I stood at the mouth of the armory, peeking inside, wiggling my toes in my boots, feeling the gritty sand chafe between them. Between the sheet metal fortifications and the razor wire hugging the gray building like cobwebs, you'd think it was a torture chamber or something.

Come on. Come on. What's the worst that could happen? Aside from being shot to death and my corpse being hung from the watchtower scaffolding for the buzzards to pick at?

The muscle posted at the front- two gladiatorial hulks of callouses and scar tissue armed with rifles four times older than me- quickly moved up to bar my way, one of them slapping a stony hand on my shoulder.

"Turn around."

"I need to see-"

The grip on my shoulder tightened, and I felt the socket jump a bit. Ouch. "Turn. The fuck. Around."

"Sheriff Simms," I finished quietly, my voice cracking on the Regulator's name.

The Megaton sentries shared a glance, and one stood between me and the blast door as the other stuck his head down the bunker's throat and hollered for Simms. A moment later, I was being escorted inside the armory- prodded along with a muzzle, to be exact- blinking in the musty darkness, the only light coming from the doorway.

My eyes ran over the walls. Gun rack after gun rack. Crates of surplus bullets, grenades, landmines. A few RPG-7s hung on the far side, flanked by aisles of even more firepower. So this... this is what kept Megaton alive and running, kept the raiders at a wary distance. Enough hardware to start and end a war -and then enough left over for a rummage sale.

But as my eyes adjusted to the gunmetal, I saw that I wasn't alone in this oasis of gunpowder. Four of Megaton's best sharpshooters were doing their rounds about the armory, cleaning and scouring and oiling. I watched with a mix of jealousy and dread- Jericho had forced me to memorize the exact sizes of ammo, the precise model and make of more guns than I thought existed. If I couldn't identify a gun by its muzzle being pointed my way, Jericho said coldly one evening, I wasn't worth my weight in water.

That encouraged me.

"Talk to me, boy."

I gave a little start. One moment he had been laying an anti-tank rifle (I bet Jericho didn't even know that one) back into its rack, the next Simms was right there at my shoulder, all fatherly smiles and jolly beard. My shoulders sagged, anxiety ebbing away at seeing such a friendly face, until I noticed the RPKS-74 slung over his back- and the fear came right back as I remembered what I came for.

"Uh, afternoon, sir. Sorry to bother you, but, uh, you see..." I could feel the eyes of the shooters in the armory, but Simms was patient. His eyes, old and melancholy as they were, were clear and glimmered with an understanding I hadn't seen in a long time. "So let's say," I began, "hypothetically, I mean- that someone- no one in particular, really- wanted to set off the bomb."

Simms stroked his beard, eyes sparking with curiousity. "Well, now, I'd have to ask him to take a number. Megaton ain't been winnin' no popularity contests 'round these parts, boy." A series of knowing chuckles echoed in the bunker.

"Okay, then let's say- hypothetically, I mean- I had a way to set off the bomb." With that, I fished out the fusion pulse rig out of the inside pockets of my duster, and laid them carefully on the workbench in front of us.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause, and then a series of clicks as every carried gun in the room had its safety switched off. All but one.

"Where did you get this?" Simms voice was still kind, but there was bonecracking steel beneath.

I gulped, and looked away from those killing eyes. "Burke," I said softly.

And that was all I needed to say.

It had happened all so fast.

Grave quiet in the saloon. All eyes on us. Cigarette smoke casting a curling haze over everything, blanketing the rafters. Stink of cured leather, dried blood, gunpowder. Sour smell of cheap vodka, sweat, Gob's tanned hide, of Nova's latest customer.

Sharp words from Burke, a cool retort from Simms. Everyone tense, not daring to draw. Burke's face twisting into a cool sneer as he ashed his fat cigar, snapped off his sunglasses, and stuffed them into his breast pocket- while his right hand whipped to the pistol at his hip like lightning. My breath catching, I made a move for my C96 Mauser, but it was already over- a suppressed Beretta clattering to the wooden paneled floor, the sound like thunder in the silence. Simms, his hands twisting Burke's wrist and fingers to an impossible angle. And Burke, his face a mask of pure contempt as Simms calmly reached into the businessman's coat and withdrew two more pistols.

Burke left with only a passing cutting comment. Simms sighed, and with a grunt, bent and picked the dropped pistol from the floor.

"Many thanks, boy. Buy you a drink sometime." And off he went. All resumed in the saloon as if nothing had happened.

I realized I was still gripping my C96. I let go, rubbing my dirty hands together, sweating, wondering.

How had Simms survived so long?

