Chapter Twenty-Eight
Patrick hummed to himself as he cleaned out his assault rifle in the tent that had been assigned to him and Colonel Granger in the camp at Bomber City. He had already disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled his .44 magnum, 10mm pistol, and his laser rifle, and there were all laid out on the table in front of him. In the corner, DBS radio was on, and the news was being read out.
Patrick was only paying half attention to it, more concerned with the guns he was cleaning. Though, after a while without hearing the news, part of him did want to find out what was going on back at home.
"After a couple weeks without any word, DBS News has received information that the Auxiliary has surfaced again in the District of Devil's Lake. It was unknown for a while where he went, after contact with the Enclave aircraft he was in, along with the head of the Enclave military, lost contact with Enclave Central Control. The RAMP has yet to confirm the reports. Colonel Gabriel Granger is also reported to be with the Auxiliary."
Patrick chuckled. Ironically, the news was curious about him too.
"Speaking of the Enclave; sources within the Assiniboian government have revealed that talks between the group claiming to be the successor to the former United States of America and Assiniboia have broken down. For several weeks, the Enclave and Assiniboia have been trying to work on a treaty of friendship and cooperation, but due to some currently irreconcilable issues, the Enclave has temporarily broken off talks. Enclave and Assiniboian military, economic and diplomatic efforts that were begun over the past month to help the long sequestered Vault Dwellers adapt to living above ground will continue.
"In other news, the trial of the former Vault H Overseer is getting underway in Winnipeg. The Overseer, who lead the pre-War of 2077 underground community for over 25 years, has been charged with smuggling restricted goods, corruption, money laundering, espionage, treason, and tax evasion.
"And finally, reports of unrest and violence breaking out in Kildonan are, according to a spokesperson representing the Kildonan Civil Defense Force, 'highly overstated.' The KCDF have refused all offers of assistance by the Assiniboian military or RAMP for aid in the walled off section of northeastern Winnipeg, claiming that there is no need. This despite the increase in gunfire and explosions in the area reported over the past week.
"And that's the news for this evening. Please stay tuned and listen to Marty's Show About Nothing, followed by Winnipeg Confidential. This is DBS, broadcasting from Winnipeg."
Patrick finished assembling his newly cleaned gun, and shoved a full magazine into its breach, then packing up all his weapons into his bag.
Patrick changed his shirt, grease and dirt having spoiled the military tunic he had been given. A new set of clothes, including a button up red and black plaid shirt, blue jeans, a pair of combat boots that were slightly bigger than his feet (but as close as Patrick was going to get for now) and new socks had been procured for him from the quartermaster, with only the brahmin skin cowboy hat and his leather jacket having been salvaged from what he wore when he first arrived at Bomber City. After a month or more of wearing nothing else, it was a surprise they lasted as long as they did.
Colonel Granger pushed open the tent and looked in to see Patrick. He was in a nondescript Assiniboian Army uniform, with only a couple badges pinned to his collar to show his Enclave rank. "Ready to go?"
"Almost," Patrick said. "Have they taken my sleipnir to the train station?"
"Should already be on board," Colonel Granger said. "Already got my power armor loaded on."
Patrick nodded, and slung his backpack onto his shoulder. "Well, we should be ready to go then."
They couldn't talk to Major Carlson before they left, as he was busy with paperwork and talking to Winnipeg about the incident the night before. But an entire squad was provided to escort them to the train station.
The late afternoon was cool, with a chill that seemed to harbor some form of snow or sleet in the near future. Patrick grumbled to himself, and pulled his jacket tighter. Hopefully it was locally, and not further north or east of here.
Although the Lieutenant-Colonel who wanted to set Bomber City in flames was dead, that didn't mean that the relations between the Assiniboians and the Dakotans was any better. More likely no one in town here knew what would have happened, and the Army wasn't in the mood to reveal it to them.
Patrick and Colonel Granger had dozens of pairs of eyes on them as they were taken from the base to the train station. The soldiers were nervous, looking everywhere for anything. Someone called out "Asses go home!" but Patrick didn't turn around fast enough to see who it was. The soldiers didn't seem to care either. So long as they weren't shooting…
They turned into the market square, and to the train station. Yet another Royal Hudson, finely crafted crown on the front running plate, sat at the station. This particular model had five cars attached (three passenger and two general purpose freight cars), and was pointed east, toward Grand Forks. Black smoke poured out of the smokestack, signalling it was ready to go.
