Chapter 17: Too Exclusive
Whether it had been a scrapyard before the bombs dropped or had become one afterward, everything before them resembled a sea of garbage. There was simply so much scrap that it formed its own hills, with fields of steel car frames stretching out over the horizon, dotted by stank puddles or oil and mud. This dump was chosen to be combed through for anything resembling useful supplies, as the AEG's supply situation forced the group to live off the land. And thanks to a previous disciplinary solution, the 32nd Guard found that task bestowed upon them.
The formerly pristine soldiers were combing through the scrapyard, grumbling and grousing at the gig they had been assigned. Overlooking them, from the roof of an office perched atop a hill, Capt. Wallace called out positions and orders over the transceiver. Before him on a salvaged table were some crude yet relatively accurate maps of the immediate area, having been provided by Tandhi's team ahead of time. His immediate staff coordinated alongside him, consisting largely of quite attractive female NCOs, led by one Lt. Sandra Mullens, Wallace's personal assistant and adjutant amongst the 32nd. So far, neither of them had made efforts to welcome or even acknowledge the documentarian as he sat close to the edge of the hillside, recorder sitting on his lap as his camera hung around his neck.
"Eh, excuse me, Captain, I do not wish to be rude, but I was promised an interview this afternoon, so if it would be convenient to the both of us…"
"Corporal Lisa, get on the line with squad H, tell them they're not going to neglect the auto yard. Dig through the engines for fuel cells, Baxter's team can use all the help they can get," Wallace ordered.
"I mean, the operation seems to be going smoothly, so if it would not be so pertinent to spare just a few minutes for some footage, I'd…"
"And tell Sgt. O'Brian to continue providing updates on the perimeter, I want that secured and observed until sundown."
"And you did insist on today being the most optimal for your schedule, so if it is all the same to you…"
"Lt. Mullens, please see to it that our civilian guest is entertained," Wallace relented, not even turning to acknowledge the observer.
Wallace's second in command, a young and somewhat plain-looking officer, approached the documentarian and gave a casual salute. "Mr. Frost, I am Sandra Mullens. I will be conducting the interview in Wallace's stead."
"And tell Cpl. Jasper to get me a drink. A strong one, preferably," Wallace added as he continued looking through the binoculars.
Lt. Mullens was an amicable if somewhat bland interviewee. Most answers from her consisted of either a yes or no. Frost appreciated her bluntness, but it left the whole interview rather dry, even for his tastes. His time in the Shi-Frisco studio system apparently rubbed off on him. He needed some dramatics, he thought even as he internally cringed.
"Lt. Mullens, can you reveal certain prior operations of the 32nd Guard?" Frost asked.
"I am not at liberty to reveal such matters without the captain's expressed permission," Mullens recited, her favorite answer.
"…Right," Frost crossed his legs to hide his fidgeting. He was starting to get annoyed with his lack of progress on this interview. The only answers Mullens was able to give were regarding matters that could be backed up by objective hard data. Where the soldiers were from. Ranks and dates of birth. Where they were stationed and when they shipped out. Nowhere in these questions was any form of humanity. No morale, no life stories, not attempts to alleviate boredom. It seemed that despite his earlier camaraderie with the troops around the campfire, the men had decided to close ranks and "lockout the civvie" as had so often happened to Frost during his admittedly brief tenure as a military reporter.
"Can you tell me how you came under the command of Capt. Wallace?" Frost once again attempted.
"I was requested via a special transfer from the 45th," Mullens explained, flatly.
"45th? That's an intelligence unit," Frost nodded. "Can I ask for some more details?"
"You may, and I will deny it," Mullens answered, casually. Capt. Wallace betrayed a snicker, even as he had his back turned to the discussion. Frost closed his eyes, exhaled, and decided now was the time to play dirty.
"Captain Rathmore."
Immediately, the mood around the improvised HQ shifted. The calls to the teams on the ground came to a halt. Mullens grimaced, motioning to her neck for Frost to cease mentioning the verboten. Wallace began clutching the binoculars much tighter than he usually did.
"What is the issue between Captain Wallace and Captain Rath-"
"ISSUE?!" Wallace screamed as he threw down the binoculars. "THAT SOB HAS BEEN RIDING MY ASS SINCE CARSON!"
