Disclaimer: This story is written using the setting and the characters of Bethesada's Fallout franchise, and as such, they all belong to Bethesada. Original characters, fictional locations, and such are all entirely made up and any resemblance to other people/places is purely coincidental. No profit is being made off this story.
THE LAST STAND
Sum Quia Sumus - The Minuteman's Anthology
"You will never do anything in this world without courage. It is the greatest quality of the mind next to honor."
- Aristotle, Ancient Greek Philosopher
The Commonwealth was quiet that evening. Far too quiet.
Lenny Jones stood atop the eastern wall of Foundry Town, his weathered combat boots shifting from back and forth on the metal catwalk, his modified mining helmet tucked underneath one arm. He studied the wasteland beyond the settlement's borders, trying to sense just what it was out there, though he did have a suspicion as to what it might be. "Carrion feeders," Lenny growled as he scanned the horizon.
The industrial complex that housed nearly a hundred people hummed with activity behind him, smoke rising from numerous chimneys and towers, electric lights illuminating workshops where craftsmen and their apprentices worked late into the evening. He still couldn't get over their use of electricity, it was practically a rare luxury in the wasteland these days.
"Somethin' ain't sittin' right," Lenny muttered to himself, adjusting the heavy machine gun slung across his back. The weight was as familiar to him as his own heartbeat, especially when he had carried it for a good twenty years now. On his other shoulder rested his prized 12 gauge double-barreled shotgun, one that came with a walnut stock and a deadly hair trigger. Despite its age, it was still lovingly maintained and worn smooth from long years of handling.
A young guard approached him then, nervously clutching his hunting rifle. "Sir? You've been standing watch for six hours straight. My captain wanted to see if you'd like to take a rest now, the night shift can take over."
Lenny turned, his faded gray combat armor catching the dim light as he looked at the young man. The armor bore scars from countless battles; bullet dents, laser burns and the unmistakable tally marks etched into his right shoulder plate. Sixty-seven notches. Sixty-seven souls sent to whatever awaited them all beyond this irradiated hell.
"Rest's for the dead, kid," Lenny grunted, his voice gravelly from years of breathing wasteland dust. "And I ain't joinin' them just yet." He gestured toward the eastern ridge. "See that? Movement out there. It's subtle, but plain to see if you know what you're lookin' for." The man sighed. "These ain't your garden-variety bloatfly chasers."
On the left breast plate of his armor, barely visible beneath the grime and wear, the Latin phrase painted in white, Sum Quia Sumus, remained, a fading reminder of what the Minutemen had once stood for. Unity. Courage. Protecting the weak and safeguarding the helpless. Always ready to answer at a minute's notice, no matter the cost, for the people of the Commonwealth.
Those days are gone now. The Minutemen were scattered to the four winds. And the Enforcers, that elite shock unit that had once struck terror into raiders and Gunners, had gone toe to toe with Super Mutants, were nothing more than whispers and legends told around campfires.
As far as Lenny knew, he was the last one left.
His right hand moved unconsciously to the blue symbol spray-painted on the side of his chestplate, the lingering symbol of the Minutemen. It was chipped and faded, much like his faith in the cause. But some habits didn't die easy.
"Should I alert the captain?" The young guard asked, squinting into the approaching darkness.
Lenny shook his head, "No point in that, kid. Captain wouldn't see what I'm seein'. Hell, most folks wouldn't." He pointed then, toward a barely perceptible flash on the ridge. "Metal catchin' moonlight. And there, movement between those trees. Slow. Measured." His eyes narrowed as he brought up his mining helmet, pulling it over his dreads, covering his dark weathered face. "Raiders. At least two dozen, maybe more, gettin' into position around the town."
"Raiders?" The young guard's voice squeaked. "But... we haven't had trouble in months!"
"Long time comin' then, kid. They're Iron Vultures, likely." Lenny replied, slowly pulling his heavy machine gun off his shoulder, feeling the familiar weight shift comfortably into his hands. "Heard rumors they've been movin' through the area. Already wiped out six smaller towns across the western Commonwealth. Last sighting had them moving further north, but... they must have wheeled around south, toward here." His voice hardened then. "Foundry Town would make seven."
