Crawlout Through the Fallout - Ch. 01

Hello, gentle readers! I like to try different sorts of stories, so for this one, I went with something completely different. I'm quite a nerd, who likes fantasy, sci-fi, and gaming, so I decided to let this story just happen. It takes place in the world of the Fallout video games--specifically, around the area of Boston, the setting of Fallout 4. I tried to write it so that even if you've never played the games, you'll understand what's going on, and if you have, there will be familiar references aplenty.

This is a four-part story, and it is all already written. I will post the chapters a few days apart. I tried to work a little sexy time into each chapter.

To those unfamiliar with the games: in the world of Fallout, in the year 2077, America was involved in a nuclear war, during which select people were able to find safety in the Vaults--underground shelters where the government and their corporate partners Vault-Tec conducted social and psychological experiments on their tenants. Eventually, the vaults opened and released people into a radioactive wasteland filled with barbarians, mutants, and the ruins of the old world. Civilization slowly rebuilt itself ... or tried.

To any familiar with the game, this story takes place after the completion of the main story and during the downloadable content (DLC).

As usual, I apologize in advance for typos and such. I welcome all feedback, whether good, bad or indifferent. Thanks for checking it out and I hope you enjoy!

#

I crouched behind the ruined wall, my breath caught in my throat. I tried to still the heaving of my lungs; just a short sprint filled them with a burning sensation and my heartbeat banged in my ears so loud I was sure it would give me away. For about the fifth time since leaving Ratchet Falls, I cursed myself for not being in better shape.

I was glad it was dark. Dark was when the monsters came out but also when we humans could hide. Pops always told me, "Visual acuity. So many of the mutants out there hunt with their eyes, just like us." Of course, it had been a yao gui, hunting by its nose, that had taken Pops from me, so I had to accept that wisdom with a grain of salt.

My ears caught the skitter of rubble--just a shift of a few fragments of rock and shattered brick shifting against one another. I held my breath. Then I heard it: a grunting sound, on the low end of the human voice register. If I could have put an emotion to it, this one sounded frustrated and hungry, which is no doubt why it had chased me.

Another scrape and my heart nearly leaped from my chest. The noise had come not five feet from me.

It's right on the other side of the wall!

I was in some kind of old house. Half the structure had collapsed, though both walls of the corner I had wedged myself in still stood. Each wall contained a picture window, long bereft of glass, but the corner was intact and dark. Still, if the fiend stuck its head through the window to look inside--

I squeezed the stock and barrel of the rifle in a death grip. I have no idea where Pops had gotten the thing. The boss of Ratchet Falls, Jim Bradson, discouraged the townspeople from having heavy firearms, and his armed bully-boys enforced that "suggestion." But Pops had somehow kept this one hidden. It was a relic from before the war. No one else in Ratchet Falls had anything like it. Not even Bradson's forces. Pops had tinkered and modified the hell out of it, re-chambering it for.308 rounds, putting on a recoil-compensating stock, and extending the barrel length. He'd been so proud of his work, saying that it was, "a true combat rifle and not a piece of shit pipe-pistol like everyone else carries." When he died, I'd been upset that he hadn't been carrying his gun with him. It might have saved his life.

At the moment, I was just glad to have it myself.

The groaning stopped and I tensed. A second later, I heard the monster shuffling away.

I almost wept with relief.

Feral ghouls were not intelligent, nor were they particularly persistent. Once I was out of sight, it would have forgotten about me in a matter of minutes. But if it had seen me, its howls would have brought its eight packmates running as well. I was prepared to fire only as a last result, since the sole shot I'd taken had blown the head off the first ghoul, which had only alerted the others. So I'd run. I could have stood and fought but the ferals are mindless, and fearless. No matter how many I shot, they'd keep coming and even though I could have dropped half of them before they got to me, the other four would have torn me apart.

Assuming I didn't run out of bullets, I thought. I hadn't dared to take the clip out to check but I think I was down to my last ten rounds, which was the downside of Pops's tinkering: a more powerful gun but also a rarer caliber of ammo. For citizens of Ratchet Falls to get bullets on the sly was difficult enough; to get.308 rounds was even harder.

That's life, right? Always a trade off.

