Chapter Text
The shot rang through the rocks, flying past the dried up trees, hitting the mole rat dead center and startling it's kin, causing them to disperse. I raised myself from the iron sights, took a cursory glance over the area - more than once the skittish assholes have hid nearby just to pounce when I come to butcher my game. They're bloodthirsty like that, or maybe it's revenge they want.
This time they seemed smarter - or more cowardly - and all but the now dead quarry were off. My rifle strapped over my shoulder, I trekked down the hill, taking out my ka-bar, wiping the dust off the blade with one stroke of my index finger. Though, worn as they are, it might have just made it dirtier.
The rest of it was habit, practically automatic. Knife in the throat, prop the carcass up somehow to help it bleed out better. Because I'm a slow fuck and the heart's already stopped from my shot, it's going to take a while, so I start on the fire pit, next to a nearby ledge, picking the right sort of twigs to avoid smoke and sprinkling in my pocket kindling, before lighting the pit and a cigarette with my lighter.
Smoke between my lips, next up is the flaying. Mole rat skin isn't worth much, tends to tear too easily, but still makes a decent bindle to carry the rest of it back to town. Butchering seems like the nasty part, but it's all the same after years. Just separate the stuff that goes bad quickly from the quality parts. It all takes a while and by the time I'm done the sun is setting. The skin drying, the meat hidden from flies, I grab the pan I have attached to my coat and set some of the leftovers bits to fry. Offal and viscera, that sort of thing. The result I like to call giblets - It's funny for some reason. It's not good, but it's food. Maybe I'm just a shit cook.
Before bed I lean a piece of metal from a nearby wreck over the now-waning fire, making a shoddy shelter. I take off my ratty fingerless gloves and my baseball cap, wiping sweat off my forehead, before wrapping myself in my coat. It's yao guai fur. Patchy, but the warmest you'll find these parts. And sometimes, when a young raider pulls up, I can spin some tales about how I got it to scare them off.
With the faint smell of burning wood, the stars shining through the car hood above me, I drift off to sleep.
"Burnham, comon, with me," Clifton had been de facto security chief for a while now. De facto overseer, to be honest, though she didn't have time left over for much other than security.
We were following the familiar metallic clattering of the hallways up, towards the airlock. "...Something on the cameras, someone's picking through the barricade," she gave a quick overview of the situation, "They'll most likely come through the sewer aswell, so it's just us up top."
The security team was practically a skeleton crew at that point. The door had been cracked from before I was born and the resulting leaks, raiders and mutant infestations got most of the dwellers. Including my parents. Not much to do against cancer that aggressive.
Thinking about the danger ahead I started to regret volunteering. Wanting to impress her didn't seem as important now that there was actual danger. I was still a kid, just a stupid kid.
Near the vault door the walls rusted, the air grew more stale and the otherwise everpresent ventilation was missing. All the better to hear the clangs of ramming against our makeshift barricade of furniture, defunct equipment and plates welded onto the entrance. We set up in cover, me on one side and Clifton on the other.
"Fire as soon as they get through," Clifton whispered over the gap, "Remember, its them or us."
The anticipation was nauseating. Whenever it seemed they were almost able to break through it took them a bit longer. I remember thinking we should reinforce the defenses instead of just sitting around, but Clifton was the boss, she knew better.
When it came, it was all a blur. She shouted "Now!", I fired, emptied the first magazine in their direction. Pretty sure I killed someone, but I don't remember. My first murder and I've got no memory of it. As I was struggling to reload, my hands shaking, Clifton ordered: "Fall back! Stay low!" and I did, the other hand holding down my helmet, no room for thoughts other than fear.
When I checked back for her she was firing a few shots towards the door and turned to join me. She could barely take a step before they got her in the side, the gunfire piercing through the measly security vest like butter. She looked at me and her mouth moved like she was trying to say something, but already blood was seeping out from her insides. I could've done something, I should've, but I couldn't move, so I just didn't. I just watched, paralyzed in fear.
The following day I was on the road early like usual, hoping to make it to town before it gets late. The distance itself isn't long, but moving carefully takes time. Slavers wouldn't mind grabbing a lone wanderer, nor would any of the local raider gangs pass up the opportunity to string me up. Or just rob me, if they were feeling less brutal.
By late noon I was tracking a pack of feral dogs through Springvale. Dogs are tricky, you might think they've passed when suddenly you find yourself surrounded. I've made that mistake before and I didn't want to waste bullets today, especially this close to the schoolhouse.
My gaze was following the hounds north, towards the ancient vault, when I noticed something up on the ledge. Or rather someone, clad in navy, with those strange yellow lines and a familiar helmet to boot. With his confident stance, the dumbass didn't even notice the pack scampering closer. When he finally did, he panicked and dropped his 10mm, and managed to fall on his ass instead.
"Fucking hell..." I whispered to myself looking at the living trainwreck, but my rifle was already raised and took down the first mangy mutt about to jump for his neck. The second shot missed, but the third took down another, causing the rest to scatter.
By the time I got up the hill, he had managed to get himself up, gun in hand, but I could tell he was no threat. He was just a kid, seemed to be late teens, probably just a bit older than me when I had to leave home. The helmet didn't sit right on his head, his vault suit was pristine, except the dusty knees from getting up just now. And the splatter of blood on his chest, which was obviously not his, nor did it seem like a hound's.
"You sure are green as they come... or, well, blue as they come, I guess."
He didn't seem to find my humor to his liking and looked at me baffled. The burst of adrenaline still got him shivering, pistol shaking in hand.
"Uhh, I got a gun!" He declared, and I tried, and failed, not to smile at the threat.
"So it seems, and so do I," I wasn't pointing my rifle at him, but I still grabbed it by the strap and threw it over my shoulder, "but we don't need to use those do we."
He seemed to calm down a bit and also holstered his piece, still visibly shivering: "There are really people out here?"
"Seems so."
"Where's Megaton?"
"You've even heard of Megaton down there? Well shit, the place ain't that important," he seemed somewhat shocked about my additude, so I moved on, "I'm heading there too, I'll show you the way, comon."
l took a long glance towards the school, and headed down the hill.