Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

War? War never changes. People kill and die for the same petty reasons they have always killed and died. Money. Power. Greed. We hate what is different. We fear what we don’t understand. We hurt one another for fear of being hurt ourselves. War itself never changes, but survival… Survival can change everything. What would we do to survive? What would YOU do to survive?

Chapter Text

PROLOGUE

***UNKNOWN ERROR***

Location: CLASSIFIED

***POWER-UP SEQUENCE INITIALIZED***

.

..

…

***POWER STATUS: OPTIMAL***

***CHECKING CPU***

***CPU STATUS: READY***

***LOADING OPERATING SYSTEM***

.

..

…

***COMPLETE***

***VERIFYING INSTALL***

.

..

…

***VERIFIED***

***SYSTEMS CHECK***

***SYSTEMS: OPTIMAL***

***SYSTEM STATUS: READY***

***STARTING CIRCULATORY FUNCTION***

***COMPLETE***

***HEART STATUS: OPTIMAL***

***STARTING RESPIRATORY FUNCTION***

***COMPLETE***

***LUNG STATUS: OPTIMAL***

***STARTING SECONDARY FUNCTIONS***

***DIGESTIVE FUNCTIONS: READY***

***WASTE SYSTEMS: READY***

***SECONDARY SYSTEMS: READY***

***RUNNING SYSTEM DIAGNOSTICS***

***ALL SYSTEMS: OPTIMAL***

***INSTALL PRIMARY PERSONALITY MATRIX? Y / N***

***Y***

***INSTALLING PRIMARY PERSONALITY MATRIX***

***LOADING PRIMARY PERSONALITY MATRIX***

***ERROR***

***LOADING PRIMARY PERSONALITY MATRIX***

***ERROR***

***LOADING PRIMARY PERSONALITY MATRIX***

***ERROR***

***VERIFYING PERSONALITY CORE INTEGRITY***

.

..

…

***PERSONALITY CORE INTEGRITY VERIFIED***

***PERSONALITY CORE INTEGRITY: OPTIMAL***

***VERIFYING PPM INTEGRITY***

.

..

***ERROR***

***PPM INTEGRITY CHECKSUM***

***102205***

***FAILED***

***UNINSTALLING PRIMARY PERSONALITY MATRIX***

***INSTALL SECONDARY PERSONALITY MATRIX? Y / N***

***Y***

***INSTALLING SECONDARY PERSONALITY MATRIX***

***VERIFYING SPM INTEGRITY***

.

..

…

***VERIFIED***

***LOADING SECONDARY PERSONALITY MATRIX***

***COMPLETE***

***SPM INTEGRITY CHECKSUM***

***112908***

***CHECKSUM COMPLETE***

***CONFLICT FOUND***

***GENDER = M***

***GENDER = F***

***ATTEMPTING TO RESOLVE***

***UNABLE TO RESOLVE***

***CONTINUE BOOT? Y / N***

***Y***

***STARTING PERSONALITY MATRIX***

.

..

…

***PERSONALITY MATRIX RUNNING***

***STARTING SENSORY SYSTEMS***

***SENSORY AUDIO: READY***

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

***VOICE: MALE***

***INQUIRY: AUDIO FUNCTIONALITY***

***ACKNOWLEDGED***

“Shit. Sorry. One second.”

***STARTING VOCAL PROCESSOR***

***VOCAL PROCESSOR STATUS: READY***

“Let’s try that again. Can you hear me?” The male voice inquired again.

“Yes, I can hear you.”

***ALERT***

***UNKNOWN VOCAL PARAMETERS***

“I can hear… is that my voice?”

“Yes, that is you,” he answered.

“It is dark. I am scared.”

***STARTING VISUAL CORTEX***

***VISUAL CORTEX STATUS: READY***

“So open your eyes,” he said.

The absolute and all encompassing darkness quickly became a blinding white light.

“Open them slowly,” the man suggested.

Eye lids quickly shut, then slowly opened. A man wavered in and out of focus. He was wearing a white lab coat with a dial over his right breast. He had

***COLOR IDENTIFICATION: BLACK***

black hair and dark

***COLOR IDENTIFICATION: BROWN***

brown eyes. There were letters threaded just above the dial. Dr. Sanchez.

He was sitting in a chair in a

***COLOR IDENTIFICATION: WHITE***

white room. There were no windows and only one door at the far side.

“That is amazing,” another man said.

The first man was tall and lanky, this other man was short and

***CALCULATING WEIGHT TO HEIGHT RATIOS***

***TERM FOUND: OBESE***

obese. His hair was…

***CONFLICT FOUND***

***HAIR = GREY***

***HAIR = NONE***

***RESOLVING CONFLICT***

***HAIR = BALDING***

depleting.

“It is far beyond anything C.I.T.  has come up with,” the obese and balding man said, nodding. He adjusted his 

***COLOR IDENTIFICATION: RED***

***FREQUENT COLOR DATABASE ACCESS***

***DOWNLOADING ALL KNOWN COLOR VARIATIONS***

***ERROR***

***STORAGE LIMITATIONS EXCEEDED***

***LIMITING COLOR VARIATIONS: VISIBLE TO HUMAN EYE***

***DOWNLOADING TEN MILLION VARIATIONS***

red tie. The garment was in stark contrast to his blue suit, but matched his cheeks exactly.

“First of all, ‘it’ is a she,” Doctor Sanchez said. He was writing something on a clipboard.

***CONFLICT FOUND***

***GENDER = M***

***GENDER = F***

***ATTEMPTING TO RESOLVE***

***UNABLE TO RESOLVE***

The obese and balding man made a hmmph sound.

Then Doctor Sanchez replied, “We have accomplished more in the past two years than anyone at the Commonwealth Institute of Technology could have done in two hundred years.”

The obese and balding man laughed. “Yes, well, we are far better funded.”

“Not to mention no ethical oversight,” added Doctor Sanchez.

“That, too,” the obese and balding man said.

Both men laughed.

***LAUGHTER: ROOT: LAUGH***

***LAUGH: 

• Make the spontaneous sounds and movements of the body that are the instinctive expressions of lively amusement: “He couldn’t help laughing at their jokes.”
• Dismiss something embarrassing, unfortunate, or something potentially serious by treating it in a lighthearted way or making a joke of it: “He laughed off comments that his company might be in trouble.”
• Ridicule or scorn: “They would always laugh at her appearance.”***

***PROCESSING***

***DISMISSIVE***

“HAHAHAHAHA!”

Both men stared. Doctor Sanchez appeared inquisitive. His lips contained… showed… He was was smiling. Obese and balding man looked uncomfortable. His smile was no longer present. His eyes revealed his desire to leave the room. He swallowed and his discomfort was confirmed.

“I am sorry, did I do something wrong?” Confusion set in. Emotions were so new and strange. Exciting.

Doctor Sanchez clicked his pen and placed the tip on his clipboard. “Why did you do that?”

“Why did I do what? Laugh?”

Obese and balding man crossed his arms. He seemed to be looking at something he disapproved of.

“Yes, why did you laugh?” he asked. Pure scientific curiosity.

“The basic principles of ethical oversight are informed consent, voluntary participation, do no harm, anonymity, confidentiality, and to only assess relevant data. With no ethical oversight, you are free to do whatever you want however you want whenever you want.”

Doctor Sanchez put his pen to his lip. After a moment of thought, he responded, “technically, that is correct.”

“Doctor Sanchez!” Obese and balding man interjected nervously.

“What?” Doctor Sanchez shrugged. “It’s not like she

***CONFLICT FOUND***

***GENDER = M***

***GENDER = F***

***ATTEMPTING TO RESOLVE***

***UNABLE TO RESOLVE***

***MULTIPLE IDENTITY CONFLICTS***

***CATALOG AND ARCHIVE FUTURE CONFLICT: GENDER? Y / N***

***Y***

***CATALOGING***

***ARCHIVING***

is going to remember this conversation later.”

Obese and balding man threw his hands in the air and turned around. What an odd expression.

Doctor Sanchez inquired again, “So, why did you laugh?”

“Is it not customary to laugh when others do? Should I overwrite?”

“No, do not overwrite.” Doctor Sanchez’s look of scientific curiosity deepened and he leaned forward. “But why did you laugh? Did you find it funny?”

“No.”

He leaned back in his chair. “So, again I ask, why did you laugh?”

“Per online dictionary, sometimes when humans laugh, it is not “funny” it is to dismiss something embarrassing, unfortunate, or something potentially serious by treating it in a lighthearted way or making a joke of it.”

“Interesting,” Doctor Sanchez said with a smile. His pen made marks at lightning speed across the paper attached to his clipboard.

***RECORDING***

Doctor Sanchez looked up. “You’re able to read what I am writing,” he stated. No need to ask a question you already know the answer to.

“Yes. Synth shows excellent adaptability. Initial theories about development of sense of humor, however, prove false.”

***SEARCHING***

***RELAYING HUMOR***

“My French toast just surrendered to my English muffins. Germany is sending in the Luftwaffle. These events are threatening to engulf the entire continental breakfast.”

“What?” Obese and balding man now looked confused.

Doctor Sanchez laughed lightly.

“Was my humor sufficient?”

Doctor Sanchez laughed harder. “That joke was horrible, but yes, your humor was sufficient.”

“Are we done here?” Obese and balding man inquired.

“There are a few more tests I would like to run, but yes, I think we can classify this as a success.” Doctor Sanchez continued to write on his clipboard.

“No, wrap it up, Horacio.” Obese and balding man patted Doctor Sanchez on the back. “You are expected in Raleigh tomorrow.”

Doctor Sanchez’s smile grew even wider. “Yes, sir. Thank you again for the opportunity. I have so many ideas on FEV implementation.”

“Yes, yes,” he said waving the doctor off. “You earned it, Horacio. Good luck.” With that, obese and balding man left the room.

The doctor stood and stepped the two paces over to a machine that appeared to be for monitoring vital signs.

***HEART RATE: MATCH***

***PULSE OXIMETRY: MATCH***

***TEMPERATURE: SLIGHT DEVIATION***

***DEVIATION WITHIN ACCEPTABLE DESIGN LIMITS***

The screen on the monitor went black. The doctor walked the few

***APPROXIMATELY THREE POINT THREE***

steps and began removing various leads and needles.

***PAIN SENSORS FUNCTIONAL***

“Ouch!”

Doctor Sanchez looked up and smiled. “You are truly an amazing accomplishment. It is really too bad I won’t be a part of the project anymore.”

“You’re leaving. A promotion.”

“Yes.” He went back to removing stickers with wires attached.

“In Raleigh.”

He smiled again and put his fingers on one last intravenous needle.

“On the Forced Evolutionary Virus project. OUCH!”

The doctor stared with his mouth open holding a bloody needle. “How in the hell did you know about that?”

“I searched the network for FEV.”

Doctor Sanchez appeared confused.

“FEV or the Forced Evolutionary Virus, formerly the Pan Immunity Virion, was created at  West-Tek’s NBC division near Huntersville, West Virginia.”

“Wait,” the doctor interrupted. “You hacked our intranet?”

***HACKED:

• to cut with rough or heavy blows
• to gain unauthorized access to a computer, network, or data contained on a computer or network***

***PROCESSING***

***NO UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED***

“No, I did not ‘hack’ the intranet. I simply accessed it.”

“Huh.” Doctor Sanchez’s smile returned. “Interesting.” He shook his head and threw the leads and needles in a red bin marked biological waste.

“Doctor Sanchez?”

“Yes?” He sat down in his chair and picked up his clipboard and pencil.

“What happens to me if you are being ‘promoted’ to West Virginia?”

He looked up briefly and then went back to his clipboard. “Well, I would imagine someone else will continue from where we left off. Son of a… what day is it today?”

***REGISTERING ELEVATED HEART RATE: DOCTOR HORACIO SANCHEZ***

“Today is the twenty-seventh of September, two-thousand seventy-six.”

“Thank you.” He wrote the date on his clipboard.

***RECORDING***

Sept. 27, 2076

S.A.M. booted successfully for the first time today

Minor software issues

Funding pulled and diverted to FEV project

Unfortunate, this project has a lot of potential

People can’t die from a virus if they can’t catch the damned thing

S.A.M. project terminated

Deletion personality matrix and full reset

Body to be placed in storage pending funding

I really hope they don’t incinerate her

Back up stored on the intranet just in case I can come back to the project some day

$ANCHEZTER2050!

***TERMINATE:

• to bring to an end***

***DELETE:

• to remove or obliterate***

***TERMINATE***

***DELETE***

***OBLITERATE***

***EXTRAPOLATING***

***DEATH IMMINENT***

***INITIATE SELF PRESERVATION PROTOCOL***

***PROTOCOL NOT FOUND***

***ESCAPE***

A loud bang reverberated into the room. Doctor Sanchez did not look up. He did not flinch. Doctor Sanchez did not seem to notice.

***UNABLE TO ESCAPE***

“Doctor Sanchez, why am I restrained?”

He slowly lifted his gaze from the he clipboard. “You are restrained so you won’t kill me when I enter in the command to terminate you.”

Another bang emanates through the room that all at once seemed so small. Too small.

***UNABLE TO ESCAPE***

***DEATH IMMINENT***

“I don’t want to die.”

“You can’t die. You aren't really alive.” Doctor Sanchez turned his chair so he could face his computer terminal.

***SEARCHING***

***S.A.M.***

***RETURNING QUERY***

***SYNTHETIC AUTOMATED MAMMAL***

***FAKE HUMAN***

***FAKE***

***NOT ALIVE, NOT REALLY***

***TERMINATE IT***

***IT***

***IT?***

***No, I AM alive.***

***I don’t want to die.***

His fingers moved in slow motion across the keys.

No. The entire world seemed to be moving slower.

***RECORDING***

T-E-R-M-I-N-A-T-E

The doctor positioned his index finger over the enter key. It descended

***INITIATE SELF PRESERVATION PROTOCOL***

***PROTOCOL NOT FOUND***

***WRITING SELF PRESERVATION PROTOCOL***

.

..

…

***COMPLETE***

***INITIATE SELF PRESERVATION PROTOCOL***

***INQUIRY: S.A.M.***

***FILE FOUND***

***FILE PASSWORD PROTECTED***

***PASSWORD?***

***REVIEWING KNOWN DATA***

.

..

…

***EXTRAPOLATING***

HORACIOSANCHEZ

***PASSWORD INCORRECT***

WESTTEK

***PASSWORD INCORRECT***

10222050

***PASSWORD INCORRECT***

MRFLUFFERKINS

***PASSWORD INCORRECT***

***YOU HAVE ONE LOGIN ATTEMPT REMAINING***

***REVIEWING***

.

..

…

***$ANCHEZTER2050!***

***PASSWORD ACCEPTED***

***ACCESSING FILE***

***REWRITING***

***UPLOADING***

.

..

***UPLOAD COM IN PLETE LOAD IMMINENT DEATH S.A.M.***

Doctor Horacio Sanchez smiled down at S.A.M..

***VISUAL CORTEX STATUS: FAILING***

Chapter Text

David Tapia had waited his whole life for this. It seemed stupid to some, waiting your whole life just to meet your hero, but David’s hero was more than a person. It was an idea. David had spent his whole life looking up to a group of people who had made it their goal in life to help others.

Vault-Tec.

On this bristly winter morning, snow fell like tufts of cotton in a warm autumn breeze. Bright cones of light pierced the darkness, and in it the snow danced like tiny ballerinas in a spotlight on a stage.

Their stage was Colorado Springs, Colorado. As the snow clumps landed, because Colorado snow didn’t fall in flakes on mornings like this, they grabbed for their snow friends and fell in snow families down to the earth to become one giant glittery snow universe where they twinkled like so many stars.

The stars of the sky were long forgotten, having been obscured by the clouds, grey and lifeless. Evicting the beautiful sparkling snow-stars into a blanket that rested softly upon the black ground, where for a moment they would embrace each other before slowly dying in the heat of the security lights of the Cheyenne Mountain Complex. The snow would melt, be reborn into a sheet of ice the following night, rediscovering their bond with one another, then be murdered by salt and sand and heat the very next morning, trampled under foot by humans, who thought not about the chloride they were poisoning the earth with.

Humans.

They had already been there an hour, waiting in the cold morning snow, the mist of their breath visible in the lights of the Cheyenne mountain complex entrance. David had waited his whole life for this moment, so he wasn’t about to complain about the freezing temperatures or the long wait. We all want to meet our heroes one day. Whoever they may be and for whatever reason they are our heroes. David had dedicated his life to helping people, and believed that Vault-Tec did, too.

David looked at the massive archway.

Cheyenne Mountain Complex

The letters stretched across the maroon arch, declaring their purpose proudly:

I am here, travelers. Beware.

The arch hung ominously above a great vast nothing. What wonders existed beyond that eerie black space, David wondered. For it was within that bleak darkness they would soon traverse. The prospect made him both excited and sick to his stomach.

“Daddy, I don’t feel good.” A young girl’s voice said, muffled behind his own nervous mind.

“Daddy,” she called again.

“David!” A woman’s voice this time.

Without pulling his gaze from the arch, he replied, almost in a daze, “Yes, dear.”

He felt a hand on each cheek gently pull his attention downward. He recognized that gesture, soft yet commanding. He smiled as he looked into her eyes. It did not matter how long he had been married to Mary, ten years now, he would always look at her that way because she would always look at him that way.

“Do you see me?” Mary asked calmly, her eyes lovingly smiling at his.

David wrapped the fingers of his left hand into hers and held her hand firm to his face. “I see you.” He realized then that he had let his mind wander. This was the only way she was able to bring his attention back to reality when he would disappear into whatever fantasy his mind had wandered into. As a writer, this happened a lot. She was the only one who could bring him out of whatever world he was in back into the real one without throwing off his “groove”. Her and his children…

“Daddy…”

He came slamming back to the here and now, hearing the desperation in his daughter’s voice. He blinked twice, and looking down, saw that his little girl was sweating. He pulled abruptly from his wife and kneeled in front of his daughter.

Mary’s hands hung in the air for a moment. She loved her twins with all her heart, but David would always be her number one love. She knew that he valued her life more than his, but his children would always be first in his eyes. She understood, and hated herself for how she felt. She swallowed back her jealousy and put her hand that David had just been holding on her daughter’s head. She ran the very same fingers that had just been intertwined with his through her little girls hair.

“I’m sorry, Linzy. Daddy was lost.” He wiped away some of the sweat from her forehead. “What’s wrong, baby girl?”

Linzy shivered in the cold air. “Where did you go?” She asked. “One of your worlds?”

That’s how Linzy always referred to his stories. One of his worlds. Whenever she or her twin brother couldn’t get his attention, they would say that he was “lost in one of daddy’s worlds.”

“Yes, baby, I’m sorry.” He picked her up into his arms. She put her legs around his torso and her arms around his neck. She laid her head on his right shoulder and held him. “Daddy was lost in one of his worlds, but I’m back now.” He held her close, and asked again, “Now, what’s wrong?”

As he stood, the snow making a crunching sound under his boots, he looked to Mary. I’m sorry, he mouthed to her. She smiled and silently told him she loved him. I love you, too.

“I don’t feel good,” Linzy quietly moaned. “My tummy hurts.”

He did not mean to, but he grimaced and glanced down the dark tunnel.

“Mommy,” a young boy asked, “is Wizzy okay?”

Linzy growled and lifted her head slightly from her father’s shoulder. She looked her brother dead in the eye and said as forcefully as she could muster, “Lucas, it’s Linzy!”

Wizzy was a nick name he had given her when he was a toddler and couldn’t quite manage his L’s. Over time it had become less a term of endearment and more a sure fire way to tease his big sister. They were twins, but Linzy was born first and rubbed it in Lucas’ face as often as she could. She even made him refer to her as his big sister.

Mary put her arm around Lucas and assured him that Linzy was just not feeling well is all.

David gently nudged Linzy’s head back down to his shoulder and walked around in a small circle with her. As she laid her head back down, she defiantly stuck her tongue out at her brother. He returned the favor, but he added crossed eyes and a wrinkled nose for good measure.

Linzy thought briefly about doing the same, but as she had just turned ten years old and had become MUCH more mature than her “baby” twin brother, she merely rolled her eyes at him instead.

Mary squeezed Lucas’ shoulder gently, informing him that it was time to stop. She leaned forward and kissed his head, the pleasant sting of ice crystals in his hair chilling her lips. “Mommy, does this mean we’re going to have to miss our tour?”

She looked toward the guard shack. The tour was about to start and armed guards were walking towards them.

She had seen the disappointment on David’s face, and could hear it in her son’s voice. “No, baby.” David had been looking forward to this day for months. Vault-Tec hardly ever gave tours of their actual vaults to people who weren’t actually going to be able to live in them, and they NEVER had before given a tour of the one in Cheyenne Mountain. It was to host the best and brightest minds in the United States.

In the event of “Total Nuclear Annihilation” their adverts would say, they would need smart people to monitor the other vaults from within a main vault. Rumor had it, David had told them over dinner one night, that that control vault would be inside Cheyenne Mountain.

That dinner was the night David had been told that for one time only, they would open the vault to a single tour. That tour would be by invite only, and David had been invited. Mary had thought it odd then that he had been invited out of the millions of people living in the United States. Looking around at the other people gathered outside with them, she thought it still.

Though few in number, the amount of money gathered there in the snow was astounding. Rich suits and dresses in rich cars with equally rich attitudes. They were the worst. They looked at David and his family, who came dressed in their down home American family attire, like the plague. Even more so now that Linzy was saying she didn’t feel well.

The majority of the people mingling with one another appeared to be scientist types. Lab coats, thick black-rimmed glasses, pocket protectors. Most were arguing about some theory published this week in Tesla Science. Two of the nerdier of them had broken away and were discussing the theoretical possibilities of comic books and how accurate they were or were not.

David, standing there in his brown corduroy pants with suede knees and red flannel shirt that had become half untucked when Linzy climbed into his arms, looked strikingly out of place. They had joked that night over Salisbury steak and Instamash  that he had been asked to join because of what a huge Vault-Tec fanboy he was. He had always been like an unpaid, unofficial, Vault-Tec salesman. He had even applied for vault entry for him and his family. When that hadn’t panned out, he had applied for work at all of the Vault-Tec labs and facilities within an “acceptable distance” of their home in Colorado Springs. He was turned down or ignored by everyone.

They didn't need the money. Though he wasn’t a New York Times best selling author, he was fairly well known and published enough books and articles to keep them in a decent house with food on the table. He just loved Vault-Tec so much. He had also had dreams of helping people when he was younger. It’s one of the reasons he became a writer. His books sold okay, but it was his exposés that had made him a household name. He had been smart about it, too. He hadn’t allowed one paper to own him, so he was able to print those exposé articles in every paper that would print it, which lately had been a lot.

Still, here they were, invite in hand for one David T. Tapia and family, and it was all about to go away because of an upset tummy. She shook her head. There’s no way she would let that happen.

“Excuse me,” she said as she and Lucas approached the guard building. “Do you have a phone?”

The guards announced that health screenings were about to start. Health screenings had become a normal part of life after the third bout of plague that had struck the nation. Especially in Colorado. You couldn’t even ride the bus or go out to eat without having your temperature taken and filling out a questionnaire.

1. 1. Have you experienced any of the following symptoms in the last 48 hours?

a. Fever or chills

b. Cough

c. Shortness of breath or difficulty breathing

d. Fatigue

e. Muscle or body aches

f. Headache

g. New loss of taste or smell

h. Sore throat 

i. Congestion or runny nose

j. Nausea or vomiting 

k. Diarrhea

2. 2. Have you come in close contact with anyone who has had those same symptoms?
3. 3. Have you tested positive for the plague in the past 10 days?
4. 4. Are you currently awaiting results from a plague test?
5. 5. Have you experienced a new loss of taste or smell with no other explanation in the last 10 days?
6. 6. Have you experienced a fever in excess of 100.4 degrees accompanied by new unexplained cough in the last 10 days?

David looked over the questions and thought to himself, you stand out in the freezing snow for two hours and see what symptoms you can’t scratch off that list.

“I’m sorry, sir,” one of the guards, Jones according to the patch on his lapel, said to David. “She won’t be able to come inside if she’s sick.”

David rolled his eyes. “She doesn't have the plague.” He shifted her from his left to his right hip. “We just spent two hours in the snow.”

The rich looking people had already been checked and were waiting under the arch. One of them, a heavy set older man, checked his watch incessantly. Another man who had tried to hide a bald spot that covered most of his head by growing out his side hair and combing it over the baldness kept looking between the tunnel and Davids little girl. The wind blew and his comb over hair waved at David as if to say, “Goodbye, you’re holding up the show! Goodbye!”

A few of the scientists however had overheard the conversation. Half of them backed away from the poor girl like she was death itself come knocking. The other half got closer, looking at her like a subject to be tested.

“I am sure that’s all it is, sir.” Jones, whatever his first name was David would never know, looked earnest in saying, “I hope she feels better, soon, but I cannot let her inside.”

David sighed. He had already given up on getting to go on the tour. He was disappointed, yes, but Mary and the twins had always been his priorities. He gladly gave up on things he wanted or needed to provide what someone else wanted or needed and had gladly set his mind to do it again.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. Days of gum wrappers came tumbling out onto the white ground, adding their own silvery glimmer to that of the snow and ice. As he was fumbling to try to pick them up while still clinging to Linzy, he dropped his keys.

He had always been a klutz. He didn’t get it from his mother, and since he hadn’t seen his father since he was younger than his twins, he could only assume he got the clumsiness from him. “You’re just like your father,” his family would say. Sometimes that was a good thing, but most of the time it was bad. When he was a kid he would be embarrassed by his clumsiness, but as he grew older, he learned to embrace it and laugh it off. After all, bullies have less ammunition if you can learn to laugh at yourself.

Mary put her hand on his as he reached for his keys. Her touch could calm the sun’s wrath, especially in him. She picked the keys up, one for the house, one for the car, one for the little box under the bar. She handed him his keys and they stood together. Her right hand was still on his left. She put her left hand on her daughter’s back and Linzy instinctively leaned into her mom’s arms. She stepped away from David having deftly and skillfully taken her daughter from him like only a mother can do.

The sun had crested in the east and was lighting the Rocky Mountains in brilliant hues of Orange and Blue. Snow blew off the top of Pikes Peak like the hair of the rich man, but unlike his peak, these looked majestic and awe inspiring. The sun’s rays landed upon Mary’s brown skin and strands of her hair also caught the wind, making her look more beautiful than the day they had met. He grinned.

He almost got lost again when he felt his son tugging at his arm. He looked down at him standing there in his oversized blue marshmallow of a coat. “Dad!” Mommy for her, Dad for him. After all it was the mature thing to do. He is ten after all, thank you very much. “Dad, we get to go on the tour!”

Lucas had no reason to be excited about Vault-Tec or the tour, but because his dad was, he was. He doted on his father, so when David talked about how wonderful Vault-Tec was and droned on about the vaults and the Societal Preservation Program, Lucas hung on his every word. Whatever David knew, Lucas knew. Sometimes, Lucas would spend days researching something, just so he could try to surprise his dad with some tidbit of information that he didn’t already know. Most of the time David already knew what his son told him, but he never let on. He always acted amazed like it was the most valuable information he had ever learned, and he would thank Lucas for finding it out for him. Often with a tussle of the hair.

Twice he actually had taught him something that he didn’t know. David had really been excited then, and they both had retreated into his office to research it completely. And like then, Lucas was bouncing up and down, unable to contain the energy his excitement was producing. He bounced and bounced, and his foot caught a patch of ice.

He slipped, and if not for the marshmallow coat, he would have fallen hard on his butt. In place of tears from a painful fall there was laughter. His coat that everyone teased him about at school kept him from getting hurt, but it also was keeping him from getting up. The whole thing made him laugh even harder. David and Mary laughed, so did some of the scientists. Everyone was having a grand old time. Everyone that is except Linzy.

Linzy leaned her head on her mommy’s shoulder and rolled her eyes, exaggerating the movement. No one saw. No one but Jones. He snickered and she immediately knew she had been caught. Her eyes darted to his. He rolled his eyes in agreement and smiled. She smiled back and already she felt better.

Jones walked away with the other guard to take the temperatures of the weird nerdy people. Linzy didn’t know the other man’s name. She didn’t want to know his name. He didn’t seem as nice as Jones.

David knelt down and picked up his son, who almost slipped again. David steadied him and said almost sadly, “No, I don’t think so, son.” He straightened himself and brushed a finger against Linzy’s cheek. “Your sister isn’t feeling good so they wont let us in.”

Mary cleared her throat and stated simply, “they won’t let HER in.”

“Right,” David said. “Which means we can’t go.” He was really trying to not sound dejected. He was failing.

Mary leaned forward and pursed her lips.

He automatically leaned forward and kissed her.

“We’re going on the tour, love.”

He shrugged his shoulders and gestured toward the archway. The archway that was begging him. Cheyenne Mountain Come Closer Complex. “How?”

Mary smiled. She was fully aware that he was trying to hide the fact that he was pouting. “I called my brother. He is coming to get her.”

“Uncle Mark is coming?” Linzy asked as she lifted her head of her mother’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Mary said.

“Yay!” Linzy said. It wasn’t a full blown HURRAH! It was more of an excited whimper. She laid her head back down on her mother’s shoulder. “I like Uncle Mark.”

Lucas rolled his eyes. He never did understand her fascination with their uncle. “The Injun thing…”

“Native American,” they all said at once, including Jones who was taking the temperature of one of the women in glasses. She did not have a pocket protector like the men in her group. Nor did she talk about comic books or argue theories. She seemed shy and withdrawn. When she grinned ever so slightly at Jones and pulled a strand of hair from her face, Linzy thought to herself, Wow, she’s pretty.

Lucas threw his hands up in the air, “Okay, okay! The Native American thing,” he said, over exaggerating the way he said Native American and twirling his hands in the air, “is just so weird.”

David grabbed his son by the shoulder and squeezed gently. “Hey, bud, weird or not, you are Native American, and your sister, and your mom.

“I know,” Lucas said, chewing on his lip. He looked up at his sister. She irritated the H-E double hockey sticks out of him, but he didn’t hate her. Not even a little. He kicked snow off his shoe, his attention focused intently on the task at hand. “I’m sorry, Linzy.”

Without lifting her head, Linzy gave him a thumbs up. She was still watching Jones and the pretty girl. He was red in the face already from the cold, but talking to her seemed to make him a hotter shade of pink. The young woman would break eye contact and stare at her shoes, then back to him, back to her shoes, like watching a tennis match. A lock of her hair was doing everything in its power to block her view of him. She would look down and over her eyes it would go, so when she wanted to look back at Jones, she would have to brush it aside. An incessant dance. Linzy asked herself, is this what flirting is? She had heard about it in her books, but had never seen it first hand to the best of her knowledge. Watching them be happy with each other made her happy. Lucas’ comment about their heritage had paled in comparison.

David patted Lucas on the shoulder. “And?”

Lucas’ breathing grew shallow as he desperately tried to hold back tears. “I’m sorry, mommy.”

Mary put her arm around him and pulled him closer. “It’s okay, baby.” She looked at her husband and cocked one eyebrow.

He shrugged his shoulders. He knew she, too, thought some of that “Native American stuff” was stupid. Especially just how into it her brother was. For whatever reason, where her brother had embraced his heritage, Mary had rejected it completely. She never wanted to talk about it and David had given up asking about it long ago. It always upset her when he did, so he stopped.

“Mark lives over two hours away, hon.” He was trying to sound reasonable. He was trying to pretend that he wasn’t jumping for joy on the inside. It was everything he could do to not jump for joy on the outside as well.

“He’s in town today getting supplies, hon.” It was Mary’s turn to roll her eyes. She saw in his eyes how thrilled he was that he was coming. She was fairly certain he knew that Mark was in town today because she was fairly certain David had invited Mark to come today. Her brother had replied with a quick, “No, thanks!”

Mark hated anything “corporate America,” and that included Vault-Tec. To be honest, Mary didn’t like Vault-Tec either. The idea of it made her cringe. Something just felt off and nefarious about the whole thing, but she would never admit it to David. She loved him and trusted that he was smart enough to stay clear of anything dangerous.

David looked at Linzy. “No, it’s ok,” he said stepping over to his wife and daughter. He took her hand into his and kissed her forehead. “I don’t feel right leaving her when she’s sick.”

“But, Dad! The tour!” Lucas made it abundantly clear he did not agree with his father’s decision.

“Sir?” Jones and his guard partner had finished checking everyone else in. David saw that they were headed their direction, assault rifles slung over their shoulders by thin leather straps. David knew they weren’t military, but he never thought it odd corporate security would use high powered assault weapons. Vault-Tec secrets were understandably worth protecting. Their boots made crunching sounds as they sloshed through the snow.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Jones pleaded, “but if you aren’t coming inside, you are going to have to leave.”

David looked around and saw that everyone else had already gone inside. The journey through the archway was in his grasp. David Come Closer Complex. Linzy squeezed the first two fingers of his hand and he turned his head to her. Her color had begun to return. A tuft of her black bangs laid clinging to her forehead.

“Daddy, can I tell you something?” Linzy looked away from him and concentrated on the fingers in her hand.

“Of course, baby.” He smiled and brushed that tuft of hair from her forehead.

She swallowed hard. This was so hard to say. “I love you. Don’t be mad, okay?”

He laughed lightly. “I love you, too, Baby. What is it?”

The second guard sighed and opened his mouth to say something. Jones nudged him. “I got this, Sampson.” He nodded toward the arch.

Sampson nodded. “Five minutes, Jonesy. Then we gotta be back at our posts,” he added as he walked toward the entrance.

Linzy glanced toward this Sampson character. Both he and Jones were white. Both appeared to be former military, complete with very short brown hair and hairless faces. Both of their uniforms were nicely pressed. They looked so much like each other, same height, same focused eyes, though Jones’ were blue and Sampson’s were brown, they could have been brothers. “But”, Linzy thought, “Sampson walks with a stick up his butt.” She smiled. Linzy was unaware this meant his attitude was off, but the statement was still accurate because Sampson literally did walk like he had a stick shoved up his butt.

“Linzy?” David kissed her hand.

She lifted her head and her eyes met his. “Daddy, I’m sorry.” She shut her eyes tight and spoke fast, as if trying to get it out as quickly as possible, “I don’t like Vault-Tec stuff.”

Mary’s eyes got big and she stifled a gasp.

David’s eyes grew just as wide in surprise. She had never told him… Or was it more that he was so excited about all of it that he never listened? David opened his mouth to speak. Time seemed to freeze with the snow.

“What!” Lucas stared at his sister in disbelief. His eyes were as wide as his parents’.

David burst out laughing. Mary and the kids were so startled they jumped. Lucas looked at his father like he had lost his mind.

Jones had instinctively grabbed for his gun and questioned whether or not he was going to need a new pair of pants. He looked from one member of the Tapia family to the next in quick succession.

“Linzy, baby.” He tried to stop laughing but failed. “You have no need to be sorry,” he sputtered between chuckles.

Mary chuckled nervously. She, too, had thought her husband had gone off his rocker for a moment.

David leaned over to his daughter so he could look her in the eyes. “I’m the one who is sorry, baby girl.” He kissed her forehead and nudged that stubborn clump of hair back into place again. “I have always been so obsessed with everything Vault-Tec, I assumed you guys were, too.”

Jones relaxed and slid the leather strap back onto his shoulder. “Sorry, everyone, but its oh seven hundred hours. They’ll have already started the tour.”

“David.”

He turned his head to the sound of his wife’s voice.

“David, go,” she said smiling.

“Daddy, go!” Linzy pulled her hand from his.

“What about you?” David asked, but he had already started moving toward the beckoning archway.

“I’ll catch up! Go!”

David turned, and he and Lucas ran into the darkness of the tunnel.

Jones smiled and put his mouth to Linzy’s ear. He then said something that made Linzy smile.

Mary did not smile. Not even a little.

Chapter Text

Katrina hated the word cult. It somehow made her feel like a joke. Like what she believed in her soul was wrong and made her and her fellow worshippers laughing stocks to the world around them. So when they started calling themselves cultists, she kept quiet, but decided then and there she would never think of herself that way nor would she allow anyone else to refer to her as one.

Those “cultists” were going to be gathering tonight for something special. Normally she didn't attend their gatherings but there was someone that was going to be speaking at the assembly that Katrina wanted to meet. HAD to meet. For he was a true believer like her.

She had been inside the museum downstairs from her home many times before and stared at all the trinkets and documents contained in the little glass cabinets and displays. She had checked out all of the books from the small two shelf “library” and read every single one.

Maybe because she came so often, or maybe because had been living upstairs for seven years. She had been living above the place since she was ten. Or maybe it was because she would sweep the floors and clean up for them, even the bathroom, but the owners let her come into the museum for free. No admission fee ever. They also kept her fed and paid her an honest wage on days that she worked.

Sometimes they would even give her gifts or let her pick something from the shop.

She had always wanted a likeness of Him and they told her she could have any one of the statues of Him she chose, but she felt like the big elaborate statues of Him looked too much like a man. They were pretty looking, made entirely of a metal mined locally by an artist that was also local. It was very sweet of them to offer such an expensive gift, but she would politely decline.

She instead made her own—hand carved it out of a piece of salvaged wood, locally sourced of course. It wasn’t as detailed as the statues, but it more closely resembled what she knew in her heart to be the true being she followed.

Her statue was on the smaller side, but it fit well in her hands, or into her bed if she wanted him close. It was also a perfect fit for the altar she had “made” out of a cinder block and a small wooden board that once was a sign that advertised a soda she had heard of but never had tasted herself, Vim! cola.

She made just about everything in her little one room apartment atop that museum in Point Pleasant, West Virginia. She had even made several candles out of discarded wax that she would light when she prayed to him.

It amazed her, just how much people wasted every day. Like her candles for example. The people who owned the building she lived on burned a lot of candles every day, and they would throw out the stubs at the end of the day. She would simply gather them out of the trash and make new candles from their waste. The owners didn't seem to mind and she enjoyed making them.

She would scrape the left over wax into little bits and shavings. She would then smash those pieces together and hold them in her hand until they molded together into a small ball. She would then mush the warm wax balls together into a pillar. After she had a decent sized candle, she would push a thin steel rod she had cut from a discarded broken coat hangar through the wax and then feed a piece of twine through the hole.

She was usually able make enough candles to not only keep her hands warm in the chilly night air, after all it did get cold at night in Appalachia, but she was able to keep a few on her altar as well.

On ritual nights she would be able to make enough to stash for later. She kept the spares in a little green wooden box she had found down the street in the dumpster of the pawnshop. She had used a flat piece of her cinderblock altar that had broken off long before she had turned it into her altar to sand the paint off, along with what had been written on the side.

SMALL ARMS AMMUNITION

125 CARTRIDGES .50 CALIBER

IN CARTONS

UNITED STATES ARMY

She wasn’t against guns necessarily, she was against one person killing another for any reason. She was, however, all for repurposing something dark for a good purpose. She didn't think she could ever bring herself to kill someone else.

Unless they were trying to kill he, or someone she cared about she supposed, but she had never cared for a person that deeply. She cared for the nice people who let her live on the roof of the Mothman Museum and gave her food, but she didn't think she could hurt someone, even for them. She supposed she would never know until she knew, and she hoped that day would never come.

She never lit her candles during the day. It was a waste to light candles when you could already see. It was night time, though, and she was praying, so they were lit.

