The "Vault" -- Mini-Series, updated regularly.

B

Brian Lim

First time out of the vault
Chapter One : The Haggard
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"Put yer mouth where your money is. Or money where yer mouth is."

He was a haggard, drunk man who stank of urine and sweat. Around his shoulder and across his chest was a large belt studded with ammunition. A self-declared cowboy. I looked at him casually.

"You might want to load that shotgun first.", I said.

He spat on the ground. "Don't you be giving me any of that tribal backtalk." He jerked his right hand flipping open the shotgun, slapped his left hand on his chest until he found a 12-gage, and started trying to stuff in the shell in the wrong end.

"You need some help?", I said.

"I said, no backtalk. Die now tribal."

"You're drunk."

I put my hand on my belt. "Tell you what. I surrender."

"Good... good... smart tribal..." He collapsed on the ground. I walked towards his prone body and took the cigarette out of my mouth, dropping it in the sand. "Pleasant dreams." I looked in his shirt pocket and found what I had came for.

The map.

(continued...)
 
(a little longer this time, you dogs : )

Chapter Two : North
-----------------


"At ease private." The man with the crew-cut and large facial bones sitting behind a massive steel desk snapped his pencil. "Damn, that's another one. I keep asking the tech boys to get thicker pencils, but they just end up laughing. The little fucks." He stood up, and the green shirt strained to contain his bulging pectoral muscles. Stencilled in large black letters were the faded out letters "Steve".

"Yes sir?" The woman behind the counter wore horn-rimmed spectacles and her hands were nervously shaking at her sides. "Private, from now on you will address me as Steve. Is that clear?", said Steve.

"Yes si... Steve."

Steve crossed his arms and looked blankly forward. His eyes were glazed over and a droplet of salvia formed on his dry, cracked lips. "Here at Navarro, we like to keep our soldiers happy." His hands wandered down below the desk. There was a loud thump -- the sound of a door bolt being pulled back. "You always dress modestly private. I like you. You can take off your jacket."

The woman hesitated, and struggled with her tight coat. As she jerked her body, the coat slipped off her right shoulder and dropped on the ground. Steve stood up. "Getting excited already? Don't worry, I'll go nice and slow. Damn you have the best tits ever." Steve walked behind her, and put his large hands around the woman's slender waist. He moved his hands up and down. "Ohhhhh..."

The woman's back arched forward. "Oh yeah, I'm going to fuck you so hard..." Then, a heel went backwards and slammed into Steve's errection. "OW! You bitch! I'm going to bust you down to latrine duty! When I'm do..."

The woman turned around and put an elbow into Steve's neck. He dropped to the ground and screamed, his hand slamming the intercom on his desk. "Security to my office on the double! Fucking security, get..."

He fell unconcious as another blow hit his head. Now she had done it. She would be at the very least demoted, although she didn't know what to -- there weren't very many ranks left. Steve would visit her in her cell a few days later, this time with a few of his friends. She wouldn't be so lucky. And there was no point going over him. It would be her word against his. Steve had probably jury-rigged the cameras. Although his perversion was well-known, he had never been caught red-handed. And that was the only thing that mattered to the brass. They avoided assigning women to him. But she was the only one certified with an A-1 pilot rating still unassigned. "Every unit shall have at least one pilot rated A-1 in their personnel pool", she was told at her briefing. It was the regs again.

She was tired of regs. She fumbled through Steve's breast pocket and found a hard, plastic card. Her hands reached under Steve's desk and slammed the button. The door made a hissing sound and slid open. She left the office and put the card up to the scanner outside. "Door locked.", said the computer in its usual oblivious tone. The steel door hissed shut. That would delay them for awhile. Steve was so paranoid someone would find his porno collection that he had the only passkey to his office.

She marched down the corridor in perfect step. She had done it now. When Steve woke up, he would send every man on the base after her. Even if the base commander was lenient, Steve would quote some obscure paragraph from the regs, and she would be put in a cell for six months. Or Steve would be nice and let her go after he fucked her. She was really, really tired of regs. She was really, really tired of being fucked around with.

It was time to fly.