"We should sound the alarm!" The guard moved toward the bell, placed at one corner where two walls intersected.
Lenny's hand shot out, grabbing the young man's arm. "No. Not yet." His eyes scanned the perimeter through the cracked visor of his helmet. "Sound the alarm, they'll just start their attack early. Give 'em time to get comfortable, make them think they've got the drop on us." A grim smile spread across his weathered face. "Instead, we'll give 'em a proper Commonwealth welcome."
It had been years since Lenny ventured this deep into the Commonwealth, especially anywhere this close to Quincy. Just twelve miles separated Foundry Town from that place of nightmares, the site of the Quincy Massacre, where the Minutemen had faced their greatest betrayal and suffered their greatest defeat. The memory still burned like acid in his gut. After watching his brothers and sisters in arms fall one by one, he had fled when it became apparent that the battle was lost.
He had gone south, away from the Commonwealth and its broken promises. But necessity had a way of bringing a man full circle.
Lenny had come to Foundry Town with a specific purpose in mind, to get his battered armor repaired and upgraded. The settlement had made quite a name for itself in recent years, transforming the old industrial complex into a thriving center of manufacturing and craftsmanship. Their blacksmiths and armorers were considered some of the best in the area, using pre-war machinery and hard-earned skills to produce handcrafted munitions, weapons, even armor, goods that rivaled anything you could find in Diamond City. Lenny had heard that their newest ballistic weave could stop even .308 rounds at close range, something his current armor desperately needed.
With the Minutemen all but gone, he had been at a loss on what to do for a long time now, but lately he'd been considering striking out as a mercenary. Good protection didn't come cheap in the wasteland, but neither did quality armor. The thought still left a bitter taste in his mouth, but a man had to eat.
With practiced movements, Lenny checked his gear. The M60 machine gun was loaded and ready, its ammunition belt snaking into the reinforced pack at his side. His beloved Stoeger, the 'boomstick' as he often called it, was secured in his back, loaded with custom-made shells that packed an extra punch courtesy of a trader from Hull Town. His sidearm, a heavily modified 10mm pistol with a lengthened barrel and the words 'Last Resort' etched into the side, was holsted at his hip. Three frag grenades were clipped to his belt, along with a combat knife that had tasted more blood than Lenny cared to remember.
The colonial duster beneath his armor rustled in the evening breeze, its once navy blue fabric now faded to a dark grey. Handcrafted metal pauldrons protected his shoulders, while thick leather gloves covered his hands. Heavy combat arms and leggings covered the rest of his limbs with an additional layer of protection, along with sturdy combat boots that had seen many miles and years. The gear served its purpose, keeping the worst of wasteland debris and perils at bay as much as it struck fear and panic among raiders and worse.
"Listen up, greenhorn," Lenny said to the young guard, his tone sounding almost paternal. "You've got two jobs now, First, quietly, and I mean quiet as a fuckin' radroach in a deathclaw's nest, spread word to your captain. Tell him Iron Vultures are approaching from the east, their numbers estimated at thirty, probably more. Second, you make damn sure everyone who can hold a weapon is ready, but nobody fires until I engage. Got it?"
Gulping, the guard nodded nervously. "Yes, sir."
"Don't 'sir' me, kid. Sir's what people called my father." Lenny's mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. "Name's Lenny. You and me live through this, that's what you call me." He jerked his head to the side then. "Now go. Lives are dependin' on you."
As the guard hurried away, Lenny took a deep breath, feeling the air filter in his rebreather hiss slightly. He pulled out an old pocket watch from his duster then, a silver timepiece with an intricate engraving of the Minutemen logo that had once belonged to his mentor, an old Enforcer who had shown him the ways of battle when he himself was still green. He clicked it open, studying the cracked face and the hands that still somehow kept perfect time, despite decades of wear and warfare.
"Time to hunt, old friend," he whispered to the watch. "One more dance with the devil."
