Crawlout Through the Fallout - Ch. 01

I'd have to as well.

We traveled without incident for the remainder of the day. With every mile, I felt the pull and threat of Jim Bradson fade into the distance. I also felt a mounting sense of apprehension, since I knew what was coming when we stopped.

Franks waited until the sun reached the horizon before steering the brahmin and wagon off the road and into a shallow glen. He unhitched the pack animal and staked it to a twenty-foot lead so that it wouldn't wander off. The brahmin gave no sign that it planned to do anything of the sort. As soon as Franks staked it, both heads immediately fell to devouring the tall grass. He declined to build a fire and I understood why. Light drew attention.

Franks split his dinner--a hearty vegetable stew--with me. We ate in silence, though his attention lingered on my chest. I could see the eagerness in his eyes, which I understood in a perverse way. Not a lot of over-fifty-year-old men got to fuck a woman half their age without paying for it. I turned back to my dinner, concentrating on getting every morsel out of the bowl that I could. By the time we'd finished, I was full but my stomach still trembled.

Might as well get it over with.

I looked at him. "I suppose now you'd like to ..."

His nod was scarcely visible in the dim twilight.

In a way, I was glad it was dark. "Give me a moment, please."

"Sure." He fetched a pair of heavy blankets from the wagon and spread them on the ground. Then he stacked my bowl with his. "I'll clean these and be back in a few." He walked to the other side of the wagon.

I slipped out of my flannel shirt, denim pants, and boots. The cool night air chilled my skin and my teeth chattered--though whether from cold or anxiety, I wasn't entirely sure. I didn't bother to undo my hair from its bun, Maybe Franks was the kind of guy who liked to pull on long hair but I wasn't giving him the excuse. I slipped between the blankets, which were warm, at least. I lay on my back, pulled the top blanket to my chin, and waited.

Since Franks hadn't returned, I slid my left hand between my legs. My fingers slipped between the folds of my sex until I found the hidden nub. With soft slow strokes, I nudged and teased my clit and was relieved to feel myself getting wetter. Madeline Craft, one of the older women in Ratchet Falls, had once told me in a snarky tone that most men couldn't find a clitoris if you gave them a map and a headlamp. I'd laughed but I wasn't sure it was a matter of couldn't. Most simply had no incentive to bother. Sex in the wasteland was usually for men's pleasure. But I'd learned that if I spent a few minutes getting myself ready, and my juices were flowing, it didn't hurt as much, if at all.

Franks came back a moment later. Seeing me tucked in his bedroll, he quickly shed his clothes. He was skinny but that wasn't a surprise; few people got a chance to overeat. His prick was already hard, which was also a relief. I'd half-expected I would have to help him rise to the occasion and I wasn't looking forward to that either.

He climbed in the blankets next to me. His body was surprisingly warm. I'd expected him to smell--most people I knew only bathed on occasion--but his scent was mild. Franks wasted no time, crawling between my legs. I let him and spread my thighs. The tip of his hard cock pressed against my mound, so I reached down to guide him, then inhaled sharply as he slid inside. I'd done a better job priming myself than I had thought. The moment his dick entered me, my pussy became a sopping mess.

He began to thrust his hips against mine. I squeezed my abdomen each time his cock pierced me and he groaned. I admit I groaned a little too. I was nowhere close to coming but he actually felt pretty good. His weathered hands groped my breasts. Franks buried his face in the crook of my neck. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, closed my eyes, and tried to concentrate on the physical sensation.

Fortunately--or sadly, I wasn't even sure by then--Franks didn't last long. Within several minutes, he picked up his pace and his moans grew more strident. A few seconds later he stiffened and shot his load inside me. His breath escaped in a hiss. I stayed still, glad he was almost done.

Franks collapsed against me. I patted his back and waited. He lifted his head, breathing hard. "Wow, Beth that was ... was ..."

"Yeah," I lied, "for me too."

He slithered out of me. "We, uh, should probably get dressed, in case something happens and we have to move quickly."

"That's fine."

We dressed in the faint light of the quarter moon. I cleaned myself as best I could, glad to simply not ache. My pussy tingled and I entertained the notion of sneaking a quick five minutes to take care of it myself but decided not to. For one, it would be telling Franks he didn't get the job done. So many men were sensitive about that and I didn't want to create drama. And two, it was dark and dangerous. Any distance I took to get enough privacy to diddle myself would put me at unnecessary risk.