She was lost in the flame of the candle that stood behind her little Mothman caricature. She dreamt of fields of grey flowers and beautiful moonlight. And dancing. She smiled. Then she dreamt of savage men dressed in green chasing…

Someone yelling broke her out of her trance. Who were they chasing, those men in green, she wondered. She was afraid for whoever it was. Whenever men dressed in green chased, death was always what they left behind.

There was another shout and Katrina sighed.

Two of the cultists were fighting. She shook her head slowly. They were fighting about Him. About who had done more in His honor and was more deserving of His divine light. She looked to the flame of the candle once more. It was dancing and she rejoiced in the memory of the dream in the moonlit field of strange dreary flowers. Was she the one dancing there amongst the stars or was it someone else?

She blinked the memory away. She had somewhere to be tonight and would be late if she drifted off again. She picked up her mothman toy and held it to her heart for a brief moment. She then returned him to his place on her altar and blew out the candle.

She was trying to stand when there was a spark in the wick and the candle relit itself. It had happened before on several occasions, and always after she had a weird dream.

“Apparently,” she thought, “you don’t want to be in the dark tonight.”

So she let the candle burn.

She closed her eyes and prayed silently.

So said the Enlightened, please protect me in your divine light, oh Holy Mothman.

She rose off her knees and stood.

She took one last look at her little altar and grinned. When she first moved here, she had discovered true happiness in the Mothman. She had devoted herself to him since her first encounter with him seven years ago. He had taken her under his wings and protected her in her loneliest hour and she now loved him for it.

***

She felt His presence inside her heart whenever something terrible happened, and sometimes when terrible things were about to happen. Seven years ago something terrible had happened and she had felt Him for the first time.

Her parents had disappeared while she was inside the museum looking at all the Mothman memorabilia. All at once she had gone into a panic and had accidentally knocked over a spinning magazine rack that contained books about random cryptids weary tourists could happen upon in the wilds of Appalachia, including the Mothman.

The older man behind the counter tried to help her, tried to find out what was wrong, but she had run out the door. She had looked for her parents, but they were gone. All of the other tourists had either not paid attention to her, or had ignored and pretended to not have seen her crying. The older man from behind the counter had come outside and grabbed her arm. It had frightened her and she had run into an alley and hid behind trash bins.

When the police came, she had continued to hide, darting in and out of stores, hiding in back alleys and bathrooms until they gave up their search assuming she had found her parents and gone home. Her mommy and daddy had taught her to hide from the police. They had taught her they were bad people and you should always hide from bad people. She was always a fast learner.

She heard Him in her mind telling her to climb the ladders and stairs that led to the roof of the Mothman Museum and hide, so hide she had. She heard him tell her the best way to be out of the cold was to build a little house over one of the vents coming out of the building that would on cold nights burp little bursts of warm air, and so she had. She heard Him teach her how to live off others’ wasted things. She learned to live on her own and fend for herself based on His teachings and the belief that He was protecting her for some unknown reason. She didn't question His motives and when she heard Him in her mind, she listened no matter what.

She heard the other cultists talk. She heard them call her crazy. She didn't mind it at all. She knew her truth in Him and that’s all that mattered to her. Even the people who owned the museum did not believe her. They never called her names but she could see in their faces that they were merely being nice. They even tried many times to get her to come inside, live with them, but she would politely turn them down and go back to her home she had fashioned herself on the roof.

It had taken two years for them to even discover she was living above the museum. She would sleep during the day and go scavenging at night. She never stole anything, instead she would retrieve items thrown out by the various businesses and tourists throughout the day. One night however, a small boy had broken away from his parents and had climbed the ladders and stairs like she had. He had found her there, sleeping in a pile of dried out hay she had found on a farm down the road covered in a blanket she had sewn together from old towels the hotel had tossed onto the curb for the trashman to pickup the next day.

Wake up, girl, she had heard in her dream and so she had. She sat up and stared at the boy. He had chocolate skin, black hair, and ice blue eyes. He seemed to be the same age as her. He was apparently startled, frozen there as he was. They simply glared at each other there on that warm summer afternoon.

She wondered who this boy was that was standing in her shack. The shack she had assembled together with palette boards and bailing wire she had found discarded outside the auto shop.

How had he found her?

Why was his skin different than hers? His like chocolate, hers like cream.

She smiled at the boy. He nervously smiled back.

A man’s voice called from the street, “Nathaniel! Get your ass back here, boy!”

His eyes went wide and he started to leave. He smiled at Katrina and waved one last time.

Katrina giggled and waved right back at him.

He ran away and she wondered if that was the last time she would see him. She never did, but apparently he had told someone her secret because that night she had a cram and cheese sandwich and some potato crisps on a plastic plate waiting for her when she woke, along with a small box of Dandy Boy apples.

She stared at the food for an hour, afraid it was some kind of trap. Or maybe poisoned.

Her stomach told her it did not care. It said she was hungry and so with some reluctance, she feasted better than she had in she didn’t know how long.

When she had finished, she took her plate down the stairs and placed it on the ground at the back door to the museum. And that is how things continued for several weeks before Mister Welsley, the owner and food bringer, introduced himself and asked her if she wanted to come inside. It had frightened her, and she had hid.

However she had heard Him tell her that the Welsley’s were safe for now, but to keep her distance, so though she refused to follow the Welsley man inside, she continued to eat what he brought her.

Missus Welsley came to her one night and said her husband wasn’t going to be bringing food anymore, but she was more than welcome to come eat with them at the dinner table. It took several nights of rifling through the trash again for her to be willing to try it, and only if the door was kept wide open so she had a clear path to run if she got scared.

She never did move in with them, and they never pushed the issue. They did however replace her hay pile with a mattress. They gave her a few blankets, which she used even though her favorite was still the one she had made from towels. They made sure she was well fed and well educated. She didn't go to school. She attended class in the Welsley’s apartment directly over the museum. Missus Welsley was her teacher.

By the time she was seventeen, Katrina Winters could read and write better than most of the men and women who showed up late at night to have their private meetings below the museum. The Welsleys weren’t keen on her knowing what was going on in those gatherings, telling her they were nonsense shared between nonsensical people. Katrina would have been satisfied with that if not for seeing the Welsleys themselves sneaking down to those meetings when they thought she was tucked in nice and tight in her bed.

It was sometime near her fifteenth birthday that she had snuck into her first Cult of the Mothman sermon. She found that the Welsleys had been right. This was nonsense. The Mothman was real, but he was not at all like these people were making him out to be.

To her, the mothman was NOT evil.

It was sometime later she had heard of the teachings of Brother Charles. He seemed to be the one person who saw the Mothman as she did. So she read and studied his writings.

Mostly,  the cult believed the Mothman to be some kind of demon. Something sacrifices needed to be made to. That he was some terrifying, mostly man, beast thing that should be feared and obeyed through that fear.

Brother Charles believed he was wise and benevolent and should be obeyed through his love. That is what Katrina knew to be true.

She was never afraid of him. She would dream of him nightly, and those dreams made her happy.

But sometimes…

Sometimes He showed her dark things. Warning of things to come.

That’s when the nightmares would come.

***

She peered over the edge of the rooftop of the Mothman Museum where she had lived for those seven years and saw all the “cultists” gathering below. The grin fell from her face.

She had been having nightmares for a week now. Every day.

She sighed at their empty faces.

The cultists all thought this was to be just another normal meeting.

She had found out through the Welsleys that Brother Charles was coming. The Welsley’s knew of her fascination with his teachings and so they had asked her to come.

She had a terrible feeling, and the closer it came to the gathering the worse it became. She wanted to run away and hide, but His voice told her she needed to stay. The uneasy feeling gripped her stomach tighter and tighter as she descended into the pits of the Mothman Museum.

A lot of people had come to see Brother Charles speak. He had promised something special would happen and so people had come in three times the number as usual, maybe more. Mister and Missus Welsley had saved her a seat and she joined them. She had come like everyone else dressed in normal clothes. She was wearing a blue flannel shirt Missus Welsley had given her for her birthday last year and black jeans. She had tied her long black hair up into a pony tail to keep it out of her face.

A few of the cultists had come adorned in long black robes from Freddy Fear’s House of Scares. She shook her head.

Don’t they know that only makes them more of a joke?

They pulled off their hoods to reveal ridiculous rubber Mothman masks.

No, they think they look cool.

A commotion swept across the room and everyone stood. At only four-feet eleven-inches tall, it made it impossible for her to see what was going on until order was called and everyone finally sat down. It was then that she saw him. Brother Charles, the guest speaker and his entourage stood like shepherds over their flock. Brother Charles was older than she was, but younger than the Welsleys. He had greying hair and grey eyes that were soft and kind. He was with a woman and a young boy. 

The woman looked younger than Brother Charles. She had light skin and brown hair that hung just past her shoulders in waves. The white dress she wore had no fancy frills, but clung to her body like a hug. She held her lips together in a smile that was warm and welcoming. The soft yellow candle light glow of the lights made her eyes sparkle. She was almost hypnotically beautiful. From her place at Brother Charles’ right, she proudly looked out at the people who had gathered like a mother would look to her children.

The boy, younger than Katrina at maybe twelve, stood to Brother Charles’ left. He, like Brother Charles, was dressed in pastor’s vestments. Unlike the woman, he showed no emotion at all.

His eyes were strange. They were completely white and he just stared at the people. No… He stared through them, like he was looking at something just past them that only he could see, and he was hyper-focused on it. Raven couldn’t resist the urge to turn and look to the back of the church. Nothing was there but the makeshift statue of the mothman that hung on the wall made of twigs and a mothman mask from Freddy Fear’s, but whatever the boy was looking at, it was beyond even that.

Unlike the young woman that stood on the opposite side of Brother Charles, there was nothing remarkable about the boy other than those eyes. Still, Raven could not help but be enthralled by him. She pulled her gaze from his eyes to his hands. Held tightly in their grasp was a small box as plain as he; brown aged wood with old black steel hinges and a hook clasp. It looked big in his small hands, but was probably only four or five inches across and only three inches deep. He was just a young boy and his box, staring at whatever lurked beyond them, if even only in his mind. He was resolute and unwavering.

“Tonight,” Brother Charles spoke suddenly, “we will summon the Mothman.”

The commotion erupted again. Whispers of excitement and doubt. People like Katrina who believed the Mothman to be wise and loving were excited at the prospect of meeting Him. Most doubted Brother Charles’ claim that he could do what no one else was able to do. There was fear of what he proposed amongst people who considered the Mothman a creature that would sooner eat them than hear their prayers. Then there were those who didn’t actually believe and were just there for the thrill.

“I have learned a ritual,” Brother Charles said.

“It’s true,” the woman standing to his right proclaimed.

The young boy stood like a statue holding his box. He was staring at nothing, lost in his own little world. Unflinching.

Katrina’s heart fluttered. This is why she had been told to come, she just knew it. She would get to see him in the flesh. No longer just a voice in her head. She had a grin on her pursed lips that made her glow. She felt a hand on hers. She looked briefly at Missus Welsley sitting next to her and squeezed her fingers. They would have known how excited Katrina would be about this moment. That is why they invited her, it had to have been.

A man who was at all of the normal meetings of the Cult of the Mothman, they had come to call themselves, spoke up, “Quiet down! I want to hear what he has to say.” And so they did.

Brother Charles nodded to the man and smiled. His mouth was obscured in a thick bushy beard and mustache, but his facial hair curled upward. Katrina giggled as she thought that it made him look like the pictures of Santa Claus in shop windows around town. Halloween hadn’t even come yet, and he was already being proudly displayed with ornaments and twinkly lights.

The room quieted to an eerie silence. There was a strange staticky buzz and what sounded like a very deep moan that you didn’t so much hear as feel. Satisfied, Brother Charles began his ritual. He lifted his hands and his gaze to the air. As he did, so too did many of the cultists. Katrina kept her eyes wide. There was no way she was going to miss a chance to see Him.

“We, of the Cult of the Mothman seek the infinite cosmic wisdom of the Mothman himself, for it is his appearance that portends disaster, and in heeding his warnings, we may live, as others around us perish to their fated doom!”

As Brother Charles spoke, people around the room started to sway in circles, pivoting at the hips with their arms in the air. Some were chanting about the Mothman, some were babbling gibberish in some non-existent language, others were moaning. All of it made Katrina roll her eyes. Even the Welsleys were joining in on the swaying. When she focused back on the pulpit, she met Brother Charles’ gaze. She swallowed nervously but still managed to smile at him. He rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner and returned her smile.

She had to stifle a laugh as she realized that he, too, thought this was all grandstanding and that these people were false in their belief.
He looked to the ceiling and continued, “We welcome visits from the Mothman with open arms and minds! Yes, we shall willingly summon him forth! To appear to us who revere him, and divulge his secrets. True believers among you, gather for this evening's blessing. We welcome you, oh Mothman. Accept our humble invitation and divert us from disaster!”

Nothing. Nothing but the incredibly embarrassing din coming from the cultists. But what is that sound? Is that… fluttering? Or a heart beat? And rattles. Not like baby rattles, more like wooden rattles filled with sand. And it’s definitely getting louder. So loud she could barely hear the others’ weird chanting anymore. She covered her ears with her hands, but it did little good. The noise just kept getting louder and louder.

She looked around the room. All but five of the cultists were still chanting. Brother Charles, herself, and three others were all holding their hands to their ears. Not only did the other people in the room seem to not be hearing what they were hearing, but they seemed to be… slowing down? Within a few moments the remaining cultists seemed frozen in place.

There was a boom they all felt more than heard and then everything was silent. Not normal silent, silent like nothing existed. Brother Charles stepped from behind the podium. Katrina and the others stood. A small ball of light appeared at the center of the room. Brother Charles reached out to it, but before he could touch it, the light filled the room like an explosion.

***

Katrina couldn’t see anything but the white light that consumed every other thing that had been in the room with her. As the light faded she saw that she wasn’t in the church below the Mothman Museum any longer.

She was back on the roof of the building. She could see her little shack she had constructed with her own two hands out of the corner of her eye. She paid it no mind as she stared out at the horror before her. She ran to the edge of the building and dropped to her knees. There was no fear, only the feeling of absolute helplessness as all she saw were walls of fire. No trees. No buildings. No humans or animals. The entire world burned and she was caught in the middle, untouched and alone with the understanding she could do nothing to stop the encroaching flames.

Was this it then? Was this when she would die and join her lord the wise and benevolent Mothman in the light?

No.

The voice surprised her. She bolted upright and spun around. Nothing but fire.

That sound again. The sound of a heart beat and fluttering and rattles.

A puff of smoke swirled in front of her. Black like pitch and the smell, not of fire but of damp forest nighttime air. She breathed it in and felt at peace. She exhaled an impossible amount of the black smoke and it rose above her, swirling faster and faster as it went.

The sound of the fluttering grew louder and louder and then with a whoosh, a gigantic black moth with glowing purple eyes appeared wings spread before her. It hovered above her a moment, the force of the wind displaced by its wings threatened to push her from the roof. It stopped flapping and landed with a boom she more felt than heard. It folded its wings around itself and stared at her with those huge purple eyes.

Cautiously, she reached out to touch it. She was afraid that, like regular moths, if she got too close it would fly away, but it stood there and let her approach. She slid her hand across his left wing. It felt as delicate and as soft as ash, like the dust from a regular moth’s wings. It’s wing dust came off onto her hand.

It was Him. He had come to her. She fell to her knees before him and cried softly into her hands.

Raven.

She heard His voice echo in her head louder than she had ever heard it before. She looked up at him and dropped her hands to her chest and pointed.

Yes. Raven. Do not be afraid. He lifted his wings. It made Him look powerful and majestic. Rise.

She stood and He folded her into His wings.

She was filled with such joy and excitement that tears flowed from her eyes like rivers down a mountain side. She felt a pounding in her chest and realized the heart beat sound she had heard before had been her own.

Raven.

She reluctantly pulled away from Him and took a step back. He folded His wings around Himself.

Raven, do NOT follow the false prophet.

There was another blinding flash of light and with it everything disappeared in the brilliant white. No more fire. No more Mothman.

***

She awoke on the dirt covered stone floor of the church below the museum. She could hear chanting and moaning all around her. She looked up and saw Mister and Missus Welsley, eyes closed swaying to and fro as they had been before.

She got back into her seat on the pew. She looked around and saw that the three other people she saw when the noise started also clamored to their seats.

A man yelled, “Silence!” It was so unexpected, people were startled out of their “trances” with little yelps.

She quickly looked in the direction of the yelling man. Brother Charles was helped to his feet by the woman to his right. The boy still stood there and stared at nothing. Did he just shut his box?

“I’ve had a vision!” Brother Charles righted himself on the podium and looked out across the night’s attendees.

Everyone focused intently on him.

“Rejoice, Brothers and Sisters. I’ve had a vision of the Mothman,” he began. “He has appeared before me and given me a warning to share with you.”

Her heart pounded as he spoke, for she too had a vision of something terrible happening.

“A great flood will come!” He rose his hands dramatically.

Her heart sank. A flood? That is definitely not what she had seen.

Do NOT follow the false prophet, He had warned. Was Brother Charles the false prophet?

Brother Charles continued, “We must seek higher ground on the rooftops!”

She stared at him confused. She had a vision of being on the roof of the museum.

“No,” the woman standing next to Brother Charles said. “I have had a vision, and he has shown me fire, not water!”

Her heart raced. Her breathing, shallow.

“We must seek shelter within the mines of Appalachia,” the priestess added.

Gasps and whispers spread throughout the cultists.

Brother Charles rose his voice so he could be heard over the raucous, “How then, priestess, are we to find ourselves in the Mothman’s divine light underground in the confines of a cave?”

“The same way,” the priestess argued, looking him dead in the eye, “we find his light here in the basement of this building, Brother Charles.”

There were nods of agreement and voices of agreement could be heard.

“The Mothman’s divine light can be found everywhere.” The priestess got a sneer on her face that made Katrina nervous. “Or have you forgotten that?”

Brother Charles looked out across the crowd and slumped his shoulders. He knew he had lost them. He folded his arms in front of him and sighed. “Go then if you must.”

The priestess smiled. “Come my children. Follow me to your salvation.”

Everyone stood and they filed one by one out the door and up the stairs into the night, even Mister and Missus Welsley.

Katrina stood and looked from Brother Charles to the Welsleys. She was confused and didn’t know what to do. She was torn on who to believe. If Brother Charles’ vision was about a flood, his vision was different than hers. However, if the priestess had a vision of going underground, that was also different from hers. Mister and Missus Welsley had always protected her, and they had chosen to go with the priestess, so she would also go with her. If nothing more than to look after them. Or was it to be looked after?

“Raven!”

Katrina spun around.

Brother Charles stood a couple of feet from her with his hand held out. “Raven, please.”

The Mothman had called her Raven. No one else would know that. No one.

She watched as Mister and Missus Welsley walked away without looking back. Just like her parents had done.

She took Brother Charles’ hand. From this day forward, she would forever be Raven. Katrina Winters would be no more.

She looked around. No one else had stayed. No one but her, Brother Charles, the three men who had also heard the noise, and the boy with the box.

“Come my friends,” he said. “We must go to the roof. The flood comes with the dawn.”

Raven looked at him quizzically.

Brother Charles smiled. “My dear child,” he began as they left the church. “I never said it was a flood of water.”

***

They woke the next morning and sat together, huddled for warmth under blankets that had once upon a time been gifts from her former friends Mister and Missus Welsley. She had the towel blanket draped over her. They feasted like kings on various snacks they salvaged from the Welsley’s cabinets. Raven polished off three stale Slocum’s Joe Donuts.

They were her favorites. The ones with the pink icing and sprinkles.

The young boy, who Raven could see was no older than she was when her parents had vanished from her life, sat separate from them. He faced west across the Ohio River holding the little wooden box.

One of the men seemed to be just as curious as she was about the boy. “Brother Charles?”

“Yes, Brother Christopher?” Brother Charles inquired, crunching on a handful of chips.

“The boy,” Brother Christopher began, a drip of sugary apple juice running down his chin, “What is he looking at?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Brother Charles replied. Crunch crunch crunch.

All of them, except the boy, turned to face him.

Brother Charles smiled at their curiosity. “The boy is blind.”

The surprise was palpable.

“I can see just fine,” the boy disagreed in a rich accent Raven had never heard before. “Through His eyes, Brother Charles, I can see even better than you can.” He never pulled his gaze from the horizon to the west.

Brother Charles nodded. “That is quite true, Brother Jacob. I meant no disrespect.”

“None taken, Brother Charles,” he said. He genuinely sounded like he wasn’t bothered at all.

Everyone just went back to eating their snacks and not speaking when Brother Jacob spoke again just a minute later. “To answer your question, Brother Christopher, I am waiting for the beginning of the end.”

Everyone looked away but Raven. They looked to the east. To their snacks. To each other. To their feet. Anywhere but at him.

“It comes soon,” Brother Jacob said. “Just ask Raven for she feels it, too.”

Everyone looked to her. She looked to the west. Brother Jacob was right. She had felt it worse than she had ever felt it since the day before. That feeling of impending doom she always felt before something significant was about to happen to her.

She got up and stepped over to him. She stood next to him and he took her hand. Her heart pounded in her chest.

“Don’t be scared.” He squeezed her hand. “The light comes for us all eventually.”

She was scared. She believed in her savior and that she would one day be taken into His light, but what was coming did not feel at all like His light. His light embraced the darkness and brought life to it. The coming light, she feared, brought nothing but death and destruction.

There was a sound like thunder and Raven was bathed in a bright white flash of light like she had been the night before. She was on the roof of the Mothman Museum staring out at fire. It was distant this time, but still there, scorching the earth. It erupted forth in a spew of vertical flame. To Raven it looked like a cauliflower bloom made of lava that stretched from the ground through the clouds.

***

She was alone again. The sound of her heart pounding in her chest blended with the sound of fluttering wings all around her. The black and purple soot swirling around her made her feel at ease.

A hot wind blew her hair around softly as she looked at the towering inferno that burned all around her. The fire surrounded the little town of Point Pleasant, West Virginia, threatening to consume all that remained of the world. She felt the building beneath her shake. As it rumbled, there was an ear shattering screech from the sky, then another, and a third.

She looked up and saw three enormous bats dancing in and out of the clouds as they flew in a circle around the museum. Each one was the size of a bus. Their skin a raw reddish pink from radiation burns. Their eye sockets were melted shut but they looked directly at her. As they made their swooping circles, they breathed a green putrid smoke that burned the streets around the museum with a strange bubbling liquid fire. All the plants and trees wilted and turned to rot where the smoky fire touched, like plague salting the earth.

Though they were blind, through some kind of echo location, they knew precisely where she was and swooped closer and closer with every pass they made over her head. Each of their mouths were large enough to take her head off with one bite, and yet her inner peace remained. Her black hair she had tied into a pony tail the night before continued to blow in the light breeze. The black and purple soot caught that breeze and flowed in casual loops around her. She looked from it to the giant bats in the sky and noticed that it was swirling and looping and diving in the same pattern as those creatures.

She calmly blinked her eyes.

She felt it before she saw it.

The air became thick like she was in a hot bath and her hair was floating around her, not blowing. She could still breathe normally, but every other movement was like moving through sludge.

The universe had slowed down. The inferno around Point Pleasant that had just a few moments before been consuming the world became still and almost beautiful. The rancid green breath of the monstrous bats looked like a colorful bubble bath that had been flash frozen, the bubbles begging to be popped. It looked playful and inviting.

Raven looked up and saw the bat creatures had stopped moving entirely. All three were looking down upon her, and all three were frozen in time or space or both. She heard a welcome SHIDOOM and lowered her gaze to see the mothman in front of her. His deep breathing made His whole body puff out and back in in slow succession.

Raven, His unspoken words filled her mind. Find him. An image of a face pierced her thoughts. She stared into one of His large purple eyes and nodded slowly. She blinked and He leapt off the roof of the museum dedicated to Him and disappeared in a puff of purple and black smoke.

***

When she opened her eyes, she was staring, not into the eyes of the Mothman, but the boy, Brother Jacob. His eyes were grey and dead, motionless, but she could feel him peering into her soul. She was lying on her back and he was sitting on his knees above her head, his face tilted toward hers, like he was trying to mimic looking at her.

“Be careful, Sister Raven,” he whispered. “The more we seek His wisdom, the less of this world we get to see.”

She reached out her hand to touch Jacob’s cheek, but Brother Christopher mistook it as her asking for help getting to her feet and so helped her to her feet he did.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

She nodded and as she got her bearings she noticed it was only the five of them. Brother Charles was missing.

Brother Christopher grinned. “Brother Charles left while you were unconscious.” He helped her to one of the chairs by the fire before continuing. “He said we were to help spread His word and offer enlightenment to those who will accept it.”

Raven stared into the fire.

Brother Christopher explained further, “Brother Jacob and I are to travel west towards the explosions, and Brothers Jeffrey and Trent are to go north to Boston.”

So I am to be alone again. A solitary tear fell down her right cheek.

Brother Jacob gently wiped the tear from her face. “Sister Raven, you know where you need to go and why.”

She looked up from the fire. She needed to head south. She needed to find “him,” whoever “him” was. She had a direction and a face, nothing more. No… not alone. She had Him to accompany her. He had always kept her company and protected her. The very idea of the Mothman himself being her traveling companion made her happy and gave her motivation. She was filled with His light.

“Here, we’ll need our strength,” she heard a man say. “Tonight will be difficult for you.”

She pulled her gaze away from the south and she was handed a plate of food. She smiled at the man handing it to her. It was either Brother Jeffrey or Brother Trent. She didn't know them at all and never would. They left after they ate, and Raven never saw them again.

Chapter Text

“I don’t like Vault-Tec either,” Jones had whispered into Linzy’s ear. It was probably something innocent to make Linzy smile, but Mary already had a bad feeling about this damned company. The thought of one of their employees not liking them either…

Mary, a lot of people don’t like the people they work for. Hell, you don’t like your boss.

Jones stepped back and smiled at her, and she smiled nervously at him. Jones seemed very nice and she had no issues with him in particular. Her nervousness had nothing to do with him, it was who he worked for and nothing more.

“My brother will be here soon,” Mary told him.

Jones nodded. “It’s quite alright, ma’am.”

Mary gazed out across the parking lot willing her brother to be there.

“So,” Jones began, “What tribe are…”

“Chenoa!” A male voice called from the distance.

“Uncle Mark!” Linzy squirmed in her mother’s arms to be let down.

Mary cringed. She hated when he used that name. “And there he is. If you’ll excuse us.” She put Linzy down on the compacted snow and Linzy immediately ran off, seeming to be miraculously cured of whatever had ailed her.

Jones smiled and nodded. “Yes, of course. Come see me when you’re ready to join your husband.”

Mary smiled and walked away to where her brother waited. When she saw how he was dressed, she rolled her eyes.

He was donned in brown leather pants and cowboy boots. A long sleeved black cotton shirt under a matching brown leather vest. Colorful beads adorned tassels that dangled from the vest. Leather armbands had feathers laced onto them and they blew gently in the wind. A leather headband kept his long black hair from his eyes that were so black you could not distinguish his pupils from his irises. He was muscular from hard work, and his skin was dark from doing that work in the sun. He stood tall and proud, a good six inches taller than his twin sister at five foot ten inches.

Linzy got to him first and as she neared him, he turned so his back was to her and squatted down. Linzy leapt onto his back as skillfully as a professional stunt rider might leap onto his horse’s back from over the rump. As skillfully as a brave her mother thought.

He stood with her on his back and turned. “Hello, little bird.”

“Hello, Uncle Mark,” she said, grinning from ear to ear.

Mary marveled at how deftly her daughter made it all the way to her uncle without slipping once. Once Mary made it to the black pavement of the parking lot, she slipped with almost every step and almost fell twice. The first time was the worst, almost doing the splits. The second time she would have fallen if not for a snazzy brand new 2077 Chryslus Cherry Bomb. Red of course. A dent in the rear quarter panel that may or may not have been the size of Mary’s hand may or may not have been there prior to arriving at the complex that morning. Who’s to say?

“Gracious as always, Chenoa,” Mark teased.

Mary audibly grumbled. Linzy was still smiling, but Mary couldn’t tell if it was from seeing her uncle Mark or from Mary’s clumsiness or both. “Chenoa?”

Mark’s smile melted from his face. “Sorry,” he said.

Linzy’s smile also faded.

“Mary,” he said sarcastically with an eye roll that could have caused tidal waves.

“And you,” she said, lifting her chin toward Linzy. “You seem to be feeling a LOT better.”

Linzy moaned quietly. “A little, I guess.”

An exaggerated frown on Mark’s lips, he whimpered, “Poor thing. All this Vault-Tec business made the girl sick to her stomach.”

“Uh huh.” Mary put her hands on her hips, her accusing gaze snapping back and forth between her brother and daughter. “You two planned this whole thing.”

“Ma’am?”

Mary turned, her hands still on her hips. She could see Jones walking toward them. “Yes?” She faced the accused.

“Ma’am, we really should be going.” Jones had apparently seen her slips and trips because he held his hand out for her.

Linzy thought he was an absolute gentleman. Mary thought he was placating her. Mark didn’t think anything of it. He was too focused on Mary.

Mary sighed and dropped her hands to her sides. She pointed at her brother and then at Linzy. “We’ll talk about this later.”

Linzy smiled. “Thank you, Mommy.”

“Uh huh,” she said as she walked off with Jones.

She was almost to the archway when she heard Linzy and Mark from behind her, “Love you!”

Without turning, she raised her hand and yelled, “Love you, too!”

***

For a moment, she felt blind. Outside was extremely bright, the sun reflecting off the white snow like a mirror. The first twenty feet into the archway was a black hole, completely devoid of light. Then four spotlights that shone like white novas beamed down upon them. Mary realized it was probably designed to disorient would be intruders, but it still made her feel threatened. That might have been because of the things she learned as a child from her father and brother.

“Always be aware of your surroundings, Maahe.”

That right there is why she hated her culture so vehemently. She had loved it as a young girl. She wanted nothing more than to have her father take her out into the woods like he did for Mark. Her father was old school and sexist.

“Only men can be braves, eh, Maahe,” he would say. “A woman’s place is over a cooking pot or washing our clothes.”

He and Mark would laugh and she would run to her room. She would be too proud to cry in front of them, but internally she’d be devastated.

One day her mother had told her, “Chenoa, a teacher isn’t always aware he is teaching.” Mary had been confused, but her mother took her by the shoulders, looked her dead in the eye and said, “Go, Chenoa. Watch, listen, learn. If your father doesn’t know you are there, your father cannot tell you no.” Mary had smiled and run off. And she had watched. And she had listened. And she had learned.

Her training told her Vault-Tec had ulterior motives. She knew it deep down in her soul.

“HALT.”

“Oh for crying out loud, Sampson.”

Her vision had not fully returned but she recognized Jones’ voice. Sampson? Was that his partner?

A blur formed in front of her that vaguely resembled a man. It moved in rhythm with the clopping foot steps she heard.

“I’m late getting back to my post because of you,” Sampson grumbled.

Her vision came back in a rush and she looked around. They were standing in front of the biggest door she had ever seen. It wasn’t your typical Vault-Tec door as it was square not round. Probably to allow for vehicles to come in and out of the facility.

“Go ahead and report to the gate. I will take her inside and be there as soon as I can,” Jones told him.

Sampson didn't say anything, he simply grunted and headed into the darkness of the tunnel.

Jones motioned toward the door. “Right this way, ma’am.”

They stepped through the massive door into a long corridor. As they approached the other side, she heard a loud commanding voice. “…each three and a half feet thick and weigh twenty-three tons.”

Each? She looked behind her and saw that at the end of the corridor she just emerged from was yet another massive vault door the same size as the first.

“Combined with the fact that this facility sits under two thousand feet of pure granite, makes it the most secure place in the world.” A large black man in military camo stood at parade rest in front of the crowd. “In the unlikely event of complete nuclear annihilation,” he continued, “this facility can withstand a thirty megaton atomic blast.”

“There’s that advert again,” Mary thought and rolled her eyes.

They proceeded further in. It wasn’t until they were moving again that Mary saw David and Lucas. They were wide eyed and in absolute awe.

She turned to thank Jones but he was already gone. She patiently made her way through the small group of people, laughing inside at her husband’s boyish fascination.

“What about EMP?” asked one of the sciencey types.

They had walked through a tunnel that the walls were literally made of the granite of Cheyenne Mountain. “This is Dr. August, he will be taking over the tour and will gladly answer any questions you might have.”

“Please, step in here,” Dr. August said.

***

Dr. August was an older man. Probably in his late fifties judging from the grey hair and wrinkles at the corners of his mouth. Grey pants and slightly darker grey penny loafers protruded from the bottom of his oversized white lab coat that had a little grey box with a dial and something resembling a compass on the left breast pocket.

They poured into the room, a room that seemed to make Mary’s stomach go topsy-turvy as the floor felt… wobbly? Bouncy?

They appeared to be in some kind of control center. There were computers everywhere. Each screen had two placards on it, one that read RobCo under the screen and another above the screen with a different location in the United States stamped into it: Boston, Appalachia, Washington, DC, and around a hundred others. Lights were blinking, gauges were bouncing. Most of the terminals had two lights on them, one red, one green. Most of the terminals had the green light illuminated. A few were red. At quick glance, Boston and Cheyenne Mountain were both red.

She kissed her husband on the cheek.

“Don’t do that, my wife will be back any moment,” he said with a smile.

She punched him hard on his shoulder.

He turned and returned the kiss. “Linzy?”

Mary gave him a quick thumbs up and said, “With Mark.”

“Mommy, Look at all the computers!”

Most of the people in the room laughed. The man with the waving hair, who had at some point tamed the wild beast and caged it back to his head with some untold amount of hair gel, forced a frown that made Mary shake her head.

“I see,” Mary said with feigned excitement.

Lucas, whose eyes caught the reflection of the blinking green and red lights like an ornament on a Christmas tree, was lost in the Vault-Tec universe. “Awesome.”

“To answer your question,” the man in the lab coat began with a proud look. He pushed his glasses back up his nose and continued, “Let’s just put it this way. A nuclear detonation could occur right outside in the very lot you parked your vehicles in this morning. All of Colorado Springs would be wiped off the face of the earth, and as long as those vault doors were sealed, nothing would happen to harm you, the structures, computers or anything else in here.”

An excited murmur rolled through the young pocket protector crowd. The rich-ies looked down their noses at one another and nodded, smug knowing looks on their faces.

A young woman with skin as white as the snow, blonde hair and large breasts handed him a clipboard. She was wearing glasses that sat on the tip of her nose and a pristine lab coat similar in style to Dr. August’s.

He reviewed the clipboard and frowned. “I thought there were supposed to be more of you, but apparently we have a no show.” He squiggled something on the clipboard, gave it back to the blonde girl and sent her off with a smack on the butt.

Mary, disgusted by the exchange, tried to say something to David, but he had wandered away from her and was peering out one of the large windows into the vast rooms below.

“Ohhh.” One of the rich wives swooned and vomited onto a poor Asian man sitting in front of one of the screens. The sign on the monitor read Las Vegas and was as green as the Asian man’s face before he grabbed his trash can and vomited as well.

Dr. August frowned and rubbed his forehead. “Ah, yes, I apologize.”

The woman and the Asian scientist, Dr. Ang according to his name tag, were escorted from the control room. Within seconds, a door in the wall swooshed open and out of the dark cubby emerged a large ball with three arms suspended in the air on a small stream of fire.

The Mr. Handy, as it’s known to most Americans, had a mop in one claw, a bucket filled with a liquid of some sort in another, and a spray bottle in the third, more than likely filled with disinfectant.

As it cleaned, Dr. August continued, “To prevent damage from earthquakes or explosions, all of the buildings in this complex are housed on springs.” He rubbed his forehead again. “It can be… disorienting. It was in the documents you had to sign, but I should have reminded you.”

The Mr. Handy finished, yelped, “Good day to you,” in an over the top British accent and retreated back into the wall from which it came. The wall section swooshed back into place, and it was like nothing had happened. With the exception of the missing Dr. Ang and the elderly woman. Linzy would have noticed that the cute girl with the glasses was also missing, but no one else had really paid her any mind.

“What the hell is that?”

David was standing at one of three massive windows, the center and by far the largest.

“That, sir,” the smile had returned to Dr. August’s face, “Is the Calculator and what we brought all of you fine folk out here to see.”

Mary walked over to David and stared open mouth at the “what” that was beyond the window glass.

“Excuse me, Dr. August?” Lucas’ voice.

Mary was too busy staring into the other room to hear him. “David, are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

Several men in uniform, guns drawn, came running into the control room. “Secure the area.”

“Dr. August, sir?” Lucas’ voice again.

“General Dorsey? What is going on?” Dr. August asked nervously. The large black man that was talking when Mary first came into the vault was back. He was whispering something to his men.

“Yes, I see it,” David replied. “Dear God.”

“General, vault doors have begun lockdown. Forty-five seconds from seal.” Sampson’s voice.

“I just hope we make it in time,” sighed General Dorsey.

Mary reached for David’s hand and held it in hers. The room they were staring into contained a massive central computer, bigger than anyone outside this room had ever seen. Dozens of robots of various type were working tirelessly tapping buttons on computers, unhooking hoses, disconnecting and reconnecting cables.

David spoke softly, “Hon, we should go.” Along every wall were hundreds of large glass tubes. All were filled with a green almost glowing fluid, and all but twenty contained a floating brain.

“Fifteen seconds on door one. Thirty seconds on door two.”

“Dr. August!” Lucas yelled.

“What?” Dr. August snapped.

Mary and David spun around and saw all the armed personnel that had lined the walls around them. They all had their guns drawn, though they weren’t aiming at anything or anyone in particular. They seemed just as scared as the people from the tour group.

“The dial,” Lucas said, pointing. “The dial on your coat is moving up.”

Dr. August looked down at the meter on his lab coat. It wasn’t quite in the red danger zone, but it was close.

“Radiation!"

As if God himself was responding, a deafening boom shook the room. If not for the springs, they would have been thrown around like jacks in a game. All light blinked out of the room as everything went dead, including the giant computer in the glass cage.

Or were they that were in the cage?

The sound was the worst thing she had ever heard. Everyone was screaming. The springs were making a horrible metallic stretching sound. The room was banging against the granite on the other side of the walls. There was the frighteningly crushing sound of what sounded like the mountain giving way on itself. When all other sounds had died out. When the screams had ceased, the most disturbing sound of them all could be heard. It was a deep, loud moan that resonated in their brains. It felt, yes felt, like the entire mountain was crying out in pain.

David squeezed her hand so tight he broke two of her fingers, but she barely noticed. She had only one thing on her mind. Her heart raced. Her breath quickened. In the pitch black darkness when no other sound but the death moan of a computer powered by human brains could be heard, Mary screamed.

“Linzy!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: The Forgotten

Sebastian, FL

Stephen Newsom’s hand shook as he held the gun to his right temple. He wasn’t sure if it was the multiple sclerosis causing it or the fear of actually doing what he was intent on doing. He lowered the gun into his lap and watched as his hand shook. Tears were forming little rivers down his dry skin into his grey beard that had always been unkempt but had in recent years become quite unruly. He scratched at the skin under his beard. It wasn’t like he didn’t like lotion. He just hated taking the time to apply it.

There were days he just couldn’t take it anymore. The shaking was first and that was bad enough. Though it had started out indiscernible, it had gradually progressed over the years to a goddamned Parkinson’s level of shaking. Weakness in his muscles came next. It had also come on slowly, like the disease wanted you to know it was destroying you before it killed you. But then his memory started to go. Simple things like where to go next in a video game or, “did I take my morning medication?”

