Fallout - Chapter 101: Echoes of the Wasteland (Patreon)

News of the alliance between the Minutemen and the Brotherhood of Steel spread quickly across the Commonwealth.

It traveled from Bunker Hill to Park Street Station, then south to the ruins of Quincy. Even isolated Ghoul settlements learned about it through newspapers brought in by merchants.

...

Deep within the Glowing Sea stood an Enclave outpost.

In the base's command room, the colonel stood before a display screen.

On it was a distant photograph of the Prydwen hovering above Boston Airport, its massive hull stark against the blue sky.

"It's confirmed," an officer reported from behind him.

"The force aboard the Prydwen is far larger than a standard expeditionary deployment. Maxson brought at least half of the eastern branch's elite forces with him. One company of T-60 Knights and two squadrons of Vertibirds."

The colonel was silent for a moment.

Then the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

"So the Capital Wasteland is undermanned."

"Yes, sir."

The colonel did not respond immediately.

He turned toward an old map hanging on the wall, showing the current military situation along the eastern coast of the United States.

"Forward the report."

The intelligence reached the Enclave's current East Coast headquarters.

The senior leadership argued over it for an entire day.

Their final conclusion was clear.

First, returning openly was out of the question.

After their headquarters in the Capital Wasteland had been destroyed years ago, the Enclave's forces on the East Coast had suffered a devastating blow.

That war had left too many scars.

Especially when it came to the Lone Wanderer who had emerged from Vault 101.

The Lone Wanderer had been born in 2258.

He was twenty-nine now, right in the prime of his life.

They would not dare return openly even if someone gave them the courage.

Second, however, there was still an opportunity.

The Enclave's intelligence network had gathered information on Protector Casdin.

He was a typical conservative officer within the Brotherhood of Steel.

A capable soldier, certainly.

Disciplined.

Decisive.

Experienced in combat.

But put him in charge of the entire Capital Wasteland?

The man knew only one method.

Station troops.

Suppress dissent.

Maintain order through force.

That kind of rule could produce results in the short term.

Over time, however, resistance would inevitably spread.

And that was when the Enclave could return to one of its old specialties.

Backing proxies.

Stoking unrest.

They could support several anti-Casdin armed groups in the Capital Wasteland, provide them with weapons and supplies, and let them wage guerrilla warfare against the Brotherhood garrisons left behind.

The harder Casdin cracked down, the fiercer the resistance would become.

Once the time was right, the Enclave could return to what it did best.

Become the "deep state" manipulating everything from behind the scenes.

It would be safer.

They would not have to worry about the Lone Wanderer showing up at their doorstep.

And it would be cheap.

A few shipments of weapons meant nothing. Any one of their bases had more than enough to spare.

As for the Commonwealth outpost, the orders were simple.

Keep a low profile.

Stay hidden.

Wait for an opportunity.

After reading the response from higher command, the colonel issued his orders.

"The three camps outside the Glowing Sea are to enter full concealment status. Reduce all surface activity to the absolute minimum. Cancel all aerial patrols. Switch communications to directional encrypted channels."

"Yes, sir."

The colonel was not worried about the Minutemen or the Brotherhood launching a direct attack.

In the Glowing Sea, small elite power armor teams could use their mobility to infiltrate quickly, strike, and withdraw.

But sending in a large force would be a logistical nightmare.

A slow form of suicide.

The Minutemen's missiles were troublesome, but once the high-energy laser cannon sent by headquarters arrived, they would no longer be a serious concern.

He had heard that the weapon was a pre-War defensive system once sent to the capital by Mr. House, supposedly designed to intercept ballistic missiles.

For various reasons, however, it had never been put to use.

...

The Institute.

The lights in the Directorate chamber dimmed briefly, then returned to normal.

It was another periodic fluctuation in the Institute's power system.

Lately, they had been happening more and more often.

Several division heads were reviewing the latest intelligence gathered by their network.

The alliance between the Minutemen and the Brotherhood of Steel had caused considerable shock inside the Institute.

But once the initial reaction passed, they were forced to confront an awkward fact.

No matter how they analyzed the situation, the conclusion was the same.

If the Minutemen learned the Institute's exact location, it would not matter much whether they used missiles or not.

The Institute would be doomed either way.

So rather than obsess over that, they were better off focusing on the more immediate problem.

The Enclave had been interfering with the Institute's teleportation systems for some time.

But that was not something the division heads needed to panic over.

When the Institute had originally been constructed, it had been connected to the C.I.T. power grid.

Those same power lines were also capable of carrying data.

If wireless transmission was being jammed, they could simply switch to a wired system.

The idea had been proposed long ago.

But wired transmission was less flexible than wireless, and it required receiver ports to be installed on the surface.

That increased the risk of exposure.

So the plan had never been formally adopted.

Now, however, Enclave interference had become severe enough to disrupt normal Institute operations.

Shaun personally ordered the backup plan activated.

