The caravan's trek towards their destination remained uneventful after the ambush with the raiders. Since then, it had been a relatively quiet stroll over the broken road to Nipton. The open desert and hills seemed to acknowledge their strength in numbers as both raiders and mutated wildlife steered clear from a trading party protected by fifty men. All were equipped with what the Moscow Metro provided with the former military veterans and experienced stalkers fully decked in kevlar vests and Altyn helmets. Their weapons were the best that the gunsmiths could produce or equipped with pre-war firearms. Meanwhile, the rest were either given several hand-me-down firearms or were unfortunate to be equipped with guns cobbled together from various materials. This all became a fitting retinue to the son of the station commander of Exhibition.
Artyom and his men stopped atop a hill overlooking a town to the west. It was supposed to be the destination where his people could engage in commerce for the sake of his home. Yet, such a simple task seemed to contain a nesting egg of troubles for the young man to tackle. His eyes may have been damaged since he lived in the darkness for two decades but a black trail arose from the settlement. As the sunset's rays faded from the horizon, the town glowed and flickered but for what reason?
He heard his friend call to him as he navigated to the front of the convoy. "Hey, why have we stopped? Don't we have a schedule to keep?"
"Are you seeing what I am seeing?" His body was uneased by the situation and bringing the caravan into Nipton made him doubt the well-being of every man accompanying him. This scene smelled of treachery and the scent of smoke didn't reassure him.
"That looks ominous," Eugene admitted when he stood by the caravan leader's side, "Should we check it out? Maybe the people there need help?"
"It could also be a trap?"
"We should try at the very least."
Artyom looked over his shoulder and saw the packs of goods strapped to upon the backs of two-headed oxen. "That is way too important for me to bring."
"Who said we had to? Send in a couple of dudes and check things out. How about we form an assault group if things turn south?" Someone had to reconnoiter the area and that meant someone was willing to volunteer and discover the fate of the town itself. Their lives were his to command and it felt wrong to ask someone to do it. Yet, there was a job to be done.
"I'll go then."
Eugene turned him around to look at him. "Did I just hear you right? You're Sukhoi's kid, we can't risk you getting hurt."
"Someone has to do it," Artyom stated as he glanced over to his men stumbling around the Brahmins. Being the son of the station commander also meant that he had to try to act in his role of leadership, "I'm not going to risk them when the shooting starts."
"We also can't risk losing you. Get some guys to come and provide an escort. I won't have your dad screaming down my neck because you decided to get reckless." His reasoning was hard to argue against; especially, from a childhood friend looking out for his well-being.
He relented to the advice before issuing orders among his fellow station compatriots. "I need twenty volunteers to come with me and investigate the town. The rest will protect the caravan in the meantime."
"I'm coming with you, just to be sure."
"I know you would." Cause that was what friends were for.
A motley crew of twenty men, old veterans and young recruits, departed from the top of the hill as they followed their leader to the west. Ancient tactics from the former remnants of the Soviet military took over as they split up their numbers to advance along the shoulders of the road. The heavily armored soldiers were at the forefront of the group whilst the rest of the party followed after them. Soon, they made their way to the outskirts of the town, weapons raised and ballistic visors lowered. A pair of banners staked into the ground, both containing a red background and a golden bull as its symbol.
The distance was closed while Artyom readied his Paciencia close to his chest and pulled the bolt back to load another round into the rifle. An eerie silence ruled the settlement as the empty streets provided little comfort to the young man. If this was a notable town for trade, where were the locals? He could understand if people were shy for outsiders but even an introvert would leave behind signs of life worthy of attention. One of the accompanying locals in the caravan also mentioned it was a secondary route for NCR caravans, so it couldn't have been abandoned.
They reached a T-junction where the road split off into two routes - one proceeding ahead across the town itself and the other turning to the right. Seeing that they were to check what had befallen this place, he tapped a soldier's shoulder from behind and stated his intentions. "Shift right."
There was little hesitation as the party checked around the corner building along the road and advanced. What followed afterward, shocked the young man to his core. A great bonfire burned before the town hall with tires acting as fuel for the flames. Yet, the Russians witnessed an atrocity with a charred corpse burning away at the stake while overlooking an audience of men and women nailed to wooden crosses. Eugene expressed his horror. "Dear god, what the fuck happened here?"
