Chapter 41 “Not each.”

John walked back along the east road with Carol following. The Deathclaw hadn’t moved. He looked through the forest and found Joanne’s body, clawed and smashed against a tree. He gave Carol the pistol and sent her on a little. He took the dead Ranger in his arms and started walking.

Before long they reached the truck and wrapped Joanne in a blanket. He felt his strength failing but knew he had to press on. Finally John stopped. He weighted the blanket with rocks, walked Joanne out to the centre of the bridge they’d crossed, and slowly let the water take the Ranger home to be with Jolene.

John heaved the armour back onto its feet, Carol had to help. The multi-tool and hammer attachment helped bend and fold back the torn steel from the neck and sides. The T-51 held up well, despite losing pressure in a few pistons.

Carol had the sense to bring another blanket from the truck for Billy. She threw it over him before heading back to the truck. He had no idea what to do with him, and none came by the time they’d returned with the truck in tow.

The extra weight didn’t slow John down, the truck kept rolling along the road easily enough. They pulled off a mile out from the Four Corners.

“You sure you’ll be ok?” John asked Carol.

“He’s got it coming. I’ll be fine.” She'd helped John plan and had gotten angrier as the day went on.

“I know you will. I’ll be back soon.” John detached one of the clamp like hands from the armour and slid his holdout pistol up his sleeve.

He stepped back into the armour and gripped the other hand onto the horn of the Deathclaw corpse they’d dragged along. Ready to give Don Sal a lot more than what he’d sent them out there to get.

People stared and recoiled as John strode into the Four Corners. Some cheered, some laughed, others patted the thick hide. But most were afraid of the stomping armour and dead monster being dragged alongside.

John went to the rear of the theatre that served as headquarters for the three leaders, finding the door he'd noticed previously. “What the fuck!” Two members of The Family guarded the entrance, identified by formal suits and submachine guns.

“Don Sal is expecting me. Got his new trophy.” John growled, his mean face easily found.

“You killed this thing?” One of them poked at the sharp teeth and John flicked his arm to make it move.

“Yeah. Now I want to get paid and Don Sal wants the Baron to see this.” John knew about the tension between the Baron and Don Sal. The Baron would have to wait for the death he’d earned by killing knights and desecrating their armour.

The doors swung open and John stomped into the theatre, dragging the monstrous corpse behind him. John felt his adrenaline spike as he saw Don Sal stand. The Hunters pounded spears on the ground in approval, while the soon to be dead Baron sat motionless as ever in his steel and bone armour.

“Look what my people have brought me!” Don Sal stood and greeted John as if he had planned this. His gang started praising Don Sal and clapping for him. The short and pudgy Sal approached John, pretending to greet him in the over the top way The Family did.

“I told Billy I wanted a live egg, not a dead corpse. I’ll give you half. You’re lucky he’s dead beca—” Sal stopped talking as John grabbed him by the throat with his free hand.

“Lucky!” John yelled. “I’m lucky you sent us into the Baron’s territory without telling us about this thing!” John’s grip tightened as his anger flared. Sal’s eyes began to bulge and John relented just long enough for him to draw in a breath. He shook the head of the Deathclaw to open the jaws and used the strength of the armour to shove Sal’s head into the fang filled mouth. Panicked screams fell silent as John slammed the Deathclaw head down. The crunching impact severing Sal’s fat head and leaving his corpse twitching. The shock stunned the room.

“Shoot this fucker!” Sal’s number two, Gino, yelled. John had used the improvised distraction and slipped the pistol from his sleeve. He fired a burst of fully automatic fire over the heads of The Family, catching them off guard. John felt the nightmare, dreamlike state scratching to get out.

“Stop!” The Baron stood and boomed through his armour’s amplifier, it froze the room. “Don Sal broke our terms. This man saved me the trouble of killing him and is under my protection.” John had been ready to shoot his way out with the carbine wrapped in plastic and stuffed inside the corpse.