I pulled my pants up, vowing that if I ever again got somewhere I could be safe and at peace, I was going to stroke myself until I was raw.

Franks waited until I was dressed. "Beth?"

"Yeah?"

"Would it be all right if, uh ..." His voice was uncertain.

"Would what be all right?"

"If we slept next to each other? For warmth?"

He left out for comfort, for feeling another human soul nearby. I understood better than he thought I did. And he had been warm, on this cold night. I smiled to myself. "Yes, I'd like that too."

We snuggled under the blankets next to each other. I rolled on my side away from him. Franks nestled behind me and curled one arm over my hip. The heat from his body was reassuring.

I took a deep breath. The sex had been boring but not insufferable. Four days to get to Boston and Diamond City. I could tolerate it that long.

#

Unfortunately, as it turns out, I didn't have to deal with it quite for four days.

We rode together for two more full days. To his credit, Matty (he'd stopped being "Mr. Franks" when we started fucking) was generally okay, though his intermittent condescension made me want to punch him. He'd held up his end of the bargain and shared his food and water, though not another Nuka Cola, which I wouldn't have minded.

The second night, I braced, waiting for him to ask me for sex but Matty told me he was too tired. We ate, then curled up to sleep. He was out almost immediately but I lay there for a little while. I think that was the moment I really understood why a younger woman might hitch herself to an older man of means. That woman might get provision and protection and the demands on her body would be lower than if she was with a man her own age and the man would get a younger, healthier, fertile wife. Pops had told me it was common, though I'd never thought about it too much, or wanted it for myself. But I understood the appeal as a contract, for mutual benefit.

I snorted. Given my luck, if I tried to set up something like that, I'd end up with the horniest, most broke old man in the region.

We fucked again on the third night, the session being almost an exact copy of the first time, and no more satisfying. After we'd dressed and curled up to sleep, though, my libido got the better of me. Matty had passed out as soon as he lay down. I waited until I was certain that he was asleep, then snaked my fingers inside my pants. My forefinger found my clit and started gentle circles, teasing and pressing. I clamped my lips shut, trying to stifle my moans. Already keyed up from our brief sex session, it didn't take too long for me to come. My orgasm radiated out from my loins, making my abdomen shake and limbs turn to jelly. I bit my lip to keep quiet, though if Matty had been awake, there's no way he would have failed to notice me trembling. He, however, slept the sleep of someone who had just gotten their rocks off. I panted for a moment, catching my breath and as soon as I did, I joined him in restful slumber.

But those were just our nights--the brief interludes of two mammals giving into their basal instincts to eat, to rut, to huddle for mutual warmth. During the day, we talked. Matty asked polite questions about me growing up, my life with Pops, and other things about living in Ratchet Falls. At first, I was a little tentative to badmouth Bradson or discuss anything that might come back on me, but then I rationalized that if Bradson ever found me, I was dead either way. So I told Matty about some of the troubles we'd had, about how Bradson and his men kept guns away from people and extorted food and caps from the townspeople in exchange for their "protection." I tried to keep the bitterness from my voice as I described how Pops kept falling further and further behind his payments, and the threats Bradson had made to turn me into a whore for his men to work off the debt.

Matty had been supportive without being overly sympathetic. He'd even chuckled at the last bit, saying, "Sounds like your Pops got in over his head. I try to be a smarter man than that." He had smirked and squeezed my knee.

I had no idea if he thought I was somehow impressed by his comparison to Pops but I wasn't. Though I'd gotten comfortable that he wasn't going to murder me, that moment was as stark a reminder as any that all Matty Franks and I had was a business arrangement and nothing more.

In exchange for me opening up, he answered my endless questions about Boston and the surrounding area known as the Commonwealth. He told me about how the people had struggled to rebuild following the war and about the monstrosities that crept through the ruins. I was familiar with the radroaches and molerats--both much bigger, meaner, and more irradiated than their smaller cousins--but the descriptions of other monsters left me cold. He mentioned the giant-insectoid stingwings and bloodbugs that infested the area around Boston, both of which I'd heard of but never seen. He talked of the green-skinned super mutants, the monstrous radscorpions, and the more I heard, the more apprehensive I got over the whole trip.