It was a good question. What demented mind would ever entertain such horrific acts?
Ahead of the group were fifteen men in red uniforms and American football gear among the ravaged townfolk. Artyom immediately recognized their clothes matching the kidnappers he saw at Novac. This had to be their doing before the strangers noticed their arrival and turned around. The leader of the perpetrators stepped forward while he wore a wolf's pelt over his head. Was it some kind of symbol as the head of the group?
"Witnesses? Good." The stranger stated as if he was anticipating this moment to come, "Then you will all spread the news; especially, to the NCR about all those who dare to oppose Caesar's Legion."
This was done on purpose based on how the man phrased his words and that revelation was enough to make the Russian's blood boil. "Why did you do this?"
"If you wish to know, profligate, this sorry town engaged in moral degeneracy and sickness. I am here to convey that weakness against the superiority of the strength that we possess. These people here were so corrupt and pathetic in their ways, that they all became sheep into the slaughter rather than stop us. They even had the numbers but no, these spineless whoresons lack the conviction that our Caesar inspires."
"What you did here is evil?" There was no other way to address the vileness of the person who had no right to be called a man.
"Is that so?" The stranger revealed an arrogant smile underneath his wolf's head, "Act on those sentiments if you feel strongly for these weak and sorry people but I know you won't. Just walk away and be a good boy."
His antagonizing voice angered the young man as he turned away and began to order his men to leave. Artyom knew that living in the shadow of the apocalypse was a great and terrible thing that allowed men to commit vile deeds for the sake of survival. Yet, what happened here was not some cold-hearted logical choice but a crime against humanity. Nobody deserved this and the perpetrator didn't deserve to walk away. "Open fire!"
The men of Caesar's Legion stopped for a brief moment as they heard the Russian order come down. A few seconds was all it took until the Exhibition caravan pulled their triggers on the executioners in the open. Automatic fire erupted as three Legionaries were cut down while the rest dispersed but also tried to fight back. Four of their masked men threw wooden spears back at the assaulting group while another two joined in, firing single-action guns in return.
Artyom aimed his rifle at one of the spear throwers and fired. He watched the round pierce through his foe's skull before stumbling backward until the corpse landed on the road. Then the son of the station commander joined Eugene hiding out on the right side of the street while Bastards and Kalashnikovs fired in small bursts over their heads.
"We're in the shit, now!" His friend yelled into his ear before calling four other militiamen to join them. He tapped his shoulder and pointed at five men accompanying their leader heading off to the east side of the town. "The bastards are running. There's an alley ahead that we can use to cut them off."
A bullet almost hit the men and landed on the wall beside them as the young man caught sight of the shooter from the left side of the street. He raised the Paciencia's sights to his eyes and fired, hitting the Legionary in the shoulder. The target clutched his wounded limb and stumbled around the corner of the building as Artyom sought to avenge this town. "Cover us, we're going after him!"
He slung his rifle over his shoulder before he reached for the makeshift sub-machine gun hanging from his side. Then he charged ahead and led the way as the footsteps of his comrades and neighbors joined him on the hunt. The remaining soldiers left behind fired after them as he saw their rounds pepper the Legionary troops on the other end of the street. Once they had reached the alley, the caravan leader looked around the corner with his Bastard drawn and saw an empty shortcut at their use. His men stacked behind him before he proceeded to enter while the firefight continued from behind.
A red laser suddenly appeared over his shoulder but it was a comforting sight. Someone was watching his back and there was less of a chance to be shot by a friendly. They quickly moved through with little hesitation and were halfway across.
Automatic fire ripped through the building on their left. Artyom looked back to find one of his people caught in a storm of rounds, penetrating through the wooden wall from inside. As his countryman dropped to his knees and bled profusely, he held the trigger and spent half of his magazine at the ambusher. There was screaming from where the shooter hailed from before he noticed Eugene run to the bullet-riddled wall carrying a lit fuse of a Metro-made hand grenade.
"Go fuck yourself!" His friend cried out as he punched a hole in the wall and immediately through the explosive inside. Then the Russians backed away from the opening in the wall before a loud blast was released and shook the building. With the deed done, the group ran up to the other side of the alleyway with one staying behind to check on the body.