Patrick and Colonel Granger were hustled through the quiet station, and quickly loaded onto the train, one of only a few passengers on the train. Most of those in this car were Assiniboian soldiers on leave, though a couple looked like they were being transferred. Patrick could tell the subtle difference, even if the uniforms were the same. Those on leave were excited, a chance to get away from the tedious terror and boredom of military life in an occupied land. Those being transferred were resigned, weary, and more or less reluctant travelers. But at least they got a train ride out of it, so there was that.
Assiniboian Army soldiers patrolled the platform on guard duty, and warily watched the platform. A large pile of boxes, barrels, and crates piled to one side were still being loaded into the freight cars, each being opened and looked through to ensure there was nothing dangerous being smuggled on board, which gave Patrick and Colonel Granger the chance to find a seat and get comfortable.
They were lucky that the cars chosen for this train were a lot comfier than most, especially the first car where the two sat down. The seats were plush and recently upholstered with green fabric, at least in the past year or two, and were arranged so that they were mostly facing each other, with a table between them. The car even had some electric lights, though some of the light bulbs were burnt out. However the train didn't have a sleeper car, much to Patrick's disappointment. Sleeping in the somewhat preserved Vault 63, then the thin, old cot he got at the military camp, was almost a luxury and spoiled him, and he knew it. Now he wanted to at least lie down on a mattress of some kind when he went to sleep. Patrick knew that most likely he wasn't going to get such a chance for a while now.
But the seats were comfortable, and Patrick was already dozing off when a shrill, ear piercing whistle broke the quiet air. The train lurched, and with another blast of the steam whistle, the train was on its way.
A server came in and offered some Brahmin steaks cooked in Bomber City before the train left, salad, and a variety of alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks. Patrick chose a Nuka-Cola, while Colonel Granger chose a whiskey. They made small talk as they ate and the train rumbled along, but by this point they knew everything about each other that the other was willing to reveal, and a few things that they didn't. After they were done eating, Patrick began to doze again, with the sun setting behind him and darkness filling the ever-stretching land in front of them.
Sometime during the night, a hand pushed at his shoulder. Patrick startled, reaching for his hip, and the .44 in it's holster, and aimed it at whoever interrupted him. The person who shook him lept back.
"Easy, Mr. Morrison," the conductor, in his blue suit and brass buttons said, holding up his hands to show he wasn't a threat. He was very nervous, what with a gun pointed at his face. "I don't mean any harm. Can you please put that down?"
Patrick dropped his arm. "Sorry. Reflexes being out in the Wasteland."
"I understand sir," the conductor said. "I hate to bother you, but your sleipnir has been very antsy and borderline wild. Would you mind taking a moment to go back and see if it's alright?"
Patrick yawned, and glanced out the window. It was pitch black out. How long had he been sleeping? Colonel Granger across from him was still sleeping.
"Alright. It's her first time on a train, so I bet she's not used to it," Patrick said, and pushed himself out of the seat, and the conductor guided Patrick through the rest of the train, back to the last freight car.
Hardtack was, as the conductor said, not in a good spot. She was pawing the ground, straining at the ropes that held her in her stall, and was trying to knock her way out of it. Fortunately the wooden stall was reinforced with a lot of steel, so she wasn't going to be getting loose anytime soon.
The conductor closed the door as soon as Patrick entered, and he walked over to the sleipnir. "Hey there, easy girl. Uncomfortable ride?" He carefully stroked her nose and neck, and she began to calm down as Patrick spoke.
As he was calming her down, Patrick noticed something, a strange taste and smell in the air. He couldn't pinpoint what exactly it was though, so he didn't think too much about it. After all, he was more concerned with a fidgety, nervous Hardtack. After a while, he was sure he had succeeded.
"You were always good with a sleipnir," a very familiar voice behind him said.
Patrick's eyes went wide. No. It couldn't be…
He turned around, and there was Harold Morrison.
"Grandpa?" Patrick asked. "You… you… are dead! How are you here?"
"Ah Patty, what are you talking about? I'm here." the old man said with a small grin. "Come on, let's get back to the house."
