» Fri Oct 30, 2009 5:45 pm Part 1: Beginnings.
[Forward: This takes place in Washington D.C. during Fallout 3's time period. It takes place several months before the Lone Wanderer has left Vault 101. This is a work in progress, and I will work on it as time goes on. I recently finished Fallout 3 and felt like typing up a short story. It will take time to complete. I hold no illusions as to being a great, or even decent writer. Luckily Microsoft Word has a spell check function. Even this, cannot contain the plethora of spelling errors, so be forwarned. Also, please, this is a mature story, and its a tad bit bloody. This first scene especially, as it helps set the tone for the rest of the story. I enjoy criticism, and will be happy to hear any thoughts.]
The sun beat down relentlessly upon the small band of travelers. Two men pulled at the reigns of an old weathered Brahmin. Supplies and boxes had been secured to a large saddle in between the humps of the pack animal's back. The beasts' two heads simply stared foreword with a stoic acceptance. Two more men followed behind. Each wore a combat vest, with varying degrees of other patchwork armor. Both carried ancient assault rifles. The weapons looked worn down, with duck tape and spray paint used liberally. Leading the convoy was an aged figure that looked just as worn as the rest of his ragtag group. He was dressed in old carpenter's jeans and a black long coat. A set of glasses was perched along the bottom of his nose, allowing the man to look out over them. A single hand rested along the handle of a revolver holstered at his hip.
Aaron McHale found himself studying the horizon. They were close. Kadre's Veil wasn't too much farther. They simply had to keep on following the old road. The only spot he was worried about was where the road ran through a canyon of sorts. In the past the highway had gone over a large, rocky hill. During the Great War the entire area had been carpet bombed, leaving the hill split in two. It was a perfect ambush point for any of the menaces of the wastelands. Mr. McHale sighed inwardly, rubbing at his temple with his free hand.
Something cracked. At first he thought he had stepped on a branch or stick. Then a whizzing sound. In one smooth motion the man fell to a knee his hand automatically drawing his revolver. He thumbed the pistol's hammer; it was a practiced motion, and something he had done many times before. The first shots had gone awry, and now the enemy was moving forward.
He grinned at his luck. The point where the highway met the hill was still a good half a mile down the road. His enemy had gotten impatient. There were four of them. Raiders by the look of it. He was surprised, what where they doing this far north? He rose to a crouch. His convoy had halted, and the two armed guards where making their way forward, each taking aim. He stood up and looked down the sights of the rusted .32 caliber revolver. The front of the sight formed a line which he drew just under the first bandit. The man was running forward a look of chaotic bliss etched on his features. He wielded a large machete.
The pistol bucked, once, then twice as it rose with the recoil of the bullets exiting the barrel.
Mr. McHale ducked down not even waiting to see the results. Incoming fire peppered all around him as he dove for a small group of rocks jutting from the side of the road.
Both guards where firing in controlled bursts. One had taken up position behind a tree, while the other was prone and moving slowly towards the other side of the road. Both rifles seemed to spit a group of bullets at each pull. Aaron was happy he had hired them out of Rivet City. They where well armed, and more importantly experienced.
Mr. McHale watched out of the corner of his eye as the Brahmin was ripped apart by automatic weapons fire. It appeared his assailant had paused taking aim on the cattle, and its handlers. Both where young men hired out of Big Town. One dove behind the fallen animal as the other tried to make a dash for the safety of a nearby ditch. The old man immediately took aim on their attacker. A female armed with a 10mm submachine-gun. She was a wild thing, laughing as she fired from the hip. If she wasn't so close she would have missed, and this may have explained her unsuccessful attempts to kill Aaron. She wore various pieces of leather mixed with nails and straps, forming an almost hodgepodge of an outfit, leaving her mid-riff exposed. This is where he took aim, his revolver roaring in a quick succession as he took three well aimed shots.
The first missed, and the woman looked up, confused. She almost looked like a bird, falling into a sort of standing crouch and cocking her head. The hair was shaved down the middle, while the sides grew freely down the sides. The second bullet also missed, whistling just above her head. The third slammed into the leather piece protecting her shoulder. It almost looked like one of those old medieval pauldrons. Unfortunately the piece served its purpose well; the .32 round didn't even phase her face contorted into a rage. She charged. The guards were busy aiming at her companions, who had taken up position behind another grouping of rocks. The enraged raider was like the wind, her feet barely touching the ground as she screamed incoherently.
Aaron took aim again, his hand reaching into the coat's outer pocket for some rounds. The pistol cracked once more, the cylinder then made a clicking noise. Empty. The shot had grazed her exposed upper arm, drawing a line of blood which was completely ignored. She reached behind her back drawing out a long, cracked machete. The item was taped around the hilt, and flicks of old rust covered the blade. A wicked grin started to form as she came within ten feet. Aaron had popped the cylinder and inserted two rounds, but he had made a mistake. Instead of moving, he had stayed in his half crouch. Hoping to pull off several more shots. It would be close, but he thought he could make it, she couldn't be that fast...