Upon reaching the end, a hand appeared from around the corner and grabbed Artyom by his shirt, only to pull him forward and drag the young man out of the alley. His body landed on his back before he regained his bearings, a Legionary stood over him as he drew his machete and performed an overhead swipe at him.
His foe did not get the chance to connect the blade with his flesh as an Exhibition soldier sprayed the assailant with his submachine gun. Then he came running towards the son of the station commander, eager to help him up. The air snapped with a bullet zipping into the air and knocking the rescuer in the kevlar vest as he too fell to the ground.
The caravan leader looked for the origin of the shot and looked ahead to his left to find the leader of the Legionaries and his men among the ruins of a burnt-out house. Soon, the wolf's head turned to order the subordinates forward. He watched the mass murderer turn away and make his way out of the town. Four men disregarded the safety of their cover and charged him with knives and spears drawn. "For Caesar!"
Artyom rolled his body onto his stomach before lining his sights to the closest attacker approaching him. He pulled the trigger as a burst of gunfire landed on the upper torso of one of the masked killers in football gear. Then he shifted his aim to the next closest threat and repeated the same process.
A loud chink of metal occurred from his gun as he looked down and saw the magazine fail to slide and shift to the next round. He quietly swore to himself before one of his hands clenched into a fist and smacked the top of the feeding mechanism. Frantic slams against his weapon, almost akin to breaking it, made his heart surge with adrenaline as the enemy rushed the distance with eager abandon for their safety.
His ears rang when a shotgun blast echoed over his ears and an area of pellets knocked a second Legionary back, the force strong enough to make the man fly off his feet. A spearman lowered his polearm and tried to skewer him but a second shot rang out and blasted the hostile's face into nothing more than a bloody pulp. The headless man reached for the wounds for a brief moment until all bodily function ceased and death took over.
"Shit, I'm out!" Eugene shouted as Artyom looked over his shoulder to find his companion opening his break-action shotgun and attempting to load two new shells into the chamber.
A red and black blur tackled his childhood friend, dragging him into a wall of a nearby house. The Legionary pinned him with one hand before he brandished a knife with chainsaw teeth in the other. He tried to unjam his weapon as quickly as possible but then he heard the motor engine of the blade whine and the attacker shoved the implement into the torso. Painful agonizing cries were exhaled into the skies as horror and rage took over the caravan leader.
There was no time to fix his submachine gun as he threw the Bastard at the foe, knocking him in the head. Meanwhile, he pulled himself off the ground and reached for his Paciencia, not to shoot but to use it as a melee implement. The young man jumped the killer while grabbing the buttstock of his rifle and clubbed him off of Eugene. Soon the Legionary looked disoriented with his head bobbing from the attack but Artyom did not let up as he beat him in the stomach and forced the man to lose balance. As he fell to the ground, the Russian properly readied his rifle and aimed at the confused murderer before firing one shot into his skull.
The adrenaline began to subside and the groans of his neighbor snapped him out of his moment of wrath. He turned around and rushed to kneel beside his friend's side. "Eugene!" He looked at the wounds and saw blood seeping out from the cuts as he tried to cover the opening, "You need a medic."
"Artyom, I don't want to die…" He replied as blood seeped out from his lips and his gaze appeared exhausted, "I don't want to die."
"Calm down, you just need some stitches." Reasoned the son of the Exhibition commander, hoping it would calm him from succumbing to the pain.
"I'm dying."
The first thought that came into his mind was the medkit on his person, causing Artyom to reach for his breast pocket and pull out an orange case. His fingers snapped it open and brandished a needle before he injected the morphine into the body but then his friend reached out and grasped him by the shoulder.
"It's too late."
What remaining strength was left in the young man bleeding out, began to subside as that grip loosened and fell by his side. Eugene's eyes closed as his head slumped to the ground.
His first reaction was to check whether he was unconscious or not before both of his hands grabbed his face and opened his eyelids. There was no reaction whatsoever, causing him to find the wrist and check his pulse. Yet, there was no signal of life.
Whatever reasons for the chase seemed to disappear while the gunfire in the town of Nipton calmed down in the background. All that was left was grief for losing one of the few people that Artyom knew from Exhibition Station.