Allie Filmore, the Institute's chief engineer, installed a signal coupler onto one of the main power lines and loaded the teleportation data onto the power carrier.

She then sent several Synths already stationed on the surface to install a temporary receiver in an abandoned electrical room inside the main building of the C.I.T. ruins.

The transmission took about five seconds longer than wireless teleportation.

But it was stable.

The data remained intact.

No structural abnormalities appeared.

It worked.

Allie let out a long breath.

"Finally. We can get around that damn interference."

The mood inside the Institute immediately lightened.

Then their attention naturally shifted to the next target.

The Railroad.

The conflict between the Institute and the Railroad had gone on for far too many years.

The Railroad constantly interfered with Institute property.

They stole Synths.

Erased their memories.

Hid them throughout the Wasteland.

Worse still, they had recently leaked critical Institute intelligence to the Minutemen, directly worsening the Institute's energy crisis.

This time, the Institute's intelligence division finally took the matter seriously.

It did not take them long to locate the Railroad's headquarters.

Beneath Old North Church.

But the information had come too easily.

Suspiciously easily.

Someone in the conference room finally raised the obvious question.

"Is this really the headquarters of an intelligence organization capable of tracing operations all the way to the West Coast?"

Shaun tapped the table lightly.

His voice was cold and decisive.

"Whether it's a decoy or not, we strike first."

Justin Ayo nodded.

"Understood. I'll organize a Courser assault team immediately."

"Prepare for every possibility. If it is a trap, crush the trap along with them."

Everyone focused on the operational plan.

No one noticed Madison Li sitting in the corner.

When she heard the decision, her fingers shifted slightly beneath the table.

As though she were calculating something.

...

West of Sanctuary Hills lay a sparse stretch of woodland.

Calling it a forest was generous.

It was little more than crooked dead trees and half-withered shrubs casting thin shadows beneath the Wasteland sun.

Dry leaves and gravel covered the ground, crunching softly underfoot.

Nate moved through the trees with four new recruits following behind him.

"Hold formation," Nate said without looking back. "Watch both flanks and your rear."

"Yes, sir!"

Then instinct struck him.

The kind of instinct sharpened by years spent on the edge of death.

Like an invisible needle pricking the back of his neck.

Something was tracking him.

Nate stopped immediately.

"Sir?" one of the recruits asked quietly.

Nate did not answer.

He tilted his head slightly, listening.

Wind.

Dry leaves.

Distant birds.

Everything sounded normal.

But the feeling of being followed was unmistakable.

"Stay here. Don't move."

He unslung the lever-action rifle from his back and disappeared silently into the shadows between the trees.

Before the war, Nate had been one of the army's best.

Tracking and counter-tracking were second nature to him.

He made a wide diagonal sweep and circled around from the flank.

Several minutes later, crouched in the shadow of a dead tree, he finally saw what had been following them.

Feral ghouls.

A small group of them.

Seven or eight, gathered in a shallow dried riverbed and sniffing toward the area where Nate had been moments earlier.

Nate raised his lever-action rifle and aimed at the head of the leading Ghoul.

Then he stopped.

A powerful sense of familiarity rose inside him.

As if something buried deep in his memory had just been touched.

Nate narrowed his eyes and studied the group carefully.

His gaze finally settled on the smallest one.

That Ghoul was noticeably smaller than the rest.

It looked like a child.

Its clothing was torn and filthy, but Nate still recognized the details immediately.

A red baseball cap faded almost gray.

A black-and-white striped short-sleeved T-shirt, ripped nearly to pieces but still recognizable.

Blue jeans worn through at the knees, exposing gray-brown rotting skin beneath.

Nate's pupils contracted sharply.

His chest tightened.

Chris Rosa.

Ms. Rosa's son.

The energetic little boy who loved kicking a ball around the neighborhood.

Who looked forward to Halloween.

Who was obsessed with superheroes.

Especially the Silver Shroud.

Nate remembered the morning the bombs fell.

Chris had been wearing those exact clothes, running around the neighborhood.

Now that smiling little boy was gone.

What remained was a mindless feral ghoul wandering through the irradiated wasteland.

Nate's grip on the rifle began to tremble.

He forced the emotion down and looked at the others.

Their ruined clothes.

The faint remnants of familiar facial features.

The strange mixture of recognition and decay beneath their rotting skin.

One by one, he knew them.

Mr. and Mrs. Parker.

The retired elderly couple from the neighborhood.

Mr. Parker had been a retired mailman, always cheerful, always telling the local children stories about things that had happened on his delivery routes when he was younger.

Mrs. Parker had been a kind old woman who baked excellent apple pie and brought an entire tray to every neighborhood gathering.

Nate remembered the day the bombs fell.

Mr. Parker had stood at the entrance to Vault 111, shouting angrily at the armed soldiers.

"Why won't you let us in? Who cares whether we're on the list? This is bullshit! We live here!"