...but she was. In seconds she was on him, her blade raised high; she punched him in the face, a leathered fist meeting his nose. The pain was excruciating, and the man yelped, trying to backpedal and regain his footing. Instead the woman kicked knocking him flat on his rear. She slammed her foot down between his legs, and swung wildly with the machete. He ducked just in time, contorting himself beneath her. The crazed woman kicked and threw another punch. Bringing his arms up for protection the man dropped the revolver as the flurry of blows rained down. Suddenly something ripped into his side. She had swung again, this time swinging around the side, as if she was throwing a roundhouse. He gasped. It was like nothing he had ever felt before. Slowly he felt something warm draining out of his side.
She was relentless, and started screaming as she brought the machete down again and again. One of the guards turned, trying to help his employer, but he was exposed, and one of the raiders managed to pull a lucky shot. The man fell, clutching his sides and screaming. The second was already dead; he lay in the street, a pool of blood forming around the scattered brass. Chunks of meat and bone lay scattered about. The two raiders where moving forward, gunning down one of the hired hands as he tried to run. The other lay screaming covering his head behind the fallen cattle.
He was young, late teens, a shock of blonde hair, and light blue eyes. He wore a white shirt with worn sack pants. They barely reached down past his calves. The arms and hands where bandaged, probably to get better traction on the reigns. Orin Minea'r couldn't stop screaming. He didn't know what to do. His boss was being hacked apart before his very eyes, while the two remaining raiders stepped onto the road. He was crying and shaking uncontrollably. Just two weeks ago he had spoken to his sister. Why was this happening, what had he done?
The sun beat down, an indifferent witness to the tragedy. The woman suddenly stopped mid-swing, the machete covered in blood and meat splotches slowly she eyed the screaming young man. He stopped, and slowly they eyed each other. She turned and let the machete fall to her side. The corpse below her twitched and spasmed as the man below her gave in to his death throes. She slowly took a step. One leg reaching out ahead of the other. Like an uncertain bird. She almost hopped forward, her grin fading to a smirk. Orin slowly crawled backwards on his hands, looking around wildly. All around him where rocks and wasteland. Just dead grass and rocks as far as the eye could see. Craters had been thrown about at random, and there was one not too far to his right, just under an ancient advertising sign. He couldn't help it; he stared, looking at the picture of the armored figure and the old worn words. "Buy B- Bonds Today! Sup- Our Champions!" He slowly crawled to a crouched position, and then flat out sprinted towards the words. The remnants of a long dead civilization served as the beacon of hope for the young man. He didn't look back, he just ran. Bullets whizzed around him, and he became aware of someone gaining on him. The raider took long strides, her legs pumping. She would get him; it was only a matter of time. She guessed he would probably dive into the crater, hoping for some cover. Her chest heaved as she tried to contain her excitement it was like a bowl, just waiting to receive her next meal...
A "Zap" filled the air, and something struck her flat in the back. It was searing hot, and caused her to stumble mid-step. She barely caught herself, managing to throw her other foot down, taking a little leap. Turning she heard several more of the ludicrous "zap" sounds. The head cocked taking in this new threat. The pain barely distracted her. That half-cocked smirk remained on the face as this new combatant quickly gunned down her companions. A man was walking up the road. He was dressed in one of the old, blue Vault-Tec jumpsuits. The number "25-1" was etched in yellow into the collar. In one hand was a lazer pistol, while the other hung limply at the side. The man's face wore a lazy smirk. The eyes where half closed as he took another shot at a fallen raider. He then turned towards her. She was moving. Reaching underneath the cloth straps that she had wrapped around her small briasts. Almost like black bandages. A strange bump rested beneath both mounds. She tugged at it as he took aim. Ducking she started to run towards the crater Orin had finally dove into. The young man watched in fascination as his boss's killer pulled forth a grenade out from underneath the strips. Letting them fall to the side she rose up onto one leg. It looked she was about to pitch to him. In response the vault dweller simply aimed at her legs and continued to fire. She caught a particularly nasty shot in her knee, but still managed to pull the pin, and then throw the grenade. Orin was convinced this creature was an Olympian. The grenade flew with just a hint of arch, flipping as it made its way towards the stranger. The spoon fell to the wayside as it landed near his leg. It was as if he was oblivious to it. He continued to fire while moving a bit to the side. The bandit woman suddenly turned and did a flying leap at Orin. The young man had no time to even thing before she was upon him, swinging her fists and beating him to the ground. She was in a desperate frenzy; he didn't even put up a fight. She had landed atop him, swinging and trying to press him down. He could only hold his arms up. A feeling of dread filled his stomach. Mr. McHale had been in a similar position.
He looked between his upraised arms, catching a glimpse of the mad woman as she pressed herself down on him. She had a devil's eyes, a tint of red covering the white. He could feel her briasts touch his arm, and then.... the ground shook, dust and rock screamed and scattered with the wind above her. The raider hugged her victim as the grenade released its explosive payload. Everything was moving.
Orin Minea'r felt the world slowly begin to become hazy. A black ring surrounded his vision.
Then...black.