Colonel Mel'nikov sat in his office working on the day-to-day affairs of the Moscow Metro. He reviewed and signed papers brought to his desk, most of them being requisition orders and taskforce reassignments for the Spartan Order. It was a restless job for the old soldier but someone had to do it and the rest of the Metro relied on them to give a bit of hope to an unforgiving future. That reality may change thanks to the events occurring in the northern territories.
The Polis Council had been notified of changing events and the access to a new world. It was a strategic change in which the Order had an advantage over the other major factions of the Metro. All evidence was brought over from the rocket facility and Novac granted him more resources to investigate and scout out that world for the benefit of humanity. Despite the reinvigorating effort to capitalize on that opportunity, there was a fear he kept to himself.
Most of the stations would notice the activity between the Rangers being deployed from Polis to Exhibition; especially, the Hanseatic League since his men were crossing over their territory. If news got out that the Council had been keeping this information tight from the others, the consequences would be drastic for the Metro. Hansa, the Red Line, and the Fourth Reich were dangerous foes to contend with as they could draw upon vast legions of soldiers to outnumber the few hundred the Spartan Order could field on their best days. The only fortune the Polis Rangers had was the reality that these major factions had other affairs in mind with Hansa exhausted from their conflict with the Red Line while the communists waged war against the Fourth Reich on another 'border skirmish' around Kuznetsky Most.
Someone knocked on the door to his office three times and the colonel stopped looking at his papers. "Who is it!?"
"Food delivery!" Mel'nikov recognized Uhlman's voice as the subordinate Polis Ranger continued with his humor, "I've paid a visit to Pizza Hut."
The mere mention of that American fast-food brand made the Order's commander miss his pre-war days. What a shame that the post-apocalypse would deny him the delicacies of the past as he welcomed his second-in-command. "Come in."
A heavily armored Polis Ranger stepped into the room and locked the door on the way in as he approached the officer's desk with a prideful salute. "I came to report our recon team's findings in the Mojave region."
"What do you have for me?" He dropped everything and leaned back in his wooden chair, eager to learn what pieces of information he could grasp of the world beyond Exhibition Station.
"New Vegas is a mess but it's not as smashed up compared to Moscow's surface. The city is divided into two classes with one made up of the majority of poor folks and the rest meant for the wealthy. They call it the strip and we tried to get inside but it's heavily guarded by robots."
"Any combat assessments?" The Spartan Order had to be ready for every eventuality, even from potential threats on the lower end of the Council's priority. Weaknesses and strengths had to be noticed, "What weapons do they possess?"
"Small arms but some are equipped with laser weaponry. Though, the bastards do look like they could pack some additional firepower if someone had a bright idea." Uhlman analyzed without any comical remark to add.
He would have the Brahmins check out the scavenged gear from the dead mutants. Some of them were indeed armed with regular firearms but others had more advanced gear on their persons. A bit of experimentation would be necessary on the firing range at some point. Yet, he needed to focus on the information in the region. "What of the city outskirts, any news on that front?"
"The north and east sides are relatively quiet and secure; however, the southwest is where you have a major problem. Troops from the New California Republic are waging war with an army of local raiders known as the Fiends. From what I've been told, they massed in numbers and have held the line against the NCR's local FOB. It could spiral out of control and the city could be besieged should they launch an offensive of their own."
"We will still need feelers on the whole region. Take the time to rest, I'll tell you when you and the others need to be deployed again." It was a boon of information, one he needed to convey to the Council to allocate additional resources and perhaps reduce the strict requirements to obtain high-readiness troops if Polis is forced to maintain a garrison in that part of the world.
Uhlman's face didn't seem to shift into his usual mood of alleviating the seriousness of the atmosphere. Rather, his tense posture suggested that he was also bringing bad news. "Hunter split off from our group for the time being but hasn't reported since."
"Shit." His best man was missing and that was ill news given his position as the head of the Order. That man was incredibly reliable at performing his duties and so for him to disappear brought little comfort, "Any ideas of where he went?"
"He said that there was a route leading into a place called Goodsprings. It's west of here but he was going to head south and then slingshot his way back north to rendevous at Novac. Didn't show."
