Scavenger

[Rygand]

Clive downed his shot of vodka, the rawness of the harsh liquid burning his throat, his chest feeling the warmth of the drink. He sighed, half in relief, half in exasperation, placing the used shot glass on the counter.

The saloon around him was not very lively this early in the morning. The sun peered in through the cracks in the metallic carcass of the plane that most of Megaton was built out of. The crackling sound of the radio on the counter brought some life to the near-empty watering hole. It was playing one of the twenty songs that Three Dog, the host of the only proper radio station in the Wastes, had somehow scavenged from the ruins of D.C.

Frowning at the empty shot glass, Clive looked to the ghoul on the other side of the counter. Gob was his name. By the looks of it, he had just woken up, only moments after the owner of the drinking establishment, Colin Moriarty, whom was now busy with his computer terminal in the backroom.

”Hey, Gob.” Clive waved a hand vaguely to get the ghoul’s attention, taking off his glasses to clean them with a dirty tissue. ”Pour me another one.” he continued, placing the glasses back on his nose.

Gob shrugged, taking a bottle of vodka from under the counter, answering with his very raspy, tired voice; ”As long as you’ve got the caps, smoothskin.”.

As Gob refilled the shot glass, Clive reached into his pocket, taking out two bottle caps and placing them on the counter. He would have to think of a way to get more caps soon, the well was starting to run dry. He shook his head; “that was tomorrow’s problem”, lifting the shot glass from the bar and downing the beverage.

Clive got up from the barstool, rising to his full height. He was a rather tall person, standing at about 6 foot 3. He was wearing a long, brown and rather dusty leather coat over his dirty shirt, which gave the impression of having once been white, and his comfy, although rather ragged looking denim jeans. Two belts of .308 caliber bullets ran across his chest. He set his glasses on his nose, sighing.

”Thanks for the drinks, Gob. Maybe I’ll see you again in a week or two.”

The ghoul replied with a low grunt and a casual wave of his hand.

Clive ran a hand through his long, rather greasy, dark grey hair, brushing it back. He looked to his dearest friend, who was leant casually against the counter. The friend was his trusty DKS-501 Sniper Rifle, to which he had lovingly given the name, Old Man. The rifle had seen his share of battles, and it showed. It had gone through many an emergency repair, from wonderglue to duct tape, and even a few pieces of tactically placed chewing gum. The DKS-501 was a very old, yet rather advanced type of sniper rifle, the original using .308 caliber bullets, like Old Man himself, and the newer version using .233 caliber. Even with the so-called ”repairs”, Old Man was practically falling apart. Clive worried for his beloved gun, it having been the closest thing to a friend or family Clive had seen for as long as he could remember. Any day now, Old Man would be broken beyond repair. Clive pushed the thought from his mind, it wouldn’t do to get depressed, there was little enough to live for in a world like this.

Realizing that he had gotten lost in his thoughts, he chuckled to himself, picking up the rifle and slinging it gently over his shoulder, fastening it to himself with a leather strap. Gob rolled his eyes, having witnessed this many a time before. He muttered something about smoothskins, returning to his work.

As Clive turned around to leave the saloon, Moriarty emerged from the backroom. He blinked as he saw the tall man leaving, shaking his head. ”Leavin’ already, are ya, lad?” he frowned. ”Such a shame...”

Clive knew Colin Moriarty well enough to realize that it was not him leaving that had made the Irish bastard frown, but the fact that what was left of his caps was going with him. He grinned, ”Don’t worry, Moriarty. I’m out of caps, anyway.”

Moriarty laughed. ”I see. Get on out of here, then!” Clive rolled his eyes, doing as told.

He moved to the saloon’s door, opening it gently and slipping outside, closing it behind him. He stood there, taking in the fresh air. The sun was shining bright, and there were only a few clouds in the sky. A beautiful day, to be sure. Didn’t make the Wastes look any prettier, though.

Again lost in his thoughts, Clive was knocked out of his stupor as one of the many regular drunks of Megaton pushed him aside.

”Yer blocking the fuckin’ door, ya bastard!” the drunk spat at him. Clive turned to the drunk, to apologize, but as he turned to gaze at where the man had been, he had already disappeared into Moriarty’s saloon. ”Oi, ya zombie! Get me a bottle of whiskey!” a loud and obnoxious shout sounded from inside.

Clive sighed deeply, shaking his head. He started heading down a ramp towards the center of the crater the town was built in. Megaton. A town, most likely better off than others. As Moriarty had put it many a time;”Why would ya ever want to leave, lad? Megaton has everythin’ ya need ta make a livin’ these days. Clean water, booze, poon and shelter.”

