Bushmasters Chapter 1 - The Silent Guards
Lieutenant Harry Murdock deliberately ascended the makeshift podium of old cargo containers. A dark brown hair peeked from under his cap, aviator sunglasses hid his sleep-deprived eyes. As he reached the top, every pair of eyes in the platoon locked onto him, sensing that something was wrong. Essential supplies, due to arrive by vertibird three days ago, still hadn't arrived. In this unforgiving world, such delays often spell disaster.
The platoon was stationed at a remote, pre-war storage bunker, mostly stripped of anything valuable. Everyone knew this wasn't a real mission; it was just a way for the high command to sideline dissidents. With no choice but to break the bad news, Murdock stepped forward. The scorching sun beat down on the men as they waited, sweat dripping from their brows. Behind his back, Murdock clenched his fists, his leather gloves creaking under the pressure.
"Ten hut!" The command snapped through the air, the men jerking into attention.
"At ease, soldiers. We have lost all contact with the Oil Rig HQ. If the frantic reports from Navarro are to be believed, we're facing a dire crisis." He paused, letting the gravity of his words settle in with confused men.
"There have been reports about a nuclear explosion near the Oil Rig. We have no further details." The expressions of combat-hardened men contorted into true shock and disbelief.
"Impossible!" Corporal Davis Muttered. "The station survived the Great War without a scratch!"
"They deserved it. They sent us out here to rot. Let them burn in hell." Miller's sharp voice yelled.
"Watch your mouth! My wife and sons are still there!" Shouted Corporal Fox, his face flushed with rage.
The tensions between soldiers began approaching a boiling point. The Lieutenant had to act before things got out of hand. A desire for control in this volatile situation took over him. He raised his hands, trying to calm the crowd. An endless stream of questions battered Murdock, each one met with the same silence. He had no answers to give. He had expected an emotional reaction from the men, but the sheer intensity was overwhelming.
"Enough!" The Lieutenant's voice cut through the chaos, silencing the crowd.
"Your grief is understandable, but I refuse to watch this platoon descend into anarchy! I've spent two nights in the comms room and this is all I've learned. Rest assured my priority is discovering what happened to your friends and families." He briefly paused inspecting their reactions, the reassuring words seemingly loosened the tensions.
"Right now we have this platoon, these men and women are your families too. Don't lose sight of that. Focus on your tasks. We've still got a mission here, however trivial it might now seem. The last sealed armory—we're close to opening it. It's the one thing we can still control. Take the rest of the day off and process the news in your bunks. Dismissed!" As the words left his mouth, Murdock felt the gnawing fear that his own uncertainty might be showing. But these men needed strength, no doubt. Murdock removed his shades, revealing massive dark circles under his eyes. The point got across. The men calmed down. They began dispersing in silence, submerged in their thoughts. Murdock finally felt a sense of control over the situation. The last thing he needed was for his men to question his leadership position.
An unusual silence followed him on the journey to his quarters. Typically alive with off-duty soldiers, the bunker corridors now felt eerily empty. Only the distant hum of the ancient reactor broke the silence. Murdock strolled past the communications room, right towards his dark quarters. He had his priorities straight, and drawing the attention of a distracted Navarro command to his platoon was the last thing he wanted. A young woman's voice stopped him, just before he could shut the door.
"Sir, we have great news! I have finally managed to hack into the last armory room. It's full of explosives! I'm sure the president's mind will be blown once he finds out. Think of all the hospitals and schools he could target next."
She said with a hint of sarcasm. Her only response was the metallic click of the lock as Murdock closed the door behind him. The pause lingered on the other side. Gemma stood there for a moment, her grin faltering as she glanced around. Murdock's silence told her nothing, only deepening the sudden unease that swept over her. Whatever had happened, she wasn't in on it.
Complex maps and documents of military facilities lay scattered around the dimly lit room. Nothing contained the information Murdock had desperately sought ever since he learned of the Oil Rig's loss. This musty hole held no value to his strategic ambitions. A new lack of oversight from higher-ups finally offered him an invaluable opportunity. He had to act quickly and devise a new plan before this opportunity slipped between his fingers. Another long night filled with planning and map studying lay ahead.
The commotion in the hallways awoke Murdock from a dreamless sleep. He got up, splashed his face with some water, and headed for the door. Locating the origin of the sounds wasn't hard. Corporal Fox had demanded an apology from Miller for his cruel comments. By the time the Lieutenant reached them, things turned physical. Others tried to keep the soldiers apart. This only resulted in Fox grabbing a metal chair and launching it across the room. It barely missed its target, instead shattering an old JukeBox. That's when Murdock finally got onto the scene.
