Fallout - Chapter 136: Confirmation Signal (Patreon)

The Commonwealth.

Afternoon sunlight washed over the newly repaired rooftops of Sanctuary Hills and caught in the dust kicked up by recruits conducting live-fire drills on the training grounds.

Everything looked peaceful.

But it was the kind of peace that resembled the lingering hum of a taut string, with a subtle tension hidden beneath the surface.

Nate wandered through the wasteland with a hunting rifle over his shoulder and Dogmeat at his side, searching aimlessly for game.

There was really no need for him to do the hunting himself. During the first few weeks after crawling out of Vault 111, driven by a mixture of frustration and confusion, he'd already hunted enough meat to cover Sanctuary Hills' needs for an entire year.

The cellars on the east side weren't even used for grain anymore. They were packed with frozen and cured meat instead.

He'd gone out today simply because he'd read a few more pages of Givens' account of America's westward expansion.

He had been working through the book on and off for several days. Every time he opened it, he felt as though he were swallowing a piece of red-hot iron.

An indescribable discomfort would rise from deep in his stomach, slowly climb through his chest, and eventually lodge in his throat, leaving him repeatedly swallowing without even realizing it.

How many nameless corpses lay buried beneath the beautiful phrase "Manifest Destiny"?

What kind of carefully constructed noose had been hidden behind the seemingly benevolent policies of the reservations?

How many systematic atrocities had been carefully polished over with neat historical rhetoric?

Turning each page felt like walking barefoot across broken glass, every step drawing another scattering of tiny beads of blood.

He had only just made it through the section on the Civil War. The massacres wrapped in grand words like "justice" and "unity" were still fresh in his mind, and now he'd run straight into this.

Too hypocritical.

Too shameful.

Those two thoughts kept rising like waves with the tide, one after another, until his mind began to drift. The edges of his vision darkened slightly, and his fingers unconsciously tightened around the spine of the book before relaxing again.

He desperately needed fresh air, air without the musty smell of old pages.

He needed something to do that didn't require him to think.

So he picked up his hunting rifle, called Dogmeat, and walked straight into the wasteland.

The wilderness and forests around Sanctuary Hills had long since lost much of their former wildness.

In the early days after Nate woke up, his hunting had bordered on uncontrolled slaughter. His mental state had been frighteningly unstable back then, and there had been something viciously cathartic about the way he hunted, as though every bullet were being fired into some invisible enemy.

Combined with the Minutemen recruits conducting live-fire training day after day without interruption, nearly every wild animal larger than a big dog had vanished within several miles.

The Radstag herds that once appeared around dusk, the Yao Guai that prowled around abandoned gas stations, even the occasional Deathclaw that wandered through the area had disappeared without a trace.

All that remained were Mole Rats, Radroaches, and the occasional Bloatfly drifting lazily overhead, barely sustaining what little barren life remained in the area.

Dogmeat trotted beside him with his nose close to the ground and his tail swaying slightly, maintaining the posture of a proper hunting dog.

But Nate could tell he was getting tired.

They had left before the morning dew had dried and kept walking until the sun began drifting west, crossing two stretches of ruins and a dried riverbed along the way.

Dogmeat's breathing had grown noticeably heavier. His tongue hung from his mouth, and every now and then one of his front paws stumbled.

When Nate tried to sling another freshly killed Mole Rat across his back, Dogmeat let out a low whine.

His entire posture visibly sagged.

His back hunched slightly, his head drooped lower, and even his tail stopped wagging. Only the tips of his ears still twitched faintly.

Nate crouched beside him and gently rubbed the thick fur around his neck.

Then he removed nearly everything Dogmeat was carrying, leaving only the two lightest pieces hanging on either side.

He vigorously rubbed Dogmeat's head, flattening his ears backward, then left his hand resting on the furry head for a long moment.

Dogmeat stuck out his tongue and wagged his tail twice.

Some of the exhaustion faded from his eyes, and his wet nose nudged Nate's wrist.

Nate reached into his pocket and pulled out another strip of beef jerky.

The base kitchen made it from Brahmin meat with nothing but coarse salt and tallow, roasting it until the edges were nearly burnt. It wasn't particularly good.

Dogmeat never cared.