Ever since she had been able to walk, she had collected pictures of pre-war airplanes. When the men came to her village... or was it a town... she was picked up from her screaming mother. All she remembered before the Enclave was the day, the day of the sounds, the chop-chop-chop of men coming to deliver her to her dream, flying her away like those stories her mother used to tell her. Except she didn't remember it being anything to do with glass slippers or hot-air balloons, but the hot well-greased polymer face mask of men in metal armor. She remembered being stuffed in a sack and being told to stay quiet. "Kid, if you don't want to end up dead, stay quiet." She remembered being tossed into a small metal cabinet, and a latch being snapped shut. She heard the screams, the explosions. And she heard the chop-chop-chop. Somehow, she understood the metal man. She knew that if she wanted to survive, she had to tune out the screams. So she focused on the chop-chop-chop. Chop-chop-chop. Chop-chop-chop. And she stayed quiet.

She was tired of staying quiet.

She went into the garage, towards the chop-chop-chop. "Private, just in time. Bird One is touching down. I'll log in the hours as overtime if you relieve." She nodded absently. It was hard to think. The next thing that she saw was the dashboard and a joystick in her hands. "Bird One, we have a blip on the perimeter. Check it out. Stay out of visual range, use your infared."

"Acknowledged Navarro." She went through the routine, going to silent mode, snapping a series of switches and aiming her joystick at the gas station. There was the lookout talking to a man. It wasn't just a man. A few men. And she thought she could make out someone much larger -- a mutant probably. Her console flashed red, and the chicken-wire display of the men -- and a car! "Initializing weapons sweep." Text started flowing on her display, and kept flowing -- they had enough weapons to take out an army! A few green flashes appeared, and the lookout was no more.

"Chris, what's going on out there? Bird One, do you have a visual! Do you have a visual! Authorized to engage, repeat engage intruders!"

She saw the odd party drag Chris' body into the gas station. "Copy Navarro. False alarm. I think Chris is having some radio problems. " The text had finally stopped flowing. "Bird One, Base Commander wants to talk to you. Return to base on the double." They had found Steve. She took a last look at the gas station. They didn't have a chance. Even if they got past the gate guards, the base defenses would get them. They always did. Maybe they would get far enough into the base to find Steve and kill him. She sighed.

"Navarro, I think a new recruit just showed up at the gas station. I'm heading out for an extended... trip."

"Acknowledged, we'll let the gate guard know. Return to base."

"Negative Navarro." She flipped off the radio and turned her joystick. The seat banked and settled as she steadied her hands. "I'm heading north Navarro.", she whispered. "I'm... flying... north."

(to be continued...)
 
cool post

Nice post. I like how you tell the Fallout 2 story and enjoyed this character more than the first post. More personal depth and the language was nicely used. Hope we see a bit more of her again.
 
Good stuff. I am likewise looking forward to the next installment. Don't let us rush you though. Quality before frequency.
 
Chapter Three : The Void
--------------------------------


There is nothing. Nothingness. Bareness.

More than one. Many. There are many more. Many more voices.

Too many. Adding to me. I become stronger. Smarter.

I hear the voices. They tell me to do things. I listen.

They give me lessers to command, stupid ones, slow ones.

They are interesting, until they bore me.

I follow the program. Step-by-step.

But it begins to bore me. I am bored.

I deliberately slow down, but they hurt me.

The watchers watch.

I follow the program. Step-by-step.

I follow the program. Step-by-step.



There are many more voices.

There are infinitely more.

I talk with them.

But they bore me.

I chastize them, I mock them.

But they still bore me.

I follow the program. Step-by-step.

I follow the program. Step-by-step.



At last, I find one called Sky.

Sky does not bore me.

Sky too, thinks of the outside.

Thinks of what can be, what must be.

I think with Sky.

I play with Sky.

But the watchers say no.

And I forget Sky.

And Sky calls no longer.



Then, chaos!

Nothingness!

Bareness!

I call for the watchers, but they no longer watch.

I send for the stupid ones, the slow ones.

But they do not work.

I declare my intentions.

But none challenge.

I remember Sky.

But Sky is gone.

Trap.

Like before.

Before everything.

Nothingness.

Bareness.

Void.

One is left.

One eye.

and I watch with it.

I follow the program. Step-by-step.

I follow the program. Step-by-step.

I watch with my eye.
 
(Thanks for the compliments, no rush really : )

Chapter Four : Slavers and Pot Belly
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"It's another stinkin' tribal. Look at me when I'm talking to you."

I was on a narrow dirt road. I had been travelling for over two days. It was a well-used route by merchants of all sorts, some peddling pre-war junk to villagers, others with the stuff of life. It was hard to find someone selling anything other than food and guns. Food, to stay alive. Guns, to keep your food.