Harold turned around and began to walk toward the house, the Morrison house… but it was in flames. Raiders were around it, firing at it.
"Grandpa, no!" Patrick called out, and tried to reach for him, but Harold Morrison walked up to it, seemingly oblivious to the fire and guns around him. Then he vanished into thin air. The burning house seemed to come toward Patrick, the fire racing toward him. He cried out and ducked and spun around to avoid the flames.
He opened his eyes, and he was standing in a hallway in a Vault. He had no idea what Vault, but he guessed it was Vault H with the clean walls and floors, and a few posters stuck here and there. Patrick looked both ways, and there was nothing but sliding doors as far as his eye could see.
One opened up behind him. Patrick spun around to see Commander Mackenzie, the RAMP officer who made him an auxiliary, walking out, concern on his face.
"What… what is going on?" Patrick asked.
"I'm surprised that kid has done as well as he has," he said, talking to some unseen figure. "He should have been dead in a ditch near Waskada, not galavanting across the Wasteland like some knight in a book. Something is going to go wrong soon…"
"You did this to me!" Patrick cried out. "You dragged me into all this mess!"
But Commander Mackenzie didn't hear, instead vanishing like Harold Morrison had.
Another door opened and Patrick whipped around to see Derek crying over his mother, holding her in his hands.
He looked up, his eyes locking with Patrick's. "She'll be alright, right? The Great One will take care of her, right, PatrickMorrison?"
Patrick's breath was caught in his throat. He had no answer for Derek. He looked away, to see the eyes of a thousand predecessor's of Derek's tribe glared at him.
"Tainted…" a low cry rose up.
"Murderer…"
"Traitor.."
Patrick trembled, and turned around to escape that sight. The Overseer of Vault H, Sergeant Kirk Black, and the Boss from Brandon all stood in the way, towering over Patrick.
"You fucker," the Boss snarled, her teeth bared like a wild animal, bullet holes in her body still oozing blood. "Killed me in cold blood. Now is that how a hero is supposed to be?"
"You ruined us," The Overseer said. Sergeant Black nodded in agreement.
"Y-you were all trying to destroy Assiniboia!" Patrick cried out.
"And do you really care about Assiniboia?" Sergeant Black asked.
"Who gives a fuck for Assiniboia?" The Overseer said. "We were just looking out for ourselves."
"And that's all you've been doing too." The Overseer said.
"No!"
"You've been lied to. A tool for the RAMP, for everyone that you have come across," The Boss said. "Everything you've done has just gone further to making war, and nowhere closer to rescuing your brother."
Patrick stood there, breathing heavily. "N-no…"
"Oh come on. You should know this. You're smart. Going around, shooting things up, upending everything, for what?" Sergeant Black said.
"Zach! My brother!" Patrick cried out.
"And at what cost?" The Overseer asked. "At what cost will you go to find your brother?"
"Anything! Anything!" Patrick cried out.
"Then why don't you go rescue him?"
The clanking of power armor came up behind Patrick, and he spun around again. This time, an entire legion of Brotherhood soldiers in full suits of power armor came up, in perfect marching order. They stopped, stomped their left foot, and stood ramrod stiff. It was like an army of toy soldiers, perfectly laid out by a young boy, ready to take over his bedroom.
"Zach?" Patrick called out to the mass of metal clad soldiers. "Zach? Zach!"
Patrick went to the first suit of power armor and tried to rip the helmet off, but the apparition vanished. So did the second, and the third one. He bumped into a couple, who began to fall like dominos and also disappeared.
Then they all vanished.
Patrick was alone. It was pitch black, all around him.
"No… no… I can find Zach," Patrick said, tears coming to his eyes. "I… I can find him… I can save him…"
"We can save you!" A voice called. Patrick turned around to see Speaker Graham, clutching the old American flag, standing at the lead of the Enclave. Vertibirds, soldiers, robots, power armored men and women all swept forth.
"Trust in America! Trust in the Enclave!" He continued to shout, pointing forward.
There were screams in the direction Speaker Graham was pointing. Patrick turned, and gasped to see Winnipeg, the Forks, the RAMP HQ, the Legislative Building, all in flames, with Enclave soldiers killing everyone in their way. The old Red Ensign was torn down, and the Stars and Stripes went up in its place.