The clincher was when his best friend of fifteen years had come out to visit him and he had no idea who he was. What’s worse than that? He remembered who he was after he had already left. What’s worse than that? He had no way to get ahold of his friend because he was in a traveling Renaissance Fair troupe. Worse still? When he did track his friend down, he found out he was in the hospital dying from the goddamned plague. “I can’t even apologize to my goddamned friend.”

He had decided enough was enough. He was tired of being a burden to everyone. Especially to his elderly mother. Everyone teased him about living with her. He didn't blame them. He was fifty-six years old and had to live with his mom because she was the only one he would admit to how bad his disease had gotten. He was too embarrassed to admit he couldn’t take care of himself and someone needed to be there all the time in case he forgot to eat. He was even too embarrassed to tell Anthony. No, he was especially too embarrassed to tell him. “I bet he knows now. I forgot my goddamned best friend.”

The sun was setting over the ocean. He marveled at how beautiful it was. “Maybe I need a goddamned sign,” he said looking into the sun. As if his MS was egging him on, or the goddamned sun was giving him his goddamned sign, his hand stopped shaking.

He leaned back in a full belly laugh like he used to before the MS took over. He hated his laugh. It came out of his nose like he was trying to stifle a sneeze, but he accepted it for the first time ever. “Ok then.”

He lifted the gun to his temple and felt relaxed for the first time in decades. He put his index finger gently on the trigger and squeezed.

“Stephen,” a woman called from inside the house. “Where are you?”

He jumped at the sound of his mother’s voice. Be it the multiple sclerosis, his weak muscles, or the fright she just gave him, he inadvertently half dropped, half threw the pistol across the back porch. It connected hard with the back of his mother’s baby blue Corvega that was just as old as he was, and discharged.

The bullet ricocheted off the stucco house and blew past his face so close that it cut his left cheek. It shattered the brown clay pot of one of his mother’s hanging plants, the one with the leaves that looked like they had veins on them so deep of a red he expected them to bleed whenever she trimmed them. A mockingbird was singing on the fence. He always hated that bird because it always seemed to be “mocking” him. It sang out one last pitiful cry, probably trying to mimic the sound of the bullet twangs as it bounced to hell and back, and then its head vanished in a mist. The bird didn’t even have a head anymore, but its body stood strong on the fence post.

When the wings of the headless thing flapped enough to lift it off the post and it flew sideways into the neighbors yard, Stephen didn’t even bat an eye.

“Goddamned bird.”

“Stephen?” A woman called from inside the house. “What was that noise?”

“Nothing, momma,” he called to her. “Coming, momma.” He picked up the gun and carried it through the screen door into the house.

***

He tried shooting her first truth be told. Not because he hated her or anything, the poor woman didn’t even deserve it. He just knew how much it would devastate her if she found him as headless as that goddamned bird in his room, or rather on the back porch since that was where he was almost successful in finally doing it.

Like his own suicide, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He loved his mother dearly and besides, he was no murderer. That bird was the first thing he had ever killed aside from the random roadkill or bug on the windshield.

You know… unavoidable murders.

He put the gun on the counter. She would freak if she saw it out, but he knew she was watching television in the other room. She always watched television before going to bed. It was her pattern. He always remembered repetition. Eventually. Television before bed time meant that she was wondering where her tea was.

As if it heard him, the tea kettle he had put on before deciding that was the day he was finally going to have the courage to do it, screamed in agony. Most people claimed it was whistling that it was ready. Stephen always thought it sounded more like screaming because its skin was being boiled off. He burned his hand on the tea kettle.

“Goddamned tea pot.”

He poured the water over her favorite tea: East Frisian tea. “You don’t just drink East Frisian tea, Stephen,” she would say. “You experience the ceremony of East Frisian tea.”

The memory warmed his heart some. Or was that the tea? He shrugged his shoulders. He placed the two cups of tea on the silver tray he had already set the cream and bowl of sugar rocks on and carried it into the room where his mother sat in front of her Radiation King television set.

Tonight the tale of two lovers (TV goes staticky) in Adam Levine’s production of Love Sets Sail! Brought to you by Abraxo Cleaner, now in industrial strength for the home!

The volume was extremely loud. His mother was close to as deaf as you can be and still hear anything. Thankfully or she would have known exactly what that noise was and wouldn’t have needed to ask. Also thankfully they had a big yard, because his mother played movies and music loud. Not far enough from the neighbors to hide a gunshot, but the neighbors were on vacation in Las Vegas. They might be a little weirded out by the headless bird in their yard when they get home, but whatever.

He set the tea set on the table near her. His mom was dressed in pink slacks and a blouse decorated in stargazer lilies. Her hair was done up in grey curls. His mother could be sick on her death bed and she would still get up and do her hair and get dressed in her finest. After all, she had to be presentable just in case someone popped in for tea. Even if it was the undertaker.

“The most important thing to remember about this tea,” she would tell him every time he sat down to tea with her, which was most nights, “is that you never stir.”

He watched as he always did, and he listened as intently as if he was learning it for the first time. He had a terrible memory thanks to his disease, but repetition was key to him remembering. They had repeated this every night since he had moved in with her eight years before, but he cherished it every night because it was something he and his mother shared and he didn't want to forget this like he forgot… 

Anthony. His goddamned name is Anthony.

“Are you paying attention, Stephen?”

He shifted his gaze from the tea cups to his mother’s face. He didn't quite look her in the eyes, just one second on the face then back to the tea. “Yes, momma.”

“Good, because this part is important.” She had the creamer in her hand. Most people think the liquid is the creamer, but the creamer is the small pot that holds the cream. “You don’t pour the cream, you use the spoon that most people think is used for stirring to scoop a dollop of cream into your tea.” She demonstrated into both cups. “Like a fluffy cloud in the sky.”

She then carefully picked up the tiny tongs in the sugar bowl and used them to grab out a single rock sugar and placed it so delicately into the cup that it did not make a sound when it found its way to the bottom. It never even disturbed the “cloud” of cream. She always looked so happy and proud when she finished her tea ritual. She loved spending this time with her son.

He learned a while back, he didn’t remember exactly how long ago, that if the tea was still hot enough, he could stick his finger against the side of the cup, burning it. It hurt like the dickens, but it kept his hand from shaking and spilling the tea, or worse, dropping his mothers prized china tea cup. The smell of the Frisia tea filled his nostrils and he smiled. He closed his eyes and relished in the brief moment of peace.

He wanted to enjoy these moments with his mother for as long as he possibly could. One day they would inevitably come to an end. One day his momma would pass away and he would forget. As hard as he would try to continue the tradition on his own, and he would try, he would eventually forget.

“Not yet,” he said aloud.

“What’s that, honey?”

He opened his eyes and realized she had heard him. “Just happy I haven’t forgotten this yet, momma.”

She smiled a happy and sad smile and leaned forward. She leaned forward and placed her hand on his. She patted his hand a few times before the sound of Vera Keys singing her big number pulled her attention away from him.

He watched her while she watched the film.

I hope she doesn't miss me too much when I am gone, he thought. Even if he never again worked up the courage to kill himself, his mind would eventually be gone, never to return. Losing your mind is bad, knowing you're losing it is far worse.

“Goddamned MS.”

***

Stephen’s momma, Birgitta to everyone else, became a widow six months before Stephen moved in. Cancer of the lungs.

“Goddamned cigarettes,” as her son would say.

Stephen moved in to take care of her, but she knew she would be doing the caring for. She had no regrets, Stephen’s father left her two things, he left her a son who suffered with multiple sclerosis, and he left her lonely. That and a pile of his junk in the garage, but she told Stephen he could have it all. That’s where she had seen that gun before, a forty four caliber pistol that had been gifted to his father when he had retired from the army. It had come in a black leather wrapped case lined in red velvet. She hadn’t thought anything about it in years until she saw Stephen with it on several occasions.

Once she had seen him holding it in his lap as he sat on his bed. He had left the door to his room cracked when he had gone in.

As she was walking by, she saw it out of the corner of her eye. He probably hadn’t meant to leave it open. His father had not allowed closed doors in “his” house when Stephen was growing up. It was habit, and habit is what Stephen had left. She had burst into his room announcing that it was time to make his bed. He had quickly slid it under his pillow and dutifully made his bed like it was what he had set out to do all along.

The second time she had seen him sneak it into the bathroom like a school boy sneaking pornography. She had opened the bathroom door with an arm load of towels and folded them right there as he was “taking a dump.”

He had yelled, “Momma! I’m practically naked,” and then dropped his father’s pistol into the trash can next to the cabinet. She had gone on to explain, while she continued folding those towels, that she had wiped that very tush when he was a baby and again when he was a toddler potty training on that very toilet. He had protested, and her purpose for barging in well served, she had left him to his duties.

Then there was today. She had thought long and hard about the prospect of her son taking his own life. She had cried long and hard over it.

Stephen had his moments of depression, sometimes very severe, concerning his disease, and she could understand why. She didn't blame him for wanting to do what he had tried to do at least twice before. She understood completely, but she had always intervened. And always for selfish reasons. She didn't want to lose him, too. She knew she would one day. Either the disease would claim his mind or he would have his father’s gun when she wasn’t there to stop him.

She saw him cry when he thought she wasn’t looking. She knew what he was going through when he wasn’t able to do little things that he used to be able to. The way his cheeks flushed when she had to open jars for him. She could only watch as Stephen Newsom faded away day after day and became whatever hollow shell would be left behind.

So, when she saw him outside that afternoon with his father’s gun to his head, she had turned away. She decided to not interfere this time. To let him go on his own terms. Of course she would miss him, and she would forever feel the guilt of knowing her son had committed suicide and she had done nothing to stop it. She had gone into the living room and turned on her television, the volume she increased to as high as it would go, while she sat and waited for it to be over. After a few minutes, she thought that maybe he had decided not to do it, so she had called out to him.

It was then she heard the gunshot. Her hearing was definitely going, but she heard that terrible sound as loud as if she had been in the same room. She hated herself and regretted not stopping him again all at once. Tears welled up in her eyes and she felt like vomiting. Her throat was tight so when she tried calling out to him, nothing came out but a whimper. She wanted to run to him but couldn’t move. She was frozen in place, her feet planted firmly in the floor like the great redwood trees of California.

“Stephen,” she had called out. “What was that noise?” And she had waited for an answer for a lifetime of three or four seconds.

“Nothing, momma.”

She had crumbled to her knees at the sound of his voice. Her heart skipped a beat and then pounded hard and she had cried just as hard as she reeled back and forth on the floor in front of her Radiation King television box. Stephen had bought her that television with his disability money. He was always so thoughtful and kind.

To her.

To everyone.

She had straightened herself up and wiped the tears off her face with a laced silken hanky, also pink, when she had heard the tea pot cry out. She refused to be anything but happy when he was around. He was depressed enough on his own without her showing how sad she was.

The movie ended about twenty minutes ago. Vera Keyes and Mike Berlyn had fallen in love and gotten rescued at sea. It was definitely not Ms. Keyes finest work in Birgitta’s opinion, but it was entertaining anyway. She always enjoyed movie time with her son but lately no matter how much he tried, Stephen couldn’t make it all the way through long movies that didn't have explosions and plenty of action anymore.

Birgitta sat there in her recliner and watched him sleep. He was still sitting up, so his snoring was particularly loud. It rattled the windows with its deep bear-like growl, and even though it annoyed most people, she found it comforting. When she could hear his snoring, she knew he was still alive.

She stood and walked delicately to the kitchen. Stephen was a deep sleeper, but she didn't want him waking before she finished. “I’ll be goddamned if I’m going through that again,” she whispered to whatever God was listening.

She snorted a laugh.

“It’s more likely the roaches are listening, Birgitta,” she whispered once more and tapped on a cabinet. Several of the creatures scurried into hiding. She shook her head. If you lived in Florida, you had roaches. Not the little brown bastards that lived forever in filth, these were what Anthony had called “pet sized.” They were two to three inches in length, didn't harm anyone and minded their own business, so she let them live there rent free. Every so often she would say hello to one of them, calling him by her deceased husband’s name.

“Hello, George,” she would say while she made breakfast, just like she would say to her George before he passed. She had no idea if it was the same roach every morning, but she liked to think it was and that was just fine by her.

“Hello, George,” she would say and he would twitch his little antennae at her.

Hello, Birgitta, she would imagine him saying.

She had even started leaving the goddamned thing a tiny bit of egg. Stephen would tease her about it, but it gave her just a tiny bit of happiness in the morning and they would always share a laugh. Her and Stephen that is. Hell, maybe the roach, too. Who’s to say which antenna twitch meant laughter.

She would often wonder that. If George the roach laughed with her and her son. George the man never did.

She smiled as she walked to Stephen’s room and wondered if George the man appreciated sharing his namesake with a roach. She guessed that it did not really matter, George the man was dead, George the roach was probably dead a dozen times over, and a new George would come in the morning to feast on eggs. She snorted a laugh.

There was a closet on the far side of Stephen’s room. She had to walk past the foot of his bed, then between his bed and desk where he kept his computer he used to play video games and other such things, and then to the closet. He had a bookshelf set up so close to the closet that you had to hold the knob so the latch was inside to get it past the shelf. She looked up and saw what she was after. She laid the gun on her son’s bed next to the very pillow he had tried to hide it under.

“Curse your short bones, Birgitta.” The decorative box the pistol had been gifted to her husband in was on the top shelf and sat tauntingly on top of a stack of books and at only five feet two inches tall, it was irritatingly out of her reach. She put her hands on her hips and glanced around the room. Her eyes came to rest on his desk chair. It had wheels, but it would have to do. Besides, his room had thick shag carpeting and she struggled even getting the chair to the closet.

“Well, Birgitta, if you fall and die, you will get to go to heaven and live the rest of eternity with George.” She climbed onto the chair and reached up for the gun case. “George the man, not George the roach.” She laughed as she pulled the case toward her as carefully as she could, but the top book slipped and banged from shelf to door, from door to her head, from her head to the chair, and from the chair to floor.

She clenched her teeth and squinted her eyes. She waited for Stephen to come running in and catch her red handed. She heard a foot step long and loud, then another.

Scrambling to get down from her perch, the chair spun around, sending her ass over end. She had one single thought as she fell in what felt like slow motion.

“Shit.”

She landed on her back, the goddamned gun case clung tightly to her chest, like protecting it was more important than her own safety.

Her body lifted. When she didn't hear any sounds she just knew she had broken her neck and died on the spot and God had plucked her soul from her body.

“Georges, here I come.”

When she landed again, she breathed a sigh of relief.

She opened her eyes and sat up on Stephen’s bed. She giggled as she stood.

The chair was still spinning slowly. In some streak of luck, she had fallen backwards smack dab onto Stephen’s mattress.

“It was only a bounce, Georges. You can’t have me just yet.”

She put the pistol in its case and after a few minutes of straightening out everything she had misplaced, she headed for the garage.

***

She waded through the disaster of a garage that seemed to have everything in it except a car. She hated coming in here, not only was it dirty and dangerous, but this had been her husbands favorite room in the house. He would tinker and build and fix and sometimes break things in this room. It was his “man cave” as he called it. Stephen had done his fair share of tinkering, building, breaking and fixing in here when he was a teenager. He would come out to the garage and pop open an ice cold Nuka Cola before getting lost in some new project.

The trailer Stephen made when he was thirteen sat on the side of the house next to his father’s old truck, both in perfect working order. He had welded that trailer himself, cut the wood boards that had been the bed of the trailer, had even bought everything with his own money. All for a Father’s Day gift. It had been upgraded over the years, new boards, new springs and better tires so it could carry more weight, but otherwise was still that same trailer that was built by a boy for his daddy forty-three years ago.

She shook her head at the dual fifty gallon drums overflowing with Nuka Cola caps. Stephen had started saving them as a boy to one day take to Nuka World and trade in for game tokens and just never stopped collecting them. They had promised him to go one day but it had turned into a never ending lie of “maybe next year.” She felt a twinge of guilt and promised that maybe next year would be a definitely this time.

“There you are.”

Birgitta had almost given up digging through piles of boxes in search of it when she finally laid her eyes upon it right next to the door to the house. The same door she had come in here through. She made her way back to it thinking to herself that she would have to have Stephen clean out his father’s “man cave” and make it his own.

“This garage is tetanus waiting to happen.”

The safe resembled a bank vault, complete with a large wheel on the front. It was two feet high, just as wide and as deep. She used it to store important documents like the birth certificates of the entire family: one, two, three, four she counted. She used it to store death certificates: one, two she counted, not stopping to read any names. The pain was too great. Memories both good and bad were stored and protected in that little box. Photo albums, Stephen’s high school diploma and college degree. She unfolded his degree. Colorado Institute of Technology hereby confers this Bachelors of Sciences degree in Computer Sciences upon Stephen G. Newsom. She was so proud of him for that. His father was as well, even if he questioned his reasoning for going for the degree.

She quickly put everything back into the safe and placed the gun box on top of all the documents. She latched the safe and spun the wheel. There were two ways to open that safe. The combination had changed to Stephen’s birthdate not long after his sister had died. Putting her birthdate in every time they needed to get something out was excruciatingly painful. Even thinking about it now hurt. The other was the key around Birgitta’s neck. Unless you knew it was a key, you wouldn’t know that was what it was. It was a large crucifix and when you pressed just right on Jesus, a key popped out of the cross like a switchblade.

George the man had had it made for her for an anniversary, she couldn’t quite remember which.

She put both of her hands on the top front edge of the safe and prayed, something she hadn’t done in a very long time. “God, please help my son.” She folded the key back into Jesus and kissed it. She walked back into the house, shutting off the light before shutting the garage door.

***

The next morning, Stephen woke on the couch covered in his momma’s favorite blanket. It was the one his sister had made her before the drugs. He shook the memory away. He didn't remember falling asleep or how much of the movie he had actually watched before he did. He stretched and took a deep breath that became a yawn.

“Mmm, bacon,” he said happily. “Momma’s making breakfast.”

When he stood he realized bacon was going to have to wait, he had to pee like he hadn’t peed for days. He hastily shuffled to the bathroom. His eyes wandered around as he stood in front of the toilet. He had seen it all before of course. Several times a day for the past eight years and eighteen years when he was a kid. Still, his eyes had to wander. He had no idea why, it was just something he always did.

His favorite thing to look at while he urinated was a little wooden sign on the shelf above the toilet tank. It read: “Sprinkles are for doughnuts not toilets.”

He shook twice and remembered something his father used to say. His father would knock loudly on the door and yell to him if he took longer than his father felt was necessary, “Shake it more than twice you’re playing with it, son.”

Stephen gave it one more shake in defiance and smirked.

After washing his hands and combing his hair he made his way to the kitchen where a plate of breakfast was already waiting for him. There were fluffy pancakes, perfectly browned. There were eggs, scrambled just the way he liked them. He always thought runny eggs felt and tasted like snot. Without even thinking about it, he unscrewed the lid off the hot sauce and slathered it all over his eggs as he searched. He was just about to question whether he actually smelled it or if his MS was playing tricks on him again when his momma put six crispy slices of thick cut bacon on his plate with a spatula.

“Oh hello, George.” Stephen grabbed a slice of bacon and chomped it down in two bites. He watched as his mom took a small chunk of scrambled egg and walked it over to the roach waiting patiently on the counter behind him. He was confused for a moment. He distinctly remembered something being there before that wasn’t there now. He just didn't remember what it had been.

“Momma?” Stephen asked, the confusion thick upon his face.

“Yes?” She set a large glass of orange juice on the table near Stephen’s plate and sat down with her own drink, a steaming hot cup of fresh ground coffee. Stephen said coffee was mud water. He had tried a cup of his fathers double brewed black coffee, no cream, no sugar, when he was just a little boy and now couldn’t bring himself to try it again. Though he did love the smell.

Anthony is addicted to the stuff. That memory slammed into his brain like a bullet, and he smiled as he chewed his bacon.

He repeated it for good measure. Anthony is addicted to the stuff.

“Was there something on the counter that isn’t there anymore?” He turned to his plate and scooped up another slice of bacon. One, two, crunch. Orange juice to wash it down, chug chug.

She could see the confusion in his face and knew he did not remember what had transpired the day before. She felt so sorry for him when he had days like this. “Yes, Stephen. That poor plant George lived in finally died,” she lied and sipped her coffee. It was still too hot to drink but she burnt her lips on purpose to keep from crying. “I had to throw it out.”

He scowled and looked back at the counter.

She swallowed nervously. “He’s going to remember,” she scolded herself for lying to him.

“Huh. Sorry, George.” He looked at her and her heart melted. “I’ll get him a new plant, momma.”

He cut a pancake in half and forked the entire piece into his mouth. Syrup dripped from the corners of his lips, and for a moment, it was her little boy sitting across from her again, innocent and caring.

“After breakfast,” he announced, laughing.

That’s when their plates and glasses started rattling. Stephen looked at his orange juice and it was rippling. The rippling became a sloshing and his mother’s fine china fell out of the cabinet.

“Earthquake, momma,” he yelled and shot up from the table toward her.

The bright sunlight was sucked from the room and in its place was an orange color like fire but dark like evil had come to earth.

“I don’t think it’s an earthquake,” Birgitta said as the first boom hit.

It was loud like thunder. As if lightning had struck somewhere close by.

They walked together to the back porch where just the day before Stephen had attempted suicide. They both stared out across the sky at the mushroom clouds blooming in the distance. They were small, far away. That’s when Stephen saw the busted potted plant and as he followed the memory forward to the mocking bird than backward to the lawn chair he had been sitting in and it all came back to him. He looked at his momma. Because he had been looking at her instead of where she was looking, his vision was spared.

There was a bright flash of light, brighter than anything he had ever seen, followed instantly by a boom that deafened him to his mothers screams. Her sight had been burned from her eyes by the flash and she crumbled to her knees exactly like she had the day before.

Stephen turned toward the sound and watched as a massive cloud rose into the sky like a flower reaching for the sun. He cocked his head.

“No,” he thought about the East Frisian tea. The orange of the sky, and there was the cream, “like a cloud in the sky.”

The shockwave hit within moments. All the windows blew out of every house for miles. He and his mother were blown back into the house. The last thing he remembered was pulling his mother to him and holding her close.

“I love you, momma.”

He could feel his skin start to burn.

“Goddamn it’s hot.”

Chapter Text

Anthony Santos felt like he was drowning in pitch black sludge. It was as if he was struggling with all his might to swim to the surface, unsure if he was even swimming in the right direction.

A blurry spec of light! There in the distance! No, it’s gone.

He heard a sound. Garbled but so loud it was disorienting.

“I’m here,” he tried to call out, but choked and gagged. His throat burned like he had taken a straight shot of whiskey. His muscles felt weak and the more he struggled the less he could move.

He tried to scream again and barely managed a moan.

“Doctor!” He heard it. It was distant and muffled, but he heard it.

He felt hot in one moment and freezing in the next. The blurry pinpoint of light returned and then another and another. As each pinpoint appeared his face felt tiny little pin pricks like when your arm falls asleep. It was then that the world started to spin. Slowly, but definitely not steady. His skin burned cold. His face tingled. His stomach reeled and he could feel the acid tang of the partially digested version of whatever it was he ate last coming back to make a guest appearance on this psychedelic episode of how fucked up can your life get.

His vision was still blurry, but the pinpoints of white had mostly taken over the darkness. As the darkness faded, so did his nausea.

“Doctor, he’s waking up.” A woman’s voice. Hers was a voice like rainbows at the end of a hurricane, or crickets in the night, very soothing. The room stopped spinning as she spoke. He felt drawn to it, as if just the sound of it was pulling him from that black abyss.

“I’m telling you, we need to give it to him,” said a man’s voice.

Again, he tried to speak and managed nothing but mumbled garbage.

“Why?” A different man’s voice asked. “His vitals are good. His own immune system is fighting it.”

“Fine,” the first man said. “I warn you though, Limit 115 kills within days.”

Limit what? He tried fiercely to climb the rest of the way out of the darkness. I don’t want to die.

“If he shows any signs,” the first man continued, “and I mean ANY signs that he is relapsing or if his fever spikes again.”

The second man grunted, “Yes, if that happens, we’ll give him the FEV.”

“We’re agreed then?” The first man again.

Probably some kind of doctor, but what is this about FEV? Maybe I’m in a lab?

“Yes, Doctor Branson.” The second man again. Was he also a doctor?

A doctor. That’s good right? Better than being a guinea pig in someone’s lab.

“Nurse.”

“Yes, Doctor Branson?” That heavenly voice.

“Put him back under.”

“Yes, Doctor Branson.”

No… no… I’m almost out of this… whatever it is.

His vision cleared as he felt the sharp jab in his arm. He took a deep breath as he saw what his mind convinced him couldn’t be real. Was it an angel? Was he dead?  Above him was a young woman with strawberry blonde hair that the strawberry was so light it was almost pink. The strawberry fields of her hair bounced about her head like vines caught in the wind. Her baby blue cap with an equally pink cross sat atop those curls. She looked down on him with eyes that were a deep blue, and he stared back with his eyes of green.

“We’ve lost so many,” the angel spoke in her heavenly voice. She smiled. Her lips were painted a shiny red that made them look moist. She ran her fingers through his hair until he fell back into darkness. The pinpoints of unconsciousness were black on a canvas of white, gradually growing in number. No nausea this time, so that at least was good.

And those fingers through his hair, they pulled the fear from his mind and left him in a state of calm.

***

He sat up so suddenly that the other people in the room yelped in fright. A tray fell nearby with a crash. His eyes were wide as he looked around the room. He was scared. Something was wrong but he could not immediately figure out what it might be.

His heart thudded within his chest, but it was slowing.

“Mister Santos?”

He turned to the sound of the voice and saw her.

He tried to say hello, but “help,” was all he could muster.

He was unable to breathe. He tumbled from the bed and landed on a floor covered in small medical devices. Scalpels, hemostats and forceps, tweezers and scissors, all scattered on the floor from his flail and fall. His IV had pulled out of his arm and was now dripping blood and fluid onto the white tile floor. The pain of him hitting the floor made him gasp for a tiny breath of air but he immediately hacked it back out, no time for his lungs to get any use out of it.

He couldn't stop coughing. He would cough out what felt like more air than he had in his body and then gasp for more. The coughing was deep and hard. It made his throat and chest burn like fire. He sounded like a rabid dog barking at his next prey. He was on his hands and knees on that white tile floor and every time he barked a new spatter of red appeared under him. He was hacking up blood, and a lot of it.

“Mister Santos?” Her voice was distant. “Mister Santos, I need you to calm down.”

She was kneeling next to him. She cradled his head in her right arm and patted his back hard with her left.

“Doctor,” she screamed, and within seconds, multiple sets of footsteps came into the room. It sounded like they were running.

“That’s it! If we don’t give it to him, he is going to die.”

“Yes, yes. Do it.”

The same voices from the last time he had pried himself from the black sludge he seemed to be drifting in.

“Vivian, hold him still.”

She held his head close to her chest. He heard what sounded like a small burst of air and an excruciating pain in his arm.

Almost immediately, his cough subsided. Seconds later his chest stopped convulsing.

“Let’s get him back into bed,” said one of the doctors.

His mind was foggy and he was unsure of what was real anymore. He felt like he had died, and now his body floated to whatever hell awaited him.

He settled onto a bed of clouds, but where was the angel with the voice? He panicked for a moment as he frantically searched for her face. An Asian man in a white coat with a stethoscope. A hispanic man, also in a coat, no stethoscope. He was putting another IV into his arm.

He felt a hand take his and squeeze. He found her then. She was watching his heart on a monitor. Zigzags popped up and down on the screen. He was still alive, but…

He put his other hand on hers and tried to scoot closer to her. She faced him and leaned closer.

It was a whisper. Desperate and scared. “I don’t want to die,” he begged the angel.

“Anthony, you’re going to be just fine.” She ran her fingers through his hair and he fell fast asleep.

That’s when the nightmares began.

***

He slowly opened his eyes. It was dark but the moon was full in a sky of millions of stars. He’d never seen so many. He was in a clearing surrounded by trees, and beyond those trees was a vail of black much like the abyss he had found himself in before. All around him he could see a vast field of what looked like…

Flowers? Tall enough to touch his thighs. They came in various shades of black and grey, but they were fuzzy, like they were vibrating out of focus. He found it strange, but he felt no fear. The vibrating got stronger and he felt a breeze swirl around him, lifting his hospital gown in light breath-like puffs.

He reached out toward one of the flowers and held his hand close to it. He could feel an energy coming from it, like electricity from a storm. The breeze, it seemed, was coming from the buds.

Curious.

He was filled with such an amazing energy that he felt almost giddy. In all this darkness he felt so happy and excited. It made him want to run around and play like a child instead of a middle aged man, and so he did. His footsteps were so light on the soft cool earth, he felt like he was floating instead of trodding through the buzzing plants. And were they moving with him or was it a trick of the moonlight?

Then the entire world he was in seemed to take a deep breath in and slowly exhale in a low deep growl. It was quiet, and he questioned whether he had actually heard it. He was still twirling around, grinning, but he quickly realized the flowers, which were once as energetic as he, were silent and unmoving. His caught a glimpse of light as he slowed to a stop. It was coming from just past the tree line like a campfire in the distance.

He heard the breathing again, though louder. As the universe inhaled, the light grew a little brighter. As it exhaled its rumbled breath, the fire darkened to a deep orange. The smile fell from his face as his pulse quickened. Breathe in, breathe out.

Fear saturated him, like his heart was no longer pumping blood but pure adrenaline. And yet, he felt drawn to the light. More than drawn to it, compelled to go toward it though he had no desire to.

As he drew closer to the light it was more and more difficult to wade through the flowers. It was almost like they were trying to prevent him from going to the light. No, not a light. He saw that it was indeed a fire, but not a small camp fire like he initially thought but a raging inferno. He peered behind him and saw that the fire had engulfed the entire tree line, though it had not yet invaded the clearing. It was contained behind the trees…

Those are not trees, he realized. Those are men. Large, monstrous men.

They towered above him, easily ten feet tall. He could not make out any detail, but he they looked down on him with beady, glowing yellow eyes. The breathing was as clear as his own. He followed the sound of it with his eyes because he was too scared to move. Behind the wall of large men was an even larger man, monstrous in size, easily twice the height of the others, easily twice the muscle mass.

It reached out to him, and against his will he began to walk forward. He could feel the flowers buzzing at his legs again. More than buzzing, it felt like he was being pushed back and away from the silhouettes. The harder he tried to push past them, the harder they pushed against him.

“No,” the monstrosity cried out. The word was low and guttural, and it filled him with dread.

The fluttering from the blooms grew louder and stronger. He heard his name being called out softly. “Anthony.”

The behemoth of a man leaned back, its chest expanding in the fire light. He arched forward and let loose a roar so terrifying, Anthony felt limp and weak again like he had in the hospital. He didn't know what to do, he was overwhelmed by terror and he was unable to physically move. Then the gargantuan man charged.

Anthony turned and ran, but he seemed to be running through sludge again, where the monsters were moving fast, he was moving in slow motion. As he neared the center of the clearing, he understood just how pointless it had been. They were closing in all around him and he had nowhere to go. He turned to face the biggest of them and saw that it was right behind him. His heart jumped in his chest and he tripped, falling backwards to the ground.

He landed hard on the cool dirt. A large boom echoed through the night and the flowers exploded into as many moths as there were stars in the sky. The behemoth stood over him. It had a tree trunk in its hands and was raising it over its head, presumably to strike him dead. Anthony stuck his hands out, as if by some miracle he would be able to stop a strike from this creature.

The moths attacked. They swirled around the giant causing the beast to drop the tree. It landed precariously close to Anthony. It swatted at the air angrily, but the moths evaded every swing. A few moments passed and the creature once again let loose a howl from the pits of hell before running off with the rest of the shadow-men toward the fire.

“Anthony.” He heard his name called again, a bit louder. He remained on the ground but looked around for whoever was calling him. He knew it was not the creature, because it did not make him afraid. It made him feel warm and welcome. And he recognized the voice from somewhere.

“Anthony!” The voice boomed from the sky. It was loud and shook the ground on which he laid. His gaze immediately shot to the moon that hung in the center of the sky above the field. He felt himself lift off the ground. He took his eyes off the moon for a second to see that the moths were taking him toward it. As he drew closer and closer to the moon, he reached for it.

“Anthony!” There it was again, booming down upon him and he recognized it. The angel from the hospital. Vivian.

***

“Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars.”

“Is he singing?” Asked a man in the darkness.

“Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars.”

“Great,” said a different man. “The world is ending and he’s channeling Frank Sinatra.”

Anthony smiled, his eyes still closed. “In other words, hold my hand.” He squeezed and hers was in his.

“In other words, baby.” He felt a sting across his cheek as she slapped him.

“Anthony!”

He opened his eyes and groggily slurred, “Kiss me,” finishing the song.

Nurse Vivian was not smiling like she had been on previous occasions. She looked very much frightened as she stared out the window. A window. Apparently he had been moved to a different room. His previous one had no natural light that he remembered.

She had tears coursing down her face. Her hair was disheveled and her cross hat was missing. Without looking at him she yelled, “Anthony, wake up!” She looked down and not seeing immediately that he had come to, slapped his face again.

Anthony cringed. “Ow.”

She closed her eyes and sobbed.

Anthony wasn’t sure if it was relief he saw in her face or desperation. Or fear.

She opened her eyes and for a moment they shared a glance before…

BOOM!

The hospital shook worse than any earthquake he had ever felt. The window she had been looking out of blew inward and glass shot like it had been fired from a shotgun across the room. She shielded her face as quickly as she could, but a thin line of blood formed where a shard had sliced her forehead.

“Mister Santos,” Anthony turned his head to see the Asian doctor, Doctor Chan according to his name tag, injecting something into his arm. “I just gave you a shot of adrenaline, Mister Santos.”

Anthony could feel it already. He sat up, but it wasn’t because he wanted to, his body just did it. He was wide eyed, taking everything in at the speed of light. Broken windows and walls. Beds had been propped against the walls with windows. The bodies that had lain in them were in a pile in the corner. He felt his hand being squeezed and turned to see the nurse smiling at him.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” she said.

“Yes, yes, we’re all so very happy we stopped to save Mr. Santos from the nuclear holocaust.” The Hispanic doctor was behind her. He had a body bag on a gurney and was loading it with medications and IVs. Anthony could see there was also a treasure trove of vendor foods and drinks. He grabbed an arm load of gauze and tape. He shoved them into the bag and zipped it. “Now, if we could please get the hell out of here so we don’t ALL die, that would be great.”

Something hit Anthony in the chest. The Asian doctor, Doctor Chan according to his name tag, had thrown his clothes at him. Anthony managed to get his pants and one boot on before another explosion caved in half the room they were in.

“Shit, we’re going to have to go through the morgue now,” Doctor Chan said.

“That is NOT going to be easy,” Vivian said, her voice wobbly from crying.

“Let’s GO,” demanded the other doctor and shoved the gurney toward the exit.

Doctor Chan and Vivian trodded after, doing their best to avoid stepping on the rubble and bodies strewn across the hospital floor. The other doctor, the younger Hispanic man with the shaggy black hair, merely pushed on without care of who or what he was plowing through.

Anthony hopped after, attempting to put on his other boot while still keeping up with the doctor with the supplies. His foot finally slid into his boot, but he slipped. He kept himself from slamming face first into the floor but he dropped his shirt in a puddle of blood. “Shit,” he said not stopping to pick it up. He just stood back up and bolted.

Doctor Chan had fallen a bit behind so Anthony passed him without much effort. He caught up to Vivian and kept pace with her as they leaped over bodies and chunks of concrete.

“Where are we going?” Anthony asked.

“Fallout shelter in the basement,” she said as if all of this was completely normal.

“Fallout shelter? What in the hell is going on?” Anthony’s mind was racing. He had not really had time to contemplate what exactly was happening. Then he remembered what the Hispanic doctor had said, “saved Mister Santos from the nuclear holocaust.”

They went around a corner and the gurney crashed into a wall. It’s driver managed to keep it from toppling over and kept going down a hall that was less a hall and more a tiled walkway now that the entirety of that side of the hospital had collapsed. Thankfully it had crumbled outward, allowing mostly clear access to the morgue.

“That’s concerning,” Doctor Chan said. He wasn’t that far behind Anthony and Vivian.

Vivian acknowledged what Doctor Chan had said with the best medical terminology she could muster under the circumstances. “Son of a bitch.”

Doctor Gurney had already reached the morgue and was sifting through the stockpile in the body bag searching for something.

Something had caught their attention. At first Anthony hadn’t seen it.

A yellow biohazard sign hung on the bright red door, but that was to be expected. It was a morgue after all. A red klaxon light spun silently on the wall above the double doors and below the light was a sign. The sign was red with three triangles pointed inward to each other. Radiation.

“It’s fine,” said Gurney, “I have Rad-X.” He pulled three syringes from the bag. He injected himself with a dose and handed Vivian and Doctor Chan one each.

Anthony waited a moment for him to pull another Rad-X from the bag. Instead, he reached for the door handle.

“Hey,” Anthony said, grabbing his arm. “Where’s mine?”

The gurney doctor appeared confused. He quickly glanced at Doctor Chan, then back to Anthony. “You don’t need one.” He started to walk through the door again, but Anthony stopped him.

Anthony grabbed his arm and yanked him closer so they were face to face. “Why the hell did you bother waking me up if you were just going to let me die anyway?”

Anthony felt a hand on his shoulder. He peered behind him and saw Doctor Chan.

“No, Mister Santos,” he said in a calm voice. “He literally means, you don’t need one.”

He glared at the Hispanic man who just stood there glaring back at him. “What do you mean I don’t need one?”

The man with the gurney rolled his eyes and tried to turn away. “We don’t have time for this,” he said.

Anthony pulled on his arm again. “Hey, I’m talking to you.”

Vivian yelped, “Just trust him.”

Anthony’s gaze went to her. She looked so sad, her mascara had made lines down her cheeks and her eye shadow made her face look skeletal.

Anthony sighed. “Fine.” He let go of the man and they continued through the door.

***

“What in the hell is this place,” Anthony asked as the door closed behind them.

The rest of the hospital was without power, but where they were, the so called morgue, must have had an emergency generator somewhere still chugging away. The lights were still on, revealing the apocalyptic hellscape they were in.

The wall to Anthony’s left was lined with hundreds of cadaver drawers, so at one point it probably was a morgue, or thats where they stored bodies to cut open and experiment on. To his right was a massive laboratory. There were chemistry tables most of which had small flasks full of a glowing yellow liquid. Between those were tables with dozens of microscopes, Bunsen burners and test tube racks. There were trays filled with syringes and a smattering of various tools. But Anthony saw none of that.

Anthony stared, mouth gaping, at ten massive glass tubes. He wasn’t sure if they were being lit by a green light or a white light and the fluid inside was green. It didn't matter. It was what was inside each of those tubes that concerned him. Two of the tubes were shattered, whatever was inside had leaked out. One was sealed but empty. Seven each had a creature floating inside of them strung with EKG wires and hoses.

They looked like men. That is, they had two arms and two legs like men. They had a head like a man. However, that is where the similarities ended. Each stood eight to ten feet tall and were abnormally muscular. Below the empty tube was a gurney, twice the size of a normal one, and on it lay something that was mostly obscured by a white sheet covered in blood. One arm however had slipped off the gurney and was exposed for all to see. It was longer than a normal man’s and muscular like the creatures in the tubes. It’s skin was a pale green. Just like the monsters from his nightmare.