"Captain," Mullens tried to placate. "There's no need to get upset, just remember what we talked about."
"THAT CORPSE HAS NO BUSINESS COMMENTING ON HOW I RUN MY MEN!" Wallace snarled. "I WON CARSON, I BROKE THAT INSURGENCY! ME! MY WAY!"
"Carson?" Frost murmured. "I hadn't heard of any operation near that area."
Mullens ran her hands down her face. "Because it was supposed to be confidential," she muttered under her breath.
"HEY, SINCE YOU WANT AN INTERVIEW SO BADLY, HOW ABOUT WHEN YOU GET AROUND TO DON, ASK HIM ABOUT WHY HIS ATTRITION RATE IS SO SHIT?" Wallace screamed. "I KNOW I'D LOVE TO HEAR IT!"
A flare shot up a mile and a half away from the HQ. Wallace, his previous anger temporarily forgotten, immediately picked up his binoculars and honed in on the location where it had been fired. Across the stilted afternoon air, a few pops and faint shouts could be heard from the distance, Frost straining his eyes to see if he himself could ascertain what was transpiring.
"Fucking recon," Wallace growled. "Mullens, get the squads on the horn and order a withdrawal to the rendezvous. Lisa, order squads C and F to provide firing support to H as they fall back. I am not going to lose men to a bunch of scavs!"
"Captain, what's going on?" Frost asked as he tried to zero in on the faraway fracas.
"Looks like recon skimped out on accounting for a few of the locals, and it doesn't seem like they feel like sharing their turf. I would have been more than happy to cut a deal, but since they decided to open fire on us with…" he paused as he listened to the distant gunfire. "…pipe guns, I believe that the only solution that our adversaries will understand is overwhelming force," he assessed as he drew out his sidearm.
"You are going out to fight them?" Frost asked, trying to keep his excitement to a minimum. Having missed out on the battle of Fort Abandon, he was trying to hide his giddiness over finally getting some good action shots.
"No, I'm going make them bring the fight to me. Good thing we set up a pre-fortified position ahead of time, now all we have to do is set up the firing line and goad them into attacking," Wallace explained.
"Sir!" Cpl. Lisa called out. "I just got on the line with squad H, they've been cut off!"
"Damn," Wallace muttered. "Have them hunker down and take defensive actions. I'll handle that matter personally," he ordered as he cocked the hammer of his sidearm back. He shot a look back at Frost. "I'm taking the staff with me, so stay down and don't draw attention to yourself, civilian. We'll continue this interview later."
As the staff made their way down the mound of garbage, Frost took out his camera and began to focus on how the battle was transpiring. Camouflaged almost expertly into the scrapyard, Frost could occasionally faintly make out the outlines of the attackers, junk dwellers who were demonstrating how little they regarded trespassers, who they had indeed fired upon with improvised rifles and the occasional burning oilcan.
The other thing he noticed was how well acquitted the 32nd was performing. Frost had known that the 32nd was made up of comparatively privileged recruits in California, the sons and daughters of wealthy brahmin barons, bankers, politicians, and other upper-crust members of the NCR. Their reputation for being pampered and spoiled was not, to his knowledge, completely unfounded. Which was why when he observed how disciplined they rallied around one another, how they stood firm under ambush and refused to break and run, that he understood Capt. Wallace's strengths as a CO. Captain Ethan Wallace had taken a glorified parade unit that had likely been formed to allow the children of Californian elite an easy service tenure and turned it into a defensive mechanism that looked capable of fending even the most redoubtable of foes.
He watched as Wallace trudged through the muck, issuing orders to his fireteams personally, waving his sidearm as his staff crowded around them, rifles fanning out. Frost watched as Mullens plugged a few shots into an ambushing rifleman as he emerged from the debris to fire upon the commander. Clearly, Frost recognized that the attacking raiders had identified the officer. Wallace had to realize that as well, as he ordered a few shooters from the fireteams to rally around him, creating a formation with what seemed to be no gaps in their firing line, and proceeded to march towards the beleaguered squad.