Lenny descended from the wall, moving through the settlement like a shadow. Residents stared at his battered armor, the ancient machine gun, the polished wooden stock of his shotgun peeking over his shoulder, the tallies on his pauldron. They knew what he was, what he had been, even if the Minutemen were mostly stories at this point.
He positioned himself near the eastern gate, concealed between stacks of scrap metal waiting to be melted down and reforged into weapons and armor. Perfect vantage point, Lenny decided. From here, he could see the approach the raiders would likely take, and he'd have cover for the opening salvo.
"Ain't my first rodeo," Lenny muttered to himself, checking his sightlines. "But it might be my last."
Dusk had settled over the Commonwealth when the first raider scout approached the eastern gate. Lenny remained perfectly safe, controlling his breathing as he'd been trained to do years ago. He went over the lessons his mentor had imparted to him in his head. Chanted them like a mantra, practically. Wait for the right moment. Don't show your hand too early. Patience is the difference between success and a shallow grave in the wasteland.
He'd counted thirty-four raiders setting up around the eastern approach. Most were armed with small arms and shotguns, though a few carried baseball bats wrapped with barb wire and sledgehammers and rebar hammered flat and sharpened into crude swords. He'd also spotted at least four with hunting rifles on the ridge, and something that he hoped wasn't a missile launcher near their apparent leader, a massive figure bound in armor, his face obscured with a gas mask that had a brahmin skull strapped to it. No doubt a fear tactic.
"Tactical assessment... Amateur hour." Lenny whispered to himself as he analyzed their formation. Real tacticians would have waited until full dark, would have synchronized their attack. These Iron Vultures were eager, undisciplined. "Sloppy." He tightened his grip on the M60. "Dangerous, sure, but sloppy as hell."
The raider scout was getting too close to the gate, almost close enough to spot the defensive preparations. Lenny made his decision then. He pulled a frag grenade from his belt, removed the pin with his teeth, and waited three heartbeats before lobbing it with practiced precision. The grenade arced through the air, landing and rolling perfectly between the scout and two of the raiders that had followed him more closely than they should have.
The explosion tore through the night's silence like a deathclaw through brahmin hide.
"Surprise, you motherfuckin' bastards!" Lenny roared as he emerged from his cover, the M60 now positioned at his hip, its weight supported by the harness built into his armor. The motion was fluid, rehearsed through countless drills and refined in countless battles. In his head, he chanted another of his mantras. Stand, aim, fire. Short and controlled bursts that sent raiders diving for cover or falling to the ground in sprays of crimson. Stand, aim, fire. This was what he did best, what the Enforcers had all been trained to do. Break the lines. Sow chaos. Wreak havoc.
"What the hell was that?" Someone screamed, their voice high with panic.
"That, my friend, is the sound of a shitstorm descending on you!" Lenny bellowed, his voice a battlefield roar. He wanted them focused on him, not on Foundry Town. Lenny advanced methodically, using the confusion to push toward the raiders, targeting what he perceived to be weaknesses in their tattered formation. Three raiders broke cover, charging at him with their melee weapons, one even racing toward him with a pool cue in his hands.
Laughing, Lenny barked, "Really?" A fuckin' pool cue? Against this?" The old Enforcer shifted his arm, cutting down the three raiders without breaking stride, heavy rounds from his M60 turning their crude armor into bloody sieves.
A bullet ricocheted off his helmet, the impact sending a spider web of cracks across his damaged visor. Lenny ducked behind the skeleton of an overturned pre-war car, sweeping his gaze across the battlefield. One of the snipers had found his range.
"Tryin' to take my head off? Gotta do better than that!" He shouted, shifting the M60 as he broke cover, aiming it toward the sniper. Steadying his breath, Lenny fried, a hail of hot lead peppering the sniper's cover, which proved to be no defense against them. A scream informed him that the sniper was out of the picture.
The residents of Foundry Town had finally organized their defense, Lenny could tell. Return fire came from the walls now, sporadic but growing more coordinated. Despite their focus on crafting weapons, most of Foundry Town's residents were armed with the most basic of firearms. Hunting rifles, shotguns, handguns and revolvers. Only a few had proper weapons, like combat rifles, no doubt their finest works reserved for the best among their defenders.