"And then there's the deathclaws," he said.

I uttered a nervous laugh. "Those are just fairy tales."

He eyed me. "You think so?"

I didn't know what to say. Not for the first time, I wondered if I shouldn't have stayed in Ratchet Falls.

But we talked about other things too. He told me about Diamond City--called the "Jewel of the Commonwealth" by some--which was built in an ancient sporting arena from the pre-war days in the heart of old Boston, and about how it had withstood attacks from raiders and super mutants, and even the Gunners, an organization of mercenaries who killed for profit. "It's a good place to live and trade. It's been almost two months and I'll be glad to see it again. Of course, every time I leave, I wonder if I'm going to come back and find it's been overrun."

"How many people live there?"

"Around a thousand, I think."

I wondered if my disappointment was visible on my face. I'd been expecting a thriving community, not one that was scarcely bigger than Ratchet Falls and the surrounding villages. "Is it the only settlement in Boston?"

"Well, there's the cesspit over at Goodneighbor. Run by a pretty mean ghoul named Hancock."

A flinched. "Ghoul?"

"Yeah, a regular one." He glanced at me. "You've seen a non-feral ghoul, haven't you?"

"No."

"Before they go nuts, ghouls are people, just like the rest of us. They turn into ghouls because of the radiation. Sure, they get withered and wrinkly and their noses fall off but they pretty much stop aging. Some have survived as ghouls since the war. Sadly, the radiation rots their brains, slowly makes them forget they were human. It might take decades but sooner or later, they all go feral, which is why Mayor McDonough was right to throw them all out of Diamond City. They and some of the criminal human types went over to Goodneighbor and formed their own community. They're maybe five hundred strong. Lots of chems and guns get dealt. Whores, too. Things go south for you, there might be work there."

My hands tightened on the grip of my rifle.

Matty either didn't catch or ignored my anger. "There's Bunker Hill, about the same size as Goodneighbor. Lots of traders go through there but I hear they're synth sympathizers so I stay away."

"Synths?"

"Yeah, synthetic humans. They look like us but they ain't. They're like robots, all machine and metal on the inside but plastic on the outside. The most advanced ones, you can't tell apart from a real person. The Institute sends them out to spy on us and sometimes, people disappear and get replaced by a synth that looks just like them." Matty's brow creased and his mouth twisted to an ugly snarl. "Fucking Institute! They'll end up killing us all."

I had no idea what he was talking about, so I decided to move on. "Okay, Bunker Hill sounds out. Is there anything else?'

Matty scratched his chin. "Well, there's a few dozen small settlements out there. They pop up now and again, sometimes around a farm, with a family or three, maybe ten to twenty strong. They may last a few months or a year but most get raided, and the settlers are killed or flee."

I sighed. The situation was sounding more and more bleak.

"There are ..." Matty hesitated. "There were the Minutemen."

"Minutemen?"

"Yeah, the citizen-soldiers of the Commonwealth. For a while, they were pretty influential. They protected the common people, you know? They worked out of an old stone fort on the coast and there were lots of them. Then about fifty years ago, that fort was attacked by some monster. Came out the sea, they said, and laid waste to the place. They never quite recovered from that. Then, right before I started this trade run, the best Minutemen left were ambushed by Gunners in Quincy, just south of Boston. Most of them were killed or abandoned the cause. Last I heard, there was one stalwart fella leading some survivors of Quincy to the northwest. He might have been the last Minuteman alive." He shrugged. "Of course, that was almost two months back. I suspect raiders, rads, and beasts have finished them off by now."

I didn't know what to say. Matty told the story in a matter-of-fact tone but for some reason, the idea of people fleeing for safety, with killers and monsters dogging their heels and picking them off one by one, made me sad.

On mid-morning of the third day, Matty turned the cart off onto a side road, heading to the northeast. I pointed. "What was wrong with the main road?"

"We have to go north to get around the Glowing Sea." Without waiting for me to ask, he added, "That's where the nuke that almost hit Boston landed. Highly irradiated, and still ravaged by storms that can fry the skin off your bones."

I nodded, assuming he knew what he was doing.

It was maybe an hour after that. I sat beside him, in a light doze and not really paying attention when his harsh whisper got my attention. "Beth!"

