Chapter 24 Old friends, New Faces

The next few months passed in a flurry of activity. Protectron bots, wired in sequence, were marched in ten at a time like a chain gang. Almost sixty rebuilt by Bill and his team at the factory and sent on their way.

Virgil spent everyday in the ruins, helping strip anything even half useful. Each evening he went straight to the open eleventh floor of the tower. This had become the snipers nest for the Shrikes, as Suzette nicknamed them. She never asked him about them. He told himself he’d tell her, eventually.

No one really questioned them. People chalked it up to being out in the wastes too long. They were all glad to have the cover they provided.

Most of the survivors from the shelter had been office workers before. There were a few dozen police and former service personnel, nearly all of them out in the wastes most days. And would be for as long as the weather held.

At night Virgil ate a meal with Suzette in the spacious corner suite they shared. Together they would plan, using their combined knowledge to build something that would last in this harsh world.

Six weeks later, the rains started. And Virgil could start the first part of the plan. “You know, a long time ago, I used to throw parties when they were testing H bombs in the desert.” Virgil spoke as Suzette got ready.

“And here I was thinking tonight was my idea.” She teased him from behind an ornate dressing screen she’d been restoring. “How do I look?” She’d altered a workman’s jumpsuit into pants and a jacket.

“Very on brand. Wasteland chic.” He put out an arm for her to take, and headed upstairs to the party.

Everyone had gathered on the open eleventh floor. Drinks being served, music playing. It had been a busy time, and with winter approaching things would be quiet. Virgil took his position on the north side, watching the skies.

“You should say something.” Suzette brought him a drink, and stood by him.

“No, you should. They’re your people.” He didn’t want to be the centre of attention, not any more.

“Everyone, if I can have your attention for a moment.” Suzette stepped out, dinging her glass with a bottle cap. “Virgil would like to say a few words.” She threw him a wink and stepped back.

“I ain’t much for making speeches. Look, I know how hard it’s been, how hard you’ve all worked. Tonight we take the first step towards something new.” He raised his glass of moonshine cut with fruit juice. “To first steps.” The crowd toasted his words and their shared hope for something better.

A flash of green on the horizon caught his eye. “This is it!” The chattering crowd fell silent, and the thunder clap sounded. Virgil pressed the detonator.

Shaped charges cut steel girders with surgical precision. Charges set in walls shattered concrete like glass. Then the buildings began to topple like dominoes, forming what would be the start of a wall. The crowd cheered. The thunder covered the noise. The rain kept the dust from spreading too far. And the deathtrap ruins had become fortifications.

Virgil woke from dozing in a chair. He stood and took in the view from his corner suite. In the thirty years he’d lived here, it had changed dramatically.

Once he’d seen nothing but decay and rot. Empty ruins that served as gravestones for the world that was. Now life bloomed again. The radio broadcast brought people in. The security and stability kept them here.

Soon a bustling marketplace took hold. Then trade routes began to open up. Life returned to a simpler pace. Existing on craftsmanship and bartering, as it had been through most of history.

A knock at the door pulled him from the window. He’d been expecting it and dreading it in equal measure. “Hey Virgil.” Will Junior, Bill’s eldest, had come for him. “Pops is asking for you.” Will’s voice broke. Virgil couldn’t look at him, he just followed him to the hospital.

Cancer had ravaged Bill, like most of the first generation of survivors. He'd gone from a strapping man to skin and bones in less than a year. “Virgil, my old friend.” Bill greeted him as soon as came in.

“Watch who you’re calling old. If you think I won’t hit a senior citizen you’re wrong.” Virgil gently ribbed his dear friend.

“Can we have a minute.” Bill’s sons, and their families filed out.

“How you feeling boss?” Virgil asked, sitting by the bed.

“About as good as you look.” Bill joked, his laugh turning to a hacking cough.

“Now be nice.” Virgil took a bottle of real whisky from his coat. “Or I’m not sharing.”

“I need something.” Bill asked while staring out the window.

“Name it.” Virgil answered, ready to do anything for his friend that helped him back into the world.

”Watch out for my boys.” Bill looked him right in the eye, fearful for his sons.

“Of course, but you don’t have to worry, you raised them right. They’re good men, kind this world is gonna need.” He couldn’t help but think of Clara and their child.

“They’re better off without you.” Mr. House sneered from the empty chair across the bed. Virgil glared at him, telling himself Mr. House would never get this close to anyone sick.

“You know, I never cared what you did before. Different world, different rules. But whatever it was, you’ve punished yourself enough. Let it be.” Bill always had a perspective he treasured, one he felt unsteady without.