"Left flank needs covering fire!" Lenny shouted toward the walls. "Put pressure on those three by the trees, don't let 'em set up that heavy weapon!"
To his surprise, the defenders responded, redirecting their fire as he had commanded. Maybe some old instinct remained in the Commonwealth after all. Maybe people still recognized authority when they heard it. Maybe they still remembered the Minutemen in the end.
Lenny hefted the M60 up against his chest, like an old friend. "Sum Quia Sumus," he whispered, the words barely audible over the hiss of his rebreather. I am because we are. Then he emerged from cover, the machine gun roaring to life once more.
The Iron Vultures were regrouping now, their initial panic giving way to organized resistance. Bullets pinged off the Enforcer's armor as he pressed forward, each impact adding another dent to the battered plates. His own tally of kills had increased by five already, though he had no time to mark them.
"You fight like starved mongrels!" Lenny taunted, trying to keep their attention on him. "My gran could've planned a better assault than that, and she's been dead for two decades now!"
A molotov cocktail shattered against a nearby car, sending flames licking across the ground toward his position. Lenny rolled away, the edges of his colonial duster smoldering. The raider who had thrown it charged through the flames, a Ripper in hand, its motorized teeth whirring hungrily.
Lenny's M60 jammed then. Not now, he silently cursed. The Enforcer dropped it then, letting it hang from its harness, and for a split second he considered his shotgun. No, too close for effective range. Instead, he drew his 10mm. "C'mere, you little bastard."
The raider slashed with the Ripper, missing Lenny's throat by inches. The Enforcer countered with a practiced movement, slamming his arm into the raider's ribcage, sending him crumpling to the ground. With precious space afforded him, Lenny trained his handgun on the raider, putting five bullets into his chest.
"Who... what the hell are you?" The rapier gasped, blood bubbling between his lips.
Lenny holstered his modified 10mm then. "Your worst nightmare, son," he replied coldly. "The ghost of the Commonwealth." He pushed forward then, curb-stomping the raider in the face to finish him off. "The last Enforcer."
Maybe he wasn't done being a Minuteman after all, he mused. But Lenny had no time to ponder it. The distinctive sound of a missile launcher being prepped sent him diving behind a concrete barrier. The explosion came a heartbeat later, turning the spot where he'd been standing into a smoking crater, bloody pieces of the dead raider everywhere.
His ears rang inside his helmet. The rebreather labored as dust and particles filled the air. Lenny worked quickly to clear the jam in his M60, fingers moving by touch and muscle memory instead of sight. "C'mon, old girl, don't fail me now," he muttered to his machine gun. There, the belt was feeding again.
Beyond the barrier, he could hear shouting, commands being relayed. Someone was yelling. "Flank him! Flank him, you sons of bitches!" The big man, maybe. The one leading this pack of carrion feeders. The Iron Vultures were coordinating a push toward Foundry Town, using his momentary retreat as an opportunity.
Smart, Lenny knew. Whoever was in charge knew his tactics.
Lenny checked his ammunition. Half a belt left for the M60. Seven rounds left in the 10mm pistol. Two frag grenades still hanging on his belt. And there was the shotgun, still loaded with two custom shells, capable of tearing through even reinforced raider armor at close range. It would have to be enough.
"Wouldn't be the first time I've been outgunned and outnumbered," Lenny growled grimly to himself. "Damn well won't be the last either... unless it is." He took a deep breath then, feeling a sharp pain in his side where a bullet must have found a gap in his armor. No time to check the wound now. "Foundry Town needs you, Jones. Don't you dare let them down."
With a grunt of effort, Lenny vaulted over the concrete barrier and charged toward the advancing raiders, his M60 screaming death into their ranks. "You want a piece of me?" The Enforcer roared, "then come and get me, you bastards!"