How could I survive that long?

I licked my dry, cracked lips. For a moment, I forgot how much they hurt.

That was... such an amazing feeling.

I turned the bowie knife over in my hands, letting my fingers run over the scratches and etches in the flat, the tiny nicks the ran along the edge, marveling at the way the sun ran freely along the blade like liquid wildfire. The hardwood hilt was tightly wrapped with sweat-softened leather, smelt like readiness and exhilaration that came with the hunt-

"Y'best gon' be careful w'that 'un, Graves. Y'hear?"

Ashecroft's surprisingly serious voice knocked me out of my reverie, and I glanced up those too-blue eyes, throwing a light of their own despite the shade of her hat. She had her own knife in her hands- a trench knife that came straight out of hell, jagged blade, spiked handguard and pommel, all that nastiness. It was almost unsettling the way she handled it like... an extra finger, or something. Just flowing along with her hand.

"Huh?" I looked back down at the bowie cradled in my hands like our firstborn. "Oh. Right. Right." As kind and generous a host Ashecroft might've been, I knew she'd be curing my skin for a new pair of boots if I let anything happen to her little knife. "Don't worry," I assured her, sheathing it slowly. Lovingly, almost.

She nodded and turned back to looking over our gear for the road ahead. Canteens for the both of us, a single camouflaged bedroll for me to carry (no complaints- kept the sun off me, and free of mutant ticks), pouches and bandoleers of ammunition. The M21 slung over my back felt odd- wasn't used to having a gun on my back, much less a marksman's rifle. Jericho had always forced me to keep my gun in my hands, or on my front- I was too slow a draw, he had said with no little scorn. He let me holster my sidearm, at least. On his less moody days.

Ashecroft, at least, trusted me- as far as she could put a throwing knife in me, which was pretty fuckin' far. I don't know is that came from hospitality being part of the Regulator's code, or that she was just a very nice girl. After a month of bunking with her, I guess it's a slice of both.

It didn't take all too much longer to ready ourselves. The sun had just rose, and we had a lot of sand to cover before we hit our first checkpoint- an abandoned power station southeast of Ashecroft's cabin. We had compared our info- I booted up the Pipboy, and after wading through some command prompts, "please insert recovery floppy" screens, and picking out some dirt from the crack in the glass, managed to bring up the map for the local area. Wasn't too useful- gave us an idea of what the area looked like before the bombs fell, a sort of out-of-the-way, industrial part of the city- but we used the elevation and distance calculators to our advantage. Sometimes, that shitty piece of plastic was worth the chafing it did. You know, all the sand and dust that got under the wristband. Hurt like a bitch.

Was I going to miss those easy with Ashecroft? Maybe. Waking up late, that sour Brahmin milk thick as eggwhites, there being a spring nearby (just an irradiated trickle, but still), having her fellow Regulators drop by on their patrols (and stare down my raider ass intently before Ashecroft called them off)- which explains the raiders' and Talons' reluctance to come this far west; this barren field of dunes was apparently closely-guarded Regulator turf. Something to do with the (relatively) clean springs that bubbled up from beneath the sands, so Ashecroft told me.

But there was one upside to doing away with the freeloading life.

I was free to play the most dangerous game.

A warm, foreboding breeze picked up, scattering sand across Ashecroft's meager porch, and I shook my head of these murderous thoughts as I moved up to help her.

"We really need all this?" I asked her for the ninth time. Jericho and I had always traveled light, relying on our trapping and scavving for food. Not a good way to live, but we were fast and hard to track because of it.

She tightened the buckled strap around one of our ration packs, crushing it into a more convenient size. "You bet yer bony ass, Graves. We Regs do bus'ness diff'rint than yer raider folk." She looked up at me thoughtfully, a smirk tugging at one side of her mouth. "Nev'r hurts t'know th' cut 'n range, though."

I mumbled a "yeah, I guess" before wandering around to the other side of the gear pile, quadruple-checking everything as I rubbed the dead skin off my callousing knuckles. What can I say? It was hard, sleeping back to back with her all those cold nights, watching her slowly pull off those long boots one by one, listening to her scrub down with wet sand by the spring, her skin-tight chaps off on the bank. Hard knowing that one wrong move or word would nail my scalp to her wall. Hard enough to make me hard. No, bulletproof.

Felt odd, strapping and buckling myself down with so much gear. But it didn't feel all too heavy- I had managed to eat and train some muscle back into me, and to be honest, I felt healthier and more awake than I had since I crawled out of the vault. Probably had something to do with the sun, I thought, looking up at that big ball of flame. Funny, I was almost used to it now.