I listened for a few more moments but heard nothing. I was tempted to hunker down and stay where I was for the night but with ghouls in the area, it was too risky. And I was still too close to Ratchet Falls.

At the thought, my mouth tightened in a thin line.

There was no way Bradson was going to give up so easily. I'd seen the ledger. The amount of caps Pops owed him frightened me and Bradson's insinuation that I could pay it back--with heavy interest, of course--by "entertaining" his men on a semi-permanent basis was even more alarming. Besides that, Bradson only had control of the town as long as he had intimidation as a weapon. If the daughter of the town rebel could cut and run on her father's debts, others would start to wonder if they could do the same, undermining his authority. He had to chase me down, for the sake of his own rep, and take Pops's debt out of my hide ... something I had no intention of letting him do.

I didn't do myself any favors when I shot him in the leg, even if deserved it ... which he fucking did.

When it had been quiet long enough, I chanced a look outside. Pale moonlight spilled over the open space around the house. I couldn't see any ghouls, though they had a tendency to lie down in debris or tall grass and wait for prey to pass by.

Have to risk it.

I crept from the house and inched my way east. I tightened the straps of my backpack and gave a forlorn glance back to the house. Under normal circumstances, I would have searched the place. Even if scavengers had scoured the building several times over, they always overlooked something. Empty bottles, cans, discarded toys, and old metal pails had value to the right traders and I couldn't afford to overlook any source of caps. But the zone was just too hot to hang around.

I held my breath all the way across the clearing to the sparse woods. Inside the treeline, I paused and listened again. Cricket-song was reassuring. If there was anything dangerous on top of me, the bugs would have fallen silent. I traveled a few more miles into the woods before finding a place to bed down for the rest of the night. I snuggled under my thin blanket, with my hand on my rifle.

As I fell asleep, my last thought was the same question I'd been asking myself every night for a while.

How the hell do I get myself into these situations?

I opened my eyes to the twitter of birdsong and the dim light of an early morning. I stayed still until I could orient myself and let my senses sample my surroundings for any threats. After a few minutes, I had detected none, so I stood, stretching my arms and legs. My stomach growled and I dug into my pack to see what I had left. I came up with a couple of carrots and a few dried strips of molerat meat. Molerat tasted like crap but it was safe once it was cooked and would sustain me, so I choked it down, packed up, and moved out.

I strolled through the sunlit woods for about two hours before I spotted a cut in the trees, of a wide road splitting the forest. Broken chunks of pavement dotted the dirt expanse.

I paused and crouched behind a tree. Roads meant travelers and travelers meant danger. But it was headed in the right direction, so maybe I could follow it.

I'd just girded myself to take the first steps when a slow but steady hoofbeat reached my ears. I waited. A few moments later, a middle-aged man atop a wagon drawn by a fat brahmin came into view from the west. The man was dressed in a vest over a ragged shirt, trousers, and a cap perched at a jaunty angle on his head. I recognized him.

Matty Franks had been coming to Ratchet Falls every other month or so for the last few years. He was supposedly out of the Commonwealth, the ruined area around Boston, and traveled around to many of the outlying communities, trading whatever he could. His wagon always contained the most interesting items, though Pops and I could ever only afford bits and scraps. Pops said that since Ratchet Falls was the westernmost stop on Franks's trade route, we were only offered whatever he had left after trading at other towns. Even so, I always enjoyed looking at the wonders in which he trafficked. Much of it was stuff from before the war.

Now, looking at him, and decided that since he was heading east--and away from Ratchet Falls--I gambled.

The man pulled the reins when I stepped from the trees, bringing the cart to a halt. His hand fell to the pistol on his belt as he peered at me. For its part, the brahmin stopped as soon as its master signaled it to do so. Both bovine heads looked at me with equal amounts of apathy.

"Mr. Franks," I said. "It's me. Beth Arnaut. From Ratchet Falls?"

His eyes narrowed. Franks glanced from side to side as if expecting an ambush. Then, as if satisfied nothing was happening, he nodded to me. "Yes, of course. Hello, Beth. I'm surprised to see you out here."

"I'm sure. Can ... would it be possible to get a ride?"

"I've already been to Ratchet Falls." His look grew speculative and he rubbed his chin. "There's lots of folks there looking for you."