The ranger scratched his beard and looked at the ceiling for a brief moment. They were down a good man and the colonel was forced to remain helpless with the knowledge. "I can't wait for what might be a dead man. We have to make do. If not us…"
"...then who?" Uhlman finished the phrase, enough to bring a smile to the commander.
"Good hunting, stalker."
After the fighting was over and the Legion had left Nipton, the rest of the caravan linked up with the vanguard as the scars across the settlement were dealt with. Corpses of the innocent and guilty were gathered and buried in a graveyard south side of the town. Among them, was Eugene and the few caravaners who were killed. It was hard for Artyom to put his childhood friend six feet under but the reality was that he couldn't carry the body home lest they risk disease. Even if he did, Exhibition Station had a policy to burn the dead once the mourning period was over. At the very least, there was a piece of land his friend could call his own, one that could be visited should he have the time.
The graves before him were busy with work as his people carefully wrapped the murdered and executed before transporting them to the ground. He looked around and saw his sentries posted atop the buildings and overlooking the surrounding areas. The perpetrator of these victims could still be around and there was a chance he may return in greater numbers. If that bastard did so, then the Russians would benefit from having some form of defense and numbers to fend them off.
Hard footsteps and the clinking of metal armor approached him from behind as Artyom's social mask took over. There was a time to grieve but not now before turning around to see the heavily armored soldier raise the visor attached to his Altyn helmet. "We found a survivor."
"What?" It was to believe the news given what he had seen earlier.
"While we were searching more for the head, we checked out the general store and found a man sitting in his chair. Apparently, he was a survivor of the mass execution and a convict from a prison northwest of here.."
"He must be in excruciating pain," The young man remarked as he thought about the survivor. There must be some useful information to be brought out of him, "Where is he?"
The armored soldier led him away from the graveyard and traveled into the heart of the town itself. What remaining soldiers who weren't on sentry duty or burying the dead were protecting the terrified merchants they accompanied, all of whom whispered among themselves as the idle fighters drank their water rations.
They arrived at the T-junction and walked over to the building by the corner of the street. Had they not searched around, Artyom doubted they would have noticed that survivor in the first place. Then they entered the tattered building with the sound of furniture being shifted around. His people scavenged around, picking up what items they deemed valuable in the ransacked shop. Amid this mess of groceries, a dark-skinned man in a blue disheveled uniform sat in a chair at the center of the room as he writhed and yelled out his pain while holding onto his legs.
Soon the stranger looked up at him while grimacing. "Who the fuck are you?"
"The leader of this caravan." The young man answered while holding on to his rifle.
"Well, lucky-fucking-me. My boys and I would have robbed ya if it wasn't for those fucks."
"What's your name…" He began with pleasantries while hoping to learn more about the events that transpired, "...and what happened here?"
"Names Boxcars, was part of the Powder Gangers at the NCR Correctional Facility until we broke out and took it over. My guys were about to rob some troopers here until Caesar's Legion caught us with our pants down. Their leader with the wolf head was talking about how we were bad people before he burned the mayor at the stake and us. Some folk got beheaded but they're the lucky ones."
"What of the unlucky ones?" Asked a curious Artyom.
He clenched his teeth before pulling out a syringe and injecting it into his legs. "The Legion kept them. Said they were going east to enslave them."
"They're long gone by now."
"Could give a less of a shit about them. At least they won't come back."
"Artyom!" A soldier called for him outside. He wanted to learn more but the potential for an incoming threat was a pressing matter as looked over his shoulder to see a militiaman with a Lolife arrive at the doorway, "We got a problem."
"Well shit, looks like you guys will be busy." Boxcars stated as the caravan leader paid him no mind.
"The sentries noticed movement from the west. There's a couple of isolated buildings out in the open but we've noticed a bunch of guys gathering their numbers. The veterans say they might en masse for an attack."
He would be given no rest that night and the news forced him to deal with that reality. "How many are we talking about?"
"Three dozen but that number is increasing." Came the reply. "Large scorpions and ants are harassing them but it's because their scouting parties are trying to close the distance."
"Cease whatever searches and burials we got right now. The entire caravan is to set up a defensive perimeter. It's going to be a long night."