Megaton itself, had been built around its namesake. An atomic bomb. The entirety of the town was constructed using aircraft debris from a nearby air station, which was no longer anywhere to be seen -- it had all been used as building materials for the town. As to why the nuke hadn't been moved, it was not in fact that the logic of the original settlers had disappeared with the radiation, but the fact they received assistance in building the scrap metal heap from a certain bunch of insane cultists, whom worshiped the massive, irradiated accident waiting to happen.

Some say that the nuke is still very alive indeed, and unstable. Some say that it isn’t. Some say that it is, but it’s fine. Most don’t care, either way.

Oh yeah, and as mentioned before, some worship the damn thing. The Church of the Children of the Atom. A bunch of wackos whom worship the bomb, in a nutshell. A harmless bunch, albeit rather odd. Why do they worship the nuke? Clive didn’t know, and honestly, didn’t care enough to try and find out.

Clive looked at the nuke, surrounded by a pool of irradiated water. Confessor Cromwell and some of the other loonies had already gathered around it for a morning seminar. Clive shrugged it off, starting to climb the crater again, now towards the only entrance of the town, and so, the only exit.

As he reached the gates, the guard, Stockholm his name was, looked to Clive and nodded, pressing something to open the gates. As they opened, a strong gust of wind blew in through it, bringing a crap ton of dust with it. While Clive had been fortunate enough to have been wearing his glasses, he had been unfortunate enough to have gotten a mouthful of dust and sand. He coughed out, spitting out the unpleasant grit. The many wastelanders and inhabitants of Megaton behind him laughed at the sight. Clive, embarrassed, decided it best to slip out of the town as quickly as possible.

Outside, he nodded to the Protectron robot at the gates, which was used as a greeter of sorts, as well as a guard, although not a very capable one. ”Deputy Weld”, they had named the bot.

Clive gazed to the Capital Wasteland opening in front of him. It seemed to continue endlessly, the bright sun shining on the rubble, ruined cities and all of the nasty creatures living on it. Except the ones deep underground, of course. Clive shuddered.

He carried a leather satchel with him, slung over his shoulder, crossing with Old Man. He reached into it, pulling out a compass and a map. Looking at the map, and then at the compass, he nodded and started heading towards his destination.

Southeast. To the ruins of Washington D.C.

[Rygand]

The raging wind had calmed down, and with its calming, came near unbearable heat. Clive had taken off his leather coat and slumped forwards, practically panting. He looked in front of him, narrowing his eyes.

“..Whah..?” he mumbled, frowning in confusion. He could not see anything but a thick cloud of dust. “..I thought the wind had calmed do-..”

Clive’s sentence came to an abrupt halt as he realized what was going on. With a sigh, he removed his glasses to discover that, sure enough, the lenses were covered in dirt. He cursed under his breath as he took a tissue from his pocket.

As he was cleaning the lenses, he looked around. All he could see was a dull sea of brown, mixed with a depressing shade of grey. His glasses were certainly not just for show, for the scavenger was near blind without them. Once clean, he placed them back on his nose. He looked in front of himself once again, blinking. Clive’s lips stretched to a wide, gleeful grin.

Even though he was still rather far away from his destination, he could now see the very first, and most recognizable landmark.

The Washington Monument stood tall in the distance, rays of light penetrating the now ruined, monolithic structure. These days, the Monument’s foreground and surroundings were all swarming with Super Mutants, but Clive had heard something about the Brotherhood of Steel dispatching people to the tower. It did not matter much to Clive, as he planned to have nothing to do with the Super Mutants, nor the Brotherhood. At least he hoped not. The scavenger had his own reasons for disliking the Brotherhood, other than the “holier-than-thou” attitude of most of their “paladins”.

He stretched out, letting out a satisfying yawn. It seemed a well deserved rest was in order. He peered around, spotting a rather large rock creating an inviting looking shadow, which would protect him somewhat from the blazing sun. Clive stumbled towards it, resting Old Man against its rough surface. Leaning back with a soft sigh of relief, he reached into his satchel, pulling out a bottle of deliciously warm Nuka-Cola. The unpleasant warmth was nothing but an afterthought, as long as he could quench his thirst. He corked the drink and placed the cap into a pouch on his belt. It was money, after all. He tipped the bottle, taking a long gulp from it.

Clive smiled to himself and took seat beside Old Man. He placed the bottle next to him, let out another yawn, and closed his eyes. The tired scavenger started to feel relaxed, not a sound to be heard anywhere. The Wastes seemed to be resting with him. He felt a pleasant calmness, moments which in this day and age, were to be treasured. Letting out a content sigh, he shifted his weight slightly, to try and get more comfortable.