My eyes snapped open but I kept my voice low. "What is it?"

His hand moved towards his pistol. "There's something out there."

I opened my mouth to respond but before I could get the first word past my lips, a shot rang out. Matty grunted and folded in on himself. He fell from the driver's seat and tumbled off the wagon. Bereft of his hand on the reins, the brahmin came to a sudden halt.

I couldn't tell from which direction the shot had come so I took a chance and dove off the cart to the same side Matty had fallen. Luck was with me; two more shots thumped into the far side of the wagon.

I took one glance at my companion and my heart sank. The bullet had hit him square in the chest. His entire shirt was soaked in darkening crimson.

Matty's voice was hoarse. "Beth ... back of the cart ... I have ... stimpack."

That was great. Combined with pressure on the wound, the combination of plasma, coagulants, steroids, and painkillers in the stimpack would probably keep Matty alive ... if I had any idea what a stimpack looked like or how to use it. Pops had only talked about a stimpack and vaguely described it to me. I had never seen one.

Another bullet impacted the wagon, followed by hoots and howls, and the laughter of at least three distinct voices.

I glanced under the cart and saw a head and shoulders peek from behind a tree forty feet away, and hands clutching a gun. I raised my rifle, aligned the iron sight, and squeezed the trigger. My shot caught the attacker in the arm, spraying blood. The man yelled and flopped out of sight. More bullets struck the wagon.

Lucky shot. That's twice lucky in ninety seconds. I'm not going to try for three.

Matty groaned. Blood leaked from his mouth, his nostrils. He was hemorrhaging so fast. "Beth ... please ..."

A voice roared in my ears. I am not sure if it was a memory of Pops speaking to me or just plain survival instinct.

Run.

I stared at him.

I'm sorry, Matty.

I dug at his waist and yanked the pistol from his holster.

He grabbed at me but his movements were slow, his fingers feeble. "No, no ... you can't."

I snatched my backpack off the driver's board and, bent over, scuttled into the trees as fast as I could. Another round clipped a branch not far from my head.

Behind me, Matty's dying voice cried out, "No. Don't ... leave me ..."

I ran, tears coating my cheeks. Behind me, the twin shrieks of the injured--the yowl of our attacker and the lower moans of my erstwhile lover--pursued me into the woods. Two more shots rang out, silencing first the former, then the latter.

I paused a hundred yards into the woods and almost wished I hadn't. The moment I stopped, the sound of pursuit reached my ears. Panic spurred me on. I ran another quarter of a mile before I came to a creek with a five-foot embankment on either side. The sounds of pursuit had not faded; a harsh male voice drifted through the trees. Panting, I gazed at the clear water below.

No choice.

Cold poured into my boots and soaked my pants. It was icy enough to tear a gasp from my lips. I glanced back and noticed the embankment I had just come down had a bit of an overhang, over a swirling backwater. Tall reeds formed a curtain in front of it. It was not perfect; someone standing right on it would see me. And I would have to crouch in the icy water.

Maybe raiders don't like getting wet. And if not? The first one that sticks their head in gets one between the eyes.

I slipped under the overhang, trying to keep my teeth from chattering. I tucked the pistol in my belt and my rifle across my knees to keep it out of the water, hunkered, and waited, with my heart hammering in my ears.

"You see her?" I froze. The man's voice had come from just above me and a little to the right.

"Sure," responded a woman's voice. I winced. She sounded more barbaric and bloodthirsty than he did. "I'm just standing here looking stupid because I see her."

"She must have got to the other side."

"Brilliant fucking deduction, Wade."

"As always, Wilhelmina, you have such a golden tongue."

"How many times do I have to tell you it's 'Willie?' "

"At least one more," he said with a laugh.

She snorted. "Mom and Dad would roll over in their graves if I shot you for being an asshole."

"Mom and Dad didn't give a shit about us when they were alive. Why would they start now?" He paused. "Damn it, I think we lost her."

"Too bad," Willie said. "Sounded like a nice piece of hardware she was carrying. Bigger pop than a.38. Plus, she got the old man's pistol."

"Screw the guns. She looked like a prime piece of pussy."

Willie's voice was disdainful. "Is that all you ever think about? You're as bad as Twitch back there."

"I'm better than him now since he's dead."