"What the hell is going on here!?" Murdock asked, puzzled.
"That moron broke my nose!" Said Miller, holding his face while pointing at the culprit.
"The bastard kept spouting how everyone at the Oil Rig deserved to die! The fanatical top-brass is to blame, not the innocents that just tried to live their lives." Fox's voice cracked, the weight of his grief bleeding into every word. Murdock's eyes flickered, but he said nothing, the moment passing unspoken between them.
"Those atrocious experiments and methods weren't a secret, yet the majority chose to stay silent. Nobody there was innocent!" The young mechanic said. The room fell silent, all awaiting their leader's response.
"Miller, shut your mouth, take a stimpak, and do what you are here for. We have to look forward instead of dwell on the past. I've allowed Ward to make some improvements on our Vertibirds. Head down to the hangar and make sure he keeps it grounded, we don't have many parts to spare. This will keep your afternoon occupied." Murdock lectured, his tone stern and direct. "Once you are done, head to my quarters. The newly accessible armory will have some heavy crates that need to be carried around." Miller grabbed his stuff and left, clearly dissatisfied with the resolution.
"As for you, Fox, these violent outbursts won't be tolerated," Murdock stated, his tone unyielding. "Find another way to channel your emotions. In fact, I have just the right task for you." Fox frowned, already knowing where this was going. "You'll spend the night in the tower. You can vent your anger on the mutant wildlife." As Murdock issued his punishment, Fox's jaw tightened. It wasn't just Miller's words that stung; it was Murdock's indifference, the same cold detachment from leadership that had sent him here in the first place. He bit back his retort, knowing it would fall on deaf ears.
The rest of the afternoon went without any further incidents, but the high uncertainty in the air was palpable. Murdock could sense a wave of unanswered questions flowing through the mind of every person he met. It's just a matter of time before he has to announce a new plan, but he still had none. Every piece of intel led to a dead end. All known military facilities within their flight range held little value. The surface bases were bombed to dust during the Great War, while anything underground would likely be in a desperate state. They needed a place for a new start. Somewhere they could grow and eventually expand. One thing he learned from recent events is that you either grow and adapt to new challenges, or stagnate and go mad like the Oil Rig purists.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts; Miller had come to report after the vertibird inspection. They both walked to the armory on the second level in complete silence.
Flickering lights cast this section in a deeper shadow, as the lack of maintenance had taken its toll. They passed opened doors leading to other storage rooms. All but one had been picked clean months ago, with their contents already sent to the Oil Rig logistics center. Gemma tinkered impatiently with an old access terminal at the end of the hallway, awaiting their arrival.
"Evening, Private. Situation report," Murdock demanded.
"The boys inspected the contents of this room yesterday, but something about this terminal always felt off," Gemma replied, her voice steady as she swiftly pulled her brown hair back into a ponytail. Her fingers lingered on the edge of the keyboard as if grounding herself, enthusiasm from last evening entirely absent. Murdock realized that she must have learned about the bad news recently.
"Are you referring to the fact that it took you months to hack it?" He sneered.
Gemma frowned, her lips parting as if to retort, but she quickly pressed them together, her knuckles whitening against the keyboard.
"Yes sir, that's the point," she said, her tone tighter now, as though she were holding back more than just words. "I've spent hours browsing the access history, and I can't make sense of it," She continued, her fingers flying over the cold keys with a renewed intensity. "Somebody accessed this room twice after the Great War, first time in 2078 only a year after the bombs, and then a decade before us in 2230. They both used the same decryption method. So whatever group came here first might be still around. Follow me, it gets more complicated."
The thick steel door slid open, and the lights buzzed to life, revealing rows of green metal crates. Murdock strode down the center aisle, his eyes scanning the crates. Miller pried them open one by one. Murdock's frown deepened with each outdated pre-war laser rifle and fragmentation grenade he uncovered. Compared to their advanced plasma weapons, these relics were useless. He shot a frustrated look at Gemma, who simply smirked. "Keep going," she urged.
Murdock's jaw almost fell off once they got near the end of the room. Before him stood a large box filled to the brim with M42 Fatman launchers. He snatched the crowbar from Miller's hands and frantically opened the remaining boxes. All contained either the launchers or their mini-nuke ammunition.