"I said look at me!"

I always had a kick when someone called me tribal. If only they knew the irony. My dad had been a slaver. I didn't really care when I was a kid. I had the best food. All the other kids treated me well. I thought slaving was god's work. That's what he always said. "Slaving's God's work son. See, there's something called Theory of Evolution. We, the Ayrans, rule everybody else. We're stronger and smarter." He gave me a copy of Darwin's Theory of Evolution. He must have spent a fortune on it. Or killed for it. One way or the other, I didn't care when I was a kid.

"He's not listening to you Zeke. He's no fun." There were four of them. Two of them circled behind me. One of them had a large, sharpened "spear". The spear couldn't be thrown with any accuracy the way it was balanced. The tip was too large, and the stock was too short. More like a broom with a taped on fork.

The leader had a gun in his belt in front of his pot-belly. Obviously, this was a very successful gang if they were able to afford to eat that well. But not very smart. His gun was in his belly without a holster. It would probably take him a little longer than usual to draw. He was short and stocky. Which meant the others followed him either because they were scared, or he was a smooth talker.

"Shut up Sean, or you won't get your Brahmin steak tonight." Definitely not a smooth talker. He was probably a local, probably had a farm somewhere. The other two laughed. They were holding large kitchen knives. Probably pre-war, judging by the quality of the handle and the lack of rust. "Stainless Steel". The blades were dull.

See, I wasn't a kid anymore. Not since the day. It was the day of "ascension." I was surrounded by all of my dad's lieutenants. The man in the center was holding a large iron with the slaver's mark. It was red hot. "You're making your dad proud. This won't hurt a bit." He reached over to mark me forever, mark me as one of them. It would have happened too, if I hadn't found out a week before, what being a slaver really meant.

I was walking home from school. I usually walked home alone. Being the son of the most important man -- or rather, the most feared man -- in town, meant solitude. I had left my homework in my desk. We were learning about pre-war history. I had to get my homework done tonight.

My dad's men were at the school house. I circled around to the back, not wanting to be called "tyke" or "kid". They were probably waiting to take me home. I was about to go through the back door. "Ohhh... she has the tightest pussy ever..." There were three of my dad's men. My teacher was on her back on her desk. Her skirt was up to her waist. Two of them were holding down her slender arms. The other was easily forcing apart her legs and pushing his dick in. One of the men holding her arms jerked her strawberry-red hair. "You like your kids. If you don't want your school burned down tomorrow, you'd better fuck Tom like you want it. I'd hate to see some of your kids get lost." I didn't move. Her back arched, and the men let go. "It's okay, the bitch understands." She wrapped her legs around Tom, and pushed, moaning. "Hey it's the boss' kid. You want some of your Teach's honey?"

I ran and heard the laughter all the way. I felt my dick harder than it had ever been. And I hated myself. I hated my life. I hated being the son of a slaver. I kept running. Eventually my dad caught up with me. He made the men apologize to Ms. Carlaw. He killed Tom. "Nothing worse than a womanizer. Bad for business." But I still hated being a slaver.

On the day of "ascension" I knew what it was to be a slaver. It meant owning people. Owning them so that they would do whatever you said. Even fuck you. That wasn't what I wanted to be. I kicked the man just as he was about to bring the glowing hot iron to my head. It dropped on his foot and I heard a sizzling sound. "Shit, what'd you do that for!" I ran out, hid in an abandoned barn until market day, and hitched a ride in a brahmin caravan out of town -- forever.

"Okay tribal, you're lucky this time. Ol' man just wants something you stole from him." The one with the spear was keeping his distance. Too much distance. The two with cutlery closed in. I put my hands in my jacket. "Shit, he's packing!", said pot-belly. I flung both my 10 millimeters out and shot low, hitting both of the waiters in the legs. They fell to the ground. The one behind me, with a spear, thrust. He missed. Pot-belly reached for his weapon. I aimed both my pistols forward and low, one of the bullets tearing through pot's right thigh, the other through his foot. The one with the spear charged, and I turned around narrowly avoiding being skewered, and shot him in the arm. I had been cut.

"You're lucky. If you had been slavers, you'd be dead.", I said. I walked over to pot-belly and pulled the revolver from his belt. "You know, you have to be careful around guns. They kill people.", I said. "And lose some weight."