Captain Wallace had figured out how to use his obvious status as an officer against the attackers and had devised a way to make his position on the battlefield, in this particular circumstance, the most dangerous to engage. This left the attackers to either sic their efforts onto the entrenched defenses of the rest of the units or cut their losses and run. All in all, this incident wound up resolved within the better part of what seemed to be fifteen minutes. Overall, Frost was enamored by the sight he had seen, and Sawney was delighted that his prey hadn't noticed the burlap sack he had been preparing since he had snuck upon him.
"Squad H, status report!" Wallace screamed into the transceiver.
"Captain, we have the tangos on the run! We are in pursuit!" the sergeant relayed exuberantly over the comm.
"That is a negative!" Capt. Wallace snapped. "You are to disengage immediately and report back to HQ! Do not risk your life just because you think you can plant one in their backs! That is a direct order!"
"Sir, we can catch this guy!" the non-com protested.
"Negatory!" Wallace shouted back. "Cease pursuit now!"
The line went dead for a few brief moments. "Sergeant? Sergeant, do you read?" Wallace asked, concern steadily rising.
"…We're breaking off pursuit, Captain. Just… damn," the sergeant breathed, hardly believing what he just saw.
"What happened? Report," Wallace ordered.
"This big… thing just slid down one of the garbage mounds and pounced on one of the retreating tangos. It bit the guy in half and is working on the rest of him right now," the sergeant explained.
"Thing?" Wallace asked, trying not to sneer at his subordinate.
"It looks like a giant mound of burlap, but I think… I think it's a deathclaw," the sergeant relayed.
"Sergeant, disengage immediately," Wallace stressed. "Do not engage, I repeat, do not engage."
"Don't have to tell me twice, sir," the sergeant relayed as he cut the line.
"How would you like to proceed, sir?" Lt. Mullens asked.
"Have all squads report back and give a headcount. Get back to our emplacements and have the boys set up overwatch. If we have deathclaws, I'd prefer to make it the raiders' problem before they become ours. And get Lt. Baxter on the line on standby if we're dealing with a pack. I don't want to risk a repeat of Fort Tandhi."
"Rodger sir," Lt. Mullens nodded. "Looks like Frost got some worthwhile footage after all."
"Can you imagine the clusterfuck he'd have captured if that aggressive idiot Rathmore had been leading this mission?" Wallace laughed. "He should have retired a century ago."
"Ethan, you and I both know that Captain Rathmore is more tactically efficient than that," Lt. Mullens began to correct.
"In the scales of the destruction of the enemy and preservation of my men, I will always choose the latter option," Wallace retorted. "He wants to risk his men on far off objectives for who knows what reasons, he's welcome to it. We're young and have our lives ahead of us, his type is just overstaying their welcome," he sniffed.
"Captain," Cpl. Lisa began as she climbed back down from the hill. "I can't find any trace of Frost."
The bag was dark, coarse, and smelled like iron and mold. Frost tried to call out, but the stale air was so precious a commodity that he wondered if wasting it on a possibly futile cry for help was the best course of action. As his captor began sliding down another mound of waste material, Frost couldn't help but wonder who exactly had managed to pull the wool, or in this case seemingly burlap, over his eyes.
Sawney had been trailing this humie herd for days, targeting stragglers and keeping his distance at all other times. Such was his luck that after stalking the breakaway of the herd he could find the one humie not armed and alert. Later this evening Sawney would try his luck with starting a fire again and see what all the fuss was about with this cookie meat humies were so in love with. Course, Sawney preferred his meat raw, and didn't see the appeal of lighting a corpse on fire to eat later, that just sounded stupid. So he decided to burn his meal alive and pick at the choicest bits before he expired.
As he was about to clear the chain-link fence, Sawney stopped for a moment. He lifted his nose to the air and sniffed, setting the bag down on the ground, though not before tying a crude knot around the end. The black monster let out a growl, daring his follower to reveal themselves. The only reason Sawney didn't attack immediately was that he recognized the stench, and wanted to do this meeting fair-like.
Another massive frame perched itself atop the rotting frame of an automobile, growling deeply as Sawney let out a snicker. "Brudda," Sawney grinned.