"Hold on, something does not add up. Why leave all this behind?" Murdock wondered. It made little sense to him, the mini-nukes held immense value, and nobody would just abandon them. The realization dawned on him - there had to be more at play here.
"Is it just me or is the room considerably smaller than the others?" Noted Miller, breaking the silence. Murdock almost scolded him for interrupting his thoughts but stopped, Miller had a point.
"You're right!" Gemma exclaimed, grabbing the crowbar. She intensely stared at the far wall, before tapping it with the crowbar, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"My theory is that the wall is fake, but I have no concrete proof. It has a different color from up close." She said, seeing the confusion in their faces. Murdock approached the wall to inspect it himself when she suddenly shouted.
"There it is!" Gemma pointed at a specific spot. At first glance, it appeared normal, but when Murdock knocked on it, it sounded more like metal than cold concrete.
"Now we just have to find a way to activate it and-" A loud crash cut her off. Murdock had grabbed the crowbar and smashed the spot with all his strength.
"We don't have a few extra months to play around with the corroded wires" He growled while continuing to swing.
"You risk breaking the entire security system!" Gemma objected but received no response. His crude attempts eventually bore some fruit. The panel buckled under the pressure and fell to the ground with a resonating metallic clang. A dusty black screen of the old terminal stared back at them. Gemma knew what to do.
"Oh crap, I don't have good news. This has the same brutal security level as the terminal at the entrance, let me get the decoding algorithm running" she sighed.
A flood of thoughts flashed through Murdock's mind. The morale fell with each passing day without new direction. He had to take the risk if there was even a chance that this room could offer a way forward.
"We're not waiting around for god knows how long, hoping your program eventually opens it. Use the other method," Murdock ordered.
"But sir, there's only a small chance of success. If I pick the wrong option four times, the system will…" she got cut off.
"I don't care—get it done now!" Murdock sputtered. Gemma didn't argue. She fished a small Mentats pill from her pocket, even though their supply had supposedly run dry. This wonder drug could push the human brain into overdrive. Murdock relied on them during tense situations and to get ahead of the competition at the Oil Rig.
"Yes, I stashed a few for myself. Want to seize it from me?" Gemma smirked, feeling his piercing gaze. Murdock fought the urge to snatch it out of her hand and instead waved for her to continue. She blew thick dust off the ancient keyboard and got to work. Both Miller and Murdock watched the monitor with growing anxiety as the number of failed attempts climbed. Gemma struggled to deduce the correct option, even with the intense mental boost from the Mentats. Soon, only one attempt remained. A stream of sweat began to trickle down her forehead. Miller pulled Murdock aside and whispered. "She must be stressed out of her mind. Let me get her some water." Miller said with a hint of concern.
"No, I'll handle it. Stay here and keep an eye on her." Murdock sensed a perfect opportunity to have an inspection of Gemma's quarters and confiscate any remaining Mentats. The entire platoon benefits from his mind working at full capacity, especially now. He turned away, leaving Gemma to struggle with the last attempt. As he neared the doorway, Gemma's excited scream stopped him dead in his tracks.
"Yeah, we got it!" she yelled as the wall next to Miller began to open. The sealed corridor inhaled the outside air as the ancient light failed to turn on after a long dormancy. They stood speechless, staring at the black corridor ahead. Suddenly, a rough robotic voice cut through the silence.
"Invasive access detected. Credential check failed," It coldly announced. None of them had time to react before a black, spherical device shot out of the ceiling. Murdock barely managed to dive behind a stack of crates. To make matters worse, the armory hallway door slammed shut, trapping them inside. The room was plunged into near darkness, the bright fluorescent ceiling lights replaced by dim red emergency lighting. The awoken turret instantly locked onto the nearest target, opening fire with deadly precision.
"Fuck! Miller is hit!" Gemma's voice trembled with fear and desperation, the urgency in her tone cutting through the chaos. Murdock tried to peek over the crate, but the ominous beep of the targeting system made him duck immediately, the heart pounding in his chest. He took a moment to calm down and think of the options. "Just shut that thing down with the terminal!" he barked, trying to think fast. "No way! I'm barely squeezed in here! If I move, that thing will shred me just like it did to Miller!" Gemma's voice cracked, panic setting in as she spoke. Her blatant disregard for the given orders pissed him off, but perhaps she was right. The platoon can't afford to lose such an important asset.