He’d thought maybe Sal’s number two would take advantage of the open chair but gambled that the Baron would offer him protection as a way to get at The Family. The Hunters, whose respect John had earned the moment he arrived, banged their spears in approval. John stared into the empty eye sockets of the mutant skull faceplate and began to back out. He grabbed the tail of Deathclaw as he left, not wanting to leave it for the Baron.

John decided to push the Baron’s offer of protection. If he could rile up The Family they might take out the murderous thief for him. He stomped through the slave market, looking for the best craftsman he could find. There were none of note. The ones that were even half competent waved him away or pretended to be shut. As he left, eager to be rid of this place, a man in a blood stained apron approached him.

“I’m the Butcher.” He waved an arm at the long shop front set into the corner of a building. “Let’s talk.”

John struck a hard fought bargain with the Butcher. He turned down the offer to sell the carcass out right and found a compromise. The Butcher would sell the Deathclaw meat and split the profits with John, who would keep everything else. The hide, the bones, tendons, and the head. John wasn’t going to let it become an adornment for the Baron, which he began to suspect had been the Baron’s intent.

The Butcher set to work, using motorised knives that cut with rotating chains. Rippers he called them. The meat stank and looked tough, all muscle with no fat. Yet the Butcher and his assistants carved it up with ease, half being sold raw, half being cooked on the other side of the shop.

It soon became the talk of the town. Raiders would prove their so called might by eating the meat. Hunters with painted faces paid a small fortune for the charred heart. People offered increasing amounts for the head, displayed prominently. John tried a bite of a cooked Deathclaw steak, it tasted like burnt rubber.

He sat behind the counter, trying to stay awake by drinking bad coffee. “Well met Huntsman.” A voice called out to John.

“The head isn’t for sale.” John answered without even looking.

“Nor should it be. Only those who can kill deserve a trophy.” John turned at the unexpected answer, seeing a bearded man in a charcoal black fur coat prodding at the Deathclaw head. “A fine kill.” John didn’t answer. “Here, take this. Come find us.” The man threw a stone triangle to John who caught it without thinking. It looked like an arrowhead, with etched markings. John looked up and the man had gone.

“The Lodge.” The Butcher answered John before he asked. “Bunch of lunatics trying to get themselves eaten. You’d fit right in.” John didn’t want to hunt anything, he slipped it into his pocket and forgot about it.

“Listen, you got enough on hand to pay me, I need to get going.” John felt himself speak through his mean face. “I’ve got people to buy and don’t want the best stock gone.” It made John sick to talk like that. The Butcher whispered to his assistant who went into the back.

“I’m a little short.” John had seen enough caps change hands to know the Butcher lied.

“Throw in some rope, and a couple of them rippers.” He pushed to get something useful.

John stood in the slave market, wearing the power armour and letting his new reputation work for him. He beckoned to the wiry slaver he’d intimidated days earlier and had him come down from the raised platform.

“All of them.” John hurled the sack of caps with enough force to knock the slaver back as he caught it.

“You’re light.” The slaver summoned what little courage he had and spoke back to the man in blood stained power armour. John took a single step closer, the torn metal like knives pointed at the slaver.

“When I come back next week, I’ll give you a good price on however many survive.” John’s lie sent a ripple of fear through the caged slaves, and a mistaken look of recognition from the slaver.

“Chain ‘em up, shops closing early.”

John stomped from the Four Corners, still drawing stares. A dozen men and women tied on chains held in one hand, the detonator to the explosive collars on a string around his neck. And a severed head of a Deathclaw gripped by the horn, left with eyes and skin. A trophy the savage people of the Four Corners called it.

The sight terrified the slaves further still. Especially as most of them carried heavy bones and thick hide, with the claws and feet left untouched by the Butcher.

Every time someone dropped something, or stumbled, the chain would yank tight and they would all whimper. John hated it, but knew he’d have to keep up the pretence a little longer.

John found the truck in the secluded ruin where he left it hours ago, and no sign of Carol. “I’m here.” A relieved voice shouted and she came from behind a crumbled wall. The flash of red hair made him think of Rosie.

“Help them.” John waited for Carol to take the detonator from around his neck, then all but collapsed out of his armour. He watched as enslaved eyes tracked the detonator. Some, who must have recognised Carol, looked more fearful thinking that she had become the cruel master now.