The battle had been raging for nearly an hour. Foundry Town was holding, but barely. Some of the residents had proven themselves more capable of defending themselves than Lenny had expected, picking off raiders who got too close to their walls. He spotted a group of blacksmiths pushing up a heavy piece of equipment toward the raiders, who quickly turned to charge at them. A loud scream of metal filled the air as the makeshift cannon blasted bits and pieces of shrapnel and nails and other sharp metal objects, sending the raiders fleeing in agony. Foundry Town was keeping the Iron Vultures at bay, but there were still plenty of raiders left, and they were growing more organized by the minute.
Lenny had become the primary target, as he'd intended. Better they focus on him than Foundry Town. But the strategy was beginning to take its toll on him. Blood trickled from a gash on his thigh, where a bullet had penetrated his combat legging. His left arm hung limply at his side, dislocated when a raider had tackled him from behind. The M60 was empty, reduced to an oversized club that he'd used to crush the skull of his attacker then.
His 10mm pistol had two rounds remaining. He only had one grenade left. Still strapped on his back and still unused, his coach gun remained. He was quickly running out of cards to play.
The Iron Vultures had fallen back to regroup yet again, but he could see them gathering for a final push. At least sixteen remained, including their leader, who he had overheard them call Condor. The leader was a massive mountain of a man, wearing what looked like salvaged Power Armor pieces held together with chains and leather straps, his bony gas mask still strapped onto his face. In his huge hands, a terrifying makeshift weapon, an enormous two-handed axe crafted from various pieces of sharpened metal, hammered and bolted together. The blade gleamed in the light of the raging flames, already stained with the blood of previous victims.
"That's one hell of an accessory you've got there, little boy!" Lenny taunted, his voice strained with pain but still defiant to the end. "Compensating for something, maybe?"
Condor turned to face him, the darkened holes of his skull mask pointed his way. "You've got a fucking mouth on you, old man," he growled. "I'm going to enjoy ripping your jaw right off you."
"Heard that one before," Lenny shot back. "From better men than you. Guess where they are now? Feeding the radroaches!" He knew he couldn't survive a direct confrontation with that monster. His body was already coursing with Med-X and he'd just shot himself up with his last remaining Stimpak, the chems doing their work to keep him on his feet despite his injuries. But there were limits to what even chemical assistance could achieve.
He needed to end this, one way or another.
With a grimace of pain, Lenny forced his dislocated shoulder back into its socket, biting down on a scream. "Jesus fuckin' Christ," he hissed through clenched teeth. "That never gets easier." The agony cleared his head just for the moment, bringing the battlefield into sharp focus. The Iron Vultures were moving again, advancing in a staggered formation. Tactically sounded, Lenny knew. Condor clearly knew what he was doing.
Lenny pulled out his mentor's old pocket watch again, checking the time as a calming ritual. "What do you think, old man?" He whispered to the timepiece. "One last glory run for the history books?" The Enforcer could see the old man sitting in front of him then, his mentor chuckling and nodding in agreement. This was what he had been trained for, after all. Break the line. Sow chaos. Wreak havoc. He snapped it shut then, the silver case catching the dim light, reminding him of simpler days when the Minutemen had maintained order across the Commonwealth. He had been so young then, so full of hope and purpose. He tucked the timepiece away with a silent nod of thanks to the man who'd trained him all those years ago, to his brothers and sisters who had fought and bled and died at his side.
A plan formed in his mind. Not a good one, of course, but the only option left.
He brought the 10mm up, took careful aim, and fired at Condor. "Hey, ugly! How about you let me show you a good time just like I showed your mother!?" The bullets struck the raider boss's makeshift armor, causing him to stumble but failed to bring him down.
Still, it got their attention.
"You want me? Come fucking get me, you pack of half-witted, ass-fucking, brahmin-kissing whores!" Lenny shouted, his voice raspy through the rebreather. "I've dropped tougher pieces of shit than you fuckers!"
The Enforcer turned and sprinted away from Foundry Town, each step sending fresh waves of pain through his battered body. Behind, he heard shouts of pursuit. Good. Let them follow. Let them chase the last Enforcer one final time. He'd make his last stand away from Foundry Town, buy them some time to catch their breath and regroup.