Murdock knew he had only one option left: he had to destroy the turret. But without a clear line of sight, it wouldn't be easy. His mind raced as he scanned the room for anything that might give him an edge. Then his eyes landed on the aviator shades tucked in his pocket. It was a long shot, but their reflection might provide a safe way to observe the situation. He carefully pulled them out, holding the lenses up to catch a reflection of the turret. Making out any details in the dark room filled with eerie shadows cast by red emergency lights, proved to be a challenge. Miller's unconscious body slumped behind metal shelves, blood pooling around him. Gemma huddled in the opposite corner, pinned down against the cold wall with no room to maneuver. One wrong move and she'd be exposed.
Murdock clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay calm. He'd faced automated defenses before, but this turret was different. Being larger and bulkier it was clearly not a mass-produced model. The way it sat in the room, almost like a predator waiting for its prey, sent a chill down his spine. He failed to recognize the weapon, but it was neither a laser nor a ballistic gun—something far worse, perhaps. He had no time to second-guess. Miller's condition deteriorated by the second, Murdock had to act now.
He drew a plasma pistol from its holster, the familiar weight of the weapon bringing a small measure of comfort. He flicked off the safety, his hands steady despite the tension in his body. Positioning the plasma pistol over the top of the crate, he held his breath, waiting for the turret to react. It didn't. The silence was almost unnerving, but it confirmed what he'd hoped—the turret couldn't recognize the weapon. Using the aviators as an improvised periscope, Murdock took careful aim. Sweat trickled down his back, aiming this way required immense focus and effort. He squeezed the trigger. A small green bolt of superheated plasma shot toward the turret—but missed, sizzling uselessly against the far wall. Cursing under his breath, Murdock adjusted his aim and fired two more shots. Both went too high. He could feel the panic rising but forced it back down. Focus. On the fourth try, the bolt hit the turret dead center. He froze, waiting for the explosion—but nothing happened. The turret remained unscathed, a silent sentinel mocking his efforts. All following attempts yielded the same result.
"What the hell? Why isn't that thing blown to bits?" Gemma's voice shook with frustration, her breathing ragged. "My shots aren't doing any damage," Murdock muttered, disbelief and anger mingling in his voice. "It's like this thing just eats my plasma bolts for breakfast. Stay put, I've got this under control. There has to be another way."
Gemma's eyes darted to Miller, lying motionless in the corner. "He's lost so much blood… but he's still breathing. I don't know how long he'll last." Her voice wavered, a tremor of hopelessness creeping in. Murdock's heart rate spiked, as the options began running out. He stared at the reflection of the turret in the shades, the cold, unfeeling machine silently taunting him. Each second that passed felt like a ticking time bomb, and the turret just sat there, patient, waiting for its next victim. He gritted his teeth. It was time to think of something else, and fast, because Miller's life—and possibly theirs—depended on it.
Murdock still had one tool at his disposal, but getting to it would be risky. He grabbed the crate, his improvised cover, and raised its heavy lid. The turret reacted quickly to the motion, randomly spraying the lid with deadly projectiles. Murdock could feel them passing right past his body as they penetrated his weak cover. He scrambled to loot the grenades, the right hand struggling to hold up the heavy lid. Suddenly a sharp pain erupted on his face, making him drop the lid and fall back into the cover.
An intense, searing pain surged across the right side of Murdock's head. His trembling hand reached up to the face, encountering the heat of fresh blood and the jagged edges of metal shards embedded in the skin. The right eye throbbed with unbearable pressure, and blinking caused vision to dissolve into a chaotic swirl of colors and darkness. Panic took hold of Murdock as his left eye was closed, plunging the world into an incomprehensible blur. At that moment, a chilling realization set in—the vulnerability shared by both man and machine.
Another look at the reflection of the adversary with the remaining functional eye revealed just what he was looking for. A faint yellow light, barely perceivable at this distance, emanated next to the cold barrel of the turret. A moment of clarity sent him to action. He yanked off his leather belt and grabbed a long fission flashlight, the old model built with sturdy metal casing. In a desperate bid, he began assembling the makeshift device. The grenades were carefully strapped around the flashlight's wide end in a circular arrangement. The setup closely resembled an ancient anti-tank stick grenade, a design he recalled from a history book. The cylindrical flashlight acted as the central stick, while the grenades were arranged like the explosive charge at the end. Murdock tightened the belt around the grenades with all his strength, securing them into place. He paused for a moment, clenching the handle in his grip. It had to work. Waiting for rescue was not an option, god knows how long it will take. He carefully calculated the trajectory in his head, pulled the pin, and threw the explosive below the turret.