Teatralnaya Station was the pride of the Red Line throughout the Metro. Within the territories of the communists was one of the few vestiges of humanity where one could forget their troubles and seek out a moment of reprieve from their daily lives. Those who earned an honest wage of cartridges were eager to spend on what entertainment was available to them. When a strong flow of currency was being exchanged, the government would be eager to tap into that river of military-grade ammo spent on the average meals or stage performances. Yet, this place also acted as the perfect cover for the Lenin-believing agents with how many people were coming and going, regardless of their factional affiliations.
Few people stepped away from the busy streets and the bothersome merchants to handle affairs in the most isolated of places. While there were the local peasants, those smart enough would keep their opinions to themselves for the eyes of the secret police were everywhere. For a man like Pavel Morozov, it was an average day in the field as he entered an empty alley with only a lone figure waiting for him beside a red light looming over the stranger.
He kept his hands in his pockets while anticipating the new major orders from his superiors. Though, much to his annoyance, it interfered with his taste for the fine women in the theater behind closed doors. "Comrade, I hope this meeting was worth missing beautiful girls trying on perfume."
The stranger smoked a cigarette and exhaled. "Major Morozov, this comes straight from the top. General Korbut is seeking your… services."
"What does the motherland ask of me?" The officer asked as he pulled out his own cigarette and matched his end with his counterpart's burning blunt.
"Recon and observe," The bald man answered while his shoulders relaxed underneath a brown trench coat, "There's been activity going on in the northern territories, outside Hansa's ring."
"Activity beyond that perimeter has always been spotty for anyone living in the Metro with how isolated they are compared to everywhere else. What hovel of a station has there that we don't?" Pavel asked of him.
He looked around and the duo checked for curious eyes. Both men were fortunate that a popular performance was being played at this time. "That's the thing. Reports are coming about some noticeable traffic of Polis Rangers being deployed there. You're going to find out."
"Well, what exactly did the Order find that would interest them?" A squad of the Spartan Order's finest were highly regarded for their training and skill in the warfare underneath Moscow. Yet, their numbers were relatively small compared to the major powers. If he went against the best, he would best be prepared for them. "Anything else I need to know?"
"Do you have your Hansa passport, one that's kept up-to-date? You'll need it if you want to get through Prospekt Mira before heading to Exhibition Station."
The major mentally remembered his belongings at his locker, the kind of tools of the trade. He lived for the life that espionage brought, whether it was material as the gear he could equip himself with or the intangible like swooning a cute girl with hopes and dreams. "When do I begin?"
"As soon as the night shift begins and people start leaving Teatralnaya," His contact stated before taking another whiff from his cigarette, "You'll have the cover of civilian movement and you can excuse your weaponry and equipping under the guise of protecting the caravan once you leave the perimeter at the four hundred metre mark. Don't come back to General Korbut unless you have a comprehensive report about your findings."
"I have no intentions of disappointing the general." It was a threat veiled as a mission briefing. Korbut was a man that Pavel learned to never cross. One does not become the face of the secret police without making a few people disappear under the guise of searching for spies or whatever nonsense that could be conjured from thin air in the name of the state. Nonetheless, Major Morozov would eagerly serve the Red Line without question or doubt.
"Contact from the west!" A sentry screamed at the top of his lungs.
The soldiers of Exhibition Station immediately scrambled all across Nipton and began to assemble a frontline along the outskirts of the town itself. The streets were filled with men loading their weapons and veterans lowering their armored visors as a great war cry echoed from the open desert. Artyom pulled the bolt back for his rifle while rallying the stragglers to the makeshift defensive line made up of tires, sandbags, and sheet metal.
When he arrived at the ramparts, the fighting began with automatic fire being exchanged between the two sides. Veterans glued themselves to their cover and shot back at the human wave of bandits throwing their hundred at them. Meanwhile, the militia forces were not as enthusiastic at holding their ground by wildly blind-firing their weapons over the barricades. The head of the caravan took position behind a pile of sandbags on the right side of the road leading out of the town.
He reached into his pocket for new rounds before loading them into his rifle and aimed at the swarm in front of him. Pistols, submachine guns, old rifles, or simple shotguns were all that faced him while bullets whizzed past his head. Artyom steadied his aim and sought a target until he saw a dirtied man in metal armor appear to be issuing orders while wielding a strange green-hued weapon. He held his breath and calmed his mind despite the chaos.