Every time Nate gave him some, he happily swallowed it down, crunching away without complaint.

"You're such a good boy," Nate murmured, half to himself and half to the wind.

He stood, brushed the dust from his pants, and stretched.

"Time to get you fed properly. Let's head home."

The return route took them through a sparse patch of woodland.

A thick layer of dead leaves and decomposing debris covered the ground, rustling under every step.

The air carried the smell of earth, gunpowder drifting from the distant firing range, and a faint metallic scent.

Like rust, but not quite.

It was the smell of the wasteland.

The smell of radiation.

Complicated and stubbornly persistent.

It wasn't until Nate had made it out of Dunwich Borers alive that he'd truly gotten used to it.

Or perhaps "adapted to it" was more accurate.

Suddenly, Dogmeat stopped.

His entire body instantly shifted into high alert.

His nose snapped upward and twitched repeatedly as he tested the air. His ears stood upright like two blades, while his eyes locked onto a patch of brush ahead.

A deep growl, so quiet it was almost inaudible, rumbled in his throat.

Nate stopped as well.

His right hand instinctively moved toward the pistol at his waist, only to relax the instant his fingers touched the cold grip.

Because he'd seen it.

A rabbit.

More precisely, a rad rabbit.

It was somewhat larger than a pre-War wild rabbit.

Large patches of fur were missing from its chest, belly, and inner thighs, exposing skin covered in radiation-induced growths. The dark pink lumps were uneven and swollen, resembling scars left behind by severe burns, their surface taking on an unhealthy sheen beneath the afternoon light.

Two small hornlike growths protruded from either side of its head, like the beginnings of antlers.

Nate's eyes brightened slightly.

He remembered Anthony mentioning that these creatures had become quite rare.

Rad rabbits weren't particularly aggressive, and their tolerance for radiation was pitifully low. They simply couldn't compete in the same ecological niche with Mole Rats, which were tougher and reproduced at an absurd rate.

Their fur was dull gray and rough to the touch, yet some people swore that charms made from rad rabbit pelts could protect against radstorms.

Some even claimed they found more caps and ammunition than usual while scavenging if they carried one.

Nobody had ever proved any of it.

That didn't stop every decent-sized caravan from buying the pelts whenever they could.

Demand always exceeded supply.

Nate slowly lowered the Mole Rat from his shoulder, then brought up his rifle.

The stock settled firmly against his shoulder as his right eye aligned with the sight.

Through the scope, the rabbit was completely focused on nibbling the tender shoots of some plant.

Its tiny black eyes periodically scanned its surroundings, while its split upper lip worked with the speed of a miniature shredder.

It had no idea danger was approaching.

Nate watched the harmless little creature through the scope.

It couldn't fight back.

All it knew how to do was run.

Every so often, one of its hind legs kicked against the ground, scattering a few fallen leaves.

His finger settled against the trigger.

Then stopped.

For some reason, he couldn't bring himself to pull it.

Suddenly, an overwhelming sense of absurdity washed over him like a freezing wave, swallowing him from head to toe.

Nate looked down at his hand.

His knuckles were slightly pale from the pressure of his grip.

There was an old scar between his thumb and forefinger, one so old that even he could barely remember how he'd gotten it.

The descendant of executioners.

A man who had killed without so much as blinking.

And now he was hesitating over a rabbit.

"I really am a hypocrite..." he murmured, bitter amusement in his voice.

The words seemed directed at himself as much as at the silent forest around him.

Just then, a dark shape streaked across the sky.

A crow swooped down.

It landed lightly on Nate's shoulder, its claws gripping the edge of his collar.

Nate turned his head toward it.

The crow's feathers were glossy black, almost as if someone had carefully groomed each one with a fine-toothed comb. Every feather was sharply defined.

Its eyes were dark red.

Deep within the lens-like pupils, faint electronic light flickered like a pair of miniature signal lamps.

Them again.

"Didn't expect my luck to run out this quickly."

Nate sighed and lowered his hunting rifle, letting the barrel point toward the ground.

His voice held a resigned calm, but beneath it was a trace of guarded caution.

He straightened and brushed the dirt from his hands.

"All right. What does Father want?"

A synthesized human voice emerged from the miniature speaker inside the crow's chest.