The last thing he heard was a distant thud as it landed. Then everything went quiet after the ear-piercing explosion. Murdock couldn't hear anything but a loud ringing in his head. Murdock rushed out of the cover straight toward the turret, shooting at the dark silhouette. Gemma now shivered, disoriented in a fetal position, blood dripping down her ears and nose. He nearly slipped on the long blood puddle but managed to keep his balance. The plasma pistol ran dry, so he quickly swapped it for a red crowbar from a nearby crate. The turret desperately looked around, trying to lock any targets, but the shrapnel lodged in the cracked lens made it impossible. Murdock unleashed the adrenaline-fueled wrath onto the machine, smashing the sensors and electromagnetic barrel to pieces.
It came time to get out of here, he turned to Gemma while dropping the crowbar. Her wide eyes just stared past him, into the distance. Murdock pointed at the closed door and back at the terminal, gently picked up her hands, and put them on the terminal keyboard. The bruised hand on her shoulder served as a reassuring gesture. Gemma regained composure, her trembling fingers worked the keyboard, leaving behind bloody imprints.
The heavy door that had trapped them slid open shortly afterward. Power-armored soldiers and medics pushed away the engineers with welding torches on the other side. They rushed to provide first aid to the survivors before hauling them to the infirmary. Any attempts to communicate with Murdock were in vain; the only thing he could perceive was the overwhelming ringing that resonated in his skull. Gradually, the world around him faded, and his worries slipped away as he drifted into unconsciousness.
As Murdock floated in the deep, dark waters of unconsciousness, faint sounds began to filter through the void—distant and muffled, like echoes from another world. At first, they were just vibrations, subtle and almost indistinguishable from the pounding of his own heartbeat. But gradually, they took on a more recognizable form: the rhythmic melody of a familiar song. Even in the depths of his coma, Murdock sensed these sounds growing stronger and more defined, as though the fog that had enveloped him slowly lifted. The once-muted noises became tangible, more present. A patriotic melody—a reminder of his duty—pulled him back toward reality.
The harsh fluorescent lights overhead immediately triggered a sharp pain, causing Murdock to blink rapidly in a futile attempt to adjust. Each second under the glare only intensified the agony. Instinctively, he tried to raise an arm to shield his eyes, but it felt impossibly heavy. The throat was dry and rough, and swallowing felt like gravel scraping against raw flesh. Muffled voices filled the room, sounding as though they were coming from underwater. Someone nearby must have noticed his distress, as the light piercing through his eyelids soon dimmed.
A soft voice rose above the rest, attempting to communicate with him. To Murdock, it was still unrecognizable. After several attempts, he finally managed to open his eyes. The dimmed lighting allowed him to take in his surroundings, though the light from the hallway still caused discomfort to his injured eye. A silhouette stood next to the bed attempting to communicate, but focusing on her words took immense effort.
"Lieutenant, can you understand me? Nod if you can," a calm female voice instructed. Murdock nodded twice in response.
"Good. That means your hearing is returning. Don't try to speak yet—I'll get you some water." A hand extended a glass of water to his lips. The cold liquid felt immensely satisfying as it reached his dry mouth. A voice of Doctor Prescott continued.
"You were hit by a lot of metal fragments, especially in the head. We had to keep you in a medically induced coma for a few days. Unfortunately, your right eye sustained serious damage. I did everything I could to save it, but to be honest—the vision might be permanently impaired."
This revelation caused Murdock's heart rate to spike, the reason for the sharp pain caused by the light becoming clear. Noticing his reaction, Dr. Prescott tried to calm him down.
"Don't worry—you'll still be able to see. The issue is that strong light might be problematic. On the bright side, your hearing should return to normal within a few days. We managed to reach you in time. Now, try to relax. You still need to recover, and we'll be monitoring you closely."
With those words, she turned and left the room. Countless questions reverberated in Murdock's head. The fate of Gemma and Miller remained uncertain, and the contents of the hidden room—the reason for his current state—were still a mystery.
Murdock spent the following days of recovery stuck at the infirmary bed. The platoon doctor chose to keep him drugged to dull the pain, a luxury most residents of the wasteland didn't have. With the supply lines now being completely disintegrated, such treatments would however soon be out of the question. The opioids kept him in a fog, his thoughts sluggish and scattered. Nightmares melded into reality, and hallucinations were a constant threat. He often woke up to rows of deadly turrets lining the ceiling of the infirmary, only for them to disappear shortly after. The lights in the room had to be constantly kept dimmed due to his injured eye. Fortunately for him, the hearing gradually began returning. The voices of his caretakers became clearer and clearer with every passing day.