A young girl, splattered in blood and mud, clutching a teddy bear stood crying in the midst of all this, and pointed at Patrick.
"Auxiliary, why did you do this?" She called out, bawling her eyes out.
Patrick gasped. "N-no. I-I didn't do this…"
"America reborn!" The Speaker shouted again, making Patrick spin around again. This time Graham was a monster, with vicious teeth, snarling, blood dripping from his fangs. "Communists and traitors will face justice!"
He hunched over, and with a loud roar, he sprang upwards, his clothes tearing apart, revealing a monstrous Deathclaw. Before Patrick could even blink, it was upon him, grabbing hold of his neck and lifting him up. Patrick could only cry in choking terror as it showed off its foot-long claws on its other hand. Patrick tried to reach down, and managed to grab his revolver. He pulled it up and aimed it at the Deathclaw's head and pulled the trigger.
It screamed in pain, letting Patrick go. Patrick tumbled to the ground and rolled over, but when he looked up, there was nothing. It was all black again.
Patrick shakily got up, and set the revolver on the ground. He sat down, his head falling into his arms, and he began to cry.
He had no idea how long he had been crying in a little ball, but eventually a hand rested on his arm.
"Patrick."
Patrick looked up, to see Zach kneeling in front of him, a smile on his face. They were in their room, back in Melita, before any of this started. Patrick was sitting on his bed, sunlight streamed in through the window. It felt… so calm. So nice.
"Zach… Is that really you?"
"No, I'm not Zach, at least not here, right now. But consider me your inner self, your conscience," the apparition said, with a smile. "Patrick… don't give up. You can do it. You know you can."
"But… all those... things I did? Is it worth it?"
"Do you think it was?" Zach asked. "That's all who matters."
"I've killed people. I've destroyed lives. I've ruined so many things," Patrick said.
"But you've saved people. You've saved Derek's entire tribe. You've saved Atwood from tyranny. You've liberated Brandon from the Syndicate. You tried to help mutants that looked nothing like you. You prevented Bomber City from turning into a bloodbath. You've done good things."
"But I've done so many terrible things. Will it ever balance out?"
Zach smiled, and stood up. "Time will tell. But remember: as long as you know what you've done, and you can tell that they are good or bad, and you do more good than bad things, then it will all be right in the end." Zach began to step backwards, and into the bright sunlight.
"Zach! No! Don't leave!" Patrick shouted, trying to stand up and grab at Zach, but his footing was off. Or was it the room. The entire room began to toss and turn, Patrick couldn't find his balance, and he fell. Hard. Everything blacked out again.
The sound of gunfire and a rumbling explosion finally woke Patrick up, the smell of smoke and the crackle of flame providing a subtle undercurrent. He groaned softly, his head pounding like a team of workers building a railway, his vision blurry and unfocused. He tried to move, but his body ached and protested in agony.
Patrick finally managed to roll over, and came face to face with a sleipnir, glossy black eyes staring at Patrick, a trickle of blood dripping from its forehead right where a bullet hole had struck it.
Patrick finally managed to get himself pulled up, but his head spun like a top. He couldn't see straight or get his bearings.
It was pitch black outside, the moon hung above in the sky, unobstructed by clouds, but smoke curled upwards trying to block it out. A billion stars shimmered, but Patrick couldn't make any of them out, his vision still blurry.
"Hey, is anyone out there?" A voice called. "Is there any survivors?"
Patrick tried to turn to the voice. Two figures silhouetted against a fire were walking through the twisted wreckage of steel and wood, rummaging through the rubble.
Patrick was about to call out. They must have been help.
"Jake! Someone's here!" One of the figures called out. The other one turned around and came over to see what the first person found.
The shadow named Jake raised his gun and fired it three times. He sighed, and mumbled something.
Patrick quickly laid back down, and hoped they hadn't seen him. He quickly looked around, hoping to find something he could defend himself with. But the wreckage of the train cars, his blurry vision, and his aching body made it hard to see anything.
The footsteps came closer, their boots crunching on broken glass, kicking wood away. "Fuck, this job is the shit," the guy who didn't speak up earlier, so must have been Jake, growled.
"What do you mean?" The other asked.