“Stay quiet and do not run.” Carol instructed, her manner coming from experience. She unscrewed the bottom of the handle made from pipe and let the batteries drop to the ground. “You’re free but you are not safe. Stay quiet and calm while we get the collars off.”

Carol used a pair of spanners to lever the first padlock open. It took effort but broke with a metallic snap. The first man she freed took over helping the others and Carol got John some water. “What happened?”

“Sal's dead and the Baron put me under his protection.” John wondered just how much he could trust the word of a murderous thief.

“You heard him speak?” Carol sounded shocked. “I guess he is a person and not cursed armour with a dead body inside.”

“I told you that’s the dumbest thing…” John trailed off as he saw that Carol had baited him. She forced a smile beneath tired eyes.

“What about them?” Carol looked at the people crying and hugging.

“I have no idea, but we need to get Billy home.” John could do nothing else for his friend, and wondered how Roxy would react.

“Everyone.” Grateful, tear filled eyes looked to him. “We are going to Shadowtown. I can get you a room for tonight and some food, but after that…” John couldn’t tell these people they were on their own, but he couldn’t think of another way to put it.

“Sir.” A skinny man in rags stopped clutching a sobbing woman and came forward.

“His name is John.” Carol sounded proud to know the name of their saviour, and hers.

“We have kin in Bakersfield, we...want…” The words seemed strange to the skinny man, but John took it as a good sign.

“Of course, but we can’t spare much food or water.” John nodded to Carol who began rummaging the truck.

“We’ll make it.” The skinny man sounded confident, yet almost like he didn’t expect to be allowed to leave.

“Then good luck to you.” John reached out a hand and the skinny man shook it, then left with the woman. “Any of you want to leave you can, but I’d feel better if you went on a full stomach.” A flurry of whispers and tears spread through the remaining ten.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

It took most of the night to reach Shadowtown. The deputies took a defensive posture, rifles aimed from the hollowed out and garrisoned building that served as a gatehouse.

“Stop there.” The deputy sounded firm, stopping John in what his training told him was a kill box. “Lose the tin can.” He stepped out of the armour, too tired to be insulted.

“Delivery for the Bathhouse.” John couldn’t think of anything else to say. The deputy's face dropped as he saw the Deathclaw head lashed to the bonnet of the truck.

“Get Billy on the wireless.” The deputy called back.

“He’s dead.” John felt a gut punch again. “Got his body, bringing it back for Roxy. Along with his cut of the loot.”

“Fuck, I liked Billy.” The deputy seemed upset, but stayed focused. “You know slavers get a trip to the top of the Tower right.”

“And a real short trip back down.” John remembered Lady Luck saying the same thing, it registered with the deputy. “Better than they deserve. These people are free. Ask them.” John sat on the ground, exhausted, and protected by the truth.

A wave brought more deputies out who separated the freed slaves into groups and questioned them. A face John half knew appeared. Thick beard, sharp eyes, offering him hot coffee from a flask.

“John, right, Robco’s friend. Bob, I’m the Sheriff, we met.” John stood to greet Sheriff Bob, the man Robco had the sense to introduce him to.

“I’m sorry, I don’t,” A raised hand stopped John talking.

“I’m good with faces, part of the job. We’ll escort you. I can tell Roxy if you want...part of the job.” Bob whistled and deputies made way. John dragged the truck inside, past the Sentry bot, through the gawkers in the market, stopping outside the Bathhouse.

John sighed as he left the armour, still feeling weighed down. Roxy stood behind the bar, her hands, and the hands of the close combat robot that now served drinks, hidden from view.

She broke when she saw John’s face, instantly knowing that if anyone else had survived, they’d be here instead of him. Roxy, the stunning hostess that wore red and curved knives, turned away. John didn’t look at the mirror behind the bar that always drew his attention, giving Roxy her moment and fearing what he’d see in his reflection. Roxy gathered herself and put three glasses on the bar, pouring from a bottle of Robco’s whiskey.