The drug use had to be eventually slowly discontinued due to dwindling supplies. Murdock's mind finally began clearing up. This came with demands to see Sergeant Jones for a situation report, who took the platoon command in the meantime.
Jones stepped into the infirmary, a hint of relief in his eyes. "Hey mate, good to see you're back with us."
"It's a relief to hear again finally… but my eye… it's still off. Anyway, enough about that—what's the situation?" Murdock said.
"Where should I begin? We sealed the bloody room after what happened, who knows how many traps are still there. The mood among the blokes is tense. We've got bugger all supplies left. They are very anxious about the future."
"Well done, I want to be the first person to inspect the contents. Wait, what happened to the other survivors?"
Dr. Prescott and Jones shared a look before pulling back the curtains next to Murdock's bed. The other survivors lay at the far side of the room, both hooked up to ancient, beeping machines. Murdock's eyes narrowed as he took in the scene—Gemma and Miller, pale and still, their breaths barely shifting the sheets that covered them. He swallowed, a tightness in his chest. For a moment, a flicker of recognition passed through him, a quiet understanding that in another version of events, it could have been him in that bed. But it wasn't. And really, it was all because of his selfish urge to snatch the remaining Mentats from Gemma's room.
"Gemma has permanently impaired hearing, the blast having damaged her eardrums and the auditory nerves. The full effects of this injury are still unclear. As for Miller, he had suffered a severe blood loss and the projectiles shattered his pelvis beyond repair. Even if he woke up—a possibility that seemed more remote each day—he'd never walk again."
Murdock took a few minutes to process the news. His mind raced with the implications. Two experts in their fields, invaluable members of the platoon, were out of the game now. A brief moment of doubt ran through his mind. Maybe if he just waited for the help… No, this wasn't a time for doubt. He forced himself to stand up, protests from Dr. Prescott did not affect his resolve. The entire body felt weak, his leg muscles fighting to hold him up.
"Time to search the mysterious corridor we shed blood for," Murdock announced, determination evident in his raspy voice.
"Not yet, your body still needs time to recover!" She insisted. Jones didn't hesitate to help Murdock slowly walk out of the room.
"I want a Charlie squad assembled in full combat gear. We are storming the corridor today. Now get me to my quarters, I don't want to be walking around in these pajamas like a clown." Murdock ordered a desire for distraction and morbid curiosity both equally driving him forward. Everyone they met in the hallways stared at Murdock. Some displayed expressions of disbelief, but most seemed relieved.
"Alright, I got it from here. Get Sergeant Doyle and his band of combat engineers ready. I'll sort my things in the meantime. Let me know when they're ready. Oh, what about Corporal Fox, has he gotten back to his senses yet? How has the tower been treating him, can he fight?"
"Yeah, he's back from the pozzy and likely ready to fight. The bloke can handle himself out in the bush." Jones confidently replied.
Murdock nodded, though his thoughts briefly lingered on the firewatch tower, a punishment post used to isolate troubled soldiers. The ancient, rusted structure stood on the northern edge of the bunker, so far out that anyone stationed there was vulnerable—far from reinforcements, with brittle stairs that couldn't support power armor. It wasn't the mutants that made the assignment unbearable—it was the isolation. The tower left soldiers alone with their thoughts—and whatever else lurked in the dark.
"Alright, go get them ready. Jones, one more thing. Stay on comms and keep a weapon by your side. I feel like this is just the beginning," Murdock remarked as Jones walked away.
A freshly cleaned uniform along with a trenchcoat and leather gloves patiently awaited at the door. He grabbed the pile and disengaged the lock to enter. The room was a mess, just as he left it. The relieving feeling that came with changing into a freshly cleaned uniform was overwhelming. He tried tearing a bandage on his head off, but an uncomfortable stinging instantly arose in the injured eye, even in the dim lighting of his room. A relief only came after covering the eye with a hand, while he frantically looked around for something to help. A glint of the aviators took his attention. It was worth a try. Murdock stumbled toward the table, a thick book under his feet almost sent him sprawling. It worked. The polarized sunglasses proved to be perfect for protection of the weakened eye.