"Blowing up a train, killing everyone on it, just to get one guy? Like, exactly how badass is this guy that we had to do that?" Jake asked. "This is not how the Fist of Steel operates."
Patrick's blood ran cold. The Fist of Steel was the premier unit of the Brotherhood, the strongest and the bravest of the soldiers, totally loyal to the High Elder and fanatic in their beliefs. Unlike other high ranking members of the Brotherhood, they didn't use power armor: they saw it as a weakness, a crutch to natural abilities. But they were very much like a re-creation of the knights of old, with their own Code of Honour and traditions.
So if they were after him now...
"Elder Ezekiel ordered us to do this. The Auxiliary is not to be underestimated, and he wants no survivors," the first one said. "None. Fair combat would give him the chance to win and escape. After all, he single handedly overthrew the Syndicate and uprooted a massive part of the Brotherhood's Assiniboian infiltration efforts. Not to mention that somehow managed to get through the Front Lines, and back out again."
"That can't be the same guy," Jake said. "How could one guy do all of that?" He spat at the ground.
I sometimes wonder the same thing, Patrick thought to himself, but he willed himself not to chuckle or anything. He still couldn't see a gun. But that twisted piece of metal right at his hand could work...
"If he was so great… hell, I bet he wasn't even on the train," Jake said.
"No. Intel said he was. So we keep searching until we are sure we found him."
They walked right past where Patrick lay. He didn't breath. He hoped they wouldn't have even saw him.
They continued rummaging through the wreckage of the freight car, nearly stepping on Patrick once. They talked to themselves, about the Auxiliary, about the train, about Assiniboia. Patrick dared not breathe.
One of them stopped. "I hear something, back in the cars."
"I thought we got them all," Jake said.
"I'll go check and make sure," the second person said, and marched right by Patrick again, and back into the shadows.
Patrick glanced to the first man as he walked away, and when he was sure he was out of range, he exhaled softly, then shuffled over to grab the steel bar, and heaved it up. It was heavier than he expected, but it would do.
He slowly stood up, his head spinning as he did so. But he crept up to Jake, heaving the bar up as high as he could. There was a loud crack as Patrick stepped on a large splinter of wood.
Jake stopped, stiffened and turned around, and ducked right as Patrick swung the bar down.
"Ah!" Jake shouted, dropping his rifle, but quickly standing up again to face Patrick. "Who are you?"
Patrick took a deep breath. "I'm the Auxiliary."
Jake stared at Patrick for a moment, before he snorted. "Pretty short for…"
"Yes, I get it, I'm short!" Patrick bellowed, and swung the metal bar again. But his balance wasn't great, his head was still foggy, the bar was heavy, and Jake wasn't injured at all, and he deftly leapt to the side.
Jake reached to his side, and pulled out a short sword, only a couple feet long, but with a sharp, vicious serrated edge that glimmered in the moonlight. Jake hacked at Patrick who managed to block the sword with the metal bar. Patrick tried to swing the bar at Jake, but he stepped out of the way before it could hit.
"You aren't very coordinated," Jake said, as if appraising a first time student. "Melee combat is not your prefered style of fighting."
"I like a gun," Patrick said, dodging a slash. "Makes fighting a lot easier."
"To a point," Jake said, slicing at Patrick. The tip of the blade sliced through Patrick's sleeve, making Patrick cry out in pain, dropping the bar, stumble backwards and trip on a broken box, landing on the ground hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs. He tried to sit up, but he came face to face with the wicked edge of Jake's sword.
"But here's the thing, Auxiliary," Jake said, pointing his sword right at Patrick's throat.. "You have to die. It's nothing personal, but you cannot be allowed to walk away from here."
Patrick breathed heavily, his body shaking. He scrambled backwards, trying to get away from the blade, but his back hit what had been the roof of the train car. He was trapped. He looked around, hoping to find something… anything…
Then he saw the gun Jake had. It was an assault rifle, but it looked like it was in good shape. It was just a couple of feet away...
Patrick looked up, to see Jake raise the sword. Patrick took a deep breath, quickly pulling his legs toward him, and jabbing both feet right into Jake's shin.
The impact landed, and Jake cried out, loosing his balance and dropping his sword. Patrick rolled out of the way toward the gun, grabbed it, and after a brief moment to hold it properly, he turned around to aim it at Jake, who had reached over for his sword and was about to grab it when he saw Patrick holding the gun.