A series of rattling noises behind me as Ashecroft bolted her cabin, leaving a hefty padlock on the front door. "Ready, Graves?"

I couldn't help but smile a bit at my new name. "As I'll ever be."

We made damn good time, heading dead southwest. Something to do with the excitement of being on a mission, I guess. For all her gears and spurs, Ashecroft was quick as they come- she slunk over dunes and through ravines like second nature. I let her take point- she knew the lay of the land, after all, and my Pipboy's map wasn't as accurate as I'd have liked. Everything west of Megaton seemed to be like this- rock robbed of topsoil, fine sandy sediment, the oddest of rock formations, gullies and ravines and chasms born from the quakes that followed the bombs.

But underestimating the wasteland is the biggest mistake you can make. I left the Pip-radio off- while the reception was actually a pretty useful tool for gauging your location, even on low volume, freakish, hard-shelled worms would pop out of the sand and rock, antennae flicking wildly, jaws snapping. Must not like the frequency.

"Dun pay 'em any mind. Plumb blind," pointed out Ashecroft as I leapt away from a pair of sharp pincers. "No ear fer music, though. No ears at all, literally."

"So I noticed," I muttered, tugging my bootstrap out of a sticky, hissing jaw. Centipede or millipede... hell, I didn't want to know.

Aside from our burrowing insect buddies and the occasional tumbleweed, the morning passed in dry, hot silence. The sound of falling rock now and then would make us stop and crouch low to the ground, Ashecroft drawing her revolving rifle in one smooth motion- but each time, it was either the wind or a scavenging animal. Lucky us.

It was only nearing noon that Ashecroft stopped suddenly, crouching behind a nearby jagged outcropping. I moved into cover behind her. "What is it?"

"Y'dun smell it?" Her voice was less than a whisper- I had to watch her lips to figure out the words. I sniffed at the air- so dry it chapped the inside of your nose, with a hint of dust, and a slight, hot breeze. And on that breeze...

Smoke.

I felt a jolt of anxiety spear through my belly- bloodlust, dread, hate- so much emotion, just from a dim waft of smoke. I nodded at Ashecroft. "Wind's going northwest," I whispered, watching the sand scuttle along the ground.

"North-northwest," she corrected, brow furrowed in thought. Shit, she knew already. She had this tracking game down flat. "Shouldn't be a soul 'round these parts."

Peeking my head out of cover and finding it all clear, I nodded to her again and we slipped out from the rock, moving forward up a craggy incline. Once we hit the top, we'd know what we were looking at. "Caravan?" I offered.

Ashecroft shook her head. "No good trails. We blaze 'em again 'n again, but they get buried." I cupped my hands and boosted her up onto a ledge, ignoring the bite of her spurs and clambering up after her, trying to not make too much noise. The smell of smoke grew ever stronger- oily, stinging. We saw it, now- curling up into the sky.

Nearly at the top, I rolled onto my back and checked my magazines as Ashecroft wriggled up on her belly, scanning the valley below. Twenty 7.62x51mm NATO rounds seated snugly; I popped the magazine back in.

"Take a gander, Graves."

I crawled up beside Ashecroft, wheezing a bit in the dust as I flicked up the lens caps and looked through the scope. "What- shit. Shit."

Insanity. What lay less than a mile below was what used to be part of a city, now all rubble and ruins. But what should have been deserted was swarming with activity- I focused the lens a bit more, and another wave of dread ran over me.

Like living torches, they clawed their way onto the skeletons of buildings, over each other, piling onto their victims mercilessly. Making an unsteady ring, a band of raiders armed with flamethrowers were dousing the freaks with fire, but it hardly slowed them- the twisted fucks only stopped once they were burned to the bones.

Ghasts. Emaciated, naked, open-mouthed, wide-eyed maniacs- their skin peeled away, leaving only the throbbing muscle underneath. Feral ghouls, some settlers called them- but raiders had their own name for them. They were worse than any ghoul.

Jericho had told me about them. About how they followed pain instead of ran from it, how they had lost all concepts of fear, loss, hopelessness. They were less than animals. All that was left was the want to eat, the want to-

"Graves, I said hold yer fire."

I blinked. Ashecroft was looking at me, a flicker of worry crossing her brow. "This ain't our fight. Let 'er go."

"Yeah," I whispered back. Like hell I'd take that on. A bit more scanning told the story- there was an entrance to the subway nearby, which the raiders were fighting to capture. They bit off more than they could chew, and now they were being eaten alive- and not figuratively. I almost felt bad for the raiders who tried to run, only to be tackled and pulled apart, skin and tongue saved for last. Almost.