“I’ll try Bill.” Part of him wanted to tell Bill everything, but couldn’t inflict that on his friend.

“Good. Now, back to work.” Bill smiled and sent him on his way. He started to say goodbye, but Bill spared him that.

The passing of the first generation shook Virgil and his people. It was one thing to be told you’re going to outlive teenagers, quite another to experience. The lack of shared experience, shared knowledge, shared memories of the world that was, widened the chasm further. Slowly his people became more inward looking.

Virgil set himself up in the auditorium of the reclaimed school. Skylights kept the room filled with daylight from dawn to dusk. He offered repair services, traded this and that. However the bulk of his income came from weaponry. This not only made him rich, technically, it kept him in the know. Anyone could pick up a crude pipe gun in the market. Anyone serious had to come to him.

Shadowtown, as it had come to be known, served as the closest thing to a city for hundreds of miles. A centre for trade from smaller settlements that sprang up.

He heard all manner of rumours in his shop. Tales of strange beasts stalking the wastes. Whispers of a military power rising in the west. Word of a dead city in the desert protected by robots. He actually believed that one.

Virgil had taken a job, mostly out of boredom. A group of scavengers ran into trouble, and a nest of ferals. They’d offered him a percentage to clear them out.

He’d walked most of the day, reaching the long abandoned street in the late afternoon. Every few feet he took a micro fusion cell from his pack. A sharp squeeze with his prosthetic broke the casing and he tossed it to the ground.

A building on the end of the street caught his eye. Old even before the bombs fell. The steeple fallen. Wooden doors rotted off the hinges. “Why is it always churches?” He mused out loud, seeing the meat wrapped skeletons stir as he walked between the pews.

Something glinted in the corner of his eye. His pity for these wretches, and the fear of becoming one, vanished. Shuffling towards him, a figure in a tattered purple suit, clutched a gaudy gold crucifix. And something behind it, a cylinder no bigger than a beer can. A white phosphorus grenade. Shrivelled fingers gripping it tight, one seized around the pin.

He knew what happened. The preacher wanted to burn, yet his courage had failed, and he’d turned. Still clutching the incendiary grenade. Virgil forced himself to step closer, mirroring the shambling preacher.

The base motor functions of the near lifeless husk responded and fixated on him. Virgil drew within arms reach and stopped. He placed his good hand on the grenade, raised the prosthetic to the preacher’s face, and fired the spike. The fully dead husk collapsed as he gripped the grenade, snapping the desiccated fingers away like twigs.

He let out a sigh of relief and sat in a pew, inspecting the grenade. The rotting flesh had eaten away at the fake gold and fused the cross to the grenade. He couldn’t stop laughing.

Night had fallen as the ferals shambled along the street. Virgil made his way down the line, enthralling the shuffling husks with his movements. Soon they followed him, and he led them to the nearest patch of trees.

Slowly he screwed a suppressor to his carbine, extended the stock, and aimed. He rattled off the better part of two magazines almost without thinking. Clean headshots right down the line. Virgil lit a cigarette and headed home, leaving the bodies to rot where they would do some good.

Virgil’s route back led him by a section of still standing highway. He climbed the on ramp and perched on the boot of a car. From here he could just make out the roof of The Grand. Still lost to savage raiders.

Virgil often thought of what he could do to drive them out. Ranging from shutting off the power to burning it down. Ultimately, leaving them in place served the greater good.

They fought amongst themselves for control. It served as a buffer, drawing the worst of what remained away. And anyone looking for Burton Blake would have to deal with chem fiends, armed to the teeth. Human trafficking, forced prostitution, gang violence. All existed before. At least now it had been contained.

Virgil turned his back to the view, pushing on towards home. He’d accepted that it wasn’t worth the risk to so much as visit anywhere linked to Burton Blake. There was no way of knowing what data or hard copies still existed. Which meant assuming it all did. Not to mention who had access. Still, he thought of a place he’d like to see. A place not officially connected to him at all.

The Not So Grand Motel survived, much to his surprise. The wooden frame had rotted, collapsing one of the three sides. The lobby had been picked clean, even the glass booth had been taken. Yet a few rooms remained, and one still had the windows intact.

Virgil tried the handle, finding it locked. Lock picking had become a valuable skill, not that he needed it for this door. A simple piece of bent wire and a little force popped it open. He found what he expected inside. A sideboard with a broken tv on it. A table and single chair next to an old bed.

He sat on the chair, turning it so he could see outside. Something felt off about the room. Some detail didn’t fit. “No dust.” Shaw gave him the answer.

