes and write a couple more- but at least it's done on the same day, if toward the end instead of the beginning.
Just so you guys know, yes this will be a gritty story- it's Fallout. But there's no fade-to-black in my stories. That being said, even I have my limits. Don't expect it to get TOO much worse for Amber than it already has, after all, Duncan's on his way and not too far off. But then again, don't expect it to be easy for him, either. As anyone who has blissfully wandered into the Grizly Diner without paying attention can attest- it's not easy. Duncan's gonna have it worse, because these guys have survived (though not without losses) the Lone Wanderer, and learned from their mistakes. Lol
Questions? Comments? Concerns? Hate me for writing this story and ruining Fallout forever for you? Let me know! Reviewing is good for your soul. +Karma -Karma! And EVERYONE loves good karma! (Don't they?)