Then he fired.
Recoil pressed into his shoulder while the rifle cartridge flew across the way until the stranger wore a bloodied hole in the forehead. It took a few seconds until the man realized he was a walking corpse and stumbled into the ground. Part of him wanted to be proud; however, the concern about the larger gunfight required his full attention as he loaded his next round.
Dozens upon dozens died in the sands with this meager army lacking any cover or concealment in their assault. Yet, this did not come with a cost. Artyom looked along the defensive line to find that even his own were not impervious. He watched four men die in the blink of an eye thanks to the volume of bullets being fired in the air. Nonetheless, he would not relent to the onslaught as the Russian shot out another and killed a woman in a yellow blouse. Despite the enemy's losses, they too were eager to press on to their position and close the distance.
A man beside him was struck in the arm before falling to the ground and writhing on the dirt. The hostile infantry were almost upon them while Artyom was about to reach for his Bastard gun. Then, the man beside him yelled out. "Use my shotgun!"
He looked on the ground to find a Shambler at his feet before kicking the weapon upwards and his hands grasped onto the makeshift assault shotgun. Four figures clad in regular civilian wear charged him with a plethora of melee instruments, from tire irons to rusty knives. However, the caravan leader was quick with his trigger finger when he aimed the barrel in their general direction and fired. Loud blasts of pellets ripped through them while shells were ejected out of old Soviet kitchenware.
Any conservation of ammunition did not come to mind when he pulled. That was until the last shot emptied the revolving magazine and four rotting corpses lay in front. Artyom handed the weapon back to the wounded caravan guard before brandishing his submachine gun and firing upon the next few people who dared to press the advantage.
The two lines closed in on each other and brought themselves into close-quarters combat. As one side brandished empty steel pipes and switchblades, another revealed trench knives with brass knuckles or sharpened Soviet-made shovels. A bitter struggle broke out among individuals while those who were isolated from the rest of their kin were victims of multiple people ganging up on them. Yet, the survivors who were freed from the throes of melee took every ample opportunity to shoot at their assailants amid the chaos.
A man to his left was stabbed in the gut before the blade was pulled out of a fellow Russian and kicked aside. Shifting his weapon toward the killer with a mohawk, the young man let out a small but precise burst of dirty rounds, which immediately went through the screaming mess' chest. He walked over to the blood-curdling woman and fired a single shot into her head before he helped fend off the raiders.
Bodies began to stack and the losses were apparent with the enemy being the first to break from their assault on the town. One by one, the poorly equipped marauders ran out into the open desert to the west. They would be leaving this fight in dwindling numbers as their numbers dwindled from their original strength. Even if they ran, the remnants of the caravan displayed an element of wasteland savagery by chasing their defeated foes with bullets, regardless of the magazines being spent on retreaters.
Less than twenty left Nipton with their lives. Artyom didn't know what to make of the engagement but only that this was a bitter victory among one he already experienced. The barrel of his Bastard gun smoked as he pulled the valve handle and released steam from all the built-up heat from firing his weapon. His head turned and looked across the defensive line to find corpses littered among the sands and ramparts. Friends and foe mixed their blood while the exhaustion of the night arrived. With all of the pressure off his shoulders, the Exhibition survivors would still need to bury more bodies.
Too many good people died tonight and it was clear that this caravan's job was null and void. Once the others were buried and their gear collected, they would return to Novac and he would have to explain the losses to his stepfather. It may result in himself getting sacked but at least he would have some honesty left.
Author's Note: It's been a long time since the last time I made an update on my attempt to rewrite this story's previous version. Until recently, this story was more or less dead in the water simply because my other fics seemed more interesting. Thanks to the arrival of Amazon's Fallout show, it is no longer the case since it inspired me to try again and make a cohesive story where the original one fizzled out because I got too busy running around with unnecessary side stories. I'm still surprised that few people have yet to try their hand at making a crossover between these two settings.
Da Lone Ranger: Oh, there's going to be more than just a refugee crisis.
Imperial Stormtrooper: Too late. They met him.