Lenny ran toward the ruins of a pre-war gas station, its pumps long since dry but its structure still largely intact. He ducked inside the attached garage, pressing himself against the wall beside the door. "Come into my parlor," he whispered, reaching back to grip the familiar wooden stock of his shotgun. "Said the spider to the fly."
The first raider appeared in the doorway seconds later, a sawed-off shotgun sweeping the interior. Lenny waited until the poor bastard took two steps inside before swinging around, the Stoeger already at his shoulder. "Say hello to my little friend," he growled, squeezing the trigger at the same time. The double-barreled blast caught the raider square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and hurling him back through the doorway.
"So sorry you couldn't stay," Lenny chuckled darkly as he realized the blast had caught one other raider, two for the price of one shell. A good deal, one he'd take any day of the week. He ducked behind a rusted workbench, quickly breaking open the shotgun and reloading with practiced efficiency despite his injuries. His fingers closed around two more shells from his belt.
Two more raiders entered, more cautious than the first. "More guests, huh?" Lenny called out, distracting them for the split second he needed to line up his shot. Another raider went down in a bloody mist as the other fired wildly in his direction, the bullets ricocheting off the workbench. "That the best you can do? Shit, I've seen men with no arms shoot better than you!" Lenny taunted, pulling the pin on his last grenade. He counted to two, before rolling it toward the doorway just as three more Iron Vultures were entering. "You want me? You're going to have to fucking pay in blood for the privilege!"
The explosion shook the building, bringing down part of the ceiling collapsing. Through the dust and the smoke, Lenny counted bodies. Three more down. That left... what? Nine? Ten? His mind was growing foggy from blood loss.
"Come on, focus!" He growled to himself. "You've survived worse. Concord, back in '72. That time with the Super Mutants at Fort Hagen. The Quincy Massacre."
A massive shadow loomed in the doorway. Condor, of course. No missile launcher, but he still had that makeshift cleaver clutched in his armored hands, its edge dripping with blood. "You've caused us a lot of trouble, old man." Condor growled, his voice distorted through the gas mask. "Cost me a lot of my men. But you're out of bullets, out of grenades, and out of luck."
Lenny straightened, ignoring the screaming pain in his body. He still had his shotgun, loaded and ready, but he knew from the earlier encounter that Condor's armor was likely too thick even for his custom shells at this range. He needed to get closer. Chuckling, the old man pulled out his combat knife. "Still got my knife," Lenny grunted, raising the blade with one hand while keeping the shotgun hidden behind his back. "And something else you don't have... Nothing left to lose."
Condor laughed, a sound like metal grinding on stone. "A knife against this?" He hefted his axe, absurdly huge compared to the Enforcer's knife. "You must have a death wish, old man."
"Not a wish," Lenny answered, his voice raspy but calm. "Just an acceptance of the inevitable. We all die in the end, every one of us, in this fucking wasteland. Only question worth answering is whenever we make it mean something or not." He tightened his grip on the knife. "Sum Quia Sumus." Lenny added, the words feeling right again, somehow. "As long as they're safe, it's worth it."
"What the hell does that even mean?" Condor sneered.
"It means," Lenny chuckled, "that you picked the wrong town, the wrong day, and the wrong old man to mess with." He shifted his stance, ready for what would likely be his final battle, his last stand. "Ever dance with the devil under the pale moonlight?"
Condor leapt into action then, charging as his axe arced toward Lenny's head. The Enforcer ducked, but his reflexes were slowed by injury and exhaustion. The axe caught him in the shoulder, sending him crashing into a rusted Corvega. His helmet cracked further, the rebreather wheezing as its filters finally gave out.
"That all you got?" Lenny gasped, spitting blood. "I know a one-legged whore who hits harder than that, and she's seventy-two." He slashed with his knife, opening a gash in Condor's thigh. The raider boss grunted in pain and swung again, missing Lenny by the tiniest of margins.
He needed to get closer, to line up the perfect shot with his boomstick. The Enforcer rolled, came up behind Condor, and buried the knife to the hilt in the small of the raider's back.