He sighed; something had to be done with this mess. It wasn't like he had anything better to do while waiting. Murdock picked up an old, leather-bound book titled The Campaigns of Napoleon, running his fingers over the embossed letters. A relic of war, much like himself. He placed it carefully on the steel shelf beside the others. In the wasteland, knowledge was as powerful as any weapon—worth every cap the merchants demanded. A quick glimpse at his reflection in the cold steel revealed a concerning sight. His once clean spotless face now bore scars and wrinkles. If this happened to him during a single year in the field, what would he look like after reaching thirty? Can he even live that long in such horrid conditions? Murdock let his mind wander, but a knock on the door soon broke his train of thought.
When he opened the door, the broad silhouette of Corporal Fox filled the frame, the black, battle-hardened power armor almost scraping the sides as he stepped in. The suit bore countless marks: scratches, dents, faded insignias—each a testament to battles fought and survived.
"Sir, squad Charlie is ready. I'm glad to see you back in action!" Fox said, his armored hand snapping to a crisp salute, the motion fluid, practiced. Murdock offered a nod, his eyes catching on a deep gouge in Fox's armor. For a brief moment, he found himself tracing the line of the scar, wondering what had left it.
"Sergeant Jones mentioned that you have trouble walking. I've... I've volunteered to carry you down the stairs. I deeply apologize for my actions on that fateful day, you are right we have to act as a family now." Fox said, deep regret evident in his tone.
"Thank you, corporal. What happened is behind us now. We must now focus on the future. Unfortunately, I'll have to decline your offer. It's about time I've taken my suit for a stroll. Have someone deliver it here. Dismissed." Murdock replied.
"As you wish sir," Fox turned around and walked away, his heavy steps resonating through the tight hallways. Murdock's power armor arrived not long after. Stepping back into the familiar machine felt almost liberating. The advanced servo motor precisely mimicked his every move. His weakened muscles were suddenly relieved from the strain of carrying the whole body.
Members of the Charlie squad lined the hallway leading to the sealed door, their weapons resting at the ready as they awaited Murdock's arrival. Each soldier, a combat engineer trained to handle the heaviest of armaments, saluted as the Lieutenant passed by. Murdock's eyes flicked over the missile launchers and flamethrowers strapped to their gear, a silent reminder of the destructive power they carried. This team could level a small town if they needed to—but today, their target lay beyond that door. Only god knew what danger lies beyond that door, but Murdock was willing to take the risk. The superior firepower Sergeant Doyle had under his disposal would solve any problems, it had to.
"At ease, soldiers," Murdock ordered, his voice steady and authoritative.
"It's finally time to clean our backyard. We have no clue what lies beyond that secret door. There might be more of these turrets or something even worse."
He paused, sweeping his gaze over the specialized equipment they carried.
"If my theory is correct, we're dealing with advanced tech, even beyond Enclave levels." His voice grew more intense.
"These projectiles will cut through your armor like a hot knife through butter. I've personally seen them in action."
He glanced around at the team, his eyes hardening.
"The next task will push your teamwork to the limit. Sergeant Doyle, breach the room when ready. Fox, you are staying with me."
Murdock stepped aside, letting Sergeant Doyle take his spot.
"Alright Hellhounds, helmets on. You heard the boss. Let's get this over with!" Doyle ordered, his deep, power armor-amplified voice reverberating off the walls. The Charlie squad stormed the room, accompanied by an almost deafening cacophony of heavy footsteps.
"Room clear! The turret is busted. You may enter, Lieutenant. We'll continue deeper," said Doyle after a tense minute of waiting. Murdock cautiously passed the doorway, his eyes instantly locking onto the distant shape of the turret. The room fell into eerie silence as the squad disappeared into the dark corridor ahead.
"Your turn Fox, push these crates into both doors. They should hopefully prevent them from closing in case things go south." The corporal pushed heavy blast-resistant crates into the place. The dismantled mini nukes inside should not pose any threat in the worst-case scenario. Both men stood there in silence, anxiously awaiting any update.
"Sergeant Doyle to Lieutenant Murdock, over" a voice in their headset crackled to life.
"This is Murdock, I hear you loud and clear. What's the situation?"
"This corridor is really long. We had just reached another unlocked door. It's being opened as we speak…" The voice was interrupted by a distant explosion. Both men instantly snapped towards the door, where a faint orange light bounced off the walls towards them.
"Ambush!" A desperate scream from the radio shattered the silence after an unnerving minute of waiting. Murdock's blood ran cold. Explosions and flashes of green light erupted from the dark corridor ahead. Both men stood frozen, processing the chaos. Then it got worse. The doors slid down from the ceiling, trying to trap them, but the crates held, suffering deep dents from the impact. The fluorescent lights flickered out, replaced by an ominous red. Full lockdown. Corporal Fox moved first, dashing towards the half-closed door. His sudden movement caught Murdock off guard.