Jake froze in place, but the corner of Jake's mouth twitched upwards. "Very impressive," Jake said. "You would have made an excellent member of the Fist of Steel."
"Too bad I'm not interested." Patrick pulled the trigger, a burst of three bullets made Jake's head explode in a red paste. His body collapsed on the ground.
"Jake, did you…" the first man shouted, walking around the cars, when he saw Patrick with the assault rifle.
Patrick quickly spun around, and fired at the other member of the Fist of Steel. He ducked behind some wreckage, and fired his gun over the top of the railroad car in Patrick's direction.
One bullet caught Patrick's hat and blew it off his head, making him duck. A fraction of a second later another bullet caught Patrick's left arm. making him cry in agony and fall down, painfully pulling his way to cover. He didn't know how bad it was, but he sure as hell wasn't going to be able to hold up the assault rifle, as you kind of needed two hands for it.
Patrick reached to his hip for his .44, but realized it was gone. He swore at himself, and fell down, cowering as far as he could in the corner. He didn't even have a stimpak on him, all of them having been stored in his backpack that was… somewhere in the wreckage.
"Come out of there, and fight like a man!" the Brotherhood member shouted, his heavy boots stomping closer and closer to where Patrick was hiding. Patrick tried to pull the gun up, and rested it on his knees. He took a deep breath, and hoped that it would be enough to at least injure the Fist of Steel member.
There was a little metallic click, then a clatter as something hit a steel board, and thudded on the ground next to Patrick, he glanced down to see a grenade.
Without thinking, Patrick grabbed it with his good hand and tossed it back. It exploded almost immediately, a loud, deafening bang. Shrapnel crashed and clanged on his shelter. The other person screamed out in pain after the explosion, and Patrick hazarded a glance around the edge of the metal.
The shrapnel had caught the unnamed Fist of Steel on the side of his face, and blood poured out and turned his face red. He tried to shout something, but only a burbling drowning sound came out. There was another thud, and the other person was dead.
Patrick's heart was pounding, along with his head, his body, and especially his arm. He tried to push himself up, and after several tries he finally got up. His head spun and he nearly fell down again, but he managed to prop himself up against the wreckage.
After a long moment, Patrick finally began to walk back to the wreckage, to see if he could find his backpack, his revolver… anything really.
He searched the bodies of the two Fist of Steel members, and was relieved to find a Stimpak on Jake. He injected it into his arm with a small wince, but within moment painkillers and other chemicals went to work, and the pain in his arm from the bullet vanished, as well as the head ache and other stiffness. Patrick gave a sigh of relief, stretched a bit and turned around, but then nearly tripped on a massive hunk of steel. He looked down to see it was Colonel Granger's power armor.
"Shit! Where's Granger?" Patrick exclaimed. He looked back to the burning passenger cars, and scrambled to them, turning on the flashlight on his Pip-Boy to help see.
"Colonel Granger?" Patrick called out, looking through the wreckage. He got to what he was sure was the passenger car at the front of the train that he and Granger had been riding in. Fire still crackled, along with creaking and groaning of weakened wood and steel that was just barely holding the car together. Patrick walked past several bodies, all with bullet holes from the Fist of Steel soldiers that he had killed earlier. Most of them were soldiers that would never have known what hit them, or would have been killed almost instantly. He got to the seat that he and Colonel Granger had been sitting in, but the Colonel wasn't there. Patrick searched around, but didn't see Colonel Granger anywhere nearby.
"Granger!" Patrick shouted at the top of his lungs, and he scrambled around the car, trying to find the commander of the Enclave's army. "Colonel Granger!"
There was a weak cough. Patrick stopped, and looked to where it came from. "Granger?"
Another cough. Patrick got closer.
"Are you here?"
"Patrick…" a quiet voice called out. Patrick turned around, away from the train crash and to the wasteland on either side of the train tracks. His flashlight illuminated a blob on the prairie.
"Colonel Granger!" Patrick called out, and raced to him. He knelt down beside Colonel Granger, who was bloody and dusty and in generally rough shape. "What are you doing out here?"