“Was it raiders?” She asked as John and Bob sat, without taking the drinks.

“Something like that.” John spared her the details of being hunted, and the greed that had brought it down on them. “He saved me.” John lied, to give her something.

“Did you get them?” Roxy sounded ready to head out herself.

“Yes.” John answered without any hesitation and saw Roxy let out a breath she’d been holding. She began to notice the freed people walking in with awed expressions. “They need rooms, food too. Put it on my—”

“It’s on the house.” John would never have guessed Roxy had worn a collar, not until that moment.

“We’ll see them right, get them where they need to go.” Bob put a hand on John’s shoulder. “You did good.”

“John, my house...” Roxy fought to keep her composure at hearing the truth in those words. “Is your house.” She touched his hand and raised a glass. “To Billy, he always made me laugh.” They all drank, then Roxy took the bottle and made it to the top of the stairs before collapsing into the arms of the other distraught women.

“We got this from here, well hold the truck and armour, it’ll be safe with us. You should get some rest.” Bob gave John a tempting offer, but he didn’t take it.

“I’m going home.”

“So this is the Bathhouse.” Carol smiled but her nerves showed through.

“It’s normally more fun, but yeah.” John knew he couldn’t bring her back to the Rest, Robco had to make that call, but he wanted to give Carol a little push. “You know I bet everyone is hungry. You should cook them something, if you want to.”

“Is that ok?” Carol seemed unsure.

“When they taste your cooking they won’t mind.” John smiled to try and ease the tension. “I’ll be back in a few days, let things settle and we’ll talk about what you want to do next.”

“I never thanked you.” After everything John had dragged her into, he didn’t expect a thank you.

“When I get back I’ll be hungry.” He hugged her quickly and left, walking absentmindedly out of the east gate and into the night.

John reached the forest lined road before stopping, perching on a wall and drinking the last of his water. He felt something tiny sting his neck, and knew it felt wrong. He felt drunk, and not in a good way.

Whatever the seemingly mild sting to the neck had done left his vision blurred and his limbs uncoordinated. Also making any kind of stress needed to activate the jet black device under the chainmail sleeve of his leather coat impossible to attain.

He knew he had to be close to Shadowtown. Maybe he could make it back, he tried to focus on putting one exhausted foot in front of the other, it didn’t last.

John couldn’t even stay standing as three blurry figures jumped him from the darkness, throwing him face first on the faded blacktop. Two knelt on him while the third strapped a length of rebar across his back. Leaving his arms fully outstretched and something tight around his neck.

“On your feet.” A man’s voice ordered him up while keeping a safe distance, as did the two behind. Cocking their assault rifles rather than wasting their breath on unnecessary threats. John had no choice, and got to his feet.

The poison faded quickly and the fear he needed moments ago returned, too late to be of any use. He couldn’t reach the folding pistol or the cut throat razor they missed, even if they were close enough to reach. John started to breathe deep and steady, trying to determine the facts on the ground.

After a minute of walking, his vision cleared enough to realise he couldn’t make out the man in front of him, to say nothing of the two behind him. John let himself stagger, clipping his trailing boot in the cracked blacktop and falling face first. Unable to do anything else with his arms held outstretched by the restraint. “On your feet.”

“I’ve been walking for two days straight. Give me a fucking minute.” John got to his knees, protected from most of the fall by the vault-suit under his stained jeans and check shirt. Leaning against the retaining wall he could just make out the three attackers. Not raiders, too well equipped, sidearms and assault rifles secured tightly. They weren’t Brotherhood either, scruffy, dirty, not well equipped enough. They didn’t even have matching boots.

Who are they, John thought to himself, then the thing around his neck started beeping. “On your feet.” The bald man stepped just close enough. John could see the repurposed radio in his hand, glowing with an ominous red light. “You see that? Dead man’s switch, my thumb comes off so does your head. Now move.”

“We’ll both die before I let someone make me a slave again.” John didn’t know if the nightmare, dreamlike state would make him fast enough to grab the detonator. But he would at least be closer than expected when it went off. “You slavers are real fucking scum.” John’s guess paid off instantly as one of the men advanced on him, angry at the insult.