"Sonny," Davy snarled.
"I was just abouts to prep a meel, if I's was specting compnee, I's no received an envitacian," Sawney taunted.
"Father wants to kill you, Sonny," Davy replied. "I won't let him."
"Course," Sawney bellowed. "Youse wants to do it yerself-like?"
"Not me. Not alone," Davy explained as his sister attacked Sawney from behind. Sawney let out a scream as the other deathclaw sank her fangs into his back, bucking her off and swiping at her with his hardened claws. Davy always thought Sawney was an idiot but knew how dangerous he was and how he could overpower Ronny in no time. He bounded towards the melee, kicking the sack aside as he did.
Frost didn't have too much on him, but thankfully he had taken a toolkit with him in the event his equipment suffered a malfunction or, in this case, he found himself stuck inside a bag just outside of what sounded like a very dysfunctional family reunion. Settling on a very pointed screwdriver, Frost went to work turning what had begun as an airhole into an escape route.
Davy slammed his head into Sawney's chest while Ronny tried to rake at his neck. The large black deathclaw had roughly one or two humie feet on his siblings, and despite his sinewy appearance, was much stronger than he appeared. Also, what he lacked in intellect, he compensated with instinct, holding both of his broodmates off as he tried to glance at his prize on the ground. A claw nearly took his eye as he was distracted, and he resolved that at the very least that when this was over, he'd devour the scales from their bones.
A hand finally broke out of the bag, ripping at and tearing into the burlap as Frost's head escaped, his grateful lungs taking in gulps of air as he tried to squeeze his upper body outside.
"NO!" Sawney screamed. "HEZ GITTEN AWAYS!"
"SHUT UP!" the other two deathclaws screamed as they simultaneously slammed their heads into his jaw.
Frost wasn't paying any attention to the fracas, his focus purely on escaping. As he dragged his other leg out of the bag, he turned to see the slobbering fangs bounding towards him, with two others following closely behind. Practically on all fours, Frost bounded away to the first place his animal brain told him would protect him, a sanctuary which in this case took the form of the frame of a burnt-out automobile. He dove under it, ignoring the putrid mud that submerged half his body, covering his face as he dared not to glance back at the monsters as they continued their fight.
Atop the nearby garbage mound, Petey had finally caught the scents of his siblings. Looking down, gnawing on the limb of a recently killed native human, he watched as his two favorite living siblings fought against his least favorite. Sucking the meat from the bones, Petey wondered if both his siblings were strong enough to beat their larger brother, who was about as tall as he was, if not quite as girthy. Still, he figured both of them deserved a fighting chance to best the one who killed their clutch. Absentmindedly, he slid down the slope, jumping off before hitting the bottom to perch atop an automobile, his added weight sinking the frame into the mud.
"Petey!" Sawney called out. "My favoritest brudda! Pleez help me kill dez bullys!"
"I don't like you either," Petey explained lazily as he began chewing on a torso.
"Petey, you lazy slob!" Ronny screamed. "Help us kill him!"
"But I'm eating," Petey explained with his mouth full of innards.
"Leave him, Ronny, we almost have him!" Davy cheered before his jaws clamped around Sawney's neck. Ronny began slamming her skull into Sawney's neck, trying to force the lizard to breathe and choke as he gaped and gasped for air. Petey bit into the ribs, crunching contentedly as Sawney eventually threw Davy off his back towards Ronny, buying him time to escape. He picked up his now empty cloak, looking sadly at its now empty contents before turning to Petey and letting out a hiss. Petey just shrugged as he began chewing on a leg, while Davy and Ronny both returned to their feet and began to chase after their brother, who had now taken off on all fours.
Petey let out a sigh, knowing that if Sawney escaped again both his siblings would blame him for it. As he sucked on the tender meat, he got off the auto frame and prepared to give chase. That was when the odor hit his nose. A sterile but distinctive one that was unmistakable. Looking down on the auto frame, he took his claws and placed them under it, flipping the mass over to reveal the quivering and mud-covered wretch hiding under it.