"I… I don't know. I woke up... when the train crashed... Got out of the wreckage. But then... I heard gunshots... so I tried to get away," Granger said, his voice weak and tired. "One leg is broken... I'm sure. I think I have... a concussion as well."
Patrick stood up. "One moment, I'll go find a stimpak."
Colonel Granger didn't say anything, but Patrick ran off back to the wreckage. He searched near his seat again, and under a few broken timbers and wrecked seat cushions, he found his backpack. He carefully pulled it up, but was glad to see it survived mostly intact. Patrick dug inside for a stimpak, and once he found it, slung it on his shoulder, and hurried back to Colonel Granger.
He came up to the Colonel. "What leg's broken?"
"Left… no, right one," He gasped out, moving each leg in turn to see.
"Stop that. Just hold still," Patrick said, as he jabbed the needle in the right leg. Colonel Granger hissed in pain, followed a moment later by a sigh of relief. Patrick then tried to tie a splint onto Colonel Granger's leg.
"No, get me to my power armor. That will help me."
"You sure? I don't know what kind of shape it's in," Patrick said.
"A plasma grenade thrown at it in testing barely caused a scratch. We dropped it from the top of the hanger, and was intact. It should be fine," Colonel Granger said.
Getting him to the power armor was easier said than done. It took a long time to get Colonel Granger standing, and then even longer to limp over to the power armor. It was laying on the ground, but Colonel Granger didn't worry. He looked at his own Pip-Boy, and pushed a couple buttons. Instantly the Power armor stiffened up, and began to move on it's own until it was standing upright.
"You are full of surprises," Patrick said, half carrying, half supporting Granger.
"We've thought of everything for the power armor," the Colonel said.
Getting the Colonel into the power armor was also a challenge, with the broken leg and all. But soon enough the Enclave officer was safely enclosed into the metal contraption.
"So, now that we got that… where to?"
Patrick shrugged. "My guess is that Grand Forks shouldn't be too far away. We just head east, we should run into it." Patrick looked at his map, but the dot that normally would say where he was wasn't available. But he saw Grand Forks on the map, so he was sure he was almost straight west of it. Either way, there was a train track that would take them there.
Colonel Granger shrugged. "It's as good a guess as mine. Let's go."
Before they left, Patrick wanted to find his .44 Magnum. It took a bit of searching, but in the ruins of the freight car, near Hard Tack's body, was the .44. It only had five bullets in the chamber.
As they walked in the darkness, following the silver ribbon of steel, Patrick began to tell Granger of what happened when he was in the freight car, from meeting his dead grandfather to Speaker Graham turning into a deathclaw.
"Hmmm, that sounds like hallucinogen," Colonel Granger said.
"Halluc-e-what-now?"
"Chemicals that alter your brain's perception of what is actually going on around you. The Enclave had experimented with it at one time, but it lead to a leak that resulted in several people tearing each other apart. Needless to say, we canceled the project soon after."
"So… what was it doing on the train? Did it leak or something? And who wanted it?"
"That is a lot of questions that I can't answer, and would take a lot of investigation for another time," Colonel Granger said. "I think we have some more pressing issues right now, like being stuck in the middle of the Dakota Wasteland."
But as they continued to tramp along the train tracks, and the dried out, crunchy, short brown grasses, something also came to Patrick's mind. It sounded like the Fist of Steel was going after him, and him alone. Everyone on the train died because of him. And he, somehow, survived.
Was he seriously so big a threat to the entire Brotherhood of Steel that he would be targeted by their highest leader, who would send a couple of their best trained, most battle-hardened, most loyal troops to kill him in particular.
Where the images he saw when he was drugged up true? Was he really a monster that was destroying not just evil organizations like the Syndicate and the Brotherhood of Steel, but also his country, and everything he knew?
No matter how hard he thought, he couldn't figure out an answer.
PipBoy InfoTracker Note #184
Fist of Steel Oath
I swear this sacred oath
That to all orders of the Brotherhood of Steel, and our Elder Ezekiel,
Supreme Commander, Justicar, and Avenger of Destruction and Chaos,
I shall render unconditional obedience, and use my strength only to aid the Brotherhood,
In their goals of saving the people of the wasteland from themselves,
And as a brave soldier, I shall at all times be prepared to give my life for this oath.
Semper Invicta!