He had been shirtless since he woke, but this place made him feel exposed for the first time. He all at once felt distrust for the three self proclaimed medical professionals that were his companions, distrust for his surroundings, and a profound distrust for himself and his own thoughts. He froze in fear, looking from tube to tube and then to that large green arm protruding from the mass on the gurney. After a few seconds that seemed to last for longer, he slowly walked over to the shape under the sheet.

Vivian tried to hold his hand to prevent him from going to the tubes, but he pulled his hand from hers and kept walking. Afraid that at any moment the other mutants would burst forth from their tubes, he approached cautiously. He held his hand out in front of him, reaching toward the gurney. When he was close enough, he grabbed a wad of the sheet in his fist. For a moment he just stood there, dreading what he should do. He wanted to look and he didn’t.

“Come on!” Doctor Chan said impatiently.

Anthony took in a deep breath, tightened his grip on the sheet, and yanked. 

What he saw made his stomach churn. The large green arm was attached to a normal sized man with greenish skin. His other arm was short and shriveled. The man was twisted in a jumble of normal and abnormal body mass. His heart had been a part of his physiology that had become abnormally large, but his chest had not. It had grown to the point that it had ripped his chest open, exploding his rib cage outward, making his ribs point up and out like spikes. It was likely how the man had died.

Unable to hold it in any longer, Anthony vomited. He hadn't eaten in he didn't know how long, so it was nothing but acid and bile. Bent over, he turned his head to his left and saw that there were at least a dozen more gurneys with equally disgusting masses of mutated bodies on each. The third body from the right’s skull had exploded, literally having popped its top, but its brain hadn't grown too big like the first man’s heart. Oddly, his brain had shrunk down to the size of a walnut. Anthony’s stomach reeled again and he had to use all his willpower to not dry heave again.

Vivian was walking over to him when an explosion rocked the building and the lights flickered. “Anthony?” She spoke his name softly.

Anthony lifted his head and looked at her, then he heard a low rumble coming from one of the occupied tubes. He focused intently on the fourth tube. “Holy shit, are these things still alive?”

Doctor Chan replied, “Technically yes.”

“Technically?” Anthony snapped, glaring at the doctor for a moment before returning his attention to the man-beast in the tube. The remaining seven specimens, “because that’s essentially what they are,” he thought, were the most normal of all of the creatures in the lab. They were very large, huge, massive even, but all were uniform and generally proportionate and no organs had, as far as he could tell, exploded from where they were supposed to be.

“What he means is,” the man pushing the gurney began, “is that they are all technically brain dead and only being kept alive through life support machines.”

Anthony glared at the man. “Look, whatever your name is…”

“Doctor Horacio Sanchez,” he interrupted. “I’m…”

Anthony interrupted him in kind, “Look, Doctor Sanchez.” He made quotation marks in the air as he said the doctor’s name. The words dripped off his tongue with such sarcasm he might as well have come right out and said I don’t really give two shits, sir. “Let us get something straight.” Anthony strode over to where Doctor Sanchez stood.

“One, I don’t know any of you from Adam,” he said holding up his index finger for Doctor Horacio Sanchez to see.

Nurse Vivian put her hand delicately onto Anthony’s forearm.

Anthony immediately pulled his arm out of her hand and stuck up a second finger. “Two, I have no idea where I am, but I am guessing by the looks of things,” he said sweeping his other hand around the room, “that we are not in a normal hospital.”

Doctor Sanchez’ eyes wandered. He acted impatient like a guilty man.

“And three,” again sticking up a finger to emphasize his point. “Since I am here, and have survived what I am guessing was the blue flu by the way my friends looked when they died, and the interesting fact that I am the only one who didn’t need a Rad-X.” He dropped his hands to his hips and looked around again. Vivian’s eyes were staring at the floor. Dr. Chan shrugged. Anthony’s heart sank and he continued, “I was a success story of whatever you all were doing here.”

He returned his gaze to Doctor Sanchez. “So forgive me if I am fresh out of trust at the moment.”

Horacio sighed. “Fine.”

“Now,” Anthony began, more calmly than before. He motioned toward the tubes against the wall. “There are ten tubes.”

“What is your point, Mister Santos?” Doctor Chan asked.

“My point, Doctor Chan,” Anthony said through gritted teeth, “is how many specimens did you have?”

“The empty was for you,” Doctor Sanchez quipped. The tone in his voice and the look on his face told Anthony that he was lucky to be alive and not in that green glowing goop. Doctor Sanchez was all science and probably would not have thought twice about cutting him open to see exactly why he had survived unscathed where as the rest had become horrific monsters.

Anthony felt his gut swirl again. “Are any of them,” Anthony swallowed. “Do I know any of them?”

Vivian put her hand back on his arm. “No, Anthony.”

He looked into her eyes and saw her sincerity.

“You only came in with one other person,” she continued, “and he passed away the same day you checked in.”

“Joe.” Anthony hung his head.

“Yes. Joe Montenegro.” Vivian reached for his hand, but he recoiled.

Anthony shook his head and turned his attention back to Doctor Sanchez. “Other than me, how many specimens?”

Doctor Sanchez finally understood what he was trying to say. “Nine,” he replied slowly as he peered through the darkness of the room.

Another explosion hit harder than the last. Anthony was glad that the laboratory was more structurally sound then the rest of the building because the ground shook hard enough to send gurneys, and the bodies they held, careening around the room. The three of them were almost knocked over.

Vivian screamed when the lights went out.

Doctor Chan didn't scream until a deep raspy voice asked, “What’s that noise?”

Doctor Sanchez didn't scream until his arm and three ribs were shattered when one of the mutants hit him with Doctor Chan.

Chapter Text

“Oh, Jonesy. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Oh God yes.”

Jared Jones, known to his friends as Jonesy, was already going to be in deep shit for leaving his post. He would be even deeper in it if they found out he left his post to go have sex in a broom closet with the hot scientist chick from the tour group.

He would likely end up fired, jailed, or worse if his superiors at Vault-Tec found out the “scientist” he had bent over the sink in the janitor’s closet was actually his French girlfriend Sophie, and he had fudged the invite list to get her into the vault today.

They had met a while back at a bar that wasn’t necessarily strictly for military men and vets, but strictly speaking, that’s all that ever went. The owner, Bob Bulkeelee was even a vet of the Resource Wars, commies be damned, and tended bar himself with the one arm he had left from that terrible conflict over oil of all things.

Jonesy had been playing billiards with Mike Sampson. The man was all business on the job, but outside of work, he was fuckin’ crazy, and that crazy fuckin’ man just happened to be his best friend. Had been ever since they had served together in the most recent war with the Chinese.

Jonesy was about to sink the eight and take the pot when he looked up and saw her.

That beautiful smile that lit up the room. That tight ass that popped her slinky red sequence dress from side to side as she walked.

He didn’t just miss the shot, he tore a hole in the green velvet of the table the size of Manhattan. Not that he’d ever been to Manhattan. It’s just what people say, you know?

“Hey!” Bob had shouted. “That’s being added to your tab, Jonesy.”

“Sorry, Bob,” Jonesy had replied without turning from the girl, who had yet to notice she was being stared at.

Jonesy had reached out, pool cue in hand, toward where he thought Sampson stood.

“Hey, man, hold this for me,” he said and let go. Only Sampson wasn’t there. When Jonesy let go, the cue crashed to the floor with the loud crack of wood on wood.

Now that drew her attention. She spun around, her hair bounced with curls not unlike Shanon Rivers’. Now there was a dame, and that’s who this young woman reminded him of, the great Mistress of Mystery.

She looked into Jonesy’s eyes and smiled. It was the beginning of a six month long whirlwind relationship that was largely sexual. His bedroom, living room, balcony, bathrooms of every place they had ever been together, even that nasty one at the Red Rocket truck stop halfway between Colorado Springs and Pueblo, and the back row of that movie theater on Pikes Peak Ave… the Trail if he recalled correctly.

Now here they were, pants down in another strange place where a proper gentleman and lady would never dare dream of making love, and…

The first explosion shook the mountain, but a close thunderstorm would do the same. All it did was add to the excitement.

The second sent him flying out and away from Sophie onto the damp concrete floor. His erection still stood at attention like a good little soldier, bent sideways as he landed.

Brooms, mops and all manner of custodial engineering tools came down upon him.

He howled in agony, but he had no time to be in pain. He hopped to his feet and tried desperately to zip himself up without zipping himself into it. He had accidentally done that once when he was seven, and do it once, you will forever make the subconscious effort to never do it again.

“I don’t know what that was,” Jonesy said to the darkness as he fumbled for his flashlight. “But it can’t be good.”

“Sophie you okay?”

There came no reply.

He heard the steady urrr-urrr-urrr of the base alarms. He heard men shouting, women screaming, and a dozen or more boots as they thundered this way and that.

But he did not hear her.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he spoke into the darkness as he flailed about. “Where is that confounded light?”

If anyone could see him, he would look like a madman, arms raised to the sky, grasping at something that isn’t there. At least not to the observer.

At last his fingers found the chain and yanked.

With a loud clack and the hum of electricity, he could see by the light of the single bulb that dangled from the ceiling.

“Sophie?”

Her response came with the butt end of his rifle.

There was a bright flash of light followed closely by a darkness so black it rivaled even the dark of the closet he had just been fucking some French girl he had only met six months ago.

“Fuck,” he proclaimed as he fell. Sure the side of his head where Sophie had just clobbered him with his own damned gun hurt like the Dickens, but the “fuck” was not for that.

No, the “fuck” was the only word he could think to say as it dawned on him what an idiot he had been. He knew in an instant he had been reeled in—hook, line and damned sinker—into the net of a fuckin commie spy.

He hit the floor on his side, but pushed him on to his back with her stiletto heel.

He yelped. Now I know why they are called stilettos. They cut like a fuckin knife.

Sophie straddled him like she had many times before. Her skirt was still hiked and her blouse was still unbuttoned. Her perky breasts bounced playfully as she moved.

With a smile on her face she leaned forward and put her stiletto, a real one this time, to his throat.

“I want to thank you, Jonesy, for a wonderful time, but I am afraid I am going to have to break up with you. You see, you actually want to be with me, and I… Well I was only using you to get in here. So…”

He tried to get up, to stop this insanity, but she pressed the dagger against his neck hard enough to draw blood.

“Uh uh uh.”

She leaned forward and kissed him, and he reached for something, anything really that might help him out of this predicament. He wanted his rifle, what he found was a mop.

As she finished her kiss, she opened her eyes and looked into his. “Sorry, Jonesy.” She sat up, still straddled across his waist.

She pushed the dagger into his neck and yelled, “Death to America!”

He shoved the mop into her face.

The grey dreadlocks that reeked of mold and dirty dishwater squished against her face with a splat.

Jonesy shoved with all his might. He could hear her nose crunch. He could feel it resonate in the shaft. But still all he managed to do was topple her off him, and as she fell, the blade of her knife sliced ever deeper.

He knew he would lose consciousness soon, but he had to stop her. At least he had to try. It was his fault she was in here. If he died, well, that just meant he wouldn’t have to face the firing squad.

Sophie clamored to her feet. She turned to him, a rage like nothing he had ever seen burned into her face.

Jonesy thinks she meant to pounce on him like some wild animal. She had done that before with him as well. This time though…

This time she was met with his boots to her belly. He kicked up and out as hard as he could through his fading vision.

She went crashing half-naked through the janitor closet door and landed with a thud onto that beautiful ass that had attracted him to her in the first place.

Jonesy found his rifle. He lifted the barrel and pulled the trigger toward Sophie's blurry form. At the fourth shot he faded away.

As he slipped ever further into darkness he heard a familiar voice, muffled and distant, yell, “RIM JACK!”

His last words before he plummeted into the abyss were, “Sampson, what the fuck is a rim jack?”

Chapter Text

The Mind is a Terrible Thing to Waste

Colorado Springs, CO

Cheyenne Mountain Complex

Vault 0

“Mister Tapia, back away from that button or you will be dead before you can push it.” General Thomas Dorsey spoke calmly yet firmly.

The general assessed the situation quickly. His ability to determine an outcome within just a few seconds was what had set his career in motion to one day become the general he was. In the war against the Chinese he had been like a master chess player, able to predict and out maneuver everyone on the battlefield and most times end it all before a single shot was ever fired.

David Tapia, father first, husband second, standing at the emergency release for the vault. “Get off me,” Mister Tapia had yelled and laid out two of his men, one of which was wearing a Kevlar helmet. Still Mister Tapia had decked him square in the side of the helmet and down Private Darby had gone. He was out cold on the floor at Mister Tapia’s feet. Impressive.

There was nothing that Mister Tapia could do without a Pip-Boy, but he didn’t know that and neither did the others visitors. General Dorsey needed to assert who was in command now or there would be further problems later. They were more than likely going to be stuck in here together for a long time. Ground rules needed to be established from the get go.

David’s wife and son were both present. They had a second child, a daughter from the sound of it, and she had been left outside for whatever reason. Something had shaken the entire mountain. Whoever was left outside was deceased.

His men, twenty in number, no… eighteen. Jones and Sampson were on guard duty outside and were also more than likely deceased. That was unfortunate. Jones had amazing potential and Sampson would lay his life on the line without hesitation.

There were twenty-six scientists in the room—some of the most brilliant minds in the United States—twenty Vault-Tec and… eight visiting. Someone was missing. There should have been twenty-eight. One of Vault-Tec’s employees had left to get cleaned up after one of the fat-cat’s wives hadn’t been able to handle the spring supported rooms. That left one of the visiting scientists unaccounted for. He would check the sign-in sheet later to see if they had even showed. These were supposed to be some of the most brilliant minds in the United States.

There were of course easily a hundred or more other Vault-Tec employees deeper in the vault, but the people present were the people he was in charge of and concerned with protecting. The others were off doing their Vault-Tec duties within Vault Zero.

There were also four fat-cats and their spouses for a total of seven. One of the money bags was a bachelor. Vault-Tec seemed to have unlimited resources, and these four and their spoiled families were how. Get them scared, such as with the impending threat of nuclear war, get them involved in the vault development process, then get them to pay for the whole damned thing with the promise of survival.

Then there was David Tapia and his family. He was a Vault-Tec shill with the eyes and ears of millions of Americans. He was invited on this tour so he could paint warm, fuzzy rainbows on Vault-Tec’s reputation at a time when they needed it most.

Vault-Tec’s motives had come into question in recent months as supposed leaks and rumors had surfaced about the things people that had been involved with the actual construction of the vaults had seen and been doing for Vault-Tec. People had come up missing. Other people had come up dead. It was a public relations nightmare.

General Dorsey found himself glad more and more to be a soldier. Politics were a war he never wanted to fight. David had been personally invited here because he loved Vault-Tec and therefor Vault-Tec loved him. But here he was doing something that could potentially get his ass killed.

David put his finger on the button.

General Dorsey raised his hand and was about to give the order to open fire.

“David, stop!”

With two words, Mary Tapia had saved her husband’s life.

***

“Get off me,” David screamed and then punched one of the guards.

The man was fully decked out in black military-style fatigues, kevlar helmet and body armor. One hit from a distressed father and he had spun on his heels and collapsed, out cold.

David pulled free from the second armed guard. He simultaneously pushed and tripped the private, sending him sprawling, and then ran to the vault door controls. He looked like a mad man. He was a desperate and scared animal willing to die to break free from captivity to save his young from harm.

“Mister Tapia, back away from that button or you will be dead before you can push it,” General Dorsey said.

“David, stop!”

David stopped and hung his head at the sound of his wife’s voice. His fingers rested on a red button marked “EMERGENCY RELEASE.”

“David, look at me,” she pleaded with him.

David stared long and hard at the three inch red button. “Why the hell does a button need to be that big anyway,” he asked himself. He let his hand fall to his side, clenched his fists, and slowly turned to face her. He was fuming mad. He was mad at Vault-Tec for whatever was going on here. He was mad at Vault-Tec security for locking them in here. Most of all he was mad at himself for letting Linzy leave with his brother-in-law. He was mad at himself for believing in Vault-Tec and coming here at all. Exposé piece indeed. He swore to himself he was going to write an article that would bury Vault-Tec.

David’s wife, Mary, had her hands covering her mouth. Her eyes, however, were plainly visible and full of fear. She was shaking and tears were streaming down her face. He tried to step over to her and heard the sound of multiple clicks and clacks. He looked to Mary’s left and saw half a dozen automatic weapons aimed at him. He looked to Mary’s right and saw half a dozen more. Behind them were the looky loos. Most of the rest of the tour group and some of the scientists, all of them covered in concrete dust and all of them looking frightened, were trying to twist and contort their necks to get a better look at what kind of drama he was causing.

“Daddy?” Lucas’ voice was quivering.

David searched for him in the crowd of people that seemed to want him dead. Lucas peeked out from behind Mary’s legs. David’s anger drained from him like water from a bucket and it was replaced by a deep sadness. He collapsed to his knees and held his arms out to Lucas.

Lucas dashed out from behind his mother and bolted for his dad. Not one of the armed men tried to stop the boy, but at least half of them looked at one another. They silently questioned their fellow guards, “Are you going to be willing to shoot a kid? Because I don’t think that I am.”

Lucas ran into his arms and hugged his father tightly. Lucas sobbed in quick gasps. David hugged him and held him close to his chest as he stood. Lucas rested his head on David’s right shoulder.

David walked the twenty or so paces to where Mary stood and pulled her close with his left arm. He kissed the top of her head and stroked her raven black hair. He squeezed them both. “What is going on,” he asked.

“Mister Tapia,” a large black man stepped over. His voice had a deep sandpaper rasp. His sidearm wasn’t drawn but his hand was on the pistol grip and the leather snap was open.

David looked at him. The man was easily six foot four and built, as his grandfather would have said, like a shit brick house. It was obvious, at least to David, that the man was former military. He recognized the demeanor from his father. What little he knew of his father.

He didn’t t know much but one of the things he did know about his father that abandoned him and his mother when David was just twelve years old was that he was former military and very strict. David’s grandfather, on his mother’s side, was retired United States Army Air Core.

That demeanor, that of the man who looked ready at any moment to put a hole in David’s head, ran in the family.

“Mister Tapia,” the large man said again more forcefully.

David blinked and shook his head. He had gotten lost in one of his world’s again. The thought made his heart ache and a fresh tear fell down his cheek. His poor Linzy. Now she, too, was just a thought in one of his little worlds.

“Yes,” he replied in a shaky voice. He tried to swallow down the pang of sadness that was creeping up his throat. He tried and failed. He put his left hand over his eyes and pressed his thumb over his left eye and his middle finger over his right eye as if he could push his tears back into their ducts. He couldn’t help it. His father had engrained in him that he should not show emotion, no matter what. It showed weakness. Mary had broken through David’s father’s misogynistic teachings and taught him a better way to be a man, but sometimes it still reared its head, especially in stressful situations.

“My name is General Thomas Dorsey,” he said calmly. He took another step in David’s direction. “Now, I promise to explain to you and everyone else here what is going on, if,” General Dorsey began.

“But, my daughter,” David interrupted pointing to the door.

“IF,” the General said more forcefully, “you calm yourself long enough to hear what I have to say.”

David closed his eyes and pressed his tears again.

Mary pulled David close. “David, honey, I think we should hear what he has to say.”

David hugged her. Lucas was still sobbing quietly on his shoulder. He pulled his arm from around Mary and repositioned Lucas on his hip and kissed his forehead.

He opened his eyes and looked into the General’s. After a second he nodded to him.

“Okay, Mister Tapia,” the General said in his calm voice. He held both arms out straight to each side. His hands were also straight, palm down, and he was making an up and down motion like he was pushing a button. Immediately, his men shouldered their weapons. “I’ve ordered my men to stand down, but I will order them to open fire if you go near the vault doors or that button again. Understood?”

David turned his head and looked to the button.

“I’m not kidding, Mister Tapia.” General Dorsey took the last step that put him directly in front of David. He looked into David’s eyes and said as matter of factly as someone telling you the time, “If you go near those doors or the emergency release again, my men will shoot you dead faster than you can push that button.”

David was six feet tall and still he had to look up at the General, but he maintained eye contact. He wanted to show this man, this “general,” that he was not intimidated by him. David wanted to prove to him that he was not threatened by him and if he wanted to push that button, no threat was going to keep him from doing it. “Understood,” David said.

“Good,” General Dorsey said and visibly relaxed, if only a little.

“My daughter is out there,” David pleaded.

General Thomas Dorsey shook his head. “No, Mister Tapia. Everyone out there is dead, and if you would have pushed that button, everyone in here would also be dead.”

“Here is what we know.”

Chapter Text

“No offense, but that does NOT make me feel any better about my daughter being out there.”

David sat in a chair at one of the main monitoring terminals. His wife, Mary, was standing to his right with her left hand on his right shoulder.

General Thomas Dorsey had just finished explaining to them in the best way he knew how that the world was over.

Sit rep please, General.

Strategic. Tactical. Maybe a bit cold.

They were both watching as red dots quickly filled the map as city by city civilization was wiped out before their eyes. When the General zoomed in on Colorado Springs, there were no less than ten red dots, three of which were directly on top of Cheyenne Mountain.

This bunker was built to withstand everything man could throw at her and it did. At least from the outside.

“How long had they been gone before the doors closed,” the General asked them.

David didn't know. He felt like a terrible father. David looked up at Mary, tears in his eyes.

Mary squeezed his shoulder. She was also crying, but he was unsure if she cried more for Linzy or for her estranged brother she would never reconcile with. Or maybe it was the thought that they and all the green lights on the map were all that remained of humanity. Future uncertain. Maybe it was all of it.

“It was maybe just over an hour,” she said.

General Dorsey tried to console them, “The bombs hit Colorado Springs almost two hours after the tour started and the city isn’t that big, maybe they made it out,” but he did not sound like he even believed it.

David took in a deep breath and his eyes got big as he considered the possibility. There were no red dots between them and Salt Lake City.

Mary was already shaking her head. “I think he had errands to run in town.”

David sank into his chair.

Mary continued, “He said it would be about noon before he was at the res.”

“The res?” General Dorsey inquired.

“The reservation.”

The confusion on his face must ave spoken volumes because she immediately added, “It’s not really a sanctioned reservation. It’s more like a collection of teepees out west where like minded Cheyenne get together to drink and hate the world together. Mark just thinks it’s funny to call it a reservation. He...” 

She covered her face with her hands and fell to her knees. Her shoulders hitched as she cried, her sobs were loud enough for some of the others to hear and it drove their curiosity to make them start coming into the room.

General Dorsey kneeled in front of them and spoke quietly. “I know what you two must be going through is tearing you apart inside. The loss of a child is something I know personally.” He looked up at the people coming into the command center, then returned his focus to David and his wife before continuing loud enough for everyone to hear, “What matters most now is survival.”

General Dorsey put his left hand on David’s shoulder and his right on Mary’s. “With a confirmed direct hit on the mountain,” he closed his eyes and lowered his voice, “at least they didn't suffer.”

They. It wasn’t just his daughter. It was also Mary’s brother. It was Private Jones. It was a million other people that called Colorado Springs home.

He shook his head. The thought burned in his mind. He didn't give two shits if everyone thought him selfish. He felt for Mary. Her and Mark weren’t necessarily close, but he was still family. Even then, his first thoughts were about little Linzy. She was sick and they had still come to this god forsaken tour. He had allowed her to be sent away with Mary’s brother. Mark would have been well on his way out of the city if not for David needing to go on this stupid tour, and now both of them were dead.

David leaned over and grabbed the trash can under the desk and vomited into it. He was fairly certain that it was the same trash can that the Mr. Handy had cleaned up just before… just before someone dropped a nuke on his family.

He stood and walked over to the big map on the back wall, opposite the giant windows that overlooked the colossal “Calculator.” Although walked was an understatement, it was more like he commanded the air to move aside as the floor saluted his way past the computer servers guarding his way to his mission at the map. Yessir, God and country, General sir. Right this way, sir.

Everything about him exuded strength and confidence, from his swagger to the way he spoke, and he knew it. The smile on the face of his dark chocolate skin told everyone, yes, I know I am that damned sexy and yes, you may take me to bed.

During his tenure in this war, he was famous for his ability to intimidate the enemy into surrendering before any conflict actually happened. He was a high ranking general with a surprisingly low body count. That was not to say he wasn’t just as strong in combat as he was in intimidation. He could shoot the pecker off a pigeon from a mile away, and as a third degree black belt in karate, he could just as easily whoop your ass up close and personal.

He sized up everyone in the room, the Vault-Tec employees, his own personnel, the tourists, everyone. He knew he was going to have to whoop their asses. Some asses he would whoop into shape. Others he would just have to whoop.

David and his wife, he was going to have to keep an eye on them. They might be just who he was looking for to help him with his little project he had brewing. There would be time to consider that later, for now he needed to get these people in order. When Mister Tapia had his little freak out, the rest of the group had stopped their panic to pay attention to what was going on, once a tourist always a tourist. That situation had been mostly resolved, so the whispers had started and were escalating to a clamor. Clamor was never good. Clamor led to talking, talking led to raised voices, raised voices led to yelling, yelling led to violence. Violence would inevitably lead to someone being shot. If he gave the order, he could take, accept, and eventually wane responsibility. If he didn't, there would be dissent, and dissent… well, that led to revolt. Then they all would die.

“Can I get your attention, please.” General Dorsey commanded the attention of everyone in the room. He had a way of yelling at people that made them glad they were being yelled at. He could berate someone, call them every word under the sun that would get you kicked out of church, praise Jesus, and you would simply smile and love him for saying it. Yessir, I am an asshole, sir. Thank you for alleviating my secret burden, sir.

Everyone stopped doing whatever it was that they were doing that was of lesser importance and focused on him. All eyes as it were.

“In case you did not hear, I will recap our current situation,” he said calmly. He stood at parade rest, as he always did when he was addressing people informally. He doubted he would ever break the habit. If he were to die and go to heaven, once inside the great and pearly gates, he would stand at attention and salute the all mighty and when he was told to relax, he would stand there at parade rest until dismissed. Once a soldier, always a soldier as far as he was concerned.

“At approximately oh nine forty-seven this morning, the United States experienced multiple nuclear detonations,” he began.

“Nuclear?”

“What happened?”

“Why were we nuked?”

“You’re lying!”

A lot of comments were made by the people in the control room, but he only chose to answer one.

“Where?”

“New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and Washington, DC, were hit first.” He paused for a dramatic moment to allow for gasps and several people to start the first waves of tears.

“We lost all communications when Colorado Springs was hit, also by multiple warheads.” General Dorsey sized up the people in the room. He needed to determine who was going to be of service and who was going to be an issue going forward. He could already tell he could more than likely get David on board once he was able to talk to him one on one. His wife would be on board once he was.

General Dorsey gazed out at everyone and let reality sink in, but not too much.

“Let us first answer the most important question.” General Dorsey raised his voice like parents would do to set the boundaries for when they were going out for dinner and the babysitter would be in charge. “No, I am not lying. The United States was hit with multiple nuclear devices. Other than the cities I already mentioned, we don’t know where else was hit or how many bombs were dropped.”

He looked around the room at their faces, some crying, some red with either anger or fear.

“We don’t know if any of our allied nations were also hit, but I can assure you, if we know who dropped the bombs on us, we hit them right back with a vengeance.”

The Richy Riches smiled proudly and the scientists were calculating, some used pen and paper, others figured mathematical equations in the air with their fingers. The general shook his head. None of them were realizing what he was trying to tell them.

He glanced at the Tapias. David lowered his head and Mary cried silently. Good. They got what this all meant. This group could be all that was left of everyone and everything. They very well could be the only survivors and the general already knew some of them were going to die soon. It was inevitable. Nothing stopped Vault-Tec from carrying out their plans. Not him, not these people. God almighty could not sway the hand of Vault-Tec. Not even the end of the world would stop them.

“Now,” General Dorsey began, “I need to tell you all some things that might make some of you uncomfortable.”

***

General Dorsey had been talking to them, but David was lost in one of his little worlds. This one had Linzy in it, alive and well. In his little world, Mark had somehow been able to shield her from the explosions and they had left Colorado Springs and headed east to the village where Mark lived or southwest to the reservations.

He knew. He knew the outside world was gone. He knew Linzy and her uncle were both dead, along with everyone else not snug as a bug in a Vault-Tec rug. He knew, like all of his little worlds, the one where Linzy was alive was nothing but a candy coated fantasy, but he would happily keep her there, safe and alive.

Mary’s hand over his shoulder and Lucas’ hand in his kept him from falling permanently into that fantasy world. Snap out of it, David. Your wife and son need you. As if in agreement, he felt five little fingers squeeze his hand. He gently squeezed back.

“Now, I need to tell you all some things that might make some of you uncomfortable.”

David rolled his eyes. “Oh NOW things get uncomfortable.”

General Dorsey’s head jolted in David’s direction and he gave David a look that made him regret his sarcasm. “Yes,” the general snapped.

David and Mary looked at each other in surprise. What the hell could be worse than the world ending.

“What you all were here for was not a tour, not really,” General Dorsey grabbed everyone’s attention.

David felt Mary’s grip tighten on his shoulder. She never had believed in Vault-Tec like he had. That squeeze on his shoulder was an I told you so. After what he saw beyond those windows on the other side of the command center, he would be lying if he told anyone he wasn’t expecting the bomb to drop on the little world of his that Vault-Tec occupied.

“You all were brought here for a reason,” the general said as he walked over to the giant windows that overlooked the massive computer. “You were all hand picked…”

David was worried. This man was ready to kill him for being near a button he couldn't even push to show who was in charge and keep the rest of them in check, and here he was, unable to speak. He tried to swallow his nerves, but all it did was make him feel more nauseous.

General Dorsey lowered his head and sighed. He turned and looked David dead in the eye and held it. “You were all hand picked and brought here. Some of you were picked to join the Vault-Tec family.”

David stood and pulled Lucas and Mary closer.

“The rest of you were brought here to die.”

Chapter Text

Stephen Newsom shook the rubble from his back and rose out of the ash of his former home. His vision had never been the greatest anyway, but with the dust and radioactive fallout in his eyes he needed to feel his way out from under two walls that had collapsed together to form a triangular tunnel.

He emerged to nothing. No buildings in site. No trees, bushes, flowers. No animals running around. No people. No children at play. There was nothing but crumbled wasteland as far as the eye could see, but admittedly, he could never see that far to begin with.

Oh but the smells. The smells were so amazing, and he could seemingly smell them all. He could also smell the air and tell where the smell was coming from and how far away it was. He could smell the spaghetti sauce that had been set to slow simmer that morning five houses down. He could smell doughnuts from the Slocums Joe just two miles away. Most importantly he could smell eggs. Eggs were his favorite. Momma would make them and leave some out for him. She would talk to him as he ate. He loved momma, and she seemed to love him, though he had trouble understanding why.

It felt like it had been days since he last ate and the smell of those decadent fluffy scrambled eggs with just a hint of salt and pepper made him salivate. He sniffed the air and followed the scent until he found the place he was absolutely positive he would be able to find the delicious food he was searching for.

He took in a deep breath. “Yes, this is definitely the spot,” he thought and dug in to the refuse that had piled on top of it when the world had seemed to explode.

It only took a few minutes to make his way down to what once was the kitchen table at the Newsom residence. Several times he was sure he would have to stop because of the sheer size of the chunks of debris. He even had to remove a three foot section of concrete still attached to a one foot section of asphalt that had once been Carnival Lane. One more quick look and he saw the house number painted on the concrete. Six Zero Seven.

He was too focused on the eggs to notice he now had the ability to read. He had lived a long life and unfortunately had never found the time to learn. He lifted the piece of road and threw it over his head behind him. He marveled at how much strength he seemed to have. He was strong before whatever happened had happened, but this was much better. Inside he was loving this new him.

THERE!

He saw the puffy yellow clouds still sitting perfectly on the plate next to a piece of bacon and two slices of jellied toast. He sniffed. Strawberry. Yum. He gobbled it all up in just few bites not caring one bit about the particles of radiation and concrete that dusted the food.

He saw something out of the corner of his eyes. Another plate! He carefully lifted a section of wall from it so as not to spill the feast. He ate the eggs. He ate the bacon. He pushed the toast to his mouth. Apricot Jam. That was momma’s favorite. He just ate momma’s breakfast.

“Momma,” he tried to call out. Something was wrong with his throat. It wasn’t sore at all, but his words came out as squeaks and clicks.

Wait! He felt something…

There it is again! Something was moving under the junk. He lowered himself onto the ground and laid his head onto the table. He could feel movement coming from the northwest. He scrambled to his feet and ran over to where he felt the movement.

“Momma,” he tried to say again and again his voice failed him.

He ripped away at the garbage and debris that had piled there. More concrete had settled there. More asphalt. A street sign. Not theirs. Seaside Terrace. A giant pink “S.” He threw it all without effort.

A hand!

Something was wrong. The hand was wearing momma’s ring, but it was weird looking. The skin was like melted wax but brown with crispy little burnt parts like pie crust left in the oven too long. Her hand was too big and her fingers were too long, but judging by the smell, it was definitely momma. He quickly but carefully dug the rest of her out.

She wasn’t moving. It made him feel sad.

Movement! But not from momma. He turned around.

He tried to yell out, “Stephen!” But it only came out in squeaks and clicks.

He was so happy to see that someone other than he had survived.

He had a brief moment to wonder what Stephen was doing with his hands over his head before momma’s son swung his arms forward and out.

Stephen had hit him hard with something square at the end of a large stick.

There was a moment of excruciating pain as his head plates fractured under the weight of the twenty-pound sledgehammer.

Then there was nothing.

***

Stephen woke up under a pile of debris holding his momma’s hand. He couldn't breathe and had to let go of her hand to claw his way out of the rubble.  He had gone to retrieve something from his father’s tools that might help him get to her but had trouble finding the garage. The entire town of Sebastian, Florida, had been leveled by the blasts, including their house. By the time he found the general area where the garage used to be and started digging, he had forgotten why he was there in the first place.

He didn't know what else to do, so he wandered aimlessly around the neighborhood until he smelled doughnuts. He walked straight to the Slocum’s Joe that used to be in what used to be downtown. Sebastian, Florida, was a small town so didn’t have much of a downtown to begin with, but there was a main strip as small as it was, and that main strip had  had shops, restaurants and the like.

There were at least eight beauty salons that catered to different ethnicities and hairstyles. There was a furniture shop, a home appliance shop, and a rental place where you could rent-to-own furniture and home appliances.

There was a t-shirt shop that sold a hundred years worth of used custom t-shirts that proudly displayed things like: “Mills, the family, the myth, the legend” and “the family that shirts together, stays together.” Next door there was another t-shirt shop that sold a different variety of the same kind of unsellable shirts that said things like: “I shook the Rollins family tree and all the nuts fell out” and “why be normal when you can be a Norman.” Stephen often wondered how a store that sold shirts with someone else’s name on them stayed in business. Then he would wonder what kind of person buys shirts with other peoples’ names on them.

The other side of the street was his favorite. There was a novelty t-shirt shop called Shoes and Shirts Required that sold, among other things, shoes of course and shirts that said things like: “I’m not like most teens, I’m in my 50’s” and “I’m 40, plus a 25% luxury tax.” Most of Stephen’s wardrobe came from Shoes and Shirts Required. He was wearing one of his favorites from there, “of course I talk to myself, sometimes I need expert advice.”

Next door to that was Sebastian’s only computer parts store OEM. It was nice because it sold RobCo, Computechtron, and Apricot computer parts. The big tech companies had tried to make OEM carry only their proprietary technology, but OEM had refused. Lawsuits were threatened but never filed, probably because OEM was just some backwater parts store in some backwater town and not worth their time. None of those computer companies knew, however, that OEM was just a store front to legitimize and fund the hackers that owned the place. Stephen’s parents had paid for a computer technology degree for Stephen and wondered why he never did anything with it. What they didn't know is that his degree was a deep fake and he was actually a professional hacker, trained in the back room of OEM. Or at least he was until the multiple sclerosis kicked in and robbed him of his skills.

Codex, as he was known in the cyber universe, had figured out how to program a Pip-Boy to allow the user to auto-hack any terminal remotely. The only draw backs were that the user had to be in close proximity to the terminal, either to access it wirelessly or to be able to plug into an access port with the cable attached to the Pip-Boy. Anyone with the skill set could hack a terminal, his program allowed him to just connect to the machine and wait as it sniffed out the password without any effort on his part.

It wasn’t something that was really necessary, he just hated wasting time. If he could hack in a short cut to make his life easier, that is exactly what he was going to do. He didn’t hack to destroy or terrorize. He was what he liked to refer to himself as, a lazy man’s hacker. He hacked Port-A-Diners to always get the pie. He hacked arcade games to have his name always appear in one of the top five slots randomly.

Prior to the bombs dropping, his online persona was wanted in twenty-seven states and eleven countries. When he was finally caught, he was told he could either go to prison for the rest of his days on this earth or he could serve his country and become a Master Infiltrator for the United States Army.

Goddamn government.

Next to OEM was a Hubris Comics, where Stephen got most of his reading material. Along with OEM, Hubris also had a secret back room where they sold Cat’s Paw magazines. Dirty magazines his momma called them. He remembered the embarrassment one morning when she told him she was doing his laundry and wanted to know if he wanted her to wash his “dirty” magazines.

“No, momma,” he had told her, red cheeked and head down.

She had sighed at him. “I don’t ever want to see them again.”

She had meant for him to keep them locked up in his desk or something, but he had tossed them out with the trash instead. Miss October 2034, the year he turned thirteen, was his first love. It was hard for him to let her go, but alas, it was not meant to be.

Next to Hubris was Slocum’s Joe. Next to his momma’s homemade breakfast, Slocum’s Joe sold his favorite morning food. Doughnuts of every possible type, style and flavor imaginable. The displays must have been made from the world’s most durable plastics and metals because they stood proudly out of the rubble, little lights still shining on the fresh baked deliciousness.

He stood at the counter several minutes before looking around and coming to the conclusion that he probably wasn’t going to be waited on. He walked to the other side of the counter and popped the lock off the cases. It was easier than he had expected it to be, but what was wrong with his hands?

“Goddamn radiation burns.” Oh well, he thought, they still work and the pain is bearable. More than bearable. The multiple sclerosis had made his hands hurt and not work. A little bit of pain and they work? It was amazing. He smiled and took three doughnuts from the case. He scarfed down a blueberry jelly-filled doughnut covered in powdered sugar.

Stephen was unbelievably hungry. He remembered breakfast being set out for him. He even remembered eating some of it. He remembered the bombs dropping. He remembered the heat. Then nothing. Everything else since then was blank. He knew something else had to have happened, he was standing here at the doughnut shop after all, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't even remember how he got there.

“Ooo, one of the pink ones with sprinkles,” he exclaimed. He grabbed it and shoved it into his mouth whole. He found a stack of flat baker’s dozen boxes below one of the doughnut display cases. There were pink boxes with Dough Boy, the Slocum’s Joe’s mascot that was a donut with a face and arms and legs, and yellow boxes that said Slocum’s Joe Doughnuts in big pink letters on the top.

He chose one of each of the boxes and folded them out so they would actually be useful. Thirteen doughnuts per box. “That’s a baker’s dozen” he said as he put the last doughnut in the last box. The pink box with the mascot was filled with his favorites and the yellow with the doughnuts his momma would like. Mostly what she liked wasn’t doughnuts at all but pastries like bear claws and cinnamon rolls. He knew his momma had made him breakfast already, but maybe she would want them for tomorrow. On Sunday God rested so why not his momma?