“Someone’s been in here.” He realised, then he thought about the route he’d taken. “Someone’s still here.” He drew his pistol, looking around the room with fresh eyes.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Virgil knelt, aiming and shining a light under the bed. He pulled a canvas pack out, tipping the contents onto the bed. “Nuka Cola and fifty year old candy.” Shaw paced round the bed. “No booze or cigarettes. No real food, not even any water.”

“It’s a kid.” He holstered his gun and turned to the shut washroom door.

“Hey kid.” Virgil tapped lightly on the door. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Listen, it’s not safe here, come on out and we’ll find your parents.”

“Go away!” A frightened voice yelled from inside the washroom.

“Struck a nerve did we.” Shaw observed.

“I’ve got a gun! I’ll shoot if you come in! Just go away!” He heard the sound of a hammer being cocked, suddenly followed by a loud pop.

Fearing for the child, Virgil shoved the door open. The child panicked, firing three more times before he grabbed the gun with his prosthetic. “Gimmie that before you hurt yourself!” He took the thirty eight automatic away. The first shot had missed. He’d blocked the second with his metal arm. The third hit him in the shoulder.

“Please don’t eat me!” The child threw up their hands, shrinking into the corner.

“I’m not going to eat you, kid. We don’t do that.” He checked the wound in the mirror. The round went straight through the strap of his ballistic fibre vest.

“Are you going to bite me and turn me into one of you?!” The terrified child asked. He felt himself scowl at the stupid rumours about people like him, but he knew it wouldn’t help.

“No. Again, we don’t do that.” He crouched to be on their level.

“My name is Virgil, what’s yours?”

“Elizabeth.” Between the short hair and oversized coat she looked like a boy.

“Where are your parents, Elizabeth?” He asked softly.

“Momma got...sick. She wouldn’t, she’s...gone.” Tears rolled down, leaving clean lines in the dirt on her face.

“I’m very sorry. Do you have any other family?” Virgil asked, trying not to push her.

“My Daddy, he used to go to The Grand, until one day he just didn’t come back. When Momma...I went looking for him.” Her voice broke, her lip trembling.

“Get her out of here Burton, now.” Shaw barked. Virgil ignored him.

“I found him on a bench outside, but he wouldn’t wake up either. Except he wasn’t sick.” She began to sob.

“Burton!” Shaw demanded his attention. Virgil ducked out of the room, ready to choke Shaw, until he heard voices outside.

Virgil peeked through the net curtain. “I’m tellin’ ya, I heard shots. Pop, pop, pop!” A dirty, twitching raider approached, leading two more. All armed and all wired. He darted back to the sobbing child, taking his small transistor radio and earpiece.

“Elizabeth, I want you to wait right here, and listen to this.” He turned the volume up and handed her the radio. Her face lit up with delight as she put the earpiece in.

“Burton!” Shaw yelled. He peeled out of the washroom and shouldered his carbine in one fluid motion. He saw the door handle turn and fired, splintering wood and hitting flesh.

“Fuck!” Someone screamed following a heavy thud. A figure moved into view through the window and Virgil fired another precise burst.

Automatic fire ripped into the room, tearing up the bed and walls. Virgil crawled to the door, peering through the hole he’d made. A single raider remained, running and firing a submachine gun wildly. The crazed raider ducked behind a car, swapping out the drum mag on his grease gun style weapon. Virgil steadied his aim, resting the suppressor on the shattered wood.

“You motherfuckers are dead!” The raider sprang from cover, screaming and spraying bullets. Virgil fired once, stopping the gunfire and screaming with a headshot. The body hit the blacktop, silence returned. So quiet it felt as if the gunfire never happened.

Virgil stayed low and crawled back to the washroom. Elizabeth had made herself small, wedged into the corner of the tiny room. Hands pressed tight over her ears. “Is it over?” She asked, wide eyed and whispering. Before he could answer, a bright spot light flooded the room.

“Don’t move.” She nodded and he pulled the washroom door shut.

Virgil peered through the hole in the front door, the light blinding him.

“They’re good.” Shaw noted, sitting by the window. “Trained.”

“Who’s in there?” A rasping voice shouted. “Identify yourself.” It sounded like an order.

“Your friends started this!” He told a half truth, he wasn’t going to risk a child’s safety. “You want what they got, fine by me.” He reloaded as loud as possible.

“Relax.” A man’s shadow fell upon the wall, hands raised and drawing nearer. “We don’t shoot our own.” The light shut off. Virgil stood, stepping out with his carbine levelled. He aimed at the figure. Assault rifle hanging over a tactical vest. Face wrapped in strips of red cloth. Black eyes without fear.