Frost had thought he was going to die when the frame had pushed his body into the mud. He thought he was going to drown, and the noise he made when the pressure was relieved from his body sounded like a cross between a gasp and a sob. Sore all over, he had tried to crawl away until the car was flipped from over his body, putting him face to face with a deathclaw with what looked like a femur sticking from his lips.
The lizard grabbed him by the leg and pulled him up to eye level. It stared at him before taking a sniff. "…Yep," the lizard nodded. "Urine. Definitely, definitely urine."
Frost had accepted that with near-death experiences came a sort of delirium. No doubt his time in the mud had cut off oxygen from his brain, oxygen that could have allowed him to rationalize this clearly hallucinogenic experience before him. At least that was what he thought until the lizard took its tongue and wiped away a significant portion of the mud covering the front of his body.
"Phtooie," the lizard spat, angling the leg to the side of his mouth. "You don't taste worth the effort," he said as he dropped the shivering human and continued working on the leg.
"Tal- tal- talking dea- de-de-death- talking de-" Frost stammered.
"Busted, too," Petey muttered as he trimmed the bone from the leg. "…Aw, fuck," he muttered. "I forgot I'm not supposed to talk in front of you," he glanced down at the man almost apologetically.
Frost attempted to crawl away, only for his foot to be smacked down and held in place by the lizard. "…Look, I don't want to do it, either. I filled up on this raider here," he explained as the rest of the bones disappeared down his gullet. "And I don't kill monkeys for fun. I'm not sick." It was then that something else caught his attention. "What's this, then?" he asked as his claws navigated to a contraption hanging around Frost's neck.
"A ca-ca-camera," Frost stuttered.
"Acacacamera? You monkeys make the stupidest names for things," Petey muttered as he glanced at the lens. "What's it even do?" he asked as one of his smaller claws set off a certain mechanism. A flash shot forth, blinding the lizard. "Ow," he muttered while blinking his vision back as something slipped from the device to the ground.
Petey looked down at his hostage. It would be a bad move if this human told others of who and what he was. Then again, this wasn't the first time he had revealed himself to the monkeys, and those situations usually resolved themselves rather neatly, with the reporting human ostracized and exiled from their herds, making them easier pickings for a later date.
"Tell you what, human?" Petey offered. "You pretend this never happened, and this-" Petey began slamming the camera against the auto frame, swinging it until it had broken to pieces. "Got it?" he asked. He dropped the ruined contraption to the curled-up position of Tim Frost as he rocked himself. Petey galloped away, confident his point had been made and the potential crisis had been averted.
"Gorobets, this is Lt. Baxter, I have eyes on Frost," the power-armored soldier announced over the comms as she slid down the embankment to the traumatized documentarian. "I see signs of a struggle, but with all this mud everywhere, I couldn't tell you what happened. You, Frost!"
She knelt down beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder which caused the previously nigh-comatose filmmaker to jump. "Tim, it's me, Kim. Can you tell me what happened?"
Frost tried to move his jaw, tried to use his throat to produce noise, tried to do things which seemed so simple to do hardly an hour ago. "I… There… Cam…"
Kim looked down to see the destroyed remains of the camera. "Looks like you got jumped. Are you hurt?"
"Rec… record…" Frost muttered as he felt up something in his pants pocket. Sure enough, his recorder, a hardy piece of equipment, had seemed to survive the ordeal. That being said, it was currently covered in mud, so he couldn't ascertain the quality until he returned back to safety. Camp, his slowly returning rational mind corrected.
"I'm… Ok… I'm fine… I'm… safe," Frost muttered to himself, repeatedly, making Lt. Baxter doubt his authenticity.
"Tell you what," Baxter exclaimed as she slung her heavy machine gun across her back and hiked Frost under her shoulder. "You just focus on getting your head on straight, I'll take the lead on this one."
"…They talk…" Frost began to giggle. "They talk, Kim!" he continued in hysterics.
"I'm sure they do," Baxter replied, unconcerned as she trudged back to camp. As she left, a sudden burst of gusts began sweeping through the junkyard battlefield. Various bits and pieces of scrap and waste were eroded from their resting places, and amongst them a single photograph was swept from its resting place in the mud. Its content, a single radical close-up of a reptilian eye. It blew through the chain-link fence and vanished into the wasteland.