A loud click pierced the peaceful silence. Clive opened his eyes, quirking a brow at the noisy intrusion. A series of rapid beeps followed the click. His eyes widened with horror at the sudden realisation, as the scavenger quickly leapt to his feet, picking up Old Man and running away from the rock as fast he could, and throwing himself to the ground. “Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcraaap!”

BOOM! Clive covered his head with his arms, in an attempt to protect himself from the falling debris, as the rock he had been sitting beside just moments before blew up, sending itsy bitsy pieces of rubble flying in all directions.

Clive coughed out violently as a cloud of smoke and dust covered the area. He pushed himself to his feet, holding Old Man by its strap. His eyes darted around, not being able to make out anything in the mess.

“A frag mine…” he muttered while setting his glasses straight. “Should’ve been more careful, dammit.” he cursed under his breath.

Then it hit him. If there were frag mines, that meant that there was almost definitely something worth protecting nearby… A grin rose to Clive’s lips. Perhaps he did not have to go all the way to D.C, after all.

He scanned the area, blinking as he spotted a house, not too far away. It seemed to have two floors, and maybe a basement. The roof had caved in somewhat, but most of it was in rather good condition. Seemed like a good place for hiding something valuable!

With a wide grin on his face, he stepped towards the house, freezing once he had done so. No beeps. He sighed in relief. Right, the mines…

He took Old Man from his back, and placed his right eye on the scope. Perhaps if he examined the ground carefully, he could spot other possible mines. He looked up suddenly, as a loud scream shattered his concentration. He lowered Old Man, and looked towards the house, a brow quirked.

Someone was rushing out from the house, screaming. Clive narrowed his eyes, placing a hand on horizontally just over his eyes to give them shade, in an attempt to block out the blinding sun. He couldn’t see clearly enough. He placed the scope back over his right eye, zooming in on the running person.

Sun darkened skin, a messy mohawk hairstyle, screaming, crazy look in his eyes… The running man was undoubtedly a raider. Crazy and dangerous, as all raiders. Known to pillage, plunder, murder, or otherwise ruin the day of anyone fortunate enough to not be one of them. If there were still laws, they'd be outlaws. They usually organize small local groups wherever they are… Where there’s one, there’s several. Usually, at least. A sigh came from the scavenger.

But then he realized something. The idiot was running directly at him. If there were any mines, then…

Click. Beep beep beep… BOOM!

A loud explosion sounded, followed by another and another… and another. Clive saw it best to run a bit further away, in case some were still at his feet… Seemed like the chain wasn’t about to end any time soon.

When the explosions had finally stopped, Clive peered into the setting smoke. That should’ve created a path for him… Hopefully. He blinked as something fell behind him with a dull thud. Looking over his shoulder, he smirked. A smoking torso with only the left arm remaining sat there, smouldering gruesomely. One less raider to deal with. Clive made his way into the smoke, desperately hoping not to set off any mines, he quite liked his right arm.

The smoke set, revealing the house in front of him. The scavenger kept Old Man ready, it was highly unlikely that the raider had been alone. He sidled against the front wall next to the front door. Peering inside, he squinted his eyes into the darkness of the house, the only light coming from upstairs and from a few small cracks in the walls. He closed his eyes, listening. Steps could be heard from upstairs. No one, however, seemed to be downstairs. Clive guessed they had sent the mine victim to check up on the explosion. “Guess they didn’t take into account the guy’s IQ…” he muttered to himself, amused.

He stepped inside and had a quick look around. The house was surprisingly well-preserved from the inside, most of the furniture intact and none of the walls collapsed. He looked to the ground. There was quite a lot of scrap and what not, but amongst it, he noticed something interesting - a tripwire, placed right in front of the stairs leading into the upper floor. He looked up from the wire, smiling to himself as he spotted the carcass of a Brahmin hanged from the ceiling with a chain. By the looks of it, the tripwire would let it loose, knocking out anyone foolish enough to step into the obvious trap.

He scanned his surroundings again. There were four ways to go from the entrance. From the looks of it, a kitchen, living room, upstairs and a way to the basement. He made his way into the living room, watching out for any other traps.

“Right… I guess it’s time to be stupid and risk my life again, eh, Old Man?” Clive said quietly to his sniper rifle, smiling lopsidedly.

He picked up a piece of rubble off the ground, and threw it towards the stairs, as hard as he could. Some commotion arose upstairs. Sighing to himself, Clive prepared Old Man, placing his right eye on the scope, raising his aim to approximately where whoever who came down the stairs’ head would be. He was a sniper, after all. “Always aim for the head…” he muttered to himself. Steps raced. It sounded like at least two of them were coming down the stairs. He spotted a leg, a torso and finally, a raider’s head.