We spent the better part of an hour on that crag, watching, waiting. Through this town was the best route to our checkpoint- trying to go around would put us through an underground cavern (which led into the subway anyways, bad idea) or a miniature mountain range which Ashecroft didn't want to deal with. With the bedroll covering us both as a makeshift ghillie sheet (hot and itchy as fuck, but better than having your face scraped off by ghasts), we shared a half-quart and looked down on the slaughter.

"And I thought my neighbors were bad," I muttered.

Ashecroft giggled. I kind of liked the sound.

That hour turned into two as we waited. The ghasts- a pack of thirty four, not counting the roasted ones- were just about full, dragging the unfinished raider bodies back down into the subway. A few stayed behind to gnaw on the bones of their charred comrades, but most, after hunting around for any stragglers, disappeared back beneath the earth.

I wiped the sweat out of my eye. Fuck, eye strain. "Ready?"

Ashecroft rolled the bedroll off of her and immediately began to scale down the crag. So I'm guessing that's "yes" in Ashecroftian.

I re-packed the bedroll hastily. "Hey, hey-" I skidded down after her, almost breaking my leg- "Slow down!"

She looked up at me from a lower ledge, her body pushed against the rock wall, as small a target as possible. "Gotta sneak by while they're full. At night, they dun git hungrier."

I stared at her blankly. She just grinned and shrugged sheepishly. Oh, that's just fucking great.

We were at the foot of that crag in record time and began to move forward. Not much cover- the ground was uneven, hiding us if were were prone, and the odd rock gave us some cover. But the closer were got to the station, the less cover we had. We finally stopped behind a rusting, long-dead car, less than a hundred yards between us and the zombies freaks.

Alright. Two ghasts chewing on the burnt arm of one of theirs. One sniffing at a puddle of blood and internal raider fluids. Another clawing up the side of a building, peeking in a second story window for any bones to pick his teeth with.

"I got eaters. Y'take other two."

"Roger." I laid the barrel of the M21 on the rusted engine block of the car, taking a few steadying breaths. Oh, hell. They were even uglier up close. One was missing an eye. "On three."

She had her revolving rifle's muzzle rested in the driver's seat window. "One. Two."

Two blasts went off so fast I thought my finger had slipped- but out of the corner of my eye, I saw the two cannibal zombies hit the cracked pavement. I followed her up- one round through the chest of one, and another tearing through the shoulder of the climber, sending him to the ground with a sick crunch.

We didn't waste any time. Taking point, I hauled ass across the pavement, cutting into the rubble-choked street to avoid the station. Ghasts had dulled senses, but even the deaf can feel a gunshot through the ground.

I vaulted into a window and pushed through what used to be a cafe, Ashecroft's boots close behind. I slung my rifle over my shoulder and drew my Colt M1911 in its place- but in mid-draw a ghast kicked down the back door and barreled toward us. He, she, it- slammed into me, taking me to the ground and immediately pushing its thumbs into my eyes. I yelled, panicked- and fired off four shots into its chest as its splintered nails began to slice my eyeballs. It snarled at me- a wet coughing, like someone drowning- vomiting blood and bits of person all over my face. My left hand went to its throat, struggling to keep those snapping teeth away, but a boot came out of nowhere and launched the bastard off of me.

Scooting back, clutching my face, I could see Ashecroft cutting the downed ghast's throat- twice, and then stomping on its head a few times. Groaning, I braced myself against a crumbling wall and pushed myself to my feet- only for Ashecroft to grab my hand and pull me through the back door.

"Y'alright?" she asked breathlessly, not looking back as she sprinted forward.

"Yeah, just-" I glanced back to see a few ghasts bursting from the timbers and plaster, eyes clouded and wild. "FUCK!"

Little did I know, even with full gear on me, I was very good at running.

The sun was sinking by the time we outran those sick fucks. If they weren't full, they would've been on us like scavs on booze- or that's what Ashecroft said, anyways.

Our pace slowed to a panting walk, always looking over our shoulders, taking long drinks from the same canteen. Another breeze picked up- this one from the west, chilly and telling of the usual cold, miserable wasteland night.

"That's the second time you've saved my ass," I said between breaths, looking over at Ashecroft. The sun low, there was no hat-shadow over her face, and I could see her cutting blue eyes as clear as day. Though there was something... distant in them.

She gave a short laugh, not meeting my eyes. "If y'keep countin', you'll forget yer name. Dun give it any mind." But there was a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth, a look of pride crossing her face.

I smiled too. Life felt so much better when death was so close.