“We’re not fucking slav—”

“Stop.” The bald man gave an order and the other obeyed. John realised who they were. Not slavers, not raiders, not Brotherhood. Mercenaries. Sara warned him about them. Soldiers without a cause, without honour, skills sold to the highest bidder. He pushed the similarities between them and being a man without a master out of his mind as he got to his feet, wondering how Sara would use the new facts on the ground.

“So how much are you getting paid?” They didn’t answer. “Must be a good price to risk kidnapping a Brotherhood Knight.” The two mercs walking behind him started whispering to each other, they clearly didn’t know who they’d grabbed. Which meant the Brotherhood didn’t send them at least. Not that John thought that very likely. Then again he didn’t think the elder would order a nuclear weapon to be armed to ensure his cooperation.

“As we speak there’s a Vertibird looking for me.” John lied, convincingly for once. Well aware that if a bird were on the way he’d have far bigger problems than these three. “You know what a Vertibird is right, because it’s the last sound you’re going to hear, if you’re luc—”

“Shut the fuck up.” One of the mercs behind him sounded rattled. He obviously knew what a Vertibird was.

“I’m just curious, five thousand, ten thousand, more. Whatever they’re paying you to take me back to the Four Corners, you aren’t going to live long enough to spend a single cap.” The bald mercenary turned, arming the explosive collar strapped tightly around John’s neck.

John stopped walking, dropping to his knees, lowering his head as if broken and submissive. Just a little closer, he thought. He focused on the beeping, trying to reach the fear induced adrenaline and finding nothing. The last few days had taken a heavy toll.

John got to his feet, staggering as slowly as he could, trying to buy time. He’d guessed right about the Four Corners, the bald merc’s overreaction gave him a big clue. Turning off the road to head south through the red forest confirmed it, and that the Baron’s offer of protection had been a lie.

The mercenaries believed a Vertibird could be coming. John knew the approach to the Four Corners meant crossing a lot of open ground. No way they’d risk that in broad daylight. Not with the thought of a quick death descending from above, and it would be light in a few hours. If he could buy time in the forest they’d have to stop. Then he could provoke them into making a mistake.

John staggered and stumbled through the trees, taking as long as possible. Claiming to be tired, and in a way that Sara would have liked, looking up every so often. That rattled the merc’s behind him, which rattled the leader. Before long the mercenaries were watching for fictional Vertibirds, and not watching him.

John stopped, looking up into the dark. Like he expected to see Valkyrie, with Tempest on the door gun. He staggered quickly to take cover. The rear merc's couldn't take any more.

“Fuck this, I’m not getting strung up by those tin plated bastards for a thousand caps.” John could hear the barely contained panic, he faked a laugh.

“You’re kidnapping a sworn knight of the Brotherhood for a thousand caps each!”

“Not each.” The rear pair answered him while glaring at their leader. John’s laugh became real.

“I tell you what, there’s about eighteen hundred caps in the hidden pocket of my coat, I’ll buy your water off you, and we can part as friends. Tell the Baron you couldn’t find me. Tell him I got in a Vertibird and flew away, which is what I’ll be doing any minute now. Not that you’ll see it, you’ll be in a bloody mess, draped in a Brotherhood flag.” Divide and conquer, John thought, leaning against a tree to watch it work. All the while bending the metal bar against his back, little by little.

The rear pair began gesturing to each other, it didn’t go unnoticed by the bald merc. “What’s the matter with you two bitches, he’s probably not even a knight.”

“We all saw him in the armour, you need training for that.”

“He probably found it, shit I’ve seen raiders wear power armour before now.” John had to laugh at the bald merc’s observation. He did find the T-51, but doubted he could have moved it an inch without training.

“Look, I’ll prove it. Check the holotag around my neck.” John tried to sound casual, calm, despite never being issued with a holotag. That wouldn’t matter if he could just get one close enough. It worked, one of the rear pair stepped a few feet nearer and John felt his nerves prime, ready to attack.