Virgil felt guns pointed at him from the dark. “You serve?” The masked figure asked, gesturing to his metal arm.

“Army engineers.” He lied convincingly.

“Bullshit!” The masked figure struck a sardonic tone. “Two in the chest and one in the head for these dumb fucks.” He wiped blood off his boots on the bodies. “And a single headshot on a moving target. No mechanic I’ve met shoots that well with two arms.”

“What’s your point?” Virgil kept his carbine steady.

“Like I said, we don’t shoot our own.” The masked man lowered his arms, stepping closer to the muzzle of the gun and extending his hand. “Higgins, Sean. Colonel. Special Operations Command.”

“You remember him don’t you, Burton.” Shaw paced round the man he’d known. Virgil remembered the name. Higgins had been the sort of soldier they’d send out with orders to bring back severed heads for identification. Now he’d been empowered and unleashed onto a world he’d thrive in. He’d also been the man that saved Clara when the bombs fell. “Be very fucking careful.” Shaw warned.

“Nash, Virgil. Defence Intelligence.” Virgil lowered his weapon and put out his hand. “Retired.” That seemed to amuse Higgins.

“Retirement would be a waste of our gift, brother.” He lit a cigarette and offered Virgil one. “You took a hit, my medic can patch you up.”

“It’s just a flesh wound. Lucky I guess.” Virgil played along.

“Indeed we are brother.” Higgins stared at him, slowly taking a drag of a cigarette. “Listen Virgil, these meatbags were here to deliver a package for us. Doesn’t look like they can do that now.” He flicked the cigarette at the dead body.

“I gave them every chance.” Virgil took half a step back, trying to create space to draw.

“Relax. I don’t give a fuck about this scum.” Higgins seemed more amused than anything else. “I do, however, have a schedule to keep.” Higgins paused, pretending to weigh his options. “Tell you what, you deliver my package and we’ll call it even.”

“Alright.” Virgil agreed like he had a choice.

“Good man. There’s an old hotel two klicks down the road, know it?” Virgil nodded. “Fucking dump. Take the package there, maybe stop for a drink. Maybe take a look around. I’m sure an experienced D.I.A. man would notice all kinds of things.”

“Alright.” Virgil quashed his panic. “Where’s this package?”

Higgins raised a bony hand and gave a signal without looking. Virgil heard boots scuffing the ground as two more masked figures dragged a shackled man. They threw him at Virgil’s feet. One eye swollen shut, the other glaring. Clothes bloodied and stained. An explosive collar digging into his neck.

“Here it is.” Higgins had an inhuman coldness in his voice. “You good to go?” He held out the crude detonator.

“Fucking rotten bas—” Virgil kicked the shackled man in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

“Shut the fuck up!” Virgil played up the part. He turned back to Higgins and took the detonator.

“Tell them the Red Hand sent you.” And with that Higgins melted back into the night.

Virgil bundled the shackled man into the room and put him in the chair. “Elizabeth, it’s alright. Come out, I need your help.” The frightened girl edged into the room, still clutching the radio. “Go in my pack, get the first aid kit and the torch, quickly now.” He gave her something to do, knowing it would help her.

“Sorry I kicked you.” Virgil tried to reach the shackled man. “I’m going to take the collar off. Don’t move.” The man nodded, too confused to do anything else. “Elizabeth, shine the light here.” The light bounced around as her hand trembled. Virgil undid the screws on the metal box, revealing the explosives.

“You see what the dullards do without superior minds to lead them.” Mr. House paced, disgusted and ranting. “Slavery. Such barbarism.”

“I’m trying to concentrate here.” The two other people in the room froze. Virgil began separating wires with tweezers from the first aid kit. “What’s your favourite colour, Elizabeth?” He asked to distract them both before cutting the wires to the blasting cap.

“It’s disarmed.” Virgil let out a sigh and lit a cigarette. “Let me pick those locks.” The man shifted round. “Elizabeth, light please.” He didn’t need the light, but her hands had stopped shaking.

“Betsy.” She said with half a smile. “No one calls me Elizabeth.”

Within minutes the collar and shackles lay in a pile on the floor. The man rubbed his neck, the skin raw. “Thank you.” The man put out his injured hand in gratitude. “Wayne.”

“You’re welcome Wayne.” Virgil shook the man’s hand. “Can you walk? I need to get the kid somewhere safe.”

“I can make it.” He got to his feet, unsteady but standing.

Virgil turned his attention to the girl, still transfixed with the radio. “How do you fit all that music in such a tiny box?” She asked as if it were magic.