He felt the familiar recoil of the rifle against his shoulder. A shot sounded, followed by the crash of a body slamming into a wall and a thump, as the raider fell limply to the ground. Blood splattered on the walls. Silence filled the house, if only for a second or two.

“That bastard has some heavy weaponry!” an obnoxious shout, followed by disturbed laughter. Clive had dealt with raiders many a time before. They were not exactly known for their care for their compatriots, more for their eating of each other. A shudder came from the scavenger, standing still.

Another raider stepped over the fresh corpse, laughing. He was just about at the end of the staircase. A grin came from Clive, as he threw his satchel towards the staircase, it landing on top of the tripwire. The Brahmin carcass fell from the ceiling, hitting the descending raider in the back, and hard. Just to be sure, Clive rushed to the scavenger, firing a shot through his head from close range. The second one dealt with, he ran to the kitchen, looking around quickly.

He spotted a pre-war freezer, old and rusty, and more than likely, not working. He headed to it, and scrambled inside. He listened carefully. Footsteps rushing down the stairs, two people, possibly more.

“Look for ‘im, you idiots!” someone shouted. Perhaps these raiders actually had a leader? Certainly sounded like it. Clive listened further, straining to hear as much he could.

“Hey, who appointed you leader, Pinhead?!” another raider responded. “Yeah!” a third agreed. I guess there were three after all, Clive frowned.

“Well, that’d be Jack there, cold and dead!” the raider now identified as Pinhead noted. “And besides, I am the one with a gun!”

“Hmph, fine… but keep in mind, when you fall asleep, I’m gonna take that gun and put a bullet through your head!” a raider responded to Pinhead’s rather sensible argument. To this, Pinhead responded with a gunshot. The thump of what the scavenger assumed to be the body of a raider, followed. From the sound of it, Clive figured the gun was a pistol, most likely a 10mm.

But this was good news, yet another raider dealt with. The gun, however, could be troublesome. With little time for thinking, Clive instead decided to act. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a simple grenade. He pulled off the safety pin with his teeth, rolling it out of the freezer towards the raiders’ feet.

Pinhead looked to his feet, a brow quirked. “What the hell is th-…”

Clive kicked open the door of the freezer, preparing Old Man. He peered through the scope, aiming for Pinhead. Yet again, the familiar recoil of the rifle hit his shoulder. The bullet pierced the raider’s head cleanly, interrupting the diplomatic leader’s sentence. BOOM!

Clive’s breath raced, adrenaline pumping through his body. He looked to the smoking doorway from the kitchen, grinning victoriously. A pleasant silence filled the house.

He waited for the smoke to set somewhat, before heading over to inspect the dead raiders. Smiling, he started his usual looting. He found Pinhead’s pistol, which was indeed a 10mm, put the safety on, picked up his satchel and placed the pistol inside. Clive did not himself really like pistols, but these days, if it could fire bullets, it sold. As he was going through Pinhead’s person in hopes for bullets, he blinked, his eyes widening as an expression of shock rose to his face. There was no fifth corpse. Before he could prepare himself, he felt a crushing blow to his left shoulder, dislocating it.

Pain spread through his body. Clive turned around as fast as he could, spotting the remaining raider, whom was wielding a baseball bat. Before he knew it, another blow came, hitting him in the ribs, on the right side. He coughed out from this blow, but forced himself to react. Even if the world was what it was, death, to him, wasn’t an option.

Gritting his teeth, Clive rose to his feet, rushing towards the raider. The raider took another swing at Clive, hitting him in the already dislocated left arm. Clive’s eyes were blurry from the pain, and he only nearly avoided biting his own tongue off.

The scavenger reached to his right boot with his working hand, pulling out a hidden combat knife. Even in his condition, he could see well enough to smash the knife into the raider’s throat as hard as he could. He could feel the raider’s neck breaking at the end of the dagger, blood gushing out. His hand was shaking as he kept the knife still, the raider slowly dropping the baseball bat, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. The raider fell to the floor, dead. The dagger having been stuck in the raider’s neck, took Clive down with it.

He released his grip on the dagger, getting up slowly. He walked dizzily away from the corpses, to the entrance. He looked to his left arm, swallowing. Gritting his teeth, he pulled on it with his right hand as hard as he could, pulling it back into place. The pain made him scream out and the scavenger fell to the ground, landing on his back.

His breath racing, his vision blurred further. A weak, victorious smile played on his lips. He laughed quietly. Silence finally filled the house for good.

Clive closed his eyes, deciding to rest for a while. It was good place to rest. No mines here… Right?