When one of the soldiers raised his rifle in warning, Parker backed down.

But he kept muttering angrily under his breath.

Mrs. Parker had been beside him, sobbing uncontrollably.

"We're going to die... we're going to die..."

Then there were Mr. and Mrs. Donoghue.

The middle-aged couple who lived around the corner.

Mr. Donoghue was an outgoing corporate manager who spent weekends tinkering with his old muscle car in the garage.

Mrs. Donoghue had a booming voice and a laugh that carried half a block.

Every emotion she felt showed plainly on her face.

On the day the bombs fell, they had stood at the Vault entrance together.

Mrs. Donoghue stamped her feet in panic, her voice rising.

"It's useless! I told you we should've gone to my mother's!"

Mr. Donoghue clenched his fists.

"Your mother doesn't even have a basement!"

He took a breath, anger giving way to regret.

"Why didn't we sign up?"

"Let us in! Damn it!"

Then there were Mr. and Mrs. Sumner.

A young couple who had only recently moved into the neighborhood.

Mr. Sumner was quiet by nature.

He worked as a draftsman for a construction company and rarely had much to say.

But that day, the normally reserved man had been the first to rush toward the soldiers.

"Please! You have to let us in! We have nowhere else to go!"

His wife clutched his clothes tightly, her face pale and her lips trembling.

"We'll die out here! All of us!"

She looked up at the heavily armed soldiers, eyes red with tears.

"Please. Have mercy."

And then there was Ms. Rosa.

The neighborhood widow.

An elementary school teacher raising her seven- or eight-year-old son alone.

Nate remembered her standing at the Vault entrance with Chris, crying out,

"I have a child! Please! Let us in!"

When they refused her, she broke down.

"He's just a child!"

Chris hid behind his mother and asked in a small, confused voice,

"Mom, what's happening? Why is everyone yelling?"

Ms. Rosa had even shouted toward Nate as he was allowed inside.

"Please! Help us! They won't let us in!"

Chris had joined in.

"Can you make them let us in?"

But Nate had been powerless.

All he could do was watch them remain outside.

Then the bomb fell.

Everything disappeared.

These people had been his neighbors.

Acquaintances.

Friends.

People who had lived beside him before the war.

People who mowed their lawns on weekend mornings.

People who walked their dogs down the street at dusk.

Now they were all Ghouls.

Mindless.

Empty.

Nate lowered his rifle.

His thoughts were a mess.

He had never imagined he would see them again like this.

In a dead patch of woodland.

At the end of his gun.

As prey.

Then his attention slipped for one second.

His boot came down on a dry branch.

Snap.

It was not loud.

But in the stillness of the woods, the crack sounded like a gunshot.

Every Ghoul in the riverbed turned at once.

Seven or eight pairs of cloudy white eyes locked onto Nate.

Low growls rumbled up from deep in their throats.

Then they charged.

They moved with frightening speed.

Their limbs swung at unnatural angles, as though their joints were no longer constrained by normal anatomy.

Each step bit hard into the ground.

Nate cursed under his breath.

But he could not raise the rifle.

That was the Parker family.

The Donoghues.

The Sumners.

The Rosas.

They came looking for me.

Nate reached down and unhooked the lasso from his waist.

He had always liked Westerns before the war.

Since waking up, he had occasionally used a lasso to catch Radstags.

Nate drew a deep breath, spun the rope once, and threw.

The loop cut through the air and dropped cleanly over the leading Ghoul.

Mr. Parker.

Nate snapped his wrist.

The rope tightened.

Then he yanked sharply to the side.

Parker lost his balance and slammed to the ground.

One.

Two.

Three.

For the next five minutes, there were no gunshots.

Only struggling.

Pulling.

Binding.

When Nate finally looped the rope gently around the ankle of the last Ghoul, Chris, and carefully brought him down, sweat covered his face.

With Nate's skill, fighting a handful of feral ghouls should not even have counted as a warm-up.

But those five minutes had drained him completely.

Physically.

Emotionally.

He had deliberately held back the entire time.

He used only the lasso.

No lethal force.

Eight bound Ghouls lay scattered across the ground.

Still struggling.

Still snarling.

Still staring at him with cloudy eyes.

Nate stood over them.

And stared back.

The recruits heard the struggle and came running.

When they saw what had happened, they stopped dead.

"Sir... these Ghouls..."

Nate's voice was hoarse with exhaustion.

"Take them back to Sanctuary Hills."

"Take them back? Sir, they're feral ghouls."

"I said take them back."

The recruits exchanged uncertain looks.

Then they obeyed.

Carefully, they began lifting and escorting the bound feral ghouls away.

Nate remained where he was.

He watched his former neighbors being carried off one by one.

For a long time, he said nothing.

Wind moved through the dead trees with a dry rustling sound.

Then Nate murmured something quietly.

Even he could not make out the words.

Maybe he had said nothing at all.

Maybe he simply did not know what there was left to say.