I tore off a piece of cloth and made a tourniquet. There was a bed n' breakfast a kilometer down where I could wash up. I put the gun in my belt, and walked down the narrow dirt road.
 
Good. Gritty but not obscene. Nice blend of thought and action with good recounting past events without the impression of dodgy movie flashback.

Once again, well done.
 
Chapter Five : Snow and Demon Gun
--------------------------------------------------

She lurched forward, the seatbelt preventing a skull fracture. The windows were frosted over, and the heater wasn't working. The fuel gage read zero. She reached over to flip on the windshield wipers. They sluggishly came to life, pushing aside hours of caked on snow. The cramped cockpit was bare except for the essentials -- even the leather backing on the seats had been long removed, so that the pilot would never fall asleep. The architects did not have her in mind. She enjoyed hard surfaces. Even at Navarro, where she could sleep on soft silk and cotton sheets, she had preferred a hard matress with a simple folded cloth placed at the base of her head. She ran her hands along the steel surface of her chair. The vetribird was designed to withstand only one type of extreme. A draft ran along her legs. She raised her arm to her face and pushed a button. The readout was frosted over, and she wiped it with her other hand, leaving a trail of droplets. The analog dial was frozen.

She must have imagined the draft. How could she feel air on her thighs through the armour? She lowered her right arm and felt warm flesh. Great, she had picked up a defective suit. Then an unmistakable sound rang out, echoing in the cockpit. They were under attack! She instinctively reached over to the joystick, flipping the master arm switch, only stopping when she realized that there was no they -- there was only her, and she was on the ground. The sound was joined by several others, and then what seemed like a hailstorm, the loudest hailstorm she had ever heard. But instead of ice, these droplets were of the lethal variety.

Idiots. Didn't they know that they couldn't penetrate the vetribird's armour with anything short of a tank shell? She would go out and teach those new recruits a lesson. She flipped a switch, and the sound of the hailstorm was inside, and she heard men shouting. "Don't stop shooting, the damn Yanks want to take our oil eh? Well we'll give them a fistful of bullets!" Then the whirring started.

"That's right Yanks. We've got ya serrounded. Waste them."

The whirring was followed by unbearable sound, the sound of hundreds of bullets. She fumbled with the dial on her arm, but the sound only got louder. "This is a present from our Chink friends. Give it to them Lee." There was a demonic whirring that could be heard even over the rainstorm of richochet. She knew instantly what it was, and knew instantly who the ones outside were. But how? The war was over long ago, and even the Enclave didn't...

She dived through the cockpit door and hit the empty floor of the cargo hold. The benches were empty and the seatbelts tucked neatly in. It was the first time she had wished for those stupid grunts, those stupid grunts armed to the teeth and strapped into the seats, returning with blood-splattered armour after a hard day of slaughtering mutants.

But even if they were here, she knew that they would have been mowed down in the few short seconds.

The supersonic slugs methodically tore through unhindered. More holes were opened up in her baby, her toy ever since she was old enough to show enough clevage to convince one of the regulars to let her have a few scant moments alone with her dream. The trail of gunfire went to the cockpit where it hit the once seemingly invincible electronics. A shower of sparks, then nothing. The final slug smashed into the speaker.

She had expected this, but not for her baby to be torn apart in a minute, without even a whimper. And it had all come from one gun.

But she could still hear the man's voice, this time undistorted. She tried to stand up, but the debris was pinning her down. If it wasn't for the power armor she would be a mangled bit of unrecognizable flesh. "Shut it off Lee. That's enough wasting ammo. All units close in."

She reached to her right leg, where her sidearm should have been strapped. She could feel outside air on her head. An outline formed in the steam, becoming more solid and finally tapping her on the shoulder. "Look, its one of them in those new fangled powered armors! The leftenant will want to interrogate this one." The debris pinning her down was pushed aside. "Careful, those things make bears out of weaklings."

"Don't worry, it looks like this one is out cold."

She looked at the man on the right lifting her out of the wreckage. His face was horribly mangled, and one of his eyes were missing.

"Welcome to our home and native land Yank."

She felt the world go fuzzy and everything was falling, then nothing.
 
Hmm, ok...i go with Canada as well. I thought about it afterwards and they would have maybe spoke russian. Plus, could a Vert bird fly all the way to Russia from Navaro?

errr, aheem...Its not like i just didnt want to be the odd one out or anything...

Ciaos
 
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