"Where do you think you're going, corporal?!" Murdock barked, trying to mask the worry in his voice. "Our task is to guard the rear! That's an order!"
"I won't stand aside while people who matter to me suffer! Never again…" Fox shook off Murdock's grip and slipped under the door, disappearing into the chaos beyond.
Murdock stood alone by the drying pool of blood, abandoned by one of his most trusted soldiers. The air thickened each breath a struggle. Dread gripped him as memories from that day flooded back. The room seemed to close in, the walls pressing tighter with each passing second. Sweat poured down his forehead despite the underground chill. A distant explosion and a flash of light nearly made him jump out of his skin. His mind spiraled into panic, his eyes darting over the ceiling, expecting another turret to drop. The lack of a helmet with thick composite plating made everything worse. He felt exposed, vulnerable—a prey stumbling into the predator's den. The trembling hand tightened around the plasma pistol's steel grip, leaving dents in his armor's gloves. Time seemed to stretch, minutes feeling like hours. Finally, he forced himself to calm down, his breathing steadying. Murdock's feet moved on their own toward the exit, the promise of safety pulling him along. That's when he saw it.
At first, it seemed like a trick of the weak light, a product of his frayed nerves. Murdock squinted, trying to make out the approaching translucent object. It was almost human, but something was horribly off. Suddenly, a shiny black automaton materialized in front of him out of thin air. It lunged at Murdock with relentless speed. The cold blade barely missed his throat, instead slamming against his raised arm—a move made purely by instinct. He jumped back, desperate to evade the next attack. For the first time, he got a clear look at his attacker: an Assaultron, a state-of-the-art killing machine. The exit door pressed against his back, pinning him in place. An option of running away came up in his mind but, he quickly dismissed the thought. He still had the power armor, the one thing that never failed him.
Murdock raised the plasma pistol, but the Assaultron acted faster. Its blade slashed through the air, biting into the armor and stopping only at the inner frame. Murdock grabbed the bot with his other hand and slammed it into the wall, tearing a chunk of armor from his arm in the process. The brief moment of respite allowed him to fire one shot. The green flash of a discharging plasma pistol seared through the injured eye, the pain almost blinding.
The Assaultron sensed an opportunity and struck again. The pistol shattered to pieces in the blink of an eye, and the smoking hole in the robot's chest proved to be nothing more than an inconvenience. The pain remained a foreign concept to the war machine. Murdock took a cautious step back, bracing for the next attack. This felt like a battle of attrition again, but now the odds were stacked against him.
"There! The last door on the right!" A distant familiar voice echoed from the hallway, cutting through Murdock's thoughts with a fleeting hope.
Knowing that the help is on the way only strengthened Murdock's resolve to fight on. A swift motion of his hand sent his pristine hat flying toward the Assaultron. The targeting systems instantly locked onto a foreign object, a brief distraction allowing Murdock to rush his opponent. It had no chance to stop the sheer force of the moving exosuit, the impact sent it flying over a large crate. It attempted to stand up, but Murdock used the crate as a jumping platform and landed right on top of its chest. The force expelled by this maneuver left a dent in the robot's armor plating, but the fight was still far from over. An adrenaline-fueled attempt to beat it with bare hands resulted in his strikes deflecting off the sturdy metal frame.
Assaultron began rapidly flailing the blade around, a desperate attempt to free itself. Murdock's face remained just out of reach, or so he thought. A lucky swing scraped his nose, making droplets of blood land on the pinned robot. They both remained locked in this awkward struggle for long excruciating minutes. Murdock could feel the exhaustion taking over his overworked muscles.
"Harry, catch!" Sergeant Jones's voice cut through the chaos, as he crouched under the door hurling a bulky rifle. Murdock snatched it mid-air and immediately took aim, focusing on the smoking hole in the robot's chest. He barely felt the subtle kickback from the heavy rounds as he emptied the entire magazine. Torso of the struggling Assaultron thrashed violently with every received shot, sending pieces of metal and electronics scattering in all directions. The once mighty killing machine now rested below Murdock's feet, reduced to a pile of sparking wires and shattered armor plating. As the sounds of distant fighting fated, a murmur of relief echoed down the dark corridor. It was over at last. Murdock's initial excitement over discovering the bunker's secret gave way to a grim reminder—he still had to deal with Corporal Fox.