It was slightly distorted and carried a metallic quality, like someone speaking through an aging radio.

"Father orders you to return to the Minutemen's underground factory immediately. M7-91 and M7-62 have transmitted confirmation that they are ready."

Nate's expression barely changed at the two designations.

But his fingers tightened around the rifle without him realizing it, his knuckles paling before slowly relaxing again, as though he were silently calculating something.

"They're both ready?"

"Yes. Both have completed all verification procedures. The time window is set for midnight tonight."

Nate exhaled slowly.

His breath formed a faint cloud in the cool air before quickly fading.

"Good. I'm ready too."

He turned to leave.

After two steps, he stopped.

His back went rigid, almost like a statue suddenly frozen in place.

The crow on his shoulder tilted its head slightly. One red electronic eye flickered as though it, too, were waiting.

"But before that... I want to ask about Nora. How is she?"

The crow answered immediately.

"Your wife is doing very well. All vital signs are stable, and her emotional state is normal."

Nate was silent for a second.

The pause felt like a pebble dropped into a deep well as he waited for the echo.

His eyes settled on a dead leaf in the distance, though he wasn't really looking at it.

"What did she think of the cake?"

The crow went quiet.

This pause lasted longer than the previous one, as though whoever was on the other end was weighing how to respond.

Nate could hear faint electrical static in the communication channel, hissing like distant rain.

"You don't need to test us like this."

The electronic voice carried a peculiar tone, somewhere between advice and warning.

"Father treats your wife so well it's almost enough to make someone jealous. He personally checks her diet and sleep quality every day."

"Answer me."

Nate's voice instantly turned cold, like air rising from beneath a sheet of ice.

"Otherwise, our cooperation ends right now. Believe me, if I file a report this second, General Tan will be back with the main force in the field by tonight at the latest."

He paused.

"And you know perfectly well that the teleporter at the base will finish calibration this Sunday."

The crow fell silent again.

This time, the silence lasted even longer.

Long enough for the wind to sweep several dead leaves against Nate's boots.

Long enough for the distant call of some unknown bird to sound once before the forest fell silent again.

Long enough that Nate was almost ready to leave, his foot already beginning to turn.

"Your wife said the sugar tasted a little off."

The corner of Nate's mouth moved slightly.

The box of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes he'd given her had been made partly with corn syrup instead of entirely with refined white sugar.

Most people would never notice such a subtle difference.

Nora wasn't most people.

She had always been exceptionally sensitive to that particular kind of cream cake. A single taste was enough for her to tell that something was different and even identify what was wrong.

Only she could have given that answer.

Nate reached his conclusion.

That "Nora" had genuinely received the cake.

The information settled inside him like an anchor sinking to the bottom of deep water, steadying something that had been churning beneath the surface.

His shoulders, which had remained subtly tense, relaxed slightly.

"I'll go back and get ready. Then I'll head to the base."

His voice was calm again, though there was the faintest trace of relief at the end.

The crow spread its wings and took off.

Two powerful beats carried it rapidly upward, tracing a smooth arc against the lead-gray sky before it disappeared above the trees.

By the time Nate returned to Sanctuary Hills, the sun was already sinking westward.

Long shadows stretched across the dirt like black ribbons, running from his feet all the way to the warehouse wall.

He unloaded his catch by the entrance and piled it together.

Then he deliberately gave Dogmeat two extra strips of beef jerky.

Dogmeat's eyes immediately brightened.

His tail wagged hard as he sniffed the jerky with his wet nose before snatching it up in one bite.

Nate crouched and vigorously rubbed his head.

His hand remained there for a long moment, thumb brushing the softest fur behind Dogmeat's ear as he felt the warm, steady pulse beneath his palm.

Beat after beat.

Solid.

Calm.

"Dogmeat, keep an eye on the place. I've got something to take care of. I should be back tomorrow night."

As he spoke, Nate looked into Dogmeat's eyes.

Brown.

Loyal.

Always trusting him.

There wasn't the slightest trace of doubt in them.

Dogmeat tilted his head as though he understood.

His tail wagged twice more, then he quietly lay down and rested his chin on his front paws, watching his owner.

Nate stood.

Without looking back, he walked through the settlement gate.