Not a killing blow, but enough to make Condor drop the axe.
"You'll pay for that, old man!" The Iron Vulture leader roared in anger, reaching back to grab Lenny by the throat. His massive hand closed around the Enforcer's neck, lifting him off his feet. With his other hand, he drew a serrated blade from his belt. "I'm going to wear that fucking fancy armor of yours," he laughed. "Never seen anything like it before."
"That's because," Lenny choked out, "you're just a fucking tourist... never faced... real Minutemen."
If he didn't recognize Enforcer armor, didn't recognize the faded symbol on his chestplate, Lenny thought dimly, then the Iron Vultures were truly newcomers to the Commonwealth. Newcomers who had managed to burn down six settlements already, spill the blood of who knew how many?
His vision was darkening around the edges. But even as Condor choked the life out from him, Lenny's right hand moved to his back, wrapping around the stock of his beloved shotgun, wedged into his belt. His boomstick had never failed him yet, and God willing, it wouldn't this time either.
The raider's eyes widened as Condor realized what was happening, but it was too late. Lenny's fingers found the triggers, squeezing both at once.
The blast was deafening in the confined space of the garage. Condor's makeshift armor, formidable as it might be, couldn't withstand the point-blank double-barreled impact of Lenny's custom shells. The raider's chest exploded into meat and blood, and his grip on Lenny's throat went slack. Condor staggered backward, a look of disbelief visible even through his gas mask, before collapsing heavily onto the oil-stained concrete.
"Never... never bring an axe... to a shotgun fight, prick." Lanny gasped, falling to his knees as he struggled to breathe again. He had survived, but barely. Between the blood loss and his exhaustion, he wouldn't last much longer without medical attention.
The remaining Iron Vultures outside were in disarray, having heard the shotgun blast and slowly coming to the realization that their leader had fallen. Sporadic gunfire echoed from the direction of Foundry Town, the defenders pressing their advantage, probably.
"See you soon, old friends," Lenny whispered as darkness began to claim him. "I did the best I could... but I hope I did you all proud."
A gunshot came from the doorway, a single, thunderous blast from a .44 revolver that caught an advancing raider right between his eyes. The raider stood frozen for a moment, unsure of what had just happened, before toppling sideways like a tree that had been chopped down.
More gunfire erupted outside the garage. Controlled volleys, not the chaotic spraying of raiders. Lenny's fogged mind struggled to make sense of it. Who...?
Footsteps approached, and a figure knelt beside him. Through his cracked visor, Lenny made out a familiar uniform. The long coat, that chestplate with the white star on it, the yellow insignia at his shoulders... A still-smoking .44 revolver now being holstered at his side.
Minutemen.
"Easy there, soldier," came the voice, steady but firm. "You're safe now. We've got you." Hands carefully removed his damaged helmet. The fresh air was both shocking and sweet after hours of breathing through the failing rebreather. Lenny blinked, his vision slowly clearing enough to see the man kneeling beside him. White, mid-thirties, with a tan that spoke of hours patrolling the Commonwealth. He had a commander's bearing and eyes that had seen their share of the wasteland's horrors.
"General," Lenny croaked, recognizing the insignia on the man's uniform, the rank it bore.
"General Nathaniel Howard," the man confirmed with a nod. "What's your name?"
He grunted, pushing through the pain, "Lenny Jones, sir. Minutemen Enforcer. Last one." Then, each word an effort painted in blood and suffering, he managed further. "Foundry Town... they okay?"
"Secure," Nathaniel reassured him. "My people are there now, treating the wounded, rounding up those who have surrendered. Some of them are already back at their workshops, heh. Doesn't seem like they got any less give in them than you do." He tilted his head to get a better look at Lenny. "Word is you held off the entire gang single-handed." He smiled, impressed. "Sixty-seven tally marks on that armor. I'm guessing there'll be quite a few more now."
Lenny tried to smile, though he suspected it came out as a grimace instead. "Stopped countin' after a while... just kept fightin'... one more day... one more battle." He coughed, wincing at the pain. He hand moved to the shotgun still resting on his lap. "Ol' boomstick... never let me down."