“It doesn’t work that way, this just plays the signal from the tower.” He tried not to patronise her. “That’s where I live, that’s where I’m going. And I want you to come. You’ll be safe there, and we’ll find you a real home.” He tried to give her the illusion of a choice, but wasn’t going to leave her.

“Okay.” She looked down at her feet, smart enough to see the only option.

The sun climbed as the three of them walked down the eight lane blacktop. Wayne left them in the afternoon, insisting they wait. Heading for the hippy farming commune Virgil thought to be a rumour. He returned with a jar of moonshine and a leg of venison, a reward Virgil took gladly. And something that Virgil hadn’t seen for many years. Magic mushrooms. He took them gladly too.

“So, explain it again.” Betsy hopped along, dodging the cracks in the road.

“We play a record at the tower. A machine converts the music into energy that spreads out through the air. And your radio turns it back to music.” Virgil couldn’t help but smile. Betsy still seemed awed by the small radio that hadn’t left her hand all day.

“And anyone with a radio can listen whenever they want?” She asked.

“The people that run it keep it on air day and night. I’ll introduce you.” She stopped and stared at him.

“You know the people on the radio?!” Betsy looked shocked, as if she hadn’t truly believed the voices from the tinny box were real.

“Kid, I built the damn radio.” He saw how much that impressed her.

“Wow.” She ran past him and turned, walking backwards. “How did you come up with that then?” For a moment he considered taking credit for inventing the radio, but couldn’t do that to one of his boyhood heroes.

“Actually radio was invented by a man named Tesla, about three hundred years ago. I have a book you can read.” He saw her enthusiasm dim.

“I don’t know how to read.” Betsy looked down at her feet, kicking at the loose surface in frustration.

“You’ll learn, don’t worry.” He felt a moment of pity for the girl. “You’re smart enough to survive out here. A little thing like reading won’t slow you down.” He noticed something ahead, just visible in the fading light. “First lesson. See that sign.” An old road sign had been repurposed, writing added with red spray paint. “That says Shadowtown three miles.”

“What does that mean?” She asked nervously.

“That means we’re almost home.”

Night had fallen by the time they reached home. Virgil went straight to the best place he could think of for Betsy, and knocked on the door. “Hey Bill.” Virgil corrected himself. “Will.” He looked exactly like his father. “I met this little lady on the road. She needs a hot meal and a warm bed for the night.” Will smiled and knelt, talking to Betsy.

“You’re in luck lady. Arrived just in time for dinner.” Will stepped aside, offering a place at his table. “Junior, come say hi.” He called to his son.

Betsy seemed hesitant, clinging onto Virgil’s good hand. “Betsy, I’ve known Will his whole life. He’s a good man, like his father.” Betsy nodded and gingerly stepped in, until a boy her age appeared and set her a place at the table.

“I’ll get the paperwork done tomorrow. Take this.” Virgil handed Will the leg of venison and turned to leave.

“Wait!” Betsy darted from the table. “This is yours.” She held out the radio.

“Keep it. I’ll build another.” He threw her a wink and left them to dinner.

Virgil made it through his front door. He dropped his pack, stowed his carbine. Then slumped into his tattered chair. He rewarded himself with a cigarette and half a jar of shine, keeping the two apart. Soon he drifted into an easy sleep for the first time in days.

He woke to the sound of laughter. Suzette sat at desk, an old Vault-Tec bobblehead in the centre. She tapped the smiling head and giggled as it bobbled. “Where’d you find that?” He didn’t want it in their place.

“Went on a run.” Suzette smiled, her wide eyed attention drawn by something else. As she left the desk, Virgil saw an empty bowl.

“Have you eaten?” He asked, trying to find where Suzette had put his pack.

“I made soup, saved you some.” She began tracing her fingers along the painted flowers on the dressing screen. He checked the stove and found half a pan of vegetable soup. With the hallucinogenic mushrooms thrown in.

Virgil took a packet of instant pudding mix from the cupboard and lit a few candles. “Suzette, look at this.” He sprinkled a pinch of powder onto the flame, watching it sparkle in green and blue. Suzette became transfixed instantly. “I want you to know that everything is fine. Those mushrooms you ate, they were magic.” She sniggered.

“Were you going to plant them and grow a beanstalk?” She joked, not grasping the meaning.

“No honey, magic mushrooms, Daytripper, LSD.” He saw the realisation hit her.

“Chems?!” She gasped. Suzette had always been a straitlaced type. He calmed her with more sparkling powder. “What are we going to do?” She asked, unnerved but steady.

“Well, I’m going to eat my soup.” He took a huge spoonful of the laced soup, much to Suzette’s shock. Quickly followed by raucous laughter from them both.