His figure gradually shrank beneath the deepening twilight, blending into the vast, silent wasteland until only a vague outline remained.

Then even that was swallowed by the gathering shadows.

...

The banks of the Charles River.

The sun was sinking toward the horizon, turning the entire river into a flowing ribbon of dark gold. Flecks of light shimmered across the surface like molten metal drifting with the current.

Danse stood at the end of a ruined bridge, completely encased in T-51 power armor.

The armor had been polished to a bright shine, every plate reflecting the final rays of sunset with a cold, imposing gleam.

Behind him stood a mixed squad of twenty soldiers, all equipped with T-51 power armor.

Half were Brotherhood of Steel Paladins.

The other half were Minutemen veterans.

Every one of them carried plasma weapons and thermobaric bombs.

They were carrying out a cleanup operation.

Their task was to eliminate the Gunners and Raiders occupying bridges and illegally extorting tolls from travelers, restoring basic security along the Charles River transportation route.

Danse had just finished clearing one bridge.

Three Gunners had been killed on the spot.

Their blood spread across the bridge deck and seeped into cracks in the concrete.

The remaining seven immediately dropped their weapons and surrendered.

Now they crouched beside the bridge supports with their hands behind their heads, saying nothing.

Every so often, one of them would sneak a glance at the cold muzzles pointed in their direction, then quickly lower his eyes again.

The Gunner leader stiffened his neck and shouted.

"Okay, I admit our toll was a little high, but that's hardly enough for you people to come after us!"

He glared at them.

"Besides, we just got here yesterday! We haven't collected a single cap yet!"

Danse didn't answer.

He merely gave the man a cold glance before contacting Brotherhood headquarters and briefly reporting the situation.

Before long, a Vertibird approached from the direction of Boston Airport, the roar of its rotors growing steadily louder.

Brotherhood soldiers escorted the prisoners aboard for transport back to the airport.

The Brotherhood had only recently arrived in the Commonwealth and was desperately short on manpower.

Most Gunners had undergone strict military training and possessed decent physical conditioning and discipline. They were perfectly suited to serve as expendable troops on the front lines.

Jace had privately warned Maxson about exactly how they were to be treated.

Under no circumstances were they to receive honor or glory.

Whatever achievements they earned could never be associated with their names.

In short, they could be rewarded, but they could never be given recognition.

Danse watched the Vertibird rise into the air until the fading roar of its rotors disappeared into the distance.

The bridge became quiet again.

Then the communication module built into his power armor gave a short, clear chime.

An encrypted message appeared in the upper-left corner of his display.

There was only one line.

"Underground infiltration mission. Commence."

Danse turned toward the mixed squad behind him.

The servos in his power armor gave a faint hydraulic hum as the massive metal frame came to life, like some mechanical beast waking from rest.

Soft hisses came from the joints.

"All personnel, listen up. The cover operation is over. Check your gear. We're starting the real mission."

His voice came through the helmet's internal amplifier, steady and forceful.

Not one member of the squad asked a question.

They simply lowered their heads and began checking their weapons and equipment.

They cycled their weapons’ actions to confirm that rounds were chambered.

Battery packs were removed and checked for charge.

Scope reticles were adjusted.

Magazines were slapped firmly to make sure their catches were secure.

Their movements were practiced and synchronized, like perfectly meshing gears inside a precision machine.

Not a word was wasted.

Danse gave the river one final look.

The setting sun was disappearing behind the distant ruins, casting its last light across the water.

That light broke into countless shifting golden fragments that drifted with the current, almost like some silent signal being passed along.

Then he led the squad toward a drainage pipe along the riverbank, half-submerged beneath silt and overgrown vegetation.

Dark green moss coated the rim of the opening, mixed with some kind of mutated bioluminescent fungus that gave off a faint blue glow in the twilight.

It looked like an open mouth waiting for them to walk willingly inside.

One by one, all twenty figures disappeared into the darkness.

The metal shells of their power armor scraped against the pipe walls with a low grinding sound.

Sparks flashed briefly in the dark before being swallowed by the sound of running water and heavy footsteps.

Only several rows of deep footprints remained along the riverbank, pressed far into the mud.

Soon enough, the night dew and rising water would erase those as well.

As though nothing had ever happened.