“Are you stupid?! Stop there.” The bald merc shouted. “Remember the contract. Dose him, don’t get near him and bring him in alive.” John wondered exactly what the Baron knew about him, but kept his focus on today’s set of problems.

He saw the implanted fear multiplying, panic and stress overtaking reasoning. “Too bad the Baron pays like shit.” The bald mercenary drew his antique revolver and stepped forward, raising the round barrel to John’s head.

From the corner of his eye John saw a shadow move, becoming a shimmer, that became a blur as it zipped between him and the revolver. The mercenary dropped to his knees. Pale, shocked, and disarmed, literally. John looked on in confusion as he tried to pick up one gloved hand with the other, the revolver still gripped tight in the severed arm.

Before either of them could make sense of what happened, the shimmer appeared behind the one armed merc. The shimmer fell away, turning into a person. Dressed in advanced, skin tight, black material. Hexagonal cells and embedded armour pieces. John felt the figure looking right at him through the reflective, angular, orange visor that looked too thin to be glass. With no sign of effort, a dark steel blade erupted from the merc’s chest and retracted just as quickly.

The figure became a shimmer again and the remaining mercs opened fire, hitting nothing but air and trees. John heard the blade rip through another chest behind him as the last merc made a run for his cheap life.

He made it a few feet past John before the figure hurled the sword through the air. John could do little else but watch as the matte finish blade span end over end, catching the fleeing merc in the back, knocking him off his feet and pinning his body to a tree with a sharp crack and a wet thud.

John felt his bindings fall away, cut with something sharp from behind, freeing his arms. The figure stood before him, blood sliding off the strange material and soaking into the ground. Hands clad in tight black reached up and pressed the orange face plates inwards. A hiss of pressurised air escaped as the face plates separated and retracted enough for the figure to pull back the hood.

John gazed up in relieved amazement. Red hair, impossibly green eyes, and the merest hint of a smile on full lips “Hello John.”

“Rosie…I,” Before John could stammer and splutter through thanks and apologies, Rosie’s green eyes rolled up and she started to collapse. The fear he couldn’t find came roaring back, not for himself, and he caught her in mid fall. “Rosie! Rosie, talk to me.” John looked at her pipboy, somehow visible through a section of the strange suit, and saw something that made no sense.

*Low battery*

“Rosie wake up! Tell me what to do, help me, please. I need you. Rosie...”

John breathed for the first time in a minute as Rosie stirred in his arms, his desperation pulling her from the stupor. She pawed at his arm, trying to get at the pipboy, but quickly shoved it away in frustration. She pointed and grunted, John scoped her up, then started moving fast.

More grunting and pointing brought them to a clifftop, John had been asking why for the last few minutes but only got grunts in return. By the edge John saw a half burnt campfire and Rosie slapped at his chest till he put her down.

“Are you cold? How do I help you Rosie? Please, this will be seen for miles.” John pleaded, eager not to bring more mercs up here. Rosie grunted and slapped at the ground. John lit the fire and threw his coat over her as she lay on the ground, she cast it off and rolled onto it, getting closer to the burgeoning flames.

The fire seemed to help Rosie as her shivering became less pronounced. John offered her access to his pipboy, happy to take the battery from his to save her. He waved the four pin connector at her, thinking of transferring power but knowing Rosie would have thought of that. He knelt, trying to breathe through fear like he’d never felt before.

Then he heard something that scared him more. The whirring stomp of power armour, drawing closer.

He’d invoked the Brotherhood as a bluff and now they’d found them both. John raised his arms, he’d surrender gladly if they could help Rosie. But as the stomp drew ever nearer, John drew the holdout pistol and fixed his stance. From the night came not the dull steel of a Brotherhood knight, but the white bone of a murderous thief. The mercs weren’t taking John to the Baron. The Baron had come for him.

“Look,” John felt cold dread run through him. “I’ll answer for what I did, but I’m getting her safe first. Get out of my way or I’ll start shooting, I can put a round in your eye from here.” John planted his feet and fully welcomed the nightmare, dreamlike state for the first time. “You hear me!” John roared as the Baron stopped, and spoke.

“Stand easy...Ronin.”