"I've heard."

Franks doffed his cap. "I was sorry to hear about your father. He was a good man."

"Thank you. And I'm not interested in going to Ratchet Falls. I'd like to ride to the Commonwealth, if I could have one."

"That's a long way."

I grasped the pouch around my neck, containing my meager collection of bottle caps. "I can pay. I also have some salvage I can barter--"

"I might could give you a ride but not for caps."

"For what, then?"

His eyes roamed up and down my body. "Some nighttime company."

I sighed.

#

I was no stranger to sex, nor sex as an exchange. Life in the wasteland was hard, which meant that if one wanted to survive, one had to avail themselves of all possible resources--and as a young woman, my body was a resource. Ratchet Falls and the surrounding communities held no shortage of men who would happily trade goods or services for a roll in the hay.

The year before, a pair of local hunters--the Davis brothers--had bagged a six-hundred-pound mutant stag, a rarity in these parts. They'd been over the moon, since that amount of meat would not only feed them for months but also make them a tidy profit. Families around Ratchet Falls had offered them caps, booze, and supplies. I offered them six hours to do whatever they wanted with me. I was slender but had a nice chest, with green eyes, long reddish-blonde hair (though I normally kept it pinned in a bun behind my head), and had been told I was pretty, so they both jumped at the chance. Both brothers were in their mid-twenties, like me, and both had a wiry musculature and weren't bad-looking. Neither of them was too rough, though both were quite vigorous. Yancy Davis, in particular, owned a cock that barely went soft the whole time, so by the end of the six hours, every orifice on my body was sore and I was tired and filthy. But the amount of raw stimulation meant I'd come a few times myself and more importantly, I had fifty pounds of dried meat for Pops and me, plus half the deer hide, which would form new boots for the two of us. Bill Davis had even given me a bunch of caps, as a bonus. I guess they were both satisfied with my performance.

Before the brothers, I'd made a few such deals with both locals and travelers. I'm not sure I ever really looked forward to it but for the most part, it was tolerable. Sometimes it turned out to be fun and I'd orgasm now and then ... and because I was discerning in picking my own deals, I never got cheated and most of my partners were decent people.

There were risks, of course. I wasn't worried about pregnancy. When I was about ten, I'd been bitten by a radroach and suffered an acute case of radiation poisoning lasting several weeks, which had ravaged my system. A doctor from neighboring Green Valley had detoxed me but told Pops that because of the damage the radiation had done, I likely would never be able to carry a child. My periods were irregular and rare, so I guess he was right. The longer I lived, the more okay I was with that. I couldn't imagine bringing a child into my crappy world. Disease was also a threat, but a remote one. There were a number of medics in the surrounding countryside and most had a stash of drugs that could cure a sexual disease. Pops used to say the pre-war world was so corrupt and violent that the only things manufactured in abundance were drugs and bullets. So unless I was unlucky to contract one of the rare strains that would cause your skin to fall off in the first day or so, even disease was a minor concern.

No, I think the real risk was to my relationship with Pops.

When Pops found out about my time with the Davis boys, he'd gotten very upset and yelled at me. I'd been stunned to the point of tears, thinking that I had done it for the two of us and he didn't appreciate it. Before I could process that, all the anger had gone out of Pops and he'd started crying. He had said he was sorry for yelling, but that hated me selling myself, that he never wanted me to do that, and that he'd failed as a father and protector if I did. He had begged me not to ever do it again. I didn't think he had failed at all and his logic felt misplaced to me. But the conversation had been so disturbing, that out of respect for his wishes and his love, I had not attempted another deal like it again, or even considered it.

Until today.

#

I stared at Franks, trying to process his request. He'd never been lecherous or crude on his visits to Ratchet Falls, and no one I knew had ever accused him of cheating them. He'd always been polite--if you can count asking a woman to prostitute herself as "polite."

My conscience tried to talk me out of it. He's setting you up. He'll get what he wants, then turn around and sell you back to Bradson, to work off your father's debt on your back.

I pursed my lips. Franks was already heading east and we were two days out of Ratchet Falls. While he might give me up if Bradson and his goons caught up to us, I couldn't see him backtracking to deliver me. For one, I'd be able to tell if we weren't heading east and know he was scamming me. But more than that, it was a four-or-five-day round trip to get back to where we stood. That would put him way behind on his trading schedule which, in the long run, was worth far more caps to him than my skinny ass ever would be. I'd just have to watch myself.