The General's eyes moved down to the Stoeger, noting the well-maintained condition despite its obvious age. Double-barreled, twelve inches gauge, probably with a hair trigger too. "A fine weapon. You don't see that many double-barrels in that condition these days."
Lenny lifted the shotgun then, "Don't think I'll be addin' any more tallies myself, General." He continued, his voice growing weaker. "Time for someone else to carry the torch."
Nathaniel's expression grew serious. "Now, don't talk like that, soldier. We've got a medic outside, and she's going to patch you right up." He turned to the side, made an urgent gesture toward his Minutemen, telling them to hurry up. Two of them entered, carrying a stretcher, as another one followed close behind, a white armband on her shoulder with a red cross on it. "The Minutemen take care of their own. Always have, and always will."
"Minutemen are gone," Lenny grunted as they carefully lifted him onto the stretcher, his voice unsteady and unsure. "Scattered. Quincy broke us."
"Not anymore," Nathaniel said firmly. "We're back, and we're rebuilding. Settlement by settlement. Person by person. The Commonwealth needs us, need people like you, willing to stand up for what's right. Protect the people at a minute's notice, no matter the cost." He walked alongside the stretcher as they carried Lenny out of the garage.
Outside, Lenny saw them then, at least twenty Minutemen moving with purpose, securing the area. He could see even more further down the road, tending to the injured residents of Foundry Town, standing guard so they could catch their breath after giving it their all. Their uniforms were better maintained than he remembered, their weapons more standardized. This wasn't just a ragtag militia. This was an organized force, an honest-to-God army.
"Well, I'll be damned," Lenny whispered, genuine wonder in his voice. "How'd you manage this miracle, General?"
Nathaniel chuckled, seeming to understand the question. "One good person at a time," he said. "One settlement at a time. People stepped up. People remembered what it meant to stand together." He placed a hand on Lenny's shoulder as the medic worked on tending to his wounds. "And now we've found ourselves another brother. Someone who can pass on the lessons of the old Minutemen to a new generation, teach us things we don't know yet, tell us about those who came before us." The General grinned, "And having more of you Enforcers around wouldn't be a bad thing, going by the hell you gave the Iron Vultures. If you want the job, that is."
Lenny stared up at the night sky, at stars emerging through patches in the irradiated clouds. For the first time in years, something stirred in his chest that felt dangerously like hope. He felt just like the young man of his youth, when he had first signed up with the Minutemen. His hand tightened on the shotgun that still rested on his lap.
"You know what?" Lenny began, a slow smile spreading across his weathered face. "I think this old dog might have a few more fights left in him after all." He reached up then, clasping Nathaniel's right hand with surprising strength. "Sum Quia Sumus, General. Damn right we are."
Nathaniel grinned, "Atta boy! That's what I was hoping you'd say."
As consciousness began to slip away, Lenny felt the stretcher being lifted into a makeshift medical weapon. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the Minutemen flag flying above, its blue fabric bright against the wasteland's night sky.
Perhaps he wouldn't be the last Enforcer after all. No, maybe just the first of a new generation.
Author's Note: Yes, I live. It's been a bit of a long two years here on my end, with a whole lot of shit happening, but I hope you enjoy this tale, the first of many in what I'm calling Sum Quia Sumus, a collection of stand-alone stories that will form the Minuteman Anthology! A second story will be coming shortly.
More importantly, Brave New World will resume as well, starting over from Chapter 1, as each chapter has been extensively edited, redone, and expanded on. Many of them will likely be rather different from what they originally were. The original chapters will be left up for a while, if you'd like to read and compare, but after a while, I intend to remove the old version so I can focus on the new version entirely.
I'll be closing my Twitter (No, I won't call it by that godforsaken letter.) page as I don't really use it much. I will, however, try to find another media source I can provide. Alternatively, do feel free to join my Discord server, Vault Sigma, ( /4XkPeYKe8h) if you'd like to chat, stay updated on story progression, et cetera, et cetera.