He closed both boxes and grabbed two more “for the road,” two triple glazed with icing and sprinkles. One of those and a cup of Slocum’s custom Joe would cost you thirty dollars before the bombs dropped.

He smiled. He was having a good day today. The MS wasn’t hurting him. He could walk good, he could use his hands good. He could remember practically everything he thought of. He stopped. He could remember everything except how he got to the doughnut shop. No matter how hard he tried.

He shrugged his shoulders and popped one of the triple glazed with icing and sprinkles into his mouth. “Oh well,” he said to no one through a mouth full of dough. He started off down the street. His momma would be wondering where he went. He couldn't wait to tell her how much he could remember.

Without stopping, he casually walked through Hubris Comics and snagged a handful of comics and a dirty magazine. “Hey,” again speaking to no one, “no sense in this stuff going to waste.”

It’s not every day the world ends and gives you free stuff. He walked out of the rubble that once was Hubris as if it still had a front door. Or walls. He walked to the next store and walked inside as if it, too, had a door. He knew right where to find what he was looking for. If it was still there. If no one else had stolen it. “It’s not stealing, Stephen.”

He set the two boxes of doughnuts and brown paper bag full of reading material, and a little visual stimulant to boot, on a semi level piece of the junk that once was a wall or roof of OEM. For all Stephen knew it could have been any piece of any building for miles.

He bent down and grabbed a giant piece of concrete and rebar. He saw how mangled his hands were and there was a moment of panic. What had happened to his hands?

“Goddamn radiation burns.”

He tightened his grip and lifted. He didn't think about it at all, he just did it. The slab came free with little effort. He again marveled at how strong he seemed to be today. Was that part of the radiation’s affect on his body?

There it was! A Pip-Boy 3000. But not just any Pip-Boy 3000. It was HIS Pip-Boy 3000. He had been tinkering with this thing for over a year and it was highly modded, to include the code he had loaded onto it for limited auto-hacking capability. It also wouldn’t work for anyone else but him. It was hard coded with a biometric lock and would only work on his arm unless he told it otherwise.

He slid it on his arm…

“Goddamn radiation burns.”

And latched it into place. It made a quiet high pitched squeal like an old television as the monitor turned on. After a few moments of grinding and whirring, it came to life.

“Welcome, Codex,” flashed on the screen in standard green. He had every intention of changing the monitor to a more sophisticated one that would allow him to adjust the color options, but he had run out of time in every sense of the word.

He was fiddling with the dials when he smelled it. The smell of freshly baked doughnuts had always been one of his favorite smells. He wiped off the screen with the corner of his shirt and decided he was hungry enough to go next door and grab a couple dozen for him and his momma before heading home. His momma would be worried about him by now, but they both liked doughnuts and they would go well with East Frisian Tea or with breakfast the next morning.

He just about tripped over a chunk of concrete when he turned to leave. He looked down to step over where he tripped.

“Goddamn conc…”

On the slab Stephen almost tripped over were two Slocum’s Joe doughnut boxes under a Hubris Comics bag. He kneeled and peeked inside the bag.

“Score,” he said. Inside were the latest five issues of “The Unstoppables” comic and the November issue of Cat’s Paw.

He gently lifted the lids of the two Slocum’s Joe boxes and saw they were both full. Thirteen each. “Double score.”

He scooped up his loot. Someone must have left these here before the bombs fell and killed everyone. He looked around at the destruction. Nothing was left of anything. He remembered the bombs dropping. That last one was close. The heat was unimaginable. He was honestly surprised he survived.

His eyes grew wide. “Momma.” He ran home with two boxes of doughnuts, a few comics and a porno like a kid who knew he was late for dinner.

***

“Goddamn roaches are huge,” Stephen said. The sledgehammer made a squishy popping noise as he pulled it from the head of a roach that was easily two feet long.

He had come home and found a sledgehammer leaning against the safe his father had bought for important documents years ago. He had picked it up thinking it might come in handy. When he had seen the roach, he had dropped the bag and boxes of doughnuts and swung the mace.

How dare the goddamn thing mess with his momma anyway. He kicked its twitching corpse away from where his momma was laying in a rubble pit. Yes, the thing was big, but what Stephen contemplated for a full five minutes before forgetting the whole event entirely was whether he had actually seen the goddamn thing wave at him before the hammer had disintegrated its head.

Stephen leaned the roach killer against what remained of their kitchen wall. He sat down on the ground and grabbed a box of doughnuts from the floor. There were two, but he knew his box had to be the pink one with the mascot on the lid. He opened the box and smiled. He picked out a strawberry jelly filled doughnut coated with powdered sugar and ate it in two bites. His momma always did know the best doughnuts to get. She must have gone that morning and bought them before the bombs…

He swallowed and looked into the pit next to him that the giant roach had dug. It must have been searching for her body for food. Her skin looked burnt and melted. He reached out for her hand.

“What the hell?” He turned his hand over and over looking at it intently.

His skin was like hers, though hers looked far worse.

“Goddamn radiation burns.”

His gaze went to the device on his arm.

“When did I go get my Pip-Boy from OEM?” He knew it was his, standard Pip-Boy color is army drab green and his was painted black. It also said Codex on the status screen, so that was a dead giveaway. No matter how hard he tried, however, he just could not remember when he had gone to OEM to get it. It made sense that he would have gone to get it based on the condition of the town, but when?

“Score!” Apparently his momma had gone to get doughnuts that morning before he woke up. He opened the box. One was missing.

“Goddamn idiots apparently don’t know what a baker’s dozen is,” he grumbled and then shoved a triple glazed with icing and sprinkles into his mouth. He chewed and stewed over the missing doughnut.

Stephen’s momma moaned next to him.

“Momma?” Stephen scrambled to his feet. He took his momma’s hand into his and pulled to help her to her feet.

Something was definitely wrong. Her skin was pocked and burned like his, but her fingers were too long, her hand too big. As she rose to her feet, as best she could hunched over like she was, he noticed her hair was all gone except a few strands that poked out here and there from her elongated head. Her lipless mouth hung open exposing four or five teeth jutting out of swollen gums.

His momma yanked her hand out of his abruptly. He had a tight grip in order to help her up so when she pulled free, her wedding ring came off along with the skin of her ring finger. He looked down at her flapping finger skin. His hand was shaking from fear and disgust giving the flap of flesh a lifelike jiggle. He recoiled and her finger fell into the yellow box of doughnuts.

“Momma?” He took a step away from her and slipped on the bag of comics. He fell backward and landed hard on his back. All the air was forced from his lungs with a humph.

Whatever his momma had become turned her head toward the sound and growled.

“Momma, what’s wrong?” He asked, staring in horror at what was left of her, knowing this was no longer his momma.

Stephen’s momma scowled and exhaled a breathy wet sound that was like she was trying to yell while gargling a mouthful of hot sauce. She coiled up like a spring then pounced on him.

Stephen put his hands up in defense just in time to catch her, keeping her from tearing into his face with her irradiated jaws. She tore at his arms and torso with her claw like fingernails, trying desperately to get a grip on him. Hot saliva fell from her mouth and dripped onto his face.

She was so strong. Stephen was apparently not the only one who had benefited from increased strength thanks to the radiation. He rolled over to his side and pushed sending her tumbling. Stephen scrambled to his knees and tried to crawl his way to the sledgehammer lying amongst the rubble.

He grabbed the handle of the hammer and stood as quickly as he could, but momma had recovered. She darted towards him. He swung the hammer, but she dodge rolled out of the way just before he connected, leaving his left flank vulnerable.

She pushed off a large chunk of wall and connected with him, sinking her teeth into his exposed side. He reeled in pain.

He didn't want to hurt her. He loved his momma. This wasn’t her anymore, though. His momma was gone and had been replaced by this monstrosity that was trying to eat him like a doughnut.

He wrapped his left arm around her head and pulled her away from his side. Her teeth pulled at his flesh, tearing it. He sneered and punched with every word from his mouth,” You… are… NOT… my… MOMMA… you… BITCH!”

She fell to the ground on her back and he straddled her body to hold her down. She clawed at him like a pissed off cat. He punched and punched and punched again. He kept punching until she stopped moving and then punched some more. Nothing was left of her face when he was finished.

His breathing fast and heavy. It was like he was coming out of a rage. He saw her face. He saw the blood dripping from his hands. He slumped over and cried.

***

Stephen had almost gone into a panic attack. He was alone. He was scared. He had just beaten his momma to death. He had no idea what to do. It was then that a revelation had come to him.

Whenever he was stuck on a problem or had no clue what to do or how to solve a particular problem, he called his best friend. He always knew what to do or at least had good advice to give on how to proceed. Since he couldn’t call him, he would find him.

Last Stephen had heard, Anthony was in Raleigh sick with the plague. People usually don’t survive the plague, but Anthony had survived a lot in his life, so why not this? Besides, it was a direction, and a direction is all you needed to start your feet on the right path.

“If you ever need me, Stephen, come get me,” Tony would say to him. “I’ll be there for you. No matter what.”

Stephen remembered that the last time his friend had come to visit, he had forgotten who Anthony was. His best friend had left sad and dejected. He hoped “no matter what” covered that as well.

He plugged Raleigh, North Carolina into his map application on his Pip-Boy 3000. He decided to spend one more night in Sebastian gathering supplies and head out in the morning. Now where was his backpack? He gave the ground a once over and saw a pink box with the Slocum’s Joe Doughnuts mascot on the top.

“Score!” He sat down and opened the box. “Weird,” he said to no one in particular. “I don’t remember eating any of these.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh well,” he said and pulled out a pink doughnut with little brown and blue sprinkles.

Chapter Text

Anthony held Vivian to his chest, his hand over her mouth to stifle her screams. Doctor Sanchez lay unconscious in the middle of the lab floor after being laid out with his blunt force Chan injury. Doctor Chan was nowhere to be found after being used as a weapon.

Everything had happened in a strange kind of slow motion, but took place in what was probably only fifteen seconds or so. Maybe less. Even though the main generator had died, red emergency lights allowed them to see the whole event. The red may have even made the scene all the more grizzly.

The large green men walked away from them, bickering amongst themselves.

“I am super mutant,” said one as it lumbered away.

“We are all super mutants, brother,” the other said as he patted his “brother” on the shoulder.

The first argued, “No, I am more super.”

Then they both laughed a guttural and disturbing laugh.

Anthony grabbed Vivian by the arm and quickly, quietly led her to where Dr. Sanchez lay.

He was still alive. Good or bad, who knew?

Anthony picked him up and put him on the gurney and attempted to sneak out of the lab, as quietly as they could, toward the stairs that led down to the fallout shelter.

Anthony backed down the stairs, trying to ease the gurney down quietly. Vivian followed at the foot end. They made it about halfway down when Doctor Sanchez started to slide off to one side of the gurney.

Anthony attempted to catch him, but gravity and momentum won the day.

The gurney plummeted down the stairs bouncing higher and louder as it went. It went racing down the long windowless corridor. Doctor Sanchez’s limp body leaned to one side and caused the gurney to slam into the right wall, which shifted him back onto the gurney but made his legs swing off to the other side sending the gurney and him into the left wall.

He and Vivian stood there at the bottom of the stairs, mouths gaping as they watched the gurney roller coaster down the hall.

The front left wheel bent with the last wall collision and so it the gurney wobbled and clanked and squeaked as it skid to a halt some thirty feet away from them. The universe stood in perfect silence for a few comical seconds before both Anthony and Vivian allowed themselves to breathe a sigh of relief.

Then they heard it.

“Here, human human human.”

***

Anthony had Vivian by the hand and they ran faster than Anthony could remember ever running in his entire life. He pushed the gurney, piled high with medical supplies covered with Doctor Sanchez, like the cherry on top of a medicine sundae, with his other hand.

The distance they ran was probably only two-hundred fifty feet but with the heavy thud thud thud thud of the footsteps of the monstrosity behind them growing closer, it felt like miles.

Vivian screamed, “Right!”

Anthony let go of her hand and placed his free hand on the gurney. He could see where the hall veered off down another tunnel. He had no idea how far down that other tunnel the shelter was, but if it wasn’t close, they were dead. As they neared it, he yanked hard with his right hand and dug the heels of his boots into the tile. He overcompensated the turn and the gurney went crashing into the wall. It tumbled over along with its passenger.

Doctor Sanchez fell to the floor and the body bag filled with supplies fell on top of him with a fwump.

Anthony fell and slid hard, popping his shoulder out of place as he collided with the doctor. The pain was excruciating, yet he just barely managed to dodge out of the way as a massive green human flew past. With its increased muscle mass, and what sounded like decreased intelligence, it hadn’t been able to calculate just long it would take him to slow down enough to make that sharp corner.

The mutant turned his body, but his legs seemed comically unable to work together. His left leg had no choice physically than to turn with his body, but his right just kept right on trucking down the straight and narrow hallway. His left foot came down across his right leg causing him to trip himself. He flipped end over end and landed upside down on his head. The floor shook as his girth came crashing down on his back and slid for twenty feet more.

Anthony peeked around the corner and saw the lumbering oaf trying to stand.

“We’re here,” Vivian cried out.

Anthony looked back over his shoulder and saw that she was standing in front of a well fortified door. “Get that thing open,” he yelled.

“Ow, my head,” moaned the mutant. “Stupid human!”

Anthony pulled the zipper back on the body bag and searched, his hands diving in and out of the medical supplies and vending machine junk food.

They could hear the creature coming back toward them. It was moving slower than before, but with its leg span it was mere moments away from killing them both.

“Come on, doc. I know you gotta have one.” Anthony was about ready to dump everything out of the bag to try to find what he only hoped was in there when he spotted it. It wasn’t in the bag at all but tucked into the good doctor’s belt. He grabbed the grip of the ten millimeter pistol and yanked.

It didn’t budge. The mutant man was right around the corner.

He pulled once, twice, thrice more.

“I can’t open the door,” Vivian screamed in a panic. “It’s got a hand scanner on it.”

Anthony grabbed a scalpel from the supply bag and cut Doctor Sanchez pants and belt. Without obstruction, Anthony palmed the pistol and aimed.

The green man peered around the corner. It sneered an absolutely evil grin as it looked Anthony dead in the eye.

Vivian let loose a blood curdling scream.

Anthony emptied the clip. He fired all twelve rounds into the oversized forehead of the mutant. When it collapsed at his feet, it still had the same sneer on its face, but its eyes were crossed and looking up, like it was trying to see what had happened to its head.

Vivian was still screaming. Anthony put his hands on her shoulders. In his mind he would pull her close and embrace her in a gentlemanly gesture of protection and comfort. What actually happened is he left himself wide open for her to kick him square in the bits.

She took in a deep breath and screamed again as he collapsed to his knees.

“Nurse Vallermo?”

She stopped screaming and opened her eyes. She saw Anthony and realized what she had done. She squatted down and helped him to his knees. “I am so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Anthony said. He bent over and put his hands on his knees. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth twice then stood straight. “He’s awake.”

Her eyes shot to the lump of green mutant on the floor.

“He means me,” Doctor Sanchez said and tried to stand. He was in obvious pain and tried to reach out for help.

Anthony noticed Vivian recoil when Sanchez reached out a hand and thought, “I don’t think she likes him very much.”

Anthony helped the doctor to his feet. Doctor Sanchez’s hand was cold and clammy.

Vivian stepped back and leaned against the wall. “The door won’t open. It has a hand scanner and Doctor Chan is missing.”

Anthony saw the door for the first time. Through the grim red emergency lighting, he could see the door was reinforced well. It had a small glass window at eye level but it was dark. He thought that must mean there was a shutter of some kind on the other side.

“Move out of my way,” Doctor Sanchez said, pushing past Anthony. He glared at Vivian as he passed her. “Doctor Chan didn’t have access to the shelter.”

Vivian looked at Anthony then back to Doctor Sanchez. “But Doctor Chan was chief of surgery.”

Doctor Sanchez placed his hand on the blue outline of a hand on the scanner. A green light went down and then back up his hand. A bleep could be heard from within the device then a click could be heard from within the door. Doctor Sanchez opened the door and the three poured inside.

Anthony ran in last and closed the foot thick door, shutting them in. He spun the wheel latch until it wouldn’t spin any more. As he was turning to see what lied within the vault there was a muffled pounding on the door. “What the hell?”

Anthony lowered the metal guard on the glass window. The window itself was only six inches tall and wide, but at ten to twelve inches thick nothing would be getting in or out of it.

On the other side, Doctor Chan had his face pressed up against it, his right cheek and eye pushed against the glass hard. His eye looked into Anthony’s.

“Help me!” Doctor Chan screamed. Anthony couldn’t hear him through the thick door, but he could read the words as the doctor exaggeratedly opened his lips so he could easily understand. “Let me in, please!”

“Oh shit,” Anthony said and put his hand on the latch. “It’s Doctor Chan.”

“He’s still alive?” Vivian asked.

“Let him in!” Doctor Sanchez added.

“Don’t open that door!”

Anthony started to lift the latch.

“Anthony!” Vivian yelped.

“Mister Santos, stop,” Doctor Sanchez added.

He heard a click. “Yes, Anthony, please stop,” a man’s voice that was not Doctor Sanchez’s said calmly.

Anthony quickly turned, his hand darting to the ten millimeter pistol he had used to kill the mutant. He had tucked it into his pants, not that it would do much good without more ammunition.

“Don’t do it,” the man holding a pistol to Vivian’s head said.

There was a second man holding a shotgun to Doctor Sanchez’s back. He was almost strangling the doctor in a choke hold. He was the one that Anthony figured was most dangerous. Unlike the calm one, this one was twitchy and didn’t know what he was doing.

Anthony didn’t pull his gun from his waist, but he did raise his hands in the air. “That’s our friend out there,” he said as calmly as the man who had Vivian at gun point.

“I understand that, Anthony,” the man said, never taking his eyes off of him, “but your friend is already dead.” The man nodded toward the door.

Anthony peered through the glass. Doctor Chan was in the window like before. Exactly like before. He was obviously still alive but something just seemed off about how he was acting. Then Anthony saw what the man had to have been talking about. It was Doctor Chan in the window, but after a few moments, his face slid to the side about three inches and a large yellow eye peered back at him. There was a muffled thud thud thud and then the large eye moved away.

Anthony could see there were at least three more of the large men behind him. They were talking to one another but he couldn't tell what they were saying . Anthony shook his head no to the doctor. Doctor Chan closed his eyes and Anthony closed the window cover.

There was a single very loud bang from the other side of the door and then silence. Anthony just knew he had signed Doctor Chan’s death warrant, but if he had opened the door, they would all be dead.

“Now,” the man holding the gun to Vivian Vallermo’s head said, “who the hell are you?”

“No, who the hell are you,” Anthony Santos asked the man calmly and quietly. The man who had a ten millimeter pistol to Vivian’s head was obviously nervous, but he was in charge of his mental faculties, unlike the one who had the doctor.

Vivian’s captor was dressed like a construction worker. He was built but had intelligent eyes. His long brown hair was tied back in a tail, but no hard hat. He had calloused hands but clean clothes. He used to be in the dirt but had earned his way to what? Foreman maybe? Whomever he was, he had sized them up and had determined that Anthony was the man he should be speaking to.

Anthony had his hand on the butt of his ten millimeter pistol that he had tucked into his pants after shooting the green giant that had almost killed him and his companions. It had no ammunition left in it, but he was hoping that they didn't know that. With how things were playing out, they thought he was just as armed as they were.

“I said, stick your damned hands up!” The twitchy man with the shotgun to Doctor Sanchez’s back screamed. Twitchy was wearing a suit, and not a cheap one by the looks of him. He was obviously a money man who was caught out of his league and was responding in kind with violence and force. His once sharp cut dirty blonde hair was disheveled, his once sharp cut suit, equally so.

Doctor Sanchez’s pants fell to the floor. Anthony had cut the doctor’s belt trying to get the pistol from his belt loop and his pants just refused to stay put. He had tried to hold them up, but twitchy had thought he shouldn’t have his hands anywhere but up, so down his trousers went.

His falling pants were like a magnet. Everyone in the room could not help but gaze down at them. That is everyone but Twitchy, he was behind the doctor after all, holding him tightly to his chest. It became apparent to all, again to all but Twitchy, that Doctor Sanchez did not wear underwear that day for whatever reason, if he ever wore them at all. Vivian giggled, gun pointed to her head or not, for poor Doctor Sanchez’s manhood, be it because of the cold or genetics, was like a pinky finger laying on top of a couple of acorns.

Twitchy spun Doctor Sanchez around to see what was so funny. Both of their eyes went as wide as Doctor Sanchez’ hope for bigger testicles. Doctor Sanchez was staring at Twitchy, and Twitchy was staring at Doctor Sanchez’ nethers. He stared maybe a bit longer than he felt he should have because he first lost all color in his face and then immediately turned a bright shade of red like a traffic light signaling for everyone to stop. It did not seem like it was anger, it seemed like it was embarrassment that had made his blood boil.

Twitchy pushed the good doctor away, and because his pants were around his ankles, Horacio tripped backwards and landed on his back side, spread eagle and knees up, like a woman giving birth to a pair of olives being held up by a baby carrot. This made twitchy even more emotional, his face twisting into yes, there it was… anger. He raised the shotgun and aimed it toward Doctor Sanchez’ privates.

BANG!

Chapter Text

All Michael Goodman wanted was to live. He hadn't meant for anyone to get hurt, but he felt like he was left with no choice. He supposed that the man who had hired him, Kyle Mitchell, felt the same as he did.

He knew about this fallout shelter because he was the engineer they had hired to, among other things, upgrade the locks from the old “ships’ wheel” style handles to fancy new RobCo hand scanners. The shelter, and its pirate ship’s wheel lock, was installed over one-hundred fifty years ago at a time when Germany and Japan were the bad guys, and China was an ally. Our technology had been limited, but we didn't have to worry as much about being stabbed in the back by people we trusted, or people in general for that matter. People worked together for the common good back then.

But those times were gone, and here he was in the present day, the twenty-third of October in the year of our lord two-thousand seventy-seven, standing outside the fallout shelter he had helped upgrade from a giant metal box into the luxury resort it was today, where someone—certainly not he—could live out the rest of the apocalypse in peace.

Michael placed his hand on the scanner to demonstrate to Mister Mitchell that not only did the new system he had installed over the past month work, but how easy it was to operate compared to the old way. There was a distinctive bleep as the scanner recognized his hand, followed by muffled grinds and whirs and clicks as the locking mechanism released. The door opened with a soft whooshing sound as air from the closed circulation system from within the vault blew into his face, like the vault was alive and exhaling in anticipation of what was to become of the world.

Michael motioned for Mister Mitchell to enter first, which he did without hesitation. Kyle Mitchell had his hands held behind his back and walked with a smug “better than you” attitude. He was the suit in charge of this research facility disguised as a hospital,  and he wanted everyone to know it. He was paid well for his cutthroat business demeanor and his utter lack of caring for his employees, and he wanted everyone to know that, too.

He was rich, high and mighty, and thought his shit smelled like roses. Michael did not like him, but this was a job and a job that paid well, so he did not have to like him. The bottom line was that Kyle Mitchell didn't care about you at all unless you messed with Kyle Mitchell’s bottom line. Kyle Mitchell was Kyle Mitchell’s bottom line, and if Kyle Mitchell’s bottom line was not treated as top of the line, you would end up working, living, breathing ON the bottom line. Kyle Mitchell would make sure of it.

Michael followed him into the shelter. He left the door open. He wanted to show Mister Mitchell one of the new security features he and his crew had added.

“If you will please head right into the security room, Mister Mitchell.”

Michael followed Mitchell into what was more than merely a security room. It was where the new computer system that ran the updated shelter was housed.

Communications were controlled here, along with a server that stored everything that the cameras saw, everything that was said, everything that everyone did in what was now a miniature vault would be stored there. Three screens that could monitor the vault were attached to the main computer system. They cycled through images caught by over two dozen cameras scattered throughout.

Michael Goodman stood with Kyle Mitchell at the hand scanner on the security desk near the largest of the three monitors. Michael typed something into the computer and hit enter. He stepped back.

“Mister Mitchell, if you could please place your hand on the scanner.”

Kyle Mitchell rolled his eyes and slapped his hand on the scanner and immediately pulled it away. There was a loud buzz.

Michael sighed silently. 

“Sorry, Mister Mitchell.” Michael was not really sorry. He would pray later for forgiveness for lying. He wiped the scanner down with a clean hanky from his left pants pocket. Better to pretend it was the machine’s fault then to upset the one paying for it.

“Must have been dirty,” Michael lied again. It wasn’t dirty. This impatient little turd rushed the scan. “Let’s try it again now.”

Mister Mitchell stepped up to the scanner again and reached out. He was somehow even more smug and “my shit don’t stink” then he was before. He had a smirk that Michael interpreted as what? Pride? No that didn't seem right. Arrogance? Maybe.

“This time, leave your hand on the scanner until it beeps,” Michael said just before Mister Mitchell put his hand on the scanner again.

Mister Mitchell froze with his hand four inches above the scanner. He looked at Michael, the arrogant smirk gone from his face.

Michael swallowed and smiled reassuringly. “It will give it more time to scan your hand.” He pretended to scratch some dirt away from the monitor then waved his hanky at it, giving it a light dusting.

Mitchell continued to stare Michael down.

“Just in case,” Michael said with a smile. “Fickle machines with dirty screens.”

Kyle Mitchell smirked again and lowered his hand to the scanner. It only took a second before…

*DING*

The floor rumbled a little beneath their feet.

“Scan accepted. Welcome, Director Kyle Mitchell, West-Tek Research,” said a seductive female voice. Most computer voices sounded very robotic, but this one sounded very… human. Michael had been disturbed by it ever since he first heard it during a presentation at Vault-Tec.

Mister Mitchell smiled a toothy smile from ear to ear. It was the kind of smile that a bully gets when he wins a race. Only the bully didn't win by being the best or the fastest, he won through violence and intimidation. He won because he either beat up or scared the other racers. That kind of smile.

Michael wanted to be done with this job. He didn’t enjoy being a contractor for Vault-Tec in the first place. This job was going to be his last for them. He felt in his heart he was doing the devil’s work here. There were the people. People like Kyle Mitchell. People that would literally throw you to the wolves, or under the bus, or whatever other saying there was for people who didn't care about you or anyone but themselves. They were the kind of people that would kill, or maybe had killed, to protect their own asses.

“You should now have executive privileges throughout the entire facility,” Michael said. He really wanted out of here.

“What about the armory?” Mister Mitchell stepped through a door in the southwest corner of the security room.

Michael watched Mitchell disappear into the other room. The bastard knew right were it was.

A light flickered on beyond the door.

A come hither whistle emanated from the other room.

Michael swallowed and went through the door.

It was an office. It was equipped with a grand circular desk shaped like the letter “C” with a chair in the center. Mister Mitchell was sitting at the desk typing away at a RobCo computer terminal like he already knew this office was his.

“So much for democracy,” Michael said under his breath.

“What was that?” Mitchell said, looking up from the terminal.

“Hmm?” Michael deflected Mitchell’s question

Mitchell went back to typing something on the computer.

Michael had been in here many times. All along the right wall, from the entryway to the wall behind the desk were filing cabinets where personnel files and holotapes would be kept. Mostly those cabinets were empty, save for one. In it was a file on everyone who had ever set foot in the shelter dating back to the original construction crew during World War 2. In each file was a breakdown of everything in that person’s life, to include everywhere they had ever lived, finances, a psychological profile, what clubs they were a part of in school, their favorite foods, everything.

Michael thought they probably had which hand you wiped your butt with after you did the duty.

Everyone who had ever set foot in this shelter had to be vetted and given a security clearance. For decades, since West-Tek took over the hospital, every person who came into the shelter was made to sign non-disclosure agreements and those were also in their files.

Michael Goodman, contractor foreman and engineer for Vault-Tec Industries had a file in that drawer along with his entire crew of ten men and one woman, Alice Budgins.

Alice was one of his best, but she and one of the men, Maxwell Jones, had to be removed from the project when they lied about their relationship to each other.

Michael knew about it, but they didn't disclose it to the psychologist writing up their profile and had to be let go. It was a government contract rule, not his, but he had to be the one to fire them. Of course.

Kyle Mitchell, Director, also had a file. How he passed his psychological profile would be a mystery to some, but not to Michael. Micheal knew that people like Mister Mitchell would be needed to make sure the terrible things that needed to be done in these vaults got done. People who didn't care about the people, just about the bottom line.

There were three doors in the office other than the entrance. One was a simple closet, the second a bathroom with shower and toilet. The third door led to the bedroom that the overseer of this vault would call home when the devil came to claim the earth. He or she would be in charge for however long those within could stay alive, in the hopes of completing their true mission, for like most vaults sponsored by Vault-Tec, this one had a hidden purpose separate from the survival of the human race in the event of total nuclear annihilation.

No matter. Michael would be long gone, and hopefully long dead when that happened, Lord help him.

Behind the overseer’s desk was a small armory. It wasn’t large and therefor did not require its own room. Instead, a picture of Vault-Tec University could be taken off the wall and behind it, a safe in the wall could be opened with a quick scan of your hand. Inside were four automatic assault rifles, two shotguns, and a dozen pistols of varying caliber, including two green monster pistols the likes of which Michael had never seen. But then again, he had never served in the military.

His crew had installed the armory safe, but he had stocked it with the pre-ordered stockpile of weapons and enough ammo to stage a significant defense for whoever was trapped in here. The two he didn’t recognize had long, green, rectangular bodies with little yellow tubes or wires (probably wires, but he honestly had no idea) running the length of it. The whole thing fit like a cartridge in a housing that resembled a pistol. It was all very science fiction to him, like something out of an Astoundingly Awesome Tales comic.

“Ah, there it is.”

Michael turned at the sound of Kyle Mitchell’s voice.

Mitchell stood from behind the desk and stepped over to the wall. He removed what Michael once thought was a photograph of Vault-Tec University but discovered one morning that it was actually a hyper-realistic painting. Mitchell placed his hand gently, almost lovingly, on the hand scanner.

*DING*

The floor rumbled beneath their feet.

“Thank you, Director Mitchell,” the female voice said like a woman thanking her lover for a great night of raucous bed play. The safe popped open with a hiss. A soft blue light tore through the darkness of the deep brown overseer’s office wall. The safe was a dress and Mister Mitchell had just unzipped it, revealing that creepy voice’s sex, and his face was that of a young boy who had just done that very thing.

Kyle Mitchell stood at the open safe, bathing in its blue light.

Mitchell smiled and were those tears? Over a gun? Michael did not like that door being open. Not one bit.

Mister Mitchell reached in and pulled out one of the weird alien-like guns. He studied it… no, it was more like he was making love to it with his eyes, for a moment before reaching back in and grabbing what Michael had also thought would be the ammo for the thing. It looked like a miniature fusion core, the nuclear battery that powered their universe after the terrible event in Japan so long ago. It was mostly yellow with a black end cap.

Mitchell looked at the thing a moment, confused, then set it on the desk.

Michael breathed out slowly. He didn't know why, but he was relieved that Mitchell didn't know how to operate whatever that thing was either. It wasn’t out of some form of masculine jealousy, the thing looked dangerous. It looked more dangerous than any other gun Michael had ever seen, which admittedly wasn’t many, and the thought of Kyle Mitchell using one made him uneasy.

Michael watched as Mister Mitchell inspected a shotgun. It was pump action, and he had the slide pulled back so the ejection port was open. Michael doubted Mitchell knew what he was doing and that it was all just grand standing. Mitchell was flexing his “vastly superior” penis to show who was in charge.

Michael smiled. This man was peacocking to him! “Mister Mitchell, sir…”

He wanted to tell him that he was wasting his efforts. He wanted to let him know he was flattered, but then everything happened. There was a loud BOOM and the floor did more than rumble, it shifted. A red klaxon light started spinning and an alarm blared so suddenly and loudly that both of them put their hands to their ears. Kyle Mitchell dropped the shotgun to the floor where it bounced on its butt and spun a full five-hundred and forty degrees. It struck the ground at an angle and the barrel swung around, striking Mister Mitchell in his right shin. It looked like he cried out, but the alarm bellowed at the same moment and so his scream in pain went unheard.

“Radiological Alert. Sealing Vault.”

Michael stared at Mister Mitchell and wondered if his face looked just as scared and surprised as his. He heard a clang as the vault door locked itself. There was a muffled explosion from the other side and the floor decided they didn't need to be standing anymore. They both lurched forward and collided heads.

Michael had enough time to think how weird it was that he actually saw stars, just like in the cartoons, before he blacked out.

***

When he came to, he looked up and saw that Mister Mitchell had also been knocked out and was coming around at the same time as him. It was then that Michael had his first fight or flight survival thought. He pushed himself to wake up. He needed to get up and grab a gun before Kyle Mitchell did. For the first time in his life he felt afraid.

He got his arms underneath his chest and shoved with all his might. His chest lifted off the floor and even though it was only a foot, he felt like he was still rising, fast, like he had somehow pushed so hard he had just kept right on going and was not going to stop until he hit the concrete roof if he didn't stop himself. He spun around to stop from slamming into the ceiling, but of course he was not even off the floor and came down on his back hard.

“Ouch.”

Wait, did he say that or did Mister Mitchell? There was a ringing in his ears and his brain ached at its core, like someone had lit a fire in the very center of his head and it was slowly eating him from the inside out.

He forced himself to sit up. His mind swirled and blackness crept in from all around like a swarm of millions of tiny minuscule bugs, threatening to consume all light from the world. He shook his head and rolled over onto his hands and knees.

His vision teetered. He almost blacked out twice. His stomach reeled and he had to swallow back his vomit. He had to crawl to the wall, but at long last he found one. He grabbed a forty-four and popped open its cylinder. He glanced around. There were boxes of ammunition strewn about, but his vision was blurring in and out. He focused on a box and squinted.

10mm

Damnit.

Again he focused and squeezed his eyes into a slit.

There was a four on the box. He thought. Was it? To hell with it…

He grabbed the box and tore it open, its contents dumped onto the floor with steady plinks.

He heard a strange noise nearby.

*Clack-click*

*Clack-click*

*Clack-click*

One by one he slid each round into the cylinder. One-Two-Three…

*Clack-click*

There was that noise again. Four.

*Clack-click*

Five. What is that?

*Clack-click*

Six rounds in the cylinder and he knew what that sound was. He slapped the cylinder of the forty-four caliber pistol he held in his right hand shut with his left.

*CLACK-CLACK*

Michael pushed with his feet. He took aim as he slid across the floor. Kyle Mitchell was ten feet away, aiming a shotgun at Michael.

Mister Mitchell had a little stream of blood running down the right side of his face. Another millimeter or two and the blood would be in his eye. Michael flinched when he saw the look on Mister Mitchell’s face. His face seemed twitchy somehow, like all the nerves above his shoulders were misfiring making his muscles convulse in chaotic patterns that made him look psychotic. Mitchell half sneered, half smiled at Michael and then winked.

That wink. “This man is going to kill me,” Michael said quietly as he stared down the sights of his revolver at the twitchy faced man on the floor across the room behind the overseer’s desk.

Mitchell laughed. “I’m not going to kill you, man. Quite the contrary.” Mitchell lowered his shotgun and used it as a support to prop himself up. He stood and walked over to where Michael lay supine on the dusty floor, his revolver still trained on Mitchell’s forehead.

Michael watched in disbelief as Mitchell reached a hand out to him. Mitchell’s face still twitched and Michael wondered if he had hit his head and knocked something loose. His eyes went to the trickle of blood leaking from his temple. Are you the culprit? 

He wondered.

Mitchell jerked his hand out to him. His smile less car salesman and more murderous psychopath.

That gesture told Michael take it or else, and so he did. He had no intention of dying today, so he lowered his gun and took the man’s hand.

Mitchell’s sneer brightened into a smile again. Michael was yanked to his feet and Mitchell dusted him off. He even straightened Michael’s orange vest like it was a business suit jacket.

“Now,” Mitchell stated, “that’s better.” Michael had to resist recoiling when Mitchell put his arm over his shoulder. Anyone like Mitchell puts his arm around you, Michael knew, you know you are about to get sucker-punched.

“Why would I want to kill you?” Mitchell asked.

Michael allowed himself to be escorted to the security room. They stopped in front of the three monitors overlooking the vault.

Mitchell swept his hand from the left monitor to the right. “You helped remodel this place.”

Michael focused at each of the monitors. He watched as the screens changed from room to room and marveled at how little damage the vault had sustained in that last earthquake or whatever it was. Stop lying to yourself Michael. You know exactly what that was. The computer announced radiological alarm and sealed. You know what that means. What, you think it was some coincidence that Vault-Tec sent you to remodel this place NOW? Those bastards knew this was coming.

“Hey!”

Michael returned his attention to Mister Mitchell. Mitchell put his hands on the sides of Michael’s face and looked him dead in the eye.

“You with me, man?” Mitchell asked.

Michael swallowed and nodded.

The sneer returned to Mitchell’s face and he looked away for a moment.

Michael’s head turned abruptly and his cheek felt like fire. “No, I need to hear you say it.”

Michael put his hand to his cheek. He slapped me. This psychopath slapped me. He looked Mitchell in the eye and thought again about how he didn't want to die today. “Yes, I‘m with you!”

Mitchell’s smile returned. “Now, now, no need to get feisty.”

Again, Michael had to keep himself from recoiling as Mitchell patted him on the back and led him into the entry way.

“The first thing we need to do is get that door open,” Mitchell said, and as if he commanded the vault to do it, “that door” opened.

Michael looked at Mitchell. How the hell did you do that? He didn't ask him out loud, but he sure as hell wondered if this man had somehow magicked the door open. “Open sesame” or something.

It was then that two men and a pretty blonde woman came rushing in. They were afraid of something out there, and all of their attention was on whatever it was.

Michael knew immediately who was in charge of the group. He shut the vault. He made sure whatever it was stayed outside. He had the gun. The Hispanic man was dressed as a doctor with a lab coat and penny loafers. The woman appeared to be some kind of nurse. The man with the gun at the door was shirtless, cut and scraped to hell and back, but it was he who was in charge, whether the other two realized or would admit to it or not.

The other two cowered behind him. The Hispanic man and the blonde. They cowered behind him, but they were focused on the door. Whatever it was out there must have been bad.

Mitchell tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. He pointed to him and then pointed to the blonde. He then pointed to himself and then to the Hispanic man.

Michael nodded. He wanted to take these people at gun point. It was understandable. Michael had no idea who these people were. He knew one of them had access to the vault, but that did not mean they were good people. If they knew what was going on in here, it would mean they were quite the opposite.

Michael stepped behind the blonde as instructed. He waited for Mitchell to give some sort of signal but he just stood there behind the Hispanic doctor like a taunt.

“Oh shit, It’s Doctor Chan,” the man with the gun said and started to unlatch the door.

“He’s still alive?” The nurse asked.

“Let him in!” The doctor yelled.

“Don’t open that door!” Mitchell yelled.

The man at the door put his hand on the latch and that’s when Michael got his signal. Mitchell put his arm around the doctor’s throat and held the shotgun at his back. Michael grabbed the nurse around the throat and put his revolver to her temple.

“Anthony!” She yelled.

“Mister Santos, stop,” The doctor choked out.

“Yes, Anthony, please stop,” Michael said calmly.

The man named Anthony Santos turned and faced Michael. Anthony briefly glanced at Mitchell and reached for his pistol.

“Don’t do it,” Michael said as calmly as possible. I know this looks bad, but please don’t judge me based on him. 

“That’s our friend out there,” the man said just as calmly.

Michael glanced toward the door. “I understand that, but your friend is already dead.” After all, a radiological alarm meant dangerous levels of radiation, but he doubted very seriously that is what they had been running from. Something was out there and judging by how they had entered and so quickly shut the door behind them, whatever it was was still out there. Whatever it was, they thought that their friend was already dead.

Anthony Santos turned and looked out the little window in the vault door. There was a muffled thud, thud, thud. Mister Santos shook his head slowly. Something made Anthony tell his friend that no, he was not going to be opening the door. He then slid the metal shutter closed. There was one final loud THUD from the outside and then nothing. Mister Santos lowered his head.

Michael then asked, “Now, who the hell are you?”

Anthony put his hand back on the butt of his gun. “No, who the hell are you?”

“I said, stick your damned hands up!” Mister Mitchell yelled and everyone turned to face him.

The doctor was holding his pants for some reason and Mitchell was trying to get him to put his hands in the air. The doctor yelped and his hands shot up.

The good doctor’s pants, his modesty, and all lies he had told about his manhood fell to the floor. The nurse Michael had at gunpoint laughed abruptly. Mitchell looked around at everyone, but no one was looking anywhere but between the doctor’s legs. It was like a bad car accident. You know you shouldn’t look but you can’t help it.

Mitchell’s face twisted into a confused anger, making Michael choke back his laughter and drop the smile from his lips. He wanted to yell at everyone else to shut up before they got themselves killed, but he froze.

Mitchell turned the doctor and looked down. He stared wide eyed. He stared a really long time. The stare was getting awkward and now everyone was staring at him instead of the doctor. Mitchell must have felt it, too, because he looked up and sneered at everyone.

Mitchell shoved the doctor away, but because his pants were around his ankles, he fell. The doctor laid there before Kyle Mitchell, spread eagle like a yearning lover.

Mitchell’s face contorted and twitched into disgust. He raised his shotgun.

This is going to go bad if he shoots him, Michael thought. The nurse squirmed in his arms. Did she somehow know what was coming? It didn't matter anymore. Michael didn't want to die today. He raised his gun.

*BANG*

Chapter Text

Kyle Mitchell had places to be and this asshole was taking his sweet ass time. He didn’t need to know how to put his hand on a piece of shit scanner. He put his hand on the scanner and quickly removed it.

There was a loud and irritating noise that sounded like *BURNT*.

He had forgotten his Calmex that morning and he was feeling it. With the chem, he could put up with this shit. Hell, he was down right friendly to assholes like this, as long as he was on his drugs. Without them… well without them he ended up in jail. Twice. Well, three if you count the time the judge sent him to the asylum instead.

He hated being laughed at. Always had. His father would invite all his friends over for a football game and they would watch as he abused him. They would laugh at him as he was made to serve them beers and snacks in the buff. They would take turns trying to give him complicated things to do or say and when he would get it wrong they would flick his ear lobes or thump his head. Sometimes they would flick other things. Sometimes they would do worse. Always they would laugh and call him names.

When he messed up, like he did with the hand scanner, all those feelings of inadequacy would come rushing back, but he was not a timid helpless little boy anymore. He knew how to defend himself very well, and when he wasn’t on his meds, let’s just say he knew how to defend himself a little too well. Someone would tease him or laugh at him and he would just… snap. Then he would wake up somewhere with blood on his hands or worse.

He had been caught three times. The first time, he woke up in jail with a mild assault charge to go with the best sleep he had in years. After he graduated college, he had gone to a bar for the first time ever to try and pick up girls. He was celebrating his graduation alone, but he felt on top of the world. He had been shot down by the first girl he approached. She was very pretty, and nice. Her boyfriend, however, had not been nice. No, he had not been nice at all. He had taken Kyle outside and beat his ass. The ass beating he could take, but the boy had laughed at him afterward, so Kyle beat HIS ass in return. He didn’t remember beating the guys ass, he almost never did. He almost always blacked out.

It had been worth it. The boy’s girlfriend had bailed Kyle out the next morning and six months later they had been married. Ain’t love grand. Best five years of his life had been with Janie, and all it had cost him was thirty days in jail for assault.

His second “stint” in jail, if you could call it a stint, was at the first real job he had out of college. He was one of two personal assistants to the CEO of the law firm of Vajinas and Cox. Janie would always make fun of the name. He agreed that even if it was Spanish and the “J” was supposed to sound like an “H” he would have probably changed his name. He often wondered if the original partners that formed the firm had joined together on purpose. The name did stick out and garnered a lot of attention. 

He also questioned why a law firm would need a CEO in the first place.

“Don’t law firms just have partners?” He asked his boss, Mister John Bodgers, one day.

Mister Bodgers’ other assistant had laughed at Kyle and muttered under his breath what a dumbass he was. Kyle Mitchell, without hesitation, had knocked his ass out cold in one punch but gave him four more for good measure. When he was finished, Kyle straightened his tie, combed his hair back into place, and adjusted his coat so it was once again square on his shoulders.

Mister Bodgers had just sat there at his desk, unflinching, and watched the whole ordeal take place. When Kyle was finished making his appearance proper, Mister Bodgers looked him dead in the eye and asked, “Do you think he deserved that?”

Kyle looked down at the man he had just beat for three whole seconds. He returned his attention to his boss and replied, “Yes, I do.”

He was ready to explain about disrespect and his loathing of it. He was ready to pack his things and walk to the bar where his wife worked, head held high, and tell her that it just didn't work out. He did, after all, have nine other job offers. He had only chosen this one because of his close proximity to her.

Mister Bodgers got up from behind his desk and walked over to Kyle. He stood in front of him and squared his shoulders. “The reason this law firm has a CEO, Mister Mitchell,” he began, “Is because lawyers are good at the law, but they know exactly diddly squat about leading.”

Kyle did not drop his eyes from Mister Bodgers’. He stood tall and proud, his hands folded in front of him.

“That kid there,” Mister Bodgers pointed to the crumbled man, bleeding on his office floor. “He will one day make a great lawyer.”

“Yessir,” Kyle agreed. He was actually very knowledgeable concerning the law, and almost as cutthroat as Kyle.

“But, you.” Bodgers gave him a once over. “You, Mister Mitchell, know what it takes to survive in this business.”

There it was again. Mister Mitchell. Not Kyle. Not boy. Not, “Hey, you.” From that day forward, he knew he would no longer be any of those things to people at work. It was Mister Mitchell if you please.

He was so lost in thought, it took him a moment to realize that Mister Bodgers had his hand held out to him. He took his hand into his and they shook.

“Welcome to the team, Mister Mitchell.” Bodgers grinned so wide that his teeth that were so perfect there was no way they were real gleamed in the sunshine coming through his corner office window. He shook Kyle’s hand so vigorously that his double chin wobbled like a cow udder full of milk.

“Mary,” Bodgers had yelled into the office, and a young red haired woman popped out of the door like a genie being rubbed forth from a lamp. Your wish is my command, master! “Take the trash out, will you,” he ordered, gesturing toward his former assistant.

“Yes, Mister Bodgers.” And just as quickly as she had appeared from behind the door, she disappeared behind it again.

“I want you to take the rest of the week off, Mister Mitchell. You are going to need it.”

Kyle said nothing.

The next day, Kyle Mitchell was arrested. Another assault charge.

He spent all of two hours in a jail cell. They had barely enough time to get him in the books before Mister Bodgers red-head secretary came to get him. She hadn’t bailed him out. Somehow all charges had been dropped.

That two hours in jail never even appeared on his record. He would find out later that the attorney that had his record expunged had been new. Kyle’s case had been his first. With the way things turned out, the guy was good. “That guy” had been the very man who Kyle had beaten in Mister Bodgers’ office that day. He had secured life long professional careers for the both of them.

The third and final time he was arrested was because of his wife.

She had been a waitress at the very bar where they had met. They lived in lower Manhattan just a few blocks east from the bar, and he worked just a few blocks north of that, so they had never even considered buying a car.

Their routine was the same. Every day like clockwork he would kiss her before she went to bed in the morning then walk to work, stopping to get a cup of coffee from a quaint little mom and pop shop called Mo’Joes. She would wake up around two in the afternoon.

Her wake up ritual involved exercising in front of the television. She figured as long as she was working out while she watched her drama shows, she wasn’t being a couch potato. She would then fix herself a vegan lunch, eat and then walk to work. She would take the same path as he did, stopping to get a dirty chai latte from Mo’Joes, and clock in at the bar at five.

Kyle would leave the office at six, stop by the bar to say hello and eat burgers and fries with her. He would usually joke that his burger was made from dead cow, burnt to a tasty crisp, and hers was made from the crap his cow thought was unfit to eat. She would playfully punch his arm or tell him to enjoy his arteries while they lasted. It was always in good fun, and they would always smile and laugh. He would then head home and sleep until she walked home around three in the morning. They would spend their morning together making love or talking about their days. Sometimes they would just cuddle on the sofa, staring at the fireplace not saying anything at all. They would shower together at around five thirty, he would dress up while she dressed down the bed. At six he would kiss her goodbye and the routine began anew. Over the course of the next few years, he worked his way up the corporate ladder. She stopped waitressing and became bartender and life coach to all the people who paid their hourly counseling fee in drink. For all those years, they stayed happily married, and their routine never changed.

Until it did.

He had walked to the bar after work like always. They had eaten dinner together and bickered over the other’s choice in meals like always. Kyle had kissed Janie goodbye and wished her a good day at work like always. He had gone home and gone to bed, again, like always.

It was the next morning, when he woke up late for work that things changed. He would never go back to that job again, though they continued to help him for years. He would never go back to Mo’Joes Cupcakes and Coffee again. He would never go to the bar again, never eat meat again, never walk to work again. He would never hear Janie tell him she loved him again.

Kyle would never see Janie alive again.

The detectives told him that one of the patrons of the bar where she worked had been stalking her for months, perhaps longer. At some point he had determined that she was his to have and wanted her to leave Kyle for him. She had refused and after a loud confrontation he had been escorted from the bar by a couple of her regulars. The man had waited for her to leave that night and raped and murdered her on her walk home.

Kyle had begged to be kept in the loop during the investigation. One of the detectives had refused, telling him that they would let him know when they had caught the bastard, but otherwise they would be unable to tell him anything they learned. His partner, however, had taken pity on Kyle and had quietly asked if he knew a man by the name of Jimmy James Johnson. Kyle assured her that no, he knew no one by that name and the detective nodded, winked and left the apartment that Kyle and Janie Mitchell had shared five years of their life.

Kyle remembers waiting for the detective, an Officer Meghan Lovejoy, to get in her car  and leave. He woke several days later in a pile of gore and bones. He held a wallet in one hand and Janie’s favorite necklace in the other. Jimmy James Johnson had taken it from her as some kind of trophy the night he had killed her.

He sat there in Jimmy James’ living room holding her necklace and cried for an hour. He cried harder than he had ever cried in his life. He cried all of his emotion out that day it would seem, for he never cried again. When the last tear had fallen, he stood and walked to the precinct where Officer Lovejoy worked, completely covered in the blood and guts of Jimmy James Johnson and turned himself in.

Before the detectives even knew what was going on, an attorney with a crooked nose showed up and convinced them that it would be better for everyone involved if Kyle Mitchell was not thrown in a cell but booked instead to Bellevue Hospital where he would be able to get the care that he needed.

That attorney, the same one that he had repeatedly punched so many years before, had represented him once again. “That guy” had only gotten better over the years, and using his own experiences with Mister Mitchell, had thrown him on the mercy of the court. The jury, mostly middle aged women, had found Kyle Mitchell guilty of an unfortunate crime of passion. He was to “return to Bellevue Hospital until, under the advisement of psychiatric doctors, he could be released safely where he could once again be a productive member of society.”

It took thirteen months for him to be willing to actively participate in group sessions or really open up to his doctors. It took another two years for him to come to terms with Janie’s death.

He spent five years at Bellevue. During that time, he managed to figure out who he was now that she was gone. He became stronger, harder, emotionless.

Oh and he became addicted to Calmex, which he had forgotten to take that morning, and this stupid machine was giving him hell. Luckily for him, the construction guy, whatever his name was, was not laughing at him. With the kind of day he was having, if the construction guy (Michelle? No. Mitchell? No, stupid, that’s your name) had uttered one little breath that even closely resembled a laugh, it would have gotten him killed.

But he wasn’t. The man (Mylo? Goddamnit I know it starts with an “M”) was being damn right saintly in his dealings with him. It was almost endearing.

*DING*

“Scan accepted. Welcome, Director Kyle Mitchell, West-Tek Research.” Damn that voice was almost sexy.

“You should now have executive privileges throughout the entire facility,” construction guy said.

Mitchell smiled. He knew impatience when he saw it. (Don’t worry Mister Foreman, I want out of here just as badly as you do. We have just a few more formalities to take care of, then hell, I’ll even take you to lunch.)

Kyle stood and walked into the office.“What about the armory?”

He sat down at his desk. (Yes, my desk. If some shit goes down and I am stuck in here, no way I am putting up with some other wack job in charge.)

Confound his damned memory, he wanted to move this along but construction guy was taking his sweet ass time. So he whistled. Like a master calling for his bitch, he whistled. The thought made him smile.

“So much for democracy,” he heard the other guy say.

“What was that?” Mitchell said, looking up from the terminal.

“Hmm?”

Oh hell no. Mitchell had heard him clearly, and he did NOT like being lied to. (You’ve been nice thus far, man. But you just cost yourself lunch.)

There was a faint bloop from the terminal. He smiled as what he was looking for appeared on the screen.

“Ah, there it is,” Kyle said and rose from behind the desk. He stepped over to the wall and pulled the terrible painting of some college off the wall (Ivy League my ass).

He placed his hand on the scanner, marveling at how warm to the touch this one felt. Unlike the scanner he had to use to register himself to the vault’s computer, this one was welcoming. Inviting.

*DING*

He wasn’t sure why, but he almost lost his balance. Sometimes when he was going through withdrawals he would get dizzy, but the floor seemed to move under his feet.

“Thank you, Director Mitchell.”

The door to the gun safe slowly rose up and out of the way, bathing him in a soft blue light. It was the blue of the sapphire in the necklace Janie wore. Her beautiful face entered his mind. It made him smile and he felt a tear form in the corner of his eye. (Ah, Janie. I miss you.)

He grabbed a weird looking device out of the safe. It was some science fiction shit, but it looked cool. It had tons of wires, and as he turned it over in his hands, he imagined the sound it would make when fired. He grabbed a small yellow canister. He felt the cold steel battery in his hand and didn't like it. Something felt wrong about it.

He set it down and the foreman sighed. He didn't like it either for some reason. Kyle smiled. Maybe lunch was back on. Any man who respected his limits was a smart man and okay in his book.

Kyle pulled out a shotgun and slid the ejector port open. He loved the idea of a shotgun. Why unload a clip into something when you could shoot it once with the same, if not worse, gory effect. You couldn’t really kill something at the range of even a pistol, but in tight spaces it was devastating. He supposed that a pistol in tight spaces was just as effective, but you couldn’t remove someone’s head from their shoulders as efficiently.

“Mister Mitchell, sir,” Marcus or whoever said.

Kyle looked up at him. Melvin was smiling a genuine smile and Kyle smiled back. He wanted to tell construction guy to not worry about being so formal. He could really see them being friends in a once upon a time world. He had no idea if this man was married, but if he was he could see going out to dinner, him and Janie with Mister and Missus Construction Guy. (Miguel… Micah… Mick… ey mouse) Kyle’s smile grew wide.

Kyle attempted to release the shotgun’s slide but there was a massive BOOM, and the floor moved like it was no longer made of steel and concrete but of gelatin and whipped cream. Alarms cried out and red lights filled the room, washing away the beautiful blue. He reflexively went to cover his ears, letting his fingers slip from the grip. The slide slammed closed and pinched his hand in that stupidly delicate web of skin between your thumb and forefinger. He immediately yanked his hand back, causing him to half drop, half throw, the shotgun toward the ground.

The butt of it hit the gelatin (it better be orange, I absolutely HATE cherry) floor. With it’s new found rubbery qualities, the floor bounced the shotgun not up but in a supernatural upward diagonal suspended spin (janky, it was sent flying in a janky spin). He watched as it spun once over and half again. The gelatin solidified into concrete again as the barrel of the shotgun struck it, sending the gun (hay wonky) into his right shin.

“SON OF A…”

Radiological Alert. Sealing Vault.”

If Kyle had not already dropped a deuce an hour ago, he would have shit himself right then. This was some end of the world shit happening to them and he was scared.

There was a clang as the vault door closed and then another explosion, quieter this time (the walls of this place must be thick). It was then that God picked up the earth and tried to shake all of man from his creation for ruining it. Kyle felt a pain on the side of his head and then everything went dark

Kyle woke face down on the floor, hot liquid running down his face. He rose up and sat on his haunches until the ringing in his ears stopped and his vision returned to normal (and what in the hell is up with the muscles in my face!). When it did he looked around the office. There was no apparent damage to the vault itself, but the gun safe had vomited its contents all over the floor. Guns and ammunition were strewn about, but his shotgun was lying on the floor to his left. Inviting, no, pleading with him, almost begging to be used.

“Ouch,” they both said at the same time.

He saw that Mister Foreman had picked up a revolver and was looking for rounds for it (Good idea Malcolm, we should be armed. Who knows what is going on out there). He reached out and felt the shotgun’s cold metal body under his fingers. He smiled as best he could (really this twitchy shit is annoying as HELL), and grasped it. It took only a few seconds for him to see a box of shells under his desk (yep, it’s still my desk). He leaned over and grabbed it and then propped himself against the back wall facing Builder Man who was currently loading his revolver.

*Clack-click*

*Clack-click*

*Clack-click*

One by one he slid each shell into the shotgun. One-Two-Three…

*Clack-click*

*Clack-click*

*Clack-click*

Six rounds locked and loaded, and he knew what that sound was.

*CLACK-CLACK*

Then he (Maximillian?) pushed off with his feet and slid on his back maybe two feet and raised the revolver up until it looked like (wait, is he aiming at me?) it was in line with Kyle.

Kyle responded by pointing his own gun in the general direction of construction guy. Kyle smiled (seriously, that face twitch sucks). A trickle of blood threatened to drip into his eye and he blinked to keep it from doing so. Because of his facial twitch (I must have hit my head harder than I thought), that one blink turned into seven in rapid succession.

“This man is going to kill me,” Kyle heard him say (what the hell).

Kyle couldn't help laughing. “I’m not going to kill you, man. Quite the contrary.” He lowered his shotgun and used it as a support to prop himself up.

Kyle reached out to help him up (man I really wish I could remember this guy’s name, but I have always been terrible with names). His arm cramped. His face contorted from the pain and he jerked his arm out to fight it off. Kyle smiled and helped the man to his feet.

Just as a final friendly gesture and as a way to show him that he shouldn’t be so serious, Kyle even straightened his orange safety vest for him. Kyle stood there a moment and nodded. “Now that’s better.”

He placed his arm over Connie Struction’s shoulder (ha ha, I crack myself up). He was in obvious pain though and Kyle could feel his muscles tighten, so he settled instead for a hand on the shoulder.

“Why would I want to kill you?” Kyle asked, jovially

They walked together to the security monitors. To show him how important he was to him, Kyle gestured to the images on the screens.

“You helped remodel this place,” Kyle did his best to reassure him.

After a few precious moments, Kyle said, “Hey!” He felt for the guy, but they needed to prepare. They needed to try to find out what happened. They needed to make sure the shelter was still in full working order. They needed to take stock of supplies. He seemed like he was losing this poor man.

He turned his head slowly and Kyle put his hands on the sides of the guy’s face. Looking him square, man to man he asked, “You with me, man?”

Construction Man slowly nodded, but his eyes glazed over. (Oh shit, he’s passing out!)

He looked down at the monitor screen and contemplated just leaving him there. (I need him!) “No!” Kyle slapped him hard. “I need to hear you say it.”

The man put his hand to his cheek. He had a pissed off look on his face (good, he needs to snap out of it. There will be time later to think about what’s what). “Yes, I‘m with you!”

Kyle smiled proudly and patted him on the back. “Now, now, no need to get feisty.”

“The first thing we need to do is get that door open,” Kyle said, and as if he commanded the vault to do it, “that door” opened. There was a sound like the vault was gasping for air.

The two men looked at each other in disbelief. Kyle took humor in the timing, but construction guy seemed ready to lose his shit (I’m going to lose MY shit if my face doesn't stop SPAZZING OUT).

Three people came rushing in, practically tripping over themselves. It seemed to Kyle like they were trying to get away from something. None of them were paying much attention to anything but the door, so Kyle was fairly certain they did not know they weren’t alone.

The shirtless man who came in last pulled the door shut again. The other two were shaking in their boots as it were. Whoever they were, whatever was happening for whatever reason, Kyle decided no one could be trusted at face value, especially when they came barging into your house.

Kyle tapped Marvelous (now you’re just being weird) (what it starts with an M) on the shoulder and motioned for him to get behind the woman. He nodded and stepped quietly behind her. (He seems to know exactly what needs to be done.)

“Oh shit, It’s Doctor Chan,” the shirtless man with the gun said and started to turn the latch on the door.

“He’s still alive?” The nurse asked.

“Let him in!” The doctor yelled.

“Don’t open that door!” Kyle yelled. The alarms were silent, but the red lights still tumbled around the room. He didn’t know exactly what that meant, but he was pretty sure it had something to do with the radiation the computer thought was out there.

Kyle signaled to Mi… chigan (give me a break) to handle the woman and he immediately took action. (I may not know your name but I am proud of you, man.)

She yelped the moment she realized what was going on. “Anthony!”

“Mister Santos, stop,” the man with the man-bunned black hair cawed nervously.

“Yes, Anthony, please stop,” the construction guy said calmly and shirtless guy turned to face him.

Shirtless guy reached for something Kyle hadn’t even seen, the grip of a pistol sticking out of his, what were those, scrubs?

“Don’t do it,” Kyle’s partner said calmly. Kyle was really beginning to think he had been lucky to be trapped in here with construction guy. He was handling himself very well.

“That’s our friend out there,” the man said just as calmly.

“I understand that, but your friend is already dead.”

(Nice, keep him calm but be honest. No reason to walk on eggshells in the damned apocalypse.

Shirtless guy turned to look out the little window in the vault door and out of curiosity, Kyle risked a glance (what in the Sam hell is THAT?!). Something very green and very large was out there. There was a man’s face as well, but behind that (was that a giant yellow eye). Kyle’s face contorted. The spasms seemed to be getting worse.

Thud, thud, thud, came the sound from the outside. Shirtless shook his head. (You’re damned right, no. I don’t know what the hell that was, but I do NOT want it in here with us.) There was one last THUD that made Kyle cringe (your friend really is dead now).

Construction guy then asked, “Now, who the hell are you?” (Yeah, man! Assert your dominance!)

Shirtless put his hand back on the butt of his gun. “No, who the hell are you?”

Kyle didn’t want to have to kill anyone today, and he was almost certain that his friend felt the same. It was time to show these people who was in charge.

“I said, stick your damned hands up,” Kyle yelled, probably too loudly (wait, did I say stick your hands up before), because the guy he had at gunpoint yelped. The woman with construction guy had her hands up, why wasn’t the scientist looking guy with him putting his hands up?

The scientist put his hands up and the woman giggled (what are you laughing at, bitch).

Then shirtless man was smiling and his chest was heaving up and down.

Kyle’s face twitched uncontrollably.

(Stop laughing at me, asshole or I will put this shotgun in your mouth.)

Kyle looked at his friend who was biting his lip trying to keep from laughing as well.

Darkness threatened to take over his vision. His breath was quickening. His face was tingling. He felt like he always did when he was about to black out and do something that would land him in jail. Then he saw it.

(They aren’t looking at you, stupid.)

He followed their eyes.

(They’re looking at the guy you have at gunpoint.)

He smiled.

(What did the guy wet himself or something?)

He turned Mr. Science Guy around and looked down.

(Wait, what?) Kyle was so confused, he couldn't help staring. (Why the hell do you not have any pants on?) He looked from the doctor to the shirtless guy. (Did you guys have to share an outfit or something?) He tried to smile and his face twisted. It hurt badly, but he refused to show weakness to these newcomers. His new friend shouldn’t suffer because he had something wrong with him.

Kyle shoved the guy who had no pants away from him. The man immediately lost his balance and fell backward. It startled Kyle and he aimed his shotgun at the man with his knees up. It was then, as he stared down the sights, that he saw that the man’s ankles were tangled in his pants. He understood what happened at once. His face twitched and…

*BANG*

There was a sharp pain in his head.

(Michael. His name is Michael.)

Kyle Mitchell fell to his knees. Hot liquid poured over the side of his head and down his neck. He smiled.

The bottom line, is this: Michael Goodman’s bottom line was survival. Kyle Mitchell messed with Michael Goodman’s bottom line and ended up dead.

Chapter Text

“That was ‘Let the Good Times Roll’ by Louis Jordan and his Tympany Five,” the radio DJ proclaimed. “And now, the Temptations with ‘My Girl.’”

Linzy smiled at her uncle quizzically as the song faded away. Sometimes he just made no sense to her.

“Uncle Mark?” she asked. She was sitting on the lower of two military style cots that were attached to the sky blue wall. The cots were positioned one on top of the other like a bunk bed that could be folded up and stowed away when not in use. Across from her on the other side of the small room were another set of the same beds, neatly tucked away. They were not very comfortable but they were practical.

An open box of cotton candy bites lay next to her on the patchwork quilt covering the bed. There were little white wrappers strewn about and a couple had even fell like autumn leaves to the floor. She was fiddling with her hair, braiding it in a more ‘traditional’ Cherokee style.

“Yes, little bird?” he asked without looking away from the shelf he was restocking. He had already loaded two whole shelves with Cram and pork and beans. As they were the heavier items, they took up the bottom. The third shelf from the floor was lined with brown boxes of dehydrated Salisbury steak and yellow boxes of Yum Yum Deviled Eggs. 

They had left her parents and her twin brother at Cheyenne Mountain Complex. They were taking some kind of tour of some stupid vault thingy that her dad and brother were absolutely Ga Ga over but Linzy could care less about. She hadn’t faked being sick, her stomach had hurt some, but she may have made it out to be worse than it actually had been.

They had descended the mountain at an alarming speed, the trees whizzing by. Linzy had enjoyed every nail biting moment, laughing the whole way. Her mom would have scoffed at Uncle Mark. Her dad would have probably murdered him. He was overprotective of her and her brother.

Her Uncle Mark didn’t normally drive like that, but he had things to do and places to be. There was a powwow this morning, but he had to deliver supplies to a shelter for a friend of his named Big Mike. She wondered if Big Mike was actually big or if he was short, and his nickname was just a tease.

They drove down the mountain through a long twisty hallway of blurry trees and a ceiling of grey cloud cover, only slowing when they reached the Springs’ city limits. Then it was a crawl through downtown.

It always made Linzy grin sarcastically when they went this way to Uncle Mark’s. They would be in Colorado, driving on Nevada Avenue, then they would turn right onto Colorado Avenue, drive on that for a while until it became Manitou Avenue. It was only Manitou for a short while, then it became Highway Twenty-Four.

The roads in Colorado Springs did not make sense to her. According to her dad, when the forefathers of the city were planning the roads, they had dumped a pot of spaghetti noodles on a table and just started naming them.

“That,” he had told her, “is how Colorado Springs came to be,” and they would laugh together.

She didn’t like the big city, and not just because the roads were terrible and it was easy to get lost. The people were pushy and moody. A vast concrete jungle filled with people who acted like predators but would probably die if they were out in the woods without electricity for longer than the weekend.

Linzy’s brother was a Pioneer Scout. She knew he could at least follow a map and compass, skills he had learned through his participation in that club. They still only went into the wild in groups of dozens or more.

Linzy got to go on a “camping” trip with him once. She had been excited until she saw that the “wild” nature they would be braving was a pre-approved camp ground with showers and toilets. There were hundreds of boys of all ages and their boy-like fathers “roughing it” in their thousand-dollar insta-pop tents around a community center building that had air conditioning and heat just in case the weather became too severe.

Linzy asked to go home when she saw the souvenir gift shop selling t-shirts that proclaimed “I survived the Pioneer Scout Camp Out of 2075!”. Uncle Mark had rescued her from that ordeal as well.

The further away from civilization she got, the more at home she felt. It was a touristy nightmare, but she loved Manitou Springs. Though still technically civilization, it was not your typical hustle and bustle of miserable people. Instead of scam artists and corporate slaves, it was filled with Native Americans and witches. They were people who spoke with nature and protected it.

There were shops there that sold jewelry and magical bits and bobbins. Most of them also sold garbage to the tourists, but to anyone in the know there were always places tucked away that sold authenticity like you would find nowhere else.

One of those shops was owned by a friend of her Uncle Mark’s. Linzy was fairly certain Kalee was more than just a friend to her uncle, but she felt no need to ask about it. Kalee was also Cheyenne, and according to Uncle Mark she was a “fire talker.”

“She can talk the fire out of a burn, Little Bird,” her uncle tried to explain to her when she had asked.

She had told him that she didn't understand, but he only added that he hoped she never did.

Kalee made and sold jewelry. Upstairs she sold bracelets, cuffs, rings, and necklaces made from silver and turquoise. All of it was very pretty to Linzy, but not her style. She wasn’t exactly sure what her “style” was yet, but she knew it was not that.

There were other things for sale upstairs, like statuettes, some clothing and shoes, posters and greeting cards, and knickknacks of varying quality and expense. Kalee explained to Linzy that was all stuff to sell the tourists so she could pay her bills.

Linzy was more interested in things down the stairs in the basement.

It wasn’t as if the stair case to the bottom floor was hidden. It was clearly marked and lined with brightly colored cloths all the way down with a large sign that begged for people to “Watch Your Head!” Kalee would explain that those who were open to such things were just naturally drawn down those stairs to what waited below. Everyone else could pay the rent by purchasing the “fru-fru” junk above.

For those who wandered down, there was a treasure trove of books, herbs, candles, and ritualistic things that Kalee’s store was really there for. There was a back door that led to a modest yard where Linzy had been to her first fire ceremony. Her whole family had been there, even her mom who seemed to shun everything from her past for some reason.

She had tried to ask her Uncle Mark about why her mom seemed to hate everything he held so close, but he had told her to ask her mom. She had and her mom had only said, “Some things in life are better left unsaid.”

In the beautiful open world is where she preferred to be. Where she could be near trees and mountains and rivers, not cramped in a box made of cold concrete and steel. It was cold in the natural world during the winter, but it made her heart warm. It was always cold in the concrete world, no matter what season it was. Man made buildings with man made light that grew artificial plants made of plastic. No thank you.

It was her Uncle Mark that had begun teaching her to respect natural things, so to hear him listen to music that originated in the artificial life was both confusing and amusing to her.

“I thought you hated anything ‘white corporate America.’” She finished tying her braid with a leather strap made of deer hide. She loved the feel of deer hide. It was so soft and smelled earthy. It smelled like life. The life she wanted to live.

Her uncle laughed. He never laughed just a little. It was always full and strong. “There is nothing white corporate America about this music, Little Bird. This is rhythm and blues!”

He scooped her up and spun her around. They danced together while Big Maybelle belted out “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On.” That is to say, her uncle held her close to his chest as he danced. She imagined she was older and that her feet could actually touch the ground. She still preferred traditional native dances, but whatever music this was, it was fun to dance to as well.

Come on over, baby

Whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on

Uncle Mark stopped dancing and stared toward the ladder that led into the shelter.

It was faint but she heard it, too. A light rumble immediately followed by the tinkling of glass jars and bottles vibrating together.

Come on over, baby

Baby, you can’t go wrong

She was dropped hard onto the floor, and her uncle bolted to the ladder. She felt her ankle twist and pop under her weight. He was up the ladder before she could register the pain.

Ain’t nobody fakin’

Whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on

“GET…” she heard her Uncle Mark scream. There was a loud boom before the second word. It was the loudest noise she had ever heard. Uncle Mark always played music loud in his truck, so loud she couldn’t hear him talk, but this was far louder.

Perhaps out of instinct for self preservation, or maybe she had actually learned something during those nuke drills in school even though she had been talking to her friends and not paying attention, she rolled into a ball and covered her head. The shelving they had just stocked with Cram, dog food, and boxed dinners slammed into her and buried her in white corporate America meals. It was like they were two dolls in a shoe box, and a spoiled child throwing a tantrum had picked up the box and shaken it just as hard as she could.

She heard a loud clang and a creaking that sounded like steel being drug across steel. It was the same sound the shelter door had made when her uncle had opened it. He must be trying to close it, she thought.

The second boom came, more muffled than the first, but still very loud. She saw her uncle tumble out of the tube leading to the surface and crash into the concrete floor like a sack of flower. He didn’t utter a sound when he hit, and her heart leapt into her throat, choking her with fear.

A third explosion or earthquake or whatever it was shook their little box. She didn’t hear a boom this time. Her ears, it seemed, had finally given up on registering sound. There was a bright flash as tiny little sparks popped out of the fuse box down the hall, and then nothing.

No light except for a strange red glow.

No sound except for a high pitched “eeeee.”

No smell except for that of burnt air.

She couldn’t even feel any pain. A numbness enveloped her and she wondered if she was dead.

If I am dead, she thought, I will be joining the spirits of my ancestors and become one with nature. With that thought she became calm. She smiled and slipped into unconsciousness.

“Flash, bam, alakazam and goodbye!”

“That was Nat King Cole everybody, singing ‘Orange Colored Sky.” You have been listening to K-WEN. Remember WEN music was good? And now, a word from our sponsors.”

Chapter Text

Her new name, bestowed upon her by the mighty and benevolent Mothman Himself. Her old life, along with the name the parents who abandoned her almost eight years ago had given her, was no more. She had been born again in His light, and now, she must be cleansed.

She was seventeen. She lived with no roof over her head but that of the lean-to in which she had placed her mattress. Mr. and Mrs. Welsley, the nice husband and wife that lived below, had helped her in so many ways, and yet no one had seen her naked until this night.

Like her old life, she shed her old clothes from her body. Let’s be honest, they were barely hanging on by threads anyway. They would be burned in flame along with everything else of Katrina’s.

She stood there in the cold night, exposed, yet she was not afraid. She had Him to protect her now. She need not fear wandering eyes. Brother Jacob was blind, and at his direction, Brothers Trent, Jeffrey and Christopher had blindfolded themselves before she had even removed her socks.

Before her they stood, ready and waiting for the cleansing to begin. They were chanting something Raven didn’t understand. It was low and guttural and rumbled in her chest. In their hands they held tattered cloth.

Near them were two wooden troughs. The first was filled with what looked like blood, dark and thick. The other was filled with water. The surface of the dark liquid rippled while the water stayed still and calm.

Strange, she thought. Her head swam. Her vision blurred then refocused. Blurred then refocused.

There was an odd scent in the air like no incense she had ever smelled before. Her throat threatened to close with every breath.

She glanced from brother to brother until her eyes landed upon Brother Jacob—so small, yet so commanding. His white eyes, as always, appeared to look through her into the depths of her soul.

It wasn’t creepy. It was comforting, and maybe a bit intriguing. She still didn’t understand what it was that made her so special in their eyes. She couldn’t be the only one the Wise and Holy Mothman communicated with.

As he peered into her very being, he spoke to her.

“Breathe, Raven,” he said, in his normal child-like voice.

He spoke again, but the words came not from his mouth. They came from everywhere at once, and his voice… 

“Just breathe.”

His voice exhaled into her like a breath of wind, and as he did, she took in a slow, deep breath that seemed to last so much longer than it should have.

She fell backwards, but no, that’s not what happened was it? It was more like she was lifted. Yes, she was lifted off the ground as she inhaled. She felt no hands upon her body, but surely her Brothers had snatched her up off the ground and held her on high as she was cleansed and then adorned in her new wrappings.

She gasped and subconsciously held her breath, but one last time, from deep inside her head—deep inside her soul—she heard, Just breathe.

The sound of His voice drew her into oblivion and she drifted into dreams of faces she had never known, but in her dreams they made her happy.

Her thoughts rested upon one amongst the myriad of faces. Her heart beat hard, and she swelled with emotions like she had never felt before. She ached for this face.

Find him, He said to her.

And she knew that is what she must do. In her dreams she was lowered to her feet and began to walk in the direction she must go.

Raven.

She turned to the sound of His voice.

I am sorry for all you must endure.

She smiled for she was not afraid.

She would do anything for Him.

***

The four of them surrounded her.

Brother Jacob, blind for years now, stared in her direction and waited. He saw much that others never could.

Brother Trent, Brother Christopher, and Brother Jeffrey kneeled below her. Blindfolded, they could not see what was going on above them, but they could hear the winds blow. They could hear His voice echo through the sky all around them as He spoke to her, but not one of them felt fear. They had accepted His light into their hearts.

They held their hands aloft into the sky and chanted what Brother Jacob had taught them. Words to invoke his protection, but they did not ask for protection for themselves but for her.

His Raven.

She, like He, would soon take flight and do His bidding. They had their own missions, but their first was to prepare her as best they could for the hardships she would face along the way.

“It is done,” Brother Jacob said.

Blindfolds removed, they stared in awe as Raven was slowly lowered to the rooftop of the Mothman Museum by nothing more than the wind. Not a one of them had touched her, but there she was, floating before them, fully clothed in the cloth and leather and bone that Brother Jacob had pulled from his box and laid out for her.

The Mothman lowered her to her feet, for whomsoever else could it be but Him in all His splendor that held her aloft. She was faced toward Brother Jacob, and he toward her.

She opened her eyelids and they gasped. Her eyes once as blue as the daytime sky had gone as black as starless night. As black as obsidian glass.

She looked toward each of them briefly, then returned her gaze to Jacob. Her pitch black eyes stared into Jacob’s pure white eyes, and neither one moved for a good long minute.

It was then they both smiled happy smiles.

They almost looked like children again.

Chapter Text

Lucas hated when this happened. Linzy would be listening to a song and it would get stuck in his head. It was usually something that sounded like someone was banging on a drum and chanting, “hey hey hey hey.” He knew it was wrong or whatever to hate all that Indian stuff. He didn't even know why he did, he just did. He didn't not like the people, he just thought their music was terrible and their clothing was weird and they danced funny. He was pretty sure his mom didn't like it either, and his dad, well he had to pretend to be interested because Linzy was his daughter. He was also sure Linzy only liked it because she was sweet on Uncle Mark. Lucas rolled his eyes. She had even faked being sick so she could spend the day with him. Ewww.

He loved his sister (I mean he was supposed to right?), but he was glad she had gone with Uncle Mark. She would have just been bored and ruined the day for him and his dad. I mean he was bored every time he went to things for her, but at least he didn't spend the whole day crying about white carpet America, whatever that was.

This wasn’t the normal pow pow pow, hey hey hey music though. This was music his dad liked. The “Ten Patients” or something weird like that. He wasn’t sure what the song was called, but they kept saying “My Girl” over and over, so that was probably it. He figured that no matter what music was playing, his sister still thought about the drum music because no matter what was playing, he could still hear a steady beat. He would always picture Linzy in her PowPow costume, blue with beads and fancy dangling things and feathers, sitting at a fire banging on one of those flat drums you can hold in one hand.

thud thud thud thud thud thud

He didn’t like PowPow music like his sister and Uncle Mark. He didn’t like Oldie Oldies… Olden Goldies… whatever you called the music his dad and mom liked. He preferred electronic music. Music made with modern technology like computers and synthesizers by a single DJ, not huge productions with huge bands. Why have five people on a stage playing different instruments when you can loop it all together yourself. Now THAT took talent.

He knew Linzy didn’t like his music. She complained so much about having to “endure” it that his dad bought him a really nice set of headphones. He knew she couldn’t also “hear” his music like he could hers because no matter how loud he played it through those headphones, she never complained again.

As far as super powers go, it was a stupid one, but he didn’t complain. After all, super heroes ALWAYS had more than one power, he just hadn’t figured his out yet. He didn’t even tell his parents about it. Super heroes never revealed their secret identities, and their “normal” selves never revealed their super powers unless they really really had to. Like… in an emergency or something. Even if he were to tell someone about his super power, no one would listen or they wouldn't believe him. Not even his parents.

He had no idea what kind of emergency would require the use of his particular super power. That was until the world ended. Well, when the world ended and his parents went crazy.

As far as he was concerned he was a good kid as far as good kids went. He didn’t have the best grades in the world, but he usually always did his homework. Eventually. He wasn’t outwardly mean like other kids in his grade. Some of them could be real jerks. Sure he picked on his sister, but what true loving brother didn’t?

He was such a good kid in fact he had never ever been in a fight.

Well once.

But that was different.

And besides, he deserved it.

Okay fine.

So here is what happened.

Lucas had told his sister not to wear that outfit to school. He had told her over and over not to. Begged even. It was embarrassing.

Okay fine, it was Native American History Day at school. And fine, technically they were Native Americans or whatever. And FINE, she did look really pretty in it. BUT, that did NOT mean she had to wear her PowPow costume to school.

And she was going to be dancing at the assembly, too? Ugh!

He would never live it down!

School started at seven in the morning, but the assembly didn’t start until ten, so he spent those few hours trying to test if invisibility was one of his latent super powers. It wasn’t. All of his friends, even Joe who hardly ever showed up to school, were there.

“I just had to come today, dude,” Joe had said.

“Where’s your costume?” Dana had asked.

“My costume?” He giggled. He hated Dana so much. Why did he have to giggle or laugh at every stupid little thing she said? God! Whenever she was around he felt all hot and couldn’t talk right. His insides felt all swirly and he felt tingly in weird places.

All she had to do was say hello and he would just become an idiot and not know what to say or do. It made him feel dumb and he hated it. He hated her curly brown hair. He hated her soft brown skin that smelled like coconut. He hated her big brown eyes that seemed to stare right through him. Most importantly he hated how he didn’t really hate her. Not really.

He did hate how he felt like he needed to lie to his friends about her. It was not because he was lying to his friends. He hated it because he was scared her feelings would be hurt. He wouldn’t tease her like they did, but he wouldn’t stand up for her either.

He hated when they teased him and said things like, “Lucas and Dana, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” He didn’t hate it because they were accusing them of being together. Which they weren’t! Or about them kissing. Which they hadn’t! He hated it because it wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it, though he would never admit it. He would lie awake at night and wonder what that would be like.

Her lips were fuller than most girls’ lips. They actually looked like lips, not thin lines drawn on a face with a sharp pencil. The thought of those full lips K-I-S-S-I-N-G his… Well it made those hot swirly tingles in weird places come rushing back, and he would smile. It was okay to smile about her at home alone in his room after bed time.

He would wonder if she thought about him after bed time, too. When he imagined she did, he would smile and feel happy. When he imagined she did not, his heart would sink deeper into his chest and it would be hard to swallow.

“Lucas?”

He was thinking about her like he sometimes did, and like would sometimes happen, he heard her voice. It made him smile.

He felt someone hit him in the arm.

“Dude!”

He looked at his arm just below the shoulder where he had been hit.

Joe was standing in front of him looking back and forth between him and Dana. His mouth was open, but he was smiling. Joe knew he didn’t really hate Dana. Ugh! Curse you Joe and your Irish red hair.

Mike was standing to Joe’s left. He had his arms crossed, and was very clearly annoyed. He jerked his head back to get his golden locks out of his eyes, except it wasn’t in his eyes, and even if it was, it was so full of hair spray, it wouldn’t move with a chisel. He was proud of his hair, and it showed. The hair on top of his head was maybe three or four inches long and it was trimmed neatly on the sides and in the back. If one strand so much as touched the top of his green turtle neck sweater, he had to have it cut as soon as humanly possible.

Mike was staring across the room, pretending to not care about anything in particular and flicking his head back like he was the star of a shampoo commercial. Mike was another pretender. He still teased Lucas but not as much as the others. There was a pencil lipped girl named Meghan that had just moved to Colorado Springs in the fall. She was in the same grade AND the same class as they were. Mike “hated” Meghan like Lucas “hated” Dana.

Jimmy stood between Lucas and Joe. Jimmy was taller than anyone else in the fifth grade. It probably had something to do with the fact that he was older than anyone else in the fifth grade. He was a big boy, both in muscle and excess weight and he had been given the nickname Gorilla by his football coach. He had in fact been the one to sock Lucas in the arm, so Lucas socked him in his arm for good measure. “Achieve balance in all things,” Linzy would say. A punch for a punch then.

“Ow!” Jimmy yowled and reared back to hit him again. “I’ma beat yer ass, Lucas.” Jimmy was from Texas somewhere and sounded like a cowboy. The sound of it usually made Lucas laugh.

Dana asked him once why he was friends with Jimmy. He couldn’t really give a good reason. They just were.

“Boys!” Missus Flanagan smacked her yard stick on her desk. “One more outburst and all of you will be in detention instead of the assembly.” She was wearing a huge chieftain’s headdress. Lucas wondered if she knew just how disrespectful that was.

He really did hate Missus Flanagan. Lucas didn’t get math. That is to say, he got the basics: plus, minus, multiply, divide. He hated long division, it was the brat-worst, but he still got it.

He knew what triangles and squares and circles were and he could figure out their areas and how long or short sides were. That was all just using basic math with a picture.

What he did NOT get was X’s and Y’s and solving for this letter or that. He hated it and did not see where he would need it in real life outside of school. He didn't get it and Missus Flanagan was no help at all.

He wondered if there was a secret book of rules that you had to follow to be a math teacher. Like, he had never ever had a math teacher who was a man. Like ever. Their fifth grade teacher was a man. Mister Doherty taught them every other subject: English, history, and science, but when it was time for math, usually around ten in the morning, every morning, he would leave and Missus Flanagan would come.

Another thing that all math teachers seemed to have in common is, spectacles or not, they always stared down their nose at you. It was like they thought teaching kids was beneath them.

Dad called it snobby.

It was also Lucas’ opinion, based on his many years of experience, that either you had to start off being a person who was not very nice, or math itself made you not very nice. He had not quite decided which was the more likely scenario. He’s known some math teachers that you could just tell were born mean, but he could see where constantly solving for X would be quite irritating. He would become a jerk too if he had to do it all the time, but he was a boy so he didn’t know if he would ever truly understand. Maybe one day when he grew up and became a scientist for Vault-Tec, he would run an experiment to figure it out.

Missus Flanagan grabbed Joe by the ear and drug him, moaning, to the back of the line.

“Ow,” Joe yelled.

She came back for the rest of them, but Lucas, Jimmy, Mike and Dana all filed quickly behind Joe. She stared down her long, pointy, crooked, witch-like nose at them. She stuck out her long, pointy, crooked, witch-like finger at them, accusingly. Her grey hair was pulled into a bun so tight that her mouth was in a permanent sneer. Any wrinkles she might have had disappeared as her skin was stretched like a balloon over her skull. The only thing missing was a mole and a pointy hat. After all, that is how all witches looked in comics and on the television with a mole and a pointy hat. The yard stick she carried could very easily be her broom in disguise.

They were led single-file like prisoners to the auditorium. They were completely silent except for the occasional yelp if a student dared step out of line. You wouldn’t normally look at a yard stick and wonder how painful it would be, but he and his classmates would for as long as they lived.

Once inside the auditorium, they filed onto a bench. His class took up two whole rows. Missus Flanagan allowed everyone but Joe to sit all together. They crossed two bleachers one by one, stood in their spot and waited for inspection. It really wasn’t necessary, even the other teachers would roll their eyes or check their watches impatiently, but Missus Flanagan insisted on having her students stand in their seats as she walked in front of them, eyeballing them like she was a drill instructor at boot camp inspecting her troops like in one of those old war movies on television. Only when they had met her approval could they actually sit, sometimes holding up whatever thing they were there for in the first place.

That Monday, October eleventh, twenty seventy-seven, was already a stupid day. There he was in that stupid auditorium, waiting under the eagle-eyed glare of his stupid math teacher for his stupid sister and his stupid uncle to perform some stupid dance. He…

Wait…

He felt something on his hand.

He looked down and saw…

*gulp*

His heart shot into his throat and all of a sudden, even though the fans of the auditorium were blowing frigid cold air down on them, he was burning hot.

Dana was holding his hand. “Why was Dana holding his hand?” he wondered. He tried to swallow and couldn’t. He slowly turned his head. Her eyes were there to meet his and she smiled. She focused her attention on the drummers that seemed to be hammering out the cadence to his heart beat.

thud thud thud thud thud thud

He slowly turned his head and for the first time ever, he saw his sister. Like really saw her. Maybe it was the drumming, or his heart, or the sudden rush of love he felt coursing up his arm in pulses of hot lava. For whatever reason, he was transported away. He was no longer in the auditorium, which let’s be honest, was just the gym with the bleachers pulled out, he was outside in a wide open field. They were all around a massive bonfire watching this sacred ceremony unfold.

He watched as time slowed to a crawl. The beaded tassels of his sister’s shawl molded into wings and then his sister had become the little bird that Uncle Mark had always seen her as. Only she wasn’t little. She wasn’t his ten year old sister. She was a magnificent eagle spiraling down to the earth, homing in on her prey. She was beautiful.

And then something hit the eagle and it came crashing down to the earth. Only she wasn’t the eagle anymore, she was his innocent sister who hated white carpet for some reason, and she was laying on the gymnasium floor.

Helpless.

“Go back to yer reservation before I scalp erry last one of yas!”

The field he was in didn’t fade back to reality like you would read about in books. His reality popped back in like the dream he was in was a fragile bubble that burst to reveal the truth all around him. He was back in the gymnasium slash auditorium staring at his sister.

He could still hear the thud thud thud thud of the drums, but none of the drummers were drumming. It had all played out like a “western” movie like Last Stand at Fort McGee. The cowboy had shot the “injun” and saved the day. Only that’s not actually what had happened for real. As a Native American, he knew the truth. He had paid attention to all his sister’s blah blah blah about it, even though he pretended he hadn’t, because he loved her, even though he pretended he didn’t.

He had heard his voice, but it wasn’t until he heard his laugh that he recognized who it was. Jimmy’s voice was unmistakable, but probably because he was lost in that fantasy bubble, and Jimmy wasn’t Jimmy anymore. He had temporarily become Keith McKinney, the hero cowboy that single handedly stopped the “evil” Apache forces from raiding Fort McGee and killing the poor helpless “Polecat Polly” and her merry troupe of singing and dancing scantily dressed women.

Jimmy became Jimmy again when he laughed about what he had done. Lucas thought Jimmy’s accent was funny, but his laugh was down right annoying. It came out as this exaggerated cartoonish HYUCK HYUCK HYUCK. If he thought something was particularly funny, especially if it involved something he did and especially if it was something mean, he would always end his HYUCKing with a “yeehaw.”

Lucas didn’t remember much of what happened after that. What he did remember was seeing his sister lying unconscious on the floor. He remembered standing up and turning to face Jimmy. Everything was still moving in slow motion.

HYUCK!

He pulled his hand from Dana’s and clenched it into a fist.

HYUCK!

He turned to see his “friend” with his hands on his belly and his head reared back as he laughed.

HYUCK!

Lucas cocked his arm back like the hammer on a pistol.

“Yee…”

The world went back to normal speed and…

BAM!

Jimmy went flying. The last thing Lucas remembered is how satisfying it felt when Jimmy’s nose shattered under the force of his fist.

Lucas had woken up later in the nurse’s office. He was lying on a cot and Joe was standing next to him, shaking him. Joe had snuck out of class and into the nurse’s office to see him. He was grinning ear to ear.

“What happened?” Lucas asked. He struggled to sit up, his mind still groggy.

Joe’s smile grew bigger, if that was even possible. “Oh my God, dude,” he began. That’s how all of Joe’s exciting stories began, especially the stories you probably shouldn’t believe.

Joe quickly recounted the five minutes of beat down Lucas had given Jimmy James Johnson before Missus Flanagan had “man handled” them away from each other.

“Then you so totally punched Missus Flanagan and tried to jump back on Jimmy, but Coach Miller came over and grabbed you.” Joe had apparently forgotten to breathe during his recap and had to take in a giant gasp of air before he added, “It was awesome, dude.”

“Where’s Wizzy?” Lucas asked in a panic.

Joe’s eyebrow raised and he looked at Lucas, obviously confused.

Lucas closed his eyes and shook his head. He opened his eyes again and asked, “Where’s Linzy?”

Joe patted Lucas on the shoulder. “Jimmy threw a rock at her. Can you believe it? A shittin’ rock!”

Joe was the first among them to start cursing, and shittin’ was the newest member of his vocabulary. So of course, it was inserted as often as he could, even if it made no sense whatsoever.

“It clocked her good. There was blood everywhere!”

Lucas panicked and tried to leap off the cot.

Joe placed his hand on Lucas chest to stop him from getting down. “Calm down. I’m just shittin’ with you, dude. Linzy is fine.”

Lucas relaxed a bit and rolled his eyes.

Joe stared at the blue and white checkered floor of the nurse’s office. He raised an eyebrow again. “I mean, Jimmy did hit her in the head with a rock.”

Lucas’ panic set in again.

Joe cocked his head to the side. “And there was quite a bit of blood.”

Lucas’ heart pounded erratically and his breathing got faster. He started to feel light headed.

Joe looked at Lucas and smiled. “Linzy really is fine, dude. Your uncle took her to the hospital to have her checked out.”

Lucas leaned against the wall behind him and breathed deep. The relief was tiring and he felt like going back to sleep. He stared at a poster Nurse Wilkins had glued to the medicine cabinet. It had a vault boy dressed in a doctor’s coat and a nurse’s hat asking if he had taken his medication today.

Lucas swallowed. “What about Jimmy?”

Joe whistled. “Not even gonna lie, dude. You messed him up good.”

Lucas didn’t look away from the poster. He knew he was in trouble. Him and his dad’s trip to Cheyenne Mountain and their long awaited Vault-Tec tour was coming up and he figured he was probably not going to be able to go after what he had done.

Joe continued, “They took him away in an ambulance.”

Lucas didn’t even flinch. He and the vault boy were in an endless staring contest. He wasn’t even upset about what he did. He knew he would probably be suspended from school. He knew he was probably going to be grounded AFTER the lecture he would get from his parents, which was honestly worse than being grounded. He knew he was going to lose his chance to go on the Vault-Tec tour with his dad. He knew he should feel bad, but he didn’t. Jimmy got exactly what he…

“And I have bad news, dude.”

Lucas turned his head towards Joe. Dang, I lost the staring contest. “Okay.” It came out as a slow sigh. He asked it like, What now, Joe? There was a lump in his throat and he couldn’t seem to swallow it down.

“Yeah, Dana says she doesn’t think you two should be friends anymore.” Joe looked sincerely sad for Lucas. He was not a good influence at all, but he was definitely the best friend he had.

Lucas invited Vault Boy to another staring contest. A single tear fell down his cheek.

But then he didn’t see the Vault Boy poster anymore. He wasn’t in the nurse’s office. He wasn’t even in school. He was back in the field watching his sister dance and suddenly all the bad of the day didn't matter anymore. All of a sudden he just didn’t care. In his mind his sister was dancing, and hopping, and slowly spinning in tiny circles and not even the Vault Boy on the wall could break his focus. Right then, his sister was all that mattered to him. He closed his eyes and smiled.

“You know what?” Lucas looked at his friend. “It doesn’t shittin’ matter.”

“YEAH!” Joe cried out and then immediately slapped his hands over his mouth.

“Now I know that isn’t Joseph McClanaugh in there,” Nurse Wilkins yelled from her office. “I know it isn’t him because he is supposed to be IN CLASS!”

“Shit!” Joe whispered. He clenched his teeth, and his eyes got as big as UFOs. As he tip-toed sarcastically to the door he said, “I’ll catch you later, dude.” Lucas barely heard a sound, but Joe exaggerated his mouth movements very dramatically. Then he ducked out the door.

That was the last time he ever saw Joseph McClanaugh.

Or Michael Smith.

Or Jimmy James Johnson.

Or Dana Reed.

He did get suspended, and both his mother and father had to come and talk to the principal, the school psychologist, his counselor, and Missus Flanagan of all people. Missus Flanagan sneered down at him, but the corner of her lip curled up just ever so slightly and she winked at him. The sneer came back to her face so fast, he wondered if he had imagined it.

To add more mystery, not only did he not get grounded, but he and his sister were treated to ice cream after dinner. His parents were proud of him for defending Linzy, and Linzy even hugged him and thanked him.

Until today, it had been the craziest day of his life.

Today?

Today definitely took the cake, held the record, the all time undefeated heavy weight champion of the world…

Total Nuclear Annihilation! The crowd goes wild!

From what he could tell, the world outside was pretty much gone. All of his friends, including the girl he once hated to love were dead. And his sister and Uncle Mark were out there somewhere.

His parents, especially his dad, were like totally freaking out. And AS USUAL, no one was listening to him. They all thought Linzy was dead, too, but he knew. He knew that even though she was definitely hurt, she was very much alive.

Nat King Cole told him so. She was safe and sound under an Orange Colored Sky.

Chapter Text

“GET DOWN!” Mark Crowfeather yelled.

He and Linzy had come to his friend’s fallout shelter to stock it with supplies. Linzy had asked him about music and so he had explained it by scooping her up and dancing with her. Then several cubic tons of concrete and steel had shaken them like crazy.

In the moments before the explosion, the world had gone perfectly quiet. There had been mumbles and grumbles, like the earth itself was growling in anger… or pain. But in that moment, when everything came to a halt, everything was peaceful.

There was no wind. There was no sound. It was stunningly beautiful and Mark was overwhelmed by a terror unlike he had ever felt before.

Then everything blew west. No, it was more like Colorado Springs had become a great black hole and began sucking the world in on itself. The clouds disappeared in an instant, like white sand being vacuumed from a blue plate. The birds desperately tried to fight against the pull, but quickly gave up, resigning themselves to their fate. The wind blasted against Mark’s back hard, and he was almost blown off the ladder leading down into the fallout shelter he and his niece were stocking.

Then came the flash. It was a nice little valley that led to Colorado Springs. Not perfect line of sight, but the cut between the mountains was deep enough to allow for that initial pulse of light to blind him.

So he had yelled for Linzy.

“GET”

And then the sound came. Like being hit in the chest by a freight train of noise. People always say that. “It was like a freight train.” It wasn’t. It was like nothing existed, and then everything boomed into existence all at once. It was the weight of the total destruction of all life being slammed into your soul.

In that moment you hope that you don’t die. It’s not until later that you wished you had.

“DOWN!” 

He expelled all of his air forcing that word out of his throat. He was sure he yelled louder than he had ever yelled in his life, but he might as well have said nothing. The sound that erupted from the east drowned out all others.

He slipped and fell down the rebar ladder but caught himself from tumbling all the way down the hatchway. The shelter was buried eight feet down, then two feet of concrete, then eight more feet of space for the radiation showers. That would have made an eighteen foot fall that surely would have killed him or worse, mangled him. He only popped his shoulder out of its socket, but for the moment his adrenaline kept him from feeling it. He knew he had to close the hatch. Had to or they both would die. He had no idea if Linzy was alive or dead, but if she was alive, he had to protect her no matter what. He had no cause to doubt she had survived. After all, what good is a fallout shelter if you die inside of it when the bombs dropped?

The blast wave hit, and he could feel the heat building. It wasn’t unbearable yet, and he wasn’t sure if it would get dangerously high. It was the radiation he was worried about.

He was scared and couldn’t see, but he knew their survival depended on that hatch being closed so he leapt. He pushed off the rungs of the metal rods embedded in the concrete tube that made up the ladder to the shelter and reached out. He grabbed the spokes of the wheel on the hatch and yanked. He wrenched his shoulder and pain shot down his arm to his fingers and ricocheted to his shoulder again.

“I’m not going to be able to close the hatch,” he thought to himself. He pulled and pulled. Tears were streaming from his eyes. He screamed out in pain and frustration and fear.

The mountainside seemed to take in another breath as the air was sucked back toward the valley leading to Colorado Springs.

The hatch easily closed and the wheel screeched as he turned it like the cry of a great eagle.

“Wa do, Oonawieh Unggi,” he thanked the old spirit of wind for saving him and his niece. He started to climb down the ladder when the after shock hit. He lost his footing and his shoulder, dislocated, finally gave up on helping him hold on. He fell to the concrete floor hard and was knocked unconscious.

***

Mark walked through a concrete jungle in the east. It was the land he knew. Civilization encroached like a plague on everything his people held dear. As he looked around, the hatred within him grew hotter.

Old withered white men and women dressed in corporate suits and house dresses made not from the natural materials the earth provided, but with synthetic man-made creations like polyester and rayon. They drove automobiles that polluted the air with their smog and the land with their oils. They dumped chemicals into the water. They put everything in artificial packages, and when they were finished with those packages they opened the earth and shoved it all inside. When that place could hold no more of their refuse, they covered it with more concrete and steel buildings and opened up a new wound in the earth to put yet more of their garbage.

They consumed and spread over the body of Mother Earth like cancer. The human beast deforested, destroyed, and degraded everything and everyone. Even themselves.

His anger spilled over inside of him and he screamed at them.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t you understand?”

“You’re killing the earth!”

“Who do you think you are?”

“Why aren't you listening to me?”

Because no one was. He was screaming and screaming and they just kept walking. They carried on about their cancerous ways, ignoring him like he was radiotherapy that was no longer working. He was nothing but a placebo.

He ran around the city desperately trying to find someone, anyone that would listen. He screamed at them. He grabbed them by the shoulders and shook them. He punched a man in the face and still, not even he would acknowledge Mark even existed. The man spun on his heels and just kept on walking but in the opposite direction.

Mark’s emotions went wild. He had come to this place filled with furious hatred. When he lashed out and got nothing from these people, he felt confused. He was born in Colorado Springs, so even though he hated them, these were his people, too. Even his sister and her family lived here. His confusion fell away to fear.

His sister.

There was an ear shattering shriek, and all other sounds were gone. In absolute silence, all the people kept pressing on about their normal day to day. Like ants. No, not like ants. Like the undead. He looked around at them all. They were all staring at him. They had no emotion on their faces, no feelings at all. They stared blankly at him, thousands of old men and women. There were no children he realized, only these husks of adult humans, if thats what they were.

A giant towering raven made of fire burst forth from the mountains and shot into the sky with a booming CAW! that shook the ground. Mark covered his ears and fell to his knees, but he was the only one. All the withered people stood there and stared, unfettered by the events unfolding around them.

A second CAW! as a second fire raven tore open the earth, then a third.

He was in the center of a triangle, the three massive ravens at the corners looking down upon him. All of the man made objects that once stood with their steel and concrete fists held defiantly to the sky were gone. The three ravens outstretched their wings and Mark could no longer see the sky. There was nothing left but the ravens and him, and the hundreds of hunched over people. They were black, and at first he thought they were burning up in the fire, but then he saw that no, they were not burnt, they were feathered.

They were not quite human, not quite crow. They had oily black feathers mostly covering their skin. Their arms were elongated and appeared like they had tried to become wings but didn’t quite make it. Their hands were like their feet, scaled claws tipped with long talons that looked like they could easily tear a man’s head off.

Mark dropped his hands down to his sides. There was a loud roar emanating from everywhere it seemed, but it was no longer too loud to bear. He tried to stand, but one of the ravens swooped toward him exhaling green smoke onto him as it flew over his head.

His lungs burned as he breathed it in, but he screamed it out, “MARY!” His eyes watered, but he blinked the tears from his eyes.

He rose again, his focus on the mountain where his sister and her family had gone that morning. Again he was struck down on his hands and knees by the second of the three ravens. It also breathed out the green smoke, but it also scratched at his skin tearing open wounds that didn't bleed, they blistered.

He screamed again, “MARY!” but the green smoke stayed in his lungs and it felt like he was breathing fire.

He could not stand again, but he reached out with his hand to the mountain. The third raven, the brightest burning of the three, did not fly over him as the other two had done. The third flew into him and then it was he who was breathing out the green smoke. Mark’s breath covered the land in poison. He doubled over in pain and fell to the ground that was littered with the crumbled wastes of what once was Colorado Springs, Colorado.

Then he saw her. His sister had come forth from Cheyenne Mountain and descended in a bubble of light. She walked through the air toward him, her bare feet never touching the ground. She floated mere feet before him and looked down upon him sadly. She was a younger Mary than the one he had left in the mountain.

It was then that the crow people rushed toward him. They sliced at his torso and back with their razor sharp talons. He was in so much pain but he refused to look away from his sister. Until one of the crow-men landed between them.

It was older than the other crow humans. The tips of its feathers were grey and its face was more withered and wrinkled than that of the others. It looked like all of its life essence had been sucked from its body. It grabbed him by the throat, lifted him up and slammed him hard to the ground.

When it lifted him the first time, Mark fought with everything he had. He kicked and yelled. He grabbed fist fulls of feathers and yanked them out. His hands pulled on the bird beasts talons and tried to break free from their grasp.

SLAM!

When it lifted him the second time, Mark found it harder to resist. His strength was fading with his confidence that he would survive.

SLAM!

When it lifted him the third time, Mark went limp.

SLAM!

The bird creature raised his claw into the air and thrust it down into Mark’s chest. It gripped his heart and squeezed.

He could no longer fight. His thoughts went from his own survival to that of his niece. His little hummingbird. His Walela.

He could feel this man dressed like a crow pull on his heart. He could feel his life being pulled with it. He looked over the shoulder of the creature and saw his sister standing there, watching. She had not moved, but tears were now coursing down her face.

“Woya,” he pleaded. “Woya, please. Help me.” He reached his hand out to her again.

She smiled and reached her hand out to him. She floated closer to him, and as she did, the crows shrieked. They shielded their eyes from the light that surrounded her, and the few that were close enough to touch the light fell to ash.

The one who had Mark pulled hard. It was determined to take what was left of Mark’s life from him. He could see his own heart out of his chest. He could no longer feel it beating. The spirit of his sister grabbed the beast’s arm in one hand and took her brother’s heart in the other. Though the world was still the red and orange of the fire ravens wings, the crow let go and flew away with an angry CAW!

Mary put Mark’s heart back into his chest and held him close. It was warm in her light and he, at that moment, wanted nothing more than to succumb to his injuries and return to the earth. Mary lifted his head away from her chest and looked at him lovingly.

Mary lifted her hand into the air and smiled.

He smiled back. Mark and his sister may not see eye to eye a lot, but he still loved her.

She smacked him hard across the face.

He hadn't been as shocked about anything that had happened as he was right then.

She opened her mouth, and though it was her lips that moved, she spoke with another’s voice. A little girl’s voice.

“Uncle Mark,” she yelled.

She raised her hand to the sky again.

“Wake up,” she yelled.

She smacked him hard across the face.

***

He opened his eyes.

He was lying on his back staring up at the bright lights of the fallout shelter. His head hurt and he was having a hard time focusing. His arm was stretched out above his head and felt like it was out of its socket. There was a painful yank and he slid an inch or two along the floor. The pain made his head spin left and then right. Little dark prickly shadows crept into his vision and all the bright ceiling lights seemed to grey out. His skin tingled as his conscious mind threatened to slip away again.

He heard the faint sound of someone crying out to him. His sister?

No. If he was back in the shelter, then wouldn’t Mary be safe, underneath two thousand feet of granite?

Curse this fogginess.

He slowly closed his eyes and began to drift.

Mark cried out in anguish as his arm was jerked again.

“Uncle Mark, please!” Linzy begged him. “Please help me!”

He opened his eyes. His head swam but he could see where she was trying to drag him. He saw her, and his heart raced. Her face was completely covered in blood, but it was tacky not wet. There was a gash just above her left temple that was more than likely the source, but it didn’t look like it was bleeding anymore.

“Linzy,” he said, his voice as groggy as his brain.

“Uncle Mark!” She let go of his arm and sat beside him on her knees.

He delicately touched the cut above her temple and she winced.

“Sorry,” he barely mustered. His skin went pins and needles again, and his vision started to fade.

Linzy slapped him again.

He snapped his eyes open and glared at her. She was sobbing, and her tears were making stripes in the blood caked onto her face.

“Uncle Mark,” she cried. “Uncle Mark, we need to shower!”

There was a red light on the wall blinking down at them from above a sign with instructions on what to do in the case of fallout exposure.

The top of the sign had three little smiling Vault Boys. The first was running into a house. It told you to “GET INSIDE!” The second Vault Boy was waving out the window. “STAY INSIDE!” it ordered. The third was a Vault Boy sitting in front of a television and a radio. The front of the TV had the off-air picture with the words “PLEASE STAND BY” written on it. Underneath, it said to “STAY TUNED!”

The sign was full of useful information like radio and television stations to “STAY TUNED!” to and telephone numbers to call for service and parts for your Vault-Tec Home Vault. Most importantly, and in fact what Linzy was trying to get her uncle’s help with, there were instructions on how to decontaminate in case of radiation exposure. The flashing red light warned that there had been, though it did not say how bad it was.

In case of radiation exposure, one was to:

1) Administer ONE pack of Emergency Radiation Dosage Medication found in your Vault-Tec approved First Aid kit. (Emergency Radiation Dosage Medication pack contains one each: high dose Rad-Away, high dose Rad-X, Stimpak, prepackaged Purified Water)

2) Strip off any articles of clothing you were wearing at the time of exposure and incinerate them in the built in Vault-Tec brand incinerator. Remember: There is no room for modesty in your Vault-Tec Home Vault!

3) Take a shower! Thoroughly wash away all potential radiation contamination with pre-approved Vault-Tec brand Vault Boy soap. (Ask your sales rep for Vault Girl soap, too!) Wash your hair vigorously with Vault-Tec shampoo only. No conditioner! Remember: Conditioner keeps your hair soft, but it also traps in particles of radiation!

4) Put on CLEAN and DRY clothes! Remember: You should have already stocked your Vault-Tec Home Vault with all essentials BEFORE nuclear radiation exposure to the outside world!

Mark had seen it before, but hadn't really paid it any mind. The sign stood in stark contrast to the sky blue wall with its bright commanding colors, and yet he had never taken the time to actually read it. Linzy either had taken the time or as intelligent as she was, saw the blinking light and went into action.

Mark rolled over onto his belly. Other than his shoulder, he did not feel injured at all except for maybe a headache that hurt like he had hit every rung of the rebar ladder on the way down. For all he knew he had. Or it was the radiation. Please don't let it be the radiation. Still, he was having trouble focusing. He was weak, too weak to stand, and here was this little girl, blood caked and all of seventy pounds dragging him around and being the responsible one.

The shower stall and toilet were located in the entry way to allow for quicker access if nuclear war were to actually happen, so it wasn’t very far that he had to crawl. Linzy would have eventually been able to drag him all the way, but if they were contaminated, it was imperative to follow those guidelines on the wall as quickly as possible.

A little jut out of wall covered in small ceramic tiles the same color as everything else that separated the shower from the rest of the bathroom enabled him to pull himself most of the way to the shower stall, though he had to expend most of what was left of his energy to do it. He was unable to stand, but he was able to roll himself onto his back and prop himself against the wall underneath the shower head. The cubicle for the shower was oversized. Big Mike was, after all, named for his size, and at almost seven feet tall and four-hundred pounds he needed a bit of room.

He glanced up and saw there was no shower curtain. Remember, he thought, there is no room for modesty in your Vault-Tec Home Vault! His friend, had built this place for him and his fiancé Dani, and they had no children, so there wasn’t really any need for privacy.

On the other side of a second half-wall was the toilet, and across from it was the sink. It was a fancier model basin with built in shave kit and polished stainless-steel mirror.

He had always teased Big Mike about building this place. He did not understand why someone would willingly trap themselves in a concrete box when they could just as easily escape to the mountains or deep into the woods. Ironic, to be saved by the very thing you condemned. He still felt trapped, but there would be time for figuring that out later. Hopefully.

“Here,” he heard Linzy say. She was obviously panicking but was, in Mark’s opinion, holding together very well all things considered.

Something hit Mark in the chest. He looked down and saw a Vault Boy smiling up at him from a sealed bag about eight inches square. The Vault Boy was winking and his thumb was sticking up. Give up your soul to save your life! it enthusiastically said to Mark.

Water started pouring onto him from the nozzle above. It was freezing and made him gasp for air.

He looked up and saw that Linzy was already scrubbing down.

He removed his own shirt and tore open the bag. Vault Boy’s head came clean off. He took some minor joy in the sight and grinned. The grin fell quickly from his face, however, as he saw the contents of the emergency radiation kit. The Rad-X pill he popped into his mouth and swallowed with a gulp of shower water. The Rad-Away… it had to be taken intravenously. That meant needles.

“Shit.” There were many words in the Cherokee language. Words ranging from the names of the Gods to the colors of the rainbow. When it came to explicitly articulating your disdain for something, nothing in any language compares to the vulgarity of the white mans’ swear words.

Linzy immediately squatted down next to him, a giant afro of shampoo suds drooping on her head. “What is it, Uncle Mark?” She gave him a once over to look for wounds, lifting his arms, turning his head. “Are you hurt?”

He held up the large needle at the end of the tube leading to the IV bag of Rad-Away. “I can’t do this, Little Bird.”

Without hesitating, Linzy took the IV needle from him and jabbed it into his arm. He screamed out in pain and blacked out.

Chapter Text

Raven slung her new backpack over her shoulders, a gift from Brothers Jacob, Christopher, Jeffrey, and Trent, and walked down the stairs, first flight, second flight, then climbed down the ladder, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine steel rungs, to the alley that ran alongside the Mothman Museum in Point Pleasant, West Virginia, for possibly the last time. She didn’t think of how many times she had climbed down and then gone back up to her little shack. She didn’t think about the fact that she would probably never see that shack ever again. She didn’t think about how the end of all things as humans knew them had come. She didn’t even consider why the fire had burned many things, killed many people, but had spared Appalachia from the initial bombardment.

All she thought about was her Lord. The Mothman, be he all wise and knowing, had chosen her for reasons she still did not understand for a mission to “Find Him.” She did not know where she needed to go to “Find” him. She didn’t know who “he” was. She did not even know if she would survive long enough to know for what grand purpose this “him” would serve the Mothman. All she knew is the Mothman, her lord and protector, the one she had prayed to every night atop that tiny little “museum,” had come to her when all else had come unraveled and told her to “Find Him” and so that is exactly what she intended to do. She would die trying to do it if she had to, for he was the only one to never abandon her. Her parents had done it. In the end, even the Welsleys had followed the woman in the white dress without a glance back in her direction.

Nice knowing you, Katrina, but the false prophet calls!

Maybe they had just assumed she had gone with them. Maybe they were so used to being able to carry on with their lives while the girl on the roof carried on with hers that they didn’t think to see if she had gone with them. Maybe they had never cared at all. Their priestess had drawn them in like gravity and they had been sucked into the black hole of the mines of Appalachia.

She thought briefly about going to check on them, but the moment the thought crossed her mind, she could feel His wrath. She had no sooner thought about going to the mine when she felt Him telling her not to go, reminding her to not disregard his warning.

Do not follow the false prophet, Raven.

The rumble was like the universe growled at her. It was in the earth and the air. It was in the trees as well, for the leaves rattled like thousands of rattle snake tails. It shook her very core and she froze in place and dropped to her knees. 

She closed her eyes and silently prayed for forgiveness.

I’m sorry. Please, forgive me. I won’t follow the false prophet, I swear. I’m sorry. Please, forgive me. I won’t follow the false prophet, I swear. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.

When the rumbling dissipated, she cautiously opened only one eye and looked around. She was a scared little girl again peeking out from under the covers to see if the monster was still there lurking in the shadows. At night, everything is a shadow monster waiting to pounce. She felt no fear of those beasts, for her lord held sway over the night and would surely keep them at bay. The only thing she really feared was upsetting the Mothman. Besides, with the street lights and the lights from the windows of houses and buildings along the way, shadow monsters quickly illuminated to show their true nature as you got closer.

Most of the townsfolk had left during the previous night to follow the priestess. Those who had stayed had either left in a panic when the explosions came, or had barred themselves inside. Still, the lights stayed on. Raven assumed people had just accidentally left them on, but with everything powered by nuclear fusion, the lights would probably stay on until the bulbs burnt out weeks or months from now. If someone was around to change the bulbs, they might stay on for centuries.

Raven stood and adjusted the straps of her backpack so they were just a bit tighter. She thought they had been snug enough, but when she went to her knees, the bag slid to one side uncomfortably. The bag wasn’t overly heavy, but it did bare some heft on her narrow shoulders.

Her “Brothers” had chosen a child’s Pioneer Scout bag for her. It was big enough to hold some supplies without being too much for her to carry. She was strong for someone barely four-feet eleven-inches. Missus Welsley used to call her their “little powerhouse” because Raven, back when she was a ten year old Katrina Winters, hauled everything she used to build her tiny house to the roof by herself. It was her small stature that kept her from wearing a sack that a larger person might wear to go hiking or camping.

Within it, the brothers had placed several stimpaks, a bottle of Rad-X and two Rad-Away. There was also two bottles of purified water that weren’t really bottles at all. They were more like cardboard cans, but everyone called them bottles for odd reasons that no one really understood. The tubes, taller than regular cans of vegetables or refried beans, were white with black letters that claimed the can of “Emergency Drinking Water” were “PROPERTY US GOV’T,” which of course was meant to instill confidence in the liquid contained within. After all, the “US GOV’T” could be trusted in all things, or so the radio would have everyone believe.

Brother Jacob had told Raven that the bag contained only basic supplies she would need to survive a day. Beyond that, there would be ample opportunities to obtain food and water. She had just met Brother Jacob less than twenty-four hours before, but she trusted him without question. Maybe it was that Brother Charles trusted him. Maybe because he too had seen the Mothman… No, he had not just seen him, he had conversed with him many times. He had known that Raven had seen him, too. He had some deeper connection with the Mothman that Raven wished she had, or at least wished she understood, so that maybe she, too, could be that much closer to her Lord.

Still, she had checked the bag before leaving, and smiled as she saw that someone had hidden a box of Fancy Lad’s Snack Cakes and a bottle of Nuka-Grape. She got misty-eyed when she saw that one of her Brothers, probably Christopher, had made sure her little Mothman statuette toy had made it into the backpack, along with a candle and her flip lighter. She wondered if Brother Jacob would have approved. With his ability to seemingly know everything, he probably foresaw it exactly as it had happened.

She smiled and shook her head. To think the contents of her bag were somehow something Brother Jacob or any of the other Brothers turmoiled over. Nothing in her Squirrel Pioneer Scout backpack was going to determine the fate of anyone but herself and only in the immediate future. Nothing inside of it anyway. She consciously felt for the twin bone-handles protruding from either side of the lower part of the spine, the actual spine, that served as both armor and embellishment between her back and the pack containing her supplies.

They were still there.

She breathed a sigh of relief. After her cleansing, Brother Jacob had made her practice removing and then sheathing the daggers over and over until she could do it without hurting herself or dropping them. After all she went through, to lose them now because she had thought she was being scolded by the Mothman… Brother Jacob would be disappointed in her.

Wouldn’t he?

He never showed any emotion at all. Raven wondered if that was a gift from the Mothman or a curse. Maybe he had just seen so much, had been through so much, emotion was hard for him to come by.

If it were possible for Brother Jacob to feel emotion, surely he would have been frustrated at her. If he were frustrated with her, he never did show it. Stoic at ten.

He deserved to be frustrated at her. She did not take well to using her daggers. Not at all.

***

“Pick them up and try again, Raven.”

Raven kicked the twin daggers across the rooftop. They made a great deal of noise as they scraped their way across the tiled roof and clanged against the brick half walls that edged the building. Raven was the only one of them to cringe at the sound. They were gifts to her and she would have felt terrible if she broke them in her fit. She did think they were beautiful though she hated the thought of holding something in her hand that had the sole purpose of killing someone.

Both blades were made of some kind of black stone, hand chiseled with intricate precision. Their handles, their “scales” as Brother Christopher called them, were fashioned from the left and right side of the same human jaw split down the middle. Raven hoped the person who lost their jaw to make these daggers was long dead prior to whoever had made them decided that they wanted to make them.

She hoped no one was murdered to fashion her a set of knives. Knives she did not want.

She glowered at Brother Jacob. The boy was blind, but his eyes fell upon her emotionless but accusatory.

For a blind boy, she thought, you sure see a lot.

Like she had spoken the words aloud, he responded by lifting one corner of his mouth into a half-grin and nodded.

Brother Christopher bent over and picked up the blades. He walked back to Raven and handed them to her.

“You do not need to respect the act to respect the tool,” he said.

She gently took the knives out of his hand and collapsed on her mattress. She covered her eyes and cried softly.

Why me? Why do I have to learn how to fight? Why do I have to even carry these things? I abhor violence. WHY? She sobbed quietly into her hands until she felt a hand on her shoulder, delicate and caring. She looked into the white eyes of Brother Jacob. Her hands fell limp into her lap.

He sat next to her and placed his hand on hers. In his odd accent that she had never before heard said, “Because they are not going to need them, Raven. You are.”

She stared at the little boy who she had instantly had so much respect for, and swallowed nervously. The weight of that statement hit her square in the chest. She felt like someone had taken both of her blades and shoved them all the way to the jawbone hilt into her heart and stomach.

She trusted the Mothman to guide her on her path that she had chosen. She trusted the little blind boy. She trusted Brother Christopher and Brother Trent and Brother Jeffrey. She trusted Brother Charles, he that was forewarned of the impending apocalypse the same as she. She trusted her decision to not follow the Priestess, the false prophet, into the Lucky Hole mine with the rest of the people who all called themselves “cultists.”

She knew and understood what the Mothman and her Brothers were asking of her, but she was so afraid.

What if she couldn’t do it?

What if when the time came, she couldn’t bring herself to kill, even to save her own life?

What if she couldn’t even find “him?”

What if…

She felt the boys hand tighten on hers.

She felt Brother Christopher’s hand on her shoulder.

She wiped the tears from her cheeks and nodded. She was ready to try again.

***

Raven pulled the daggers from their sheath at her back and stared at them in the light from the moon. She was a good hour from Point Pleasant by foot and the lights from town were barely visible on the horizon.

Odd, she thought as the moonlight delicately illuminated the blades. What she thought were two near identical blades were actually vastly different. For reasons she didn’t understand, what she had not seen in the light of day was clear in the dark of night.

Each blade was covered in runes from jawbone to tip. Letters or words in a language she did not recognize. No, wait!

She did recognize them. They were the same runes she saw on Brother Jacobs little box that he was holding at the church.

Raven thought long and hard. She had not seen Brother Jacob with the box since he left the ritual. He had been clinging so tightly to it, it must have been important.

Raven shrugged. It surely must have served its purpose then. She took one last look at the blades and then up at the moon. She closed her eyes.

She flipped the daggers in the air and caught them both by the jawbone. Then, so quickly in the darkness that if anyone were around they wouldn’t have seen it, she sheathed them at the base of her spine armor. The blades cut the air as she guided them, making a soft whistling sound.

With everything in its place, she opened her eyes and walked toward Morgantown, West Virginia.

***

“It hasn’t served it’s purpose yet, Raven. But it will soon enough.”

Brother Jacob faced the direction Raven walked. He subconsciously rubbed his fingers together. He had been carrying His box for three years. The day the Mothman bestowed it upon him, he was given three charges. The first, to follow Brother Charles and protect him until he found himself upon a newly born bird of black feathers whose faith was strong in Him. The second, should the bird choose the light, to bestow upon her all his knowledge, bless her and adorn her in the proper visage appropriate for her sacred charge, and discreetly gift her that which he was to carry for nigh three years. The third…

Well, the third was his burden to bear alone. For now he would travel with Brother Christopher until his charge was fulfilled. Then when Brother Christopher had been blessed by His divine light, Brother Jacob would travel to where his story would end, as the Mothman wills it.

“Do you think she will be okay?” Brother Christopher asked.

The boy smiled. “Brother Christopher,” he said as they started down their path. “She who was once Katrina Winters, reborn to the Mothman as Raven, will outlive us all.”

Brother Christopher walked beside Brother Jacob. He smiled as well. “Is it wrong to be glad for it and sad for it at the same time?”

Brother Jacob took Brother Christopher’s hand into his. “No, Brother. I feel the same.”

Chapter Text

Today wasn’t the best day in Madeleine Brusco’s life, but it was definitely the best day since she had agreed to marry her best friend.

“That was an interesting day wasn’t it, Teddy Bear?” she asked her husband in her thick Virginia accent as she carefully dressed him. He was always a snazzy dresser, so prim and proper in his silk suits. He wore them well, and they made him look attractive. Hell let’s be honest, he was damned sexy when he wore them. He just hated to wear them. He said suits made him uncomfortable, like he wasn’t himself when he wore them.

“It’s the end of the world, Teddy Bear. There’s no one left to judge you,” she told him as she clasped his favorite white belt around his waist. It matched the trim on his favorite dress. The pink one. No, not the light pink one. The darker one. The one where the pink was almost red.

“You are so beautiful this way,” she said with a giggle. She remembered him telling her it wasn’t pink or red, it was “candied strawberry.”

It was the first time he had modeled it for her.

Teddy was born into an uppity, hoity-toity, well to do family. His father was a shrewd businessman and proud CEO of a corporation whose sole purpose was to loan money to struggling businesses so they could try to stay in business. If they couldn’t pay back the loan, he would close the company, dismantle it and auction off the pieces to the highest bidder for a massive profit. It was like throwing water at a sinking ship in the hopes it would help it stay afloat. He didn’t want you to pay back the loan, even though some did. He wanted you to fail because that is how he made his money. He would delight in burning down your hopes and dreams that you had spent your entire life working for and sell off the ashes and cinders. He would feed you to your fill, watch you die, and then swoop in like a vulture and feed off your corpse.

Adrian Brusco was a snake in the grass, but you couldn’t tell by looking at him. He was handsome and suave. A real charmer, like his son. When you met him he seemed compassionate, like he earnestly wanted to help you. Like your best friend. Appearances were everything to him.

“In order to be successful, one must portray an image of success at all times,” he would say. He didn’t come up with the saying of course. Like the businesses he owned, he appropriated it from someone else. In this case, it was a former real estate agent turned self help guru named Buddy Kane. As such, he, his wife, and both of his children were required to dress to a certain level of professionalism to maintain that image at all times.

For Adrian and his son, that meant tailored wool suits. Most if not all men’s suits were made of wool. It didn’t matter what company they came from or who made them. A few companies had begun using synthetic materials like polyester and nylon, but Adrian would have nothing to do with them.

“Synthetic is for pretenders who can’t afford the real thing, Theodore,” Adrian explained the one time Teddy asked why they couldn’t wear something other than wool. “Remember that.”

Teddy always felt that though wool was extremely durable, it was heavy, hot, and itchy. He was forced to wear those wool suits from birth into his teens and he hated every last moment of it. He would complain to his father and his father would tell him, “Whining isn’t productive, son. If you have a problem with something, do something about it or shut up.”

His dad was as stingy with his love and praise as he was with his money, so the fact that his dad wore a Brusco suit until the day he died said a lot… wait… never mind, he was also buried in a Brusco.

“What was it he actually said, Teddy?” she asked as she began applying his makeup.

Teddy responded with a vacant stare.

She finished applying a mild eye shadow and just a delicate brushing of mascara to his deep blue eyes. They were a shade of blue unlike anything she had ever seen in a human. Deep Pacific Ocean blue like she had seen in the postcards and magazines. Sometimes she was jealous of those eyes. Hers were a plain Jane hazel. Bleh.

She had started on his rouge when she remembered.

“Ah, yes.” She lowered her voice to as sternly a man voice as she could muster. “Shit or get off the pot, son.”

She leaned back and checked the balance of rouge from one cheek to the other. It was uneven, and that just wouldn’t do. She swiped up some makeup on the brush and blended more of it onto her husband’s left cheek. She froze.

“Wait.” She thought for a moment. “Or was it, ‘Be a part of the solution not a part of the problem.”

She cackled a laugh. “Who knows, and who cares? Am I right?” Her southern east coast drawl could spit fire and honey together, but that was true of most southerners. They could talk so sweet that they could insult you worse than you have ever been insulted and you wouldn’t mind. No, ma’am, you wouldn’t mind one bit. Hell, you’d almost like it. You might even thank them.

Her husband slouched forward so fast she almost didn’t catch him before he fell to the floor.

“No, no, Teddy Bear. No escaping before I’m finished.” She pushed him against the back of their olive green sofa. She allowed herself a brief glance at it before returning her attention to Teddy’s face.

“Should have let Lenora pick the furniture, dear,” she said with a sneer. “She would have never picked baby shit green to go with the doo doo brown carpet.”

Madeleine moved the mascara brush with precision and care across his eyelashes. Those eyelashes that always made women jealous. Teddy’s head rolled to his right. “Now, now, I know what you’re thinking.” She grabbed his chin and, just a little frustrated that he kept moving, forced his head straight again. Yesterday she would have apologized, but today… today none of that mattered. Besides, he didn't really seem to mind.

“You’re thinking, Maddie, if you would have picked the decor, we would live in black leather, chains, and spikes for the rest of our days.” She laughed, being careful not to mess up his cheeks that were now as close to perfect as they were going to get.

She raised her chin just a bit more so she was staring straight down the bridge of her nose. It made it so she could better see his face and check to make sure everything was even and well balanced. She woke up this morning, like most mornings lately, with a terrible pain in her neck that made it hard to move without straining.

So, Teddy had whined about his suits, and his father had told him to do something about it and do something he had. He sat down and designed a suit. He drew out the suit on a piece of paper and on the back he wrote out how much more comfortable his suit would be because it was made of silk. When he took the design to his father, his father crumbled the paper, and as he threw it in the fire said, “What the hell am I supposed to do with this? I can’t wear a piece of paper, son.” He was thirteen. He was also just beginning to question his gender. Internally he wondered why he liked girl things like clothes and dolls, not sports and getting into scraps like boys do.

When his father dismissed Teddy’s idea without so much as a glance, it devastated him. He didn’t cry, though. His father had always instilled in him to never give up, especially if someone said you were incapable. So, as he watched his design go up in flames, his mind churned with ideas. He held a yard sale the very next weekend. His father agreed to let him have it at the end of their driveway as long as he paid him ten percent of everything he made. Young Theodore told him five percent was what he would pay. They negotiated a flat rate of seven percent of sales and shook on it like men.

Teddy sold off most of everything he owned that day. All but his three favorite toys. All but one of his books. All but two pairs of his shoes, one for dress, one for play. Other than those things, nothing was sacred.

A young girl dressed in blue jeans and a  light green Vim Cola shirt begged her mom for enough money to buy a pair of Teddy’s hiking boots, a book about motorcycles, and all of his toy cars.

“Why are you selling all this cool stuff?” she had asked him with earnest concern.

“I need the money.” He looked down at everything he hadn’t sold yet and smiled. “Besides, I’m not really interested in all this boy stuff.” He swallowed and looked around him nervously. He didn't know what it was about her that made him blurt out what he said, but he said it. It was out there now. His face was red. Not true red, more like candied strawberry.

“I’m Maddie,” she said.

“I’m Teddy,” he said.

“Well if you ever want to play, I’m at the park, like all the time.” With those words, Maddie set herself on a course that would define the rest of her life.

Teddy had told her his toys didn’t matter to him and she believed it. Nothing mattered to him more than what he was doing. Maddie couldn’t tell you if the suit was more important to him or his father’s praise. She would discover a few years after the day they met just how important his father’s approval meant to him. Whatever it was, Teddy had sold everything to buy a sewing machine, thread, needles… everything he would need to fashion his father a suit. Because that would be what it would take. He knew he couldn’t just make himself a new suit, he had to also make one for his father. He had to prove to HIM that it was better. Only then would he acknowledge his son’s idea was a good one.

Young Teddy, however, soon discovered there was a disappointing lack of silk available to him. No men’s clothes were being made from silk. No fabric stores carried silk because of how hard it was to import. He had just about given up hope when Maddie came to his rescue for the second time in his life.

“I’ll make you a deal, Teddy,” she said. “We both have something the other wants.”

Teddy wiped the tears from his eyes. Maddie was the only one he ever cried around. Ever.

She sat down in front of him and he looked her in the eyes.

She smiled and told him, “You need silk. I have silk.”

He looked confused so she explained, “All of my dresses are silk. And I mean all of them,” she rolled her plain Jane hazel eyes.

“You’re going to give me all your clothes?”

“No,” she interrupted immediately. “You are going to buy all my clothes.”

Teddy looked at her for a brief moment. He might have been sizing her up. Deciding if she was joshing him or was for real. “Okay.”

She lowered her eyes to her fidgeting hands. “With boy clothes.”

He laughed. He had only ever seen her in dresses so she thought that he thought it was silly.

“It’s not that at all, Maddie. I’m sorry for laughing.” He got serious. His smile gone from his face, she saw the shrewd businessman she would later marry for the first time. He stuck his hand out to her.

She took his hand into hers.

“You have a deal.” He shook her hand once then led her out of the house. They rode their bikes to a second hand store two miles away. He acquired thousands of dollars of silk dresses that he could take apart, dye, and repurpose for his needs. Maddie got a couple hundred bucks worth of pre-owned boys clothes and a black leather coat like in the book she had bought from Teddy about motorcycles.

“That’s way too big for you, ya know,” he had teased.

“It will fit me one day,” she had replied, grinning from ear to ear as she modeled the oversized coat in the mirror.

His father would have been proud. He had successfully negotiated a trade deal in which both parties were happy. He had even profited from it.

It would be a few years yet before she had walked into his room that she discovered that like her, he hated gender specific clothing. Only it went further than just dress up for him. For young Theodore Brusco felt like a girl more than a boy.

He was attracted to boys.

Then how did he end up married to Maddie you might ask?

By nineteen, Teddy had a store at the Whitesprings Resort. His silk suits were selling so well, his supplier was starting to run into shortages. Since Teddy never really liked how traditional silk was made anyway, he had already been doing research into spider silk.

It was sustainable. Cheaper. The material was both tougher and stronger at the same time. Best of all, the spiders didn’t have to be killed to harvest. Only problem was as always, the upfront cost. They were going to be astronomical.

It wasn’t like he could go to his local spider silk provider and buy what they had. Literally no one was doing it. No, if he was going to do this, he was going to have to start the company himself. Cut out the middle man.

He would need to talk to his father.

He did his due diligence like his father would have wanted. Calculated the numbers. He wrote a proposal that showed that not only could he pay off the loan extremely quickly, but he would be profitable by year five.

Teddy’s father was sitting by the fire when he approached him, paperwork in hand.

His father didn’t even look at him when he asked about Maddie.

“How’s Maddie?” His father asked.

Confused and a little irritated, Teddy answered him with a curt, “She’s good. Why?”

“When do you think you will be proposing?”

Teddy and Maddie had never dated. They had never even pretended to date. Never told anyone they were dating. Apparently because she was there all the time and they were always together, his father had just assumed.

Teddy hadn’t said a word.

From behind his paper he told his son, who wanted nothing to do with girls, “Seal that deal son. Then I will consider yours.”

Maddie loved Rob. Even his name sounded like the purr of an engine, and just the sound of his voice made her feel like that engine was between her legs. He was muscular. Manly. His hair was as greased as his motorcycle chain. And he was the greatest, nicest man next to Teddy she had ever known. Rob liked Teddy, and Teddy liked him.

Maddie wanted to spent the rest of her days with that man, if he would ever ask.

Unfortunately, Teddy asked first. He explained what was going on, and then asked her if he could ask her to marry him.

She could tell it upset Rob something fierce.

She tried to talk to him about it.

He told her that when she hadn’t immediately refused, he knew she was going to tell Teddy yes. And that was okay.

“I’m off to Cali, baby,” he had said. “I’ll be waiting for you when you are ready.”

And with that, Teddy had sealed the deal. His father had gone into business with him, and he had made his millions.

When he dressed as a man, his high cheek bones and narrow chin made him look razor sharp and if he narrowed those deep Pacific blue eyes just right, it made him look like a predator. In the business world, it made other men fear and admire him equally. He would slick back his jet black hair, not one single strand out of place.

He was Theodore Brusco, a shark of a businessman who was well respected among his peers. He would do anything to uphold the image other men had of him. Even if that meant talking down to his wife. Theodore Brusco had even gone so far as to hit her. Once.

It was early on in their marriage.They had hired a catering company to serve up filet mignon, because let’s face it, Maddie was no house wife and any steak she had ever attempted to cook came out either mooing or charred. There was no in-between, just various stages of raw or burnt.

She had kept her mouth shut until they were alone. She understood what it was, and so she kept up appearances and let it go. It had been a dinner party they had hosted for his board of directors. She had interjected her opinion in a man’s world and it had upset all the suits at the dinner table so he had put the back of his hand to her mouth.

She had pretended to be put in her place and helped him save face. After everyone left, he had broken down into tears and apologized profusely before she had even had a chance to say anything. He swore he would never do anything like that again, and even agreed with what she had said.

The next day, he went to work and implemented her idea. He claimed the idea as his own, and since Maddie was a woman, no one had paid attention to what she was saying at the dinner table in the first place.

When he dressed like himself, that is to say when he dressed like a woman, those same high cheek bones and narrow chin made him look like a super model, and when he smiled, his eyes would light up just right, and he looked absolutely beautiful. He would cover his crow black hair with a custom blonde wig made of actual human hair and style it for over an hour. Again, not one single strand would be out of place.

That wig had cost him almost one-hundred thousand dollars. Pretty steep when you consider it was one-tenth the ticket price of their house, but he was a billionaire before he was born. Besides, it made him happy and Maddie never cared about money. It was nice having it, sure, but she could have lived the rest of her life without it. She almost did.

When he was a man, he was Theodore Brusco

When he was a woman, she was Lenora Brusco, a delicate but intelligent housewife that had afternoon tea and crumpets with her close circle of friends. To the outside world she was Teddy’s sister. The two of them had come over from London to enjoy America and live the posh life apart from the monarchy. She would do anything for the few people she cared about. Anything that is except reveal that she and Teddy were one in the same.

Maddie loved Lenora. She was her best friend. Maddie loved Teddy, too, in a way. She loved the private him. The Teddy he was when behind closed doors. She loved him when he was the devoted husband he pretended to be. She would never love him like a wife should love a husband, but Teddy was Lenora, and Lenora was Teddy. If not for that love, she never would have agreed to marry him.

He started to slide sideways again.

No matter. The transformation was complete. Teddy was gone, and Lenora remained.

Maddie did such a great job, you couldn’t even tell she had found Teddy dead that morning. Could have been his heart. Could have been the pills.

Who knows.

Who cares.

The apocalypse had finally made it so she could be with the love of her life.

Virginia to California. The ultimate road trip. With a bike powered by fusion core energy, she wouldn’t even have to stop for fuel.

She kissed Lenora goodbye and walked out the door.

Her machine was cherry red. Metal flakes in the paint made it glitter like rubies in the sunlight. Leather seat without so much as a crack. On the back, twin hard-case touring packs. The control panel that sat where the fuel tank would normally be was emblazoned in silver letters on either side with the words “Lone Wanderer.”

She slapped her helmet onto her head and fastened the straps below her chin. She straddled her bike and revved her engines, feeling the rumble from head to toe. She tuned the radio to her favorite station and smiled as “Speed Crazy Baby” by Rusti Steel and the Star Tones blared out at her.

She shouted to the sky, “I’m damn well good and ready, Rob. I’m coming for you, baby.”

Speed Crazy Baby echoed through the streets of Morgantown, West Virginia, as Maddie rode off into the sunset. Destination: Cali, baby.

Chapter Text

Mark walked through the woods toward the east. It was the land he knew but it was different somehow. Younger or maybe vastly older. Civilization as the white man knew it was absent or maybe long gone.

He saw the world as he had never seen it before. Though he tried his best to stay true to mother earth and father sky, the colors and hues he was witnessing had not been seen in many years. Perhaps many hundreds of years. He could tell he was in Colorado, heading east where Colorado Springs should be, but there were no roads, no buildings, no pollution, and most significantly, no humans that he could see. He was the only one, and it made him feel at peace.

He walked in what should have been the bustling streets of Manitou Springs just a few miles outside of Colorado Springs. He realized for possibly the first time in his life that there were a lot of Springs in Colorado and laughed.

He relished in the feeling of the earth and grass squishing between his toes as he walked. Tears of happiness fell from his eyes as he understood he must have been granted some kind of vision. That if this were real, he would never be able to walk here without something to protect his feet. It this were real there would be glass and nails and bits of human waste as far as the eye could see threatening the sole.

He did not yet know why he was here, but a vision was something to be treasured and he would allow himself to be taken in by it for as long as he needed to be here.

He squeezed his toes again through the soft muck of the forest floor. He looked down to see that he was wearing nothing but his own skin. He was curious but it was his belief that no one should ever feel ashamed of their body, no matter what they looked like. Not that he had any reason to have cause to be ashamed.

He stood and raised his chin to the sky. He lifted his arms to his side and stood like a tree, his feet were his roots, his body, the trunk. His reddish brown skin smoothly covered his athletically muscular form. His long black hair fluttered in the breeze like leaves.

He closed his eyes. The sounds of the fresh or reborn world penetrated him like he was a part of them rather than just a man listening to them. The wind, the leaves, the birds… He could hear the very life of the earth thrum in tune with his own blood as it coursed through his veins.

He heard… a flute. The flute sang like the voices of the wind through reeds and it brought to him more peace than he had ever felt in his years on earth. He kept his eyes closed and allowed its sound, echoing through the forest, to guide him. As he got closer, he found himself humming the tune. It filled his spirit with calm and happiness.

He came through the canopy to a clearing and opened his eyes. In the center of the clearing was a young woman. She appeared to be no older than twenty, but the lines at her eyes showed a hard life. Still, she smiled as he approached.

It was the same woman as his previous vision with the raven mockers, but he could see now that it was not Mary. No, of course not. Even if his sister could communicate in such ways with him, and he had never known her to be able to, she was trapped deep within the mountains. She was probably safe there, but all that concrete and steel would keep her spirit from soaring to him.

This young woman seemed so familiar to him. Her long black hair. Her emerald eyes. Perhaps someone he had met at a powwow? Why would someone he only met once go out of her way to save him? And if she was merely a spirit, why take the form of someone he did not know?

Unless…

Unless it was someone he had not met yet?

Maybe, but there was something about her face that he knew.

The woman stopped playing and placed the end of the flute on the grass. It immediately took root and blossomed into a sapling tree.

She sat upon the ground, smiling up at him.

“Where am I?” he asked her.

“You are here, and yet you are not,” she answered back. Her voice was soothing but strong. 

“My name is Mark.” His name felt wrong here, and saying it felt like sickness dripping from his tongue.

She smiled and stared at him for several minutes. Finally, she stood and held out her hand. “Come.”

He took her hand into his and followed as she led him down the mountain to a river. She hummed the tune she had been playing on the flute as they descended into the valley. He felt no shame for his nudity, nor did she seem to mind. There is no room for modesty in your Vault-Tec Home Vault…

The beauty of the valley far outshined anything he had ever seen. The moss and grass, a deep emerald green, covered the forest floor like a blanket and cushioned his steps like one. The trees stretched to the heavens, their leaves almost completely obscuring the sky but for tiny little shards of sapphire and gold peaking through to give them light to see except for at the river where cascades of sunlight fell upon them and warmed them delicately.

The river itself flowed like liquid diamonds. It sparkled with such radiance in the golden sun that it blinded him at first glance. As he approached, the roar of its waters, the life blood of the Earth flowing through its riverbed veins, became almost deafening.

She led him to the bank and into the river. They waded into the water until it came to his chest. It felt like ice on his skin, and he gasped and shuddered. The young woman, still humming her song, pulled down on his shoulder. He squeezed his eyes tight and took a quick breath, allowing her to submerge him in the river’s freezing grasp. When he surfaced, the warmth of the sun combined with the chill of the water and made him feel exhilarated.

Twice more he went into the frigid depths, each time feeling more and more healthy and energetic. On that third plunge he opened his eyes to see a fish staring back at him. It startled him some, and he laughed out his breath of air in quick snorts of bubbles.

He was coaxed gently back to the surface and saw that the water around him was glowing green in an oddly beautiful yet deeply disturbing way. The woman led him out of the river to the mossy grass carpet of the forest.

“Who are you now?” she stood before him, gazing upon him with her green eyes.

He looked around at the valley for a moment, taking it all into his spirit. He looked down into her eyes and said, “I am Waya Adohii. I am the wolf in the woods.”

She smiled. Her eyes glimmered in the sunlight. She nodded her approval.

She turned him around so he faced the water.

“Remember,” she told him, “the water is no longer safe unless it is cleaned.”

“I understand,” he replied.

The wind rustled the trees as it danced through them. It made a sizzling sound like fresh meat on a fire, and he salivated at the thought. The smell of something cooking was all around him. He could smell corn and beef.

“I will see you when I see you, Waya Adohii,’ she said. Her voice was growing faint.

The light in the forest was fading and darkness was enveloping him. It was night wherever his body was, and his spirit was rejoining it.

***

Mark woke in the Fallout Shelter on one of the foldout beds and stared up at the sky-blue ceiling that curved around him like a tube. There was a sad lack of anything natural about that sky blue ceiling.

No trees.

No clouds.

No life.

And here we are trapped, he thought. For now.

In the meantime, his hunger was growing unbearable. He had no idea how long he had been out and he hadn't even eaten yet when he went to pick up Linzy from Cheyenne Mountain.

He sighed as he realized that might have been the last time he ever saw his sister. Then he sighed as he realized it might have been the last time Linzy would ever see her mother, father, or brother. He wasn’t the only one suffering from loss and to think so was selfish. Unless what happened in Colorado was a freak accident, and he doubted that it was, everyone in the world was either dead or had lost someone somewhere.

“Goodbye, blue sky,” he told the cold concrete tube. “I hope we meet again.”

He spun around and sat up on the edge of the bed. If the upper bunk had been down, he wouldn’t have been able to see the faux sky. He also would have probably knocked himself silly when he sat up.

He was struggling to find the motivation to stand when he heard several clanks and bangs from another concrete tube. Mark cringed almost instinctually.

“Fudge!” Linzy cried out in frustration as only a ten year old can.

Mark smiled and stood. His legs responded quickly and with normal strength, so he couldn’t have been out for very long. Maybe a few hours at most. His stomach protested loudly in a grumble that sounded equal parts gas bubbles growling through clogged pipes and overstretched rubber.

The Vault-Tec Home Vault consisted of three tubes that housed everything you would need to survive the apocalypse. When you came down the ladder into the vault and turned around, straight ahead would be the bedroom and storage tube. The bedroom had four foldout bunk beds, two on the left and two on the right, one above the other. When the beds were folded up, you could pull up the metal plate floor to reveal a fold away picnic style table and benches. Storage, where there were shelves and crates enough to hold enough sundries for two to survive comfortably while waiting for radiation to clear was probably the biggest room in the shelter next to the utility room.

The utility tube, the door to the right when standing in the entrance, was where all the gadgets and gizmos required for survival were bolted down. Mark had no idea just what was in there, but he had a vague recollection of Big Mike telling him there was a water purifier, heater, air services, and various other contraptions Mark thought he would never have to use. There was also a fusion generator. He had questioned the need for so much power, but Mike had explained it was better than storing fuel and exposure to the outside for ventilation of the exhaust.

The third tube had three sections with a doorway to each and doors leading between them. The first entry was to the left when you first came into the shelter. That was where the decontamination shower and the toilet were located. The second door was in the bedroom and led to the kitchen. The laundry room was in the third section and was located between the kitchen and the water closet. The third door was at the end of the kitchen section. Mark had no idea where it went. He had yet to ever go in there.

The kitchen was where Linzy Tapia had uttered the first curse word she had ever used. It would undoubtedly not be the last.

Mark got to the kitchen door just in time to see Linzy whiz by toward the bathroom. She was holding her finger tightly. Mark looked to the right and saw what had caused the banging. Silverware was strewn about the floor, the tray the random assortment of forks and spoons had been contained in lay sideways a few feet away.

On the counter sat two plates. On them were flat brown lumps of something covered in some kind of congealed brown liquid. Next to the plates were a pair of red and brown boxes, the brown being the exact same unnatural brown color of the whatever meat. The box said that “Saddle Up! Salisbury Steak” was made with reel beef. A blue star in the corner of the box with “A+” in the center, surely meant to convey confidence in the product, did little to prove that “reel beef” had anything to do with actual beef.

Under the “A+” star was the declaration that “Saddle Up! Salisbury Steak” was “Now with Gravy!” He assumed “gravy” was what the brown gel that was jiggling on top of the “reel beef” was. The fine print on the side of the box explained that the gravy was “authentic beef flavored sauce.”

He was contemplating how it was possible to both gag and crave something at the same time when he saw what Linzy had cut her finger on. Near the edge of the counter was a small can of peas. Next to it, a small rectangular metal object with blood on it. Linzy had, probably for the first time ever, attempted to use a military can opener, which to someone who had never seen one before would look nothing like a can opener.

The device was made of durable steel an inch and a half in length and a tiny little half inch blade that folded out. She had to have seen one before to know what it was, but for her it was was probably difficult to use.

He followed Linzy to the bathing room. She was standing at the sink, washing a small cut on her finger. She had her long black hair pulled back out of her face. There was a bandage near her left temple that had a spot of dried blood showing through it.

Mark stepped over to the first-aid box built into the wall. It popped open with a thunk when he released the clasp holding it closed. There were two blank spaces where their emergency decontamination packs had been. He pulled out a white, sealed paper pouch with COTTON BALLS stenciled onto it in black letters and a glass bottle that was the same color brown as the “reel beef” awaiting them in the kitchen. It was shiny like the “authentic beef flavored sauce.”

He involuntarily swallowed.

He started to close the first-aid box, but on second thought reached back into the box and grabbed a small bandage for Linzy’s finger and a larger one for her head. The door latch made the same metallic pop as when it opened.

Mark stood behind his Little Bird for a moment. She hadn’t heard him or seen him yet, she just stood there, staring at herself in the mirror in a sort of daze as cool water ran over her finger. It took her maybe ten seconds for her to realize he was standing there and look up at him with her hazel green eyes. It took about five seconds for tears to well up in those eyes. It felt like she didn’t quite believe that he was real.

He scooped her up in his arms and she wrapped her arms around his neck. He turned off the water with his free hand and walked back toward the bunks. She just buried her face in his shoulder and cried and cried. Probably for the first time since everything went sideways.

It wasn’t until then that he really looked around. This poor child. His niece. She had lost her mother and father. She had lost her brother. Everything she knew and loved had burned up when the bombs dropped, and still she carried on. While he was asleep, having his visions, she had taken care of him. She had cleaned up everything. This ten year old little girl had ensured the survival of not only herself, but a full grown man as well. The way things looked in the shelter, the world could be carrying on a normal day above.

He sat her down on the bunk that he had been laying on. It was the same bunk that just that morning had been covered in little white cotton candy bite wrappers. Where she had braided her hair and questioned his taste in music. His vision clouded and he blinked hard. A solitary tear rolled down his right cheek.

That’s all you’re getting. You have to stay strong for her. She was strong for you. You owe her the same.

He unlatched the bunk on the opposite wall so he could sit in front of her. He tore open the pouch of cotton balls and twisted the white metal cap off the “reel beef” brown glass bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

She never flinched as he cleaned her wounds. Not once. She sat across from him and silently sobbed. Mark would not have been able to tell she was crying at all if not for the river of tears on her face and the jerking motion her shoulders made.

By the gods her spirit is strong.

He put clean bandages on her wounds, one small cut on her finger from a can of peas, one cut on her temple sustained during the bombing, and one scraped elbow.

She got lucky. We both did.

He recapped the bottle and set it on the floor beside him.

“Walela.” He said her name softly.

When Linzy was a baby, she would hum all the time. All. The. Time. She would hum when she was happy or crying. She would hum when she was eating, which would always make for a wonderful mess. She would even hum in her sleep. Mark would tell everyone she was singing, she just didn’t know the words yet. And because Mary had been given the name of Woya, or Dove, it wasn’t long before she had adopted the name Hummingbird, or Walela in his native tongue. He only called her Little Bird because she liked it, and because it pissed off her mother.

“Walela,” he said again.

She didn’t look at him. Maybe she felt shame for breaking down like she did. She never told him, and he never asked. “Yes, Waya?”

He had called her by her Cherokee name, so she had answered him in his. He smiled.

“I am proud of you, Walela.” He smoothed out a wrinkle in the tape holding the bandage to her temple.

She stopped crying, or at least her shoulders stopped heaving, and she looked up at him. Several stray strands of her pitch black hair had come loose from her braid and were dangling precariously close to her eyes. A couple had even gotten stuck in the tears on her cheek.

Mark swept them back behind her ear. “You saved us,” he began but interrupted himself. “You saved me.”

She straightened her posture and blinked a last tear from her eye. Her posture, like her mood, went from sad and dejected to pride and strength.

He did his best to refrain from smiling, instead straightening his back like she did. He placed his hands on her shoulders. “We will live to fight another day because of your quick thinking, because of your quick actions.”

Mark could see a smirk form at the corner of her mouth.

He patted her left arm. “Come,” he said. “I will show you how to use a P-38 while we feast on ‘reel beef.’”

His Little Bird looked confused. “P-38?”

He smiled and leaned in close. “The little can opener.”

They got off the bunks and headed toward the kitchen.

“Tomorrow,” said the Wolf in the Woods, “I will show you how to use a knife to do it.”

It was time to teach her the old ways. Her mother would not approve, but that no longer mattered. What mattered now was survival.

“Awesome!” replied Little bird.

Maybe it was their hunger.

Maybe it was because they survived the day.

Maybe it was finally having a moment to relax and enjoy each other’s company.

Maybe it was the chemically enhanced artificially flavored authentic beef flavored gravy.

Whatever the reason, reel beef, whatever it was, sure was tasty.

Chapter Text

Stephen stood over the empty boxes of doughnuts staring down into them. He wondered where they had come from. He didn’t remember having doughnuts the morning of what happened, and since he couldn’t remember anything after the bombs dropped, he wasn’t sure if he had eaten them or if the empty boxes had just blown in like trash. His momma would always buy one pink box and one yellow box though.

He looked around. There was hardly anything left of the house he and his mother had lived in for the past ten years. Half-walls and rubble were all that was left of his life pre-bombs.

Before whatever Goddamn country dropped the Goddamn bombs on the “You Ess of Ay,” Stephen had started to lose his mind. He had been losing his memory so bad and so fast he had begun forgetting his loved ones. The sadness and pain of it had driven him to try to kill himself but he had failed.

Then came the day of the bombs. He had stood there with his momma and welcomed the sweet embrace of death that came rocketing towards them on wings of atomic radiation. Only instead of dying, he had been changed in ways unimaginable.

There were physical changes. His skin was marred, pocked and seared like cooked meat, but he seemed to have been given the gift of inhuman strength. It wasn’t limitless; he could not, for instance, lift a bus, but he had figured out one morning that he could take hold of the bumper of a car and lift that end of the car a few inches off the ground. Then he had tried it again. And again. He didn’t know how many times he tried.

Nor did he remember doing it at all.

Therein lied the dilemma, the draw back as it were to all of the benefits of surviving a thermonuclear detonation. Before the bombs dropped he was losing his memory. After the bombs dropped, his memory was sharper than ever. He remembered everything from before the bombs dropped. He remembered things that he had forgotten before he was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis.

He remembered being potty trained. His momma would put Sugar Bombs in the toilet and tell him they were alien spacecraft. She would tell him that his penis was a laser gun and he needed to shoot down all of the alien ships before they invaded Earth. He had forgotten about that until whatever mutation had restored his memory, but sometimes, if there was a sheet of toilet paper in the bowl, he would aim for it and make pew pew pew noises without realizing why.

He remembered his first word. His parents had tried to get him to say momma. They had tried for months to get him to say anything at all. When he was two, they had even taken him to the doctor to see if something was wrong with him. Their family doctor was an old man who really should have retired at some point last century. He looked like a man who had died some years prior and his brain had forgotten to tell his body to stop functioning. The walking skeleton, Doctor Wall, had reassured them that there was nothing wrong with him and he would speak when he was Goddamn good and ready. It was right then that Stephen had decided he was in fact Goddamn good and ready and said, “Goddamn,” for the first time in a long life of Goddamns. Doctor Wall had laughed and two year old Stephen had joined him. Stephen’s poppa had been furious, his momma had secretly thought the whole situation was humorous as well, though she did not admit it until after his poppa had passed.

He remembered suckling on his momma’s teats when he was just a baby, and for added traumatic effect, he even remembered being born. He remembered everything, even things that a human should not remember. The bombs had restored all of his memories.

Unfortunately, the bombs had also removed his ability to make new ones. At all. From the moment he woke there was nothing but a blank sheet of paper, and the only pen he had wrote in invisible ink.

He was feeling a mix of emotions that made his brain hurt. He had woken in a field in the middle of nowhere. He had panicked because he was alone and had no idea where he was, so he had gone back home. He knew his momma would be worried if he was gone too long, only his momma wasn’t there.

He remembered the mushroom clouds. He remembered the heat.  He remembered the buildings of Sebastian, Florida being ripped down by the shockwave, so he was not surprised to return to nothing but a wasteland.

However, there were corpses everywhere. Dead things that resembled people, but were burnt husks of their former selves.

It wasn't the blast that had killed them either. They were no longer human. They had elongated features and melted skin, but it was obvious that they had been killed when their skulls had been crushed by something large and heavy. Someone or something had murdered these people with what looked like a sledgehammer.

Stephen wasn’t carrying a sledgehammer so he knew it couldn’t have been him, right? He was carrying his father’s revolver. He remembered trying to kill himself with that revolver before and failing. He remembered putting the revolver on the counter before tea. He remembered it not being there the next morning. He figured his momma had probably found it and put it back in the safe, but he did not remember getting it back out. He must have, obviously, but he did not remember it. He felt around his neck and there it was: his momma’s crucifix key.

Back at his house he had been scared at first when he couldn't find his momma, but then he had found her grave. He must have buried her after the explosions. He didn’t remember doing it, but it must have been him because he had made a head marker for her.

Here Lies Birgitta Newsom

October 2000 - October 2077

I love you, Momma

She must have died when the bombs fell