The annoying voice in my brain tried a different tack. You want to be his whore for the journey back? How is that any different than what Bradson wants you to do?

My lip curled. The difference is this is my choice, not Bradson's. I tried to put a stern look on my face. "You take me to Boston. No kicking me off halfway."

"You can ride all the way to Diamond City with me if you like."

"And you feed me. Good food and purified water. None of that dirty water shit." As I spoke, I tapped the rad reader on my wrist. It wasn't super accurate but the wind-up device could tell the difference between safe food and that which was riddled with radiation.

He nodded.

I squared my shoulders. "Deal."

Franks leaned over and extended his hand. "Climb aboard, then."

I let him help me into the wagon. He gave me a small grin as I settled in and shook his reins. The two-headed brahmin immediately started forward, dragging the wagon with it. One head glanced back at me with narrowed eyes and snorted. I had the momentary thought that it was making a comment about my added weight and I resisted the urge to vent a frustrated laugh.

My newfound companion looked at my rifle. "How are you set for bullets for that?"

"I have enough." I had counted that morning but didn't want to tell him that I only had eleven rounds left.

"Good, keep it handy." His eyes scanned the woods. "Folks in Green Valley and Smithburg tell me there's more raider activity in the area than on my last trip."

I shivered without thinking about it. "Raider" was a generic term for the bandit gangs roaming the countryside, stealing and killing as they went. They were known to rape and torture people to death. One of the reasons Jim Bradson had risen to power was through a promise that he and his people could keep raiders away from Ratchet Falls--a promise upon which he had thus far delivered.

If raiders attacked us and I couldn't get away, I was going to follow one of Pops's standing pieces of advice: save the last bullet for myself, rather than be captured.

Franks reached behind the driver's board, fished around a moment, and withdrew two sealed bottles. He offered one to me.

I shook my head. "I don't want to have to pay for anything else."

"This one's on me. You can even keep both bottlecaps."

I hesitantly took the bottle. It had been a long time since I had tasted Nuka Cola. Traders who visited Ratchet Falls sometimes had bottles of the pre-war drink but Pops had always considered it a frivolous expense and I had to agree with him. Any product that literally had a unit of currency used to seal its container was frivolous. He had splurged for us one time, and we'd split it.

Now, I stared at the drink, not quite believing I had my own bottle in my hands. Franks produced a small bottle opener, popped the cap from his, and held out both cap and opener to me. I took them, did the same, and shoved both caps in my pocket before raising the bottle to my lips. The cola fizzed and bubbled and a sweet aroma wafted past my nose. I took my first sip and shivered as the sugar and carbonation tickled my tongue.

Franks chuckled. "I can tell you're not used to it. Take it slow and enjoy it."

I did both.

My companion made small-talk as we traveled. I noted that he avoided mention of Pops, Jim Bradson, or Ratchet Falls, except in roundabout ways, such as saying, "Remember that time I came to town ..." by way of telling a story. I appreciated his tact. He shared his lunch with me as we rode. They were circular patties of lightly-toasted meal and meat that looked flaky and delicious. Franks called them mirelurk cakes. I had no idea what a mirelurk was but the cakes were indeed tasty and after eating, I felt more full than I had in days. As we chatted and ate, I watched him from the corner of my eye.

I could have shot him. I could have pulled my gun, disarmed him, and tied him up. I could have taken his ride for the first day, then run off when we stopped. All of those things, and more, rippled through my mind at the speed of self-preservation.

I didn't do any of it. I was too afraid.

If I tried to kill or subdue him and failed, I'd probably die instead. If I left him, he might chase me down and do who knows what. My life was not worth much--no life in the wasteland was. But it was mine, one of the only things I owned, and I wanted to keep it. Hours passed and Franks had not made a hostile move or even uttered a threatening word. My rifle was powerful but because of its length, it was an awkward weapon at point-blank range. Sitting next to him on the driver's board of the wagon, he could have pulled his pistol and I would have had no good way to bring my weapon to bear. He hadn't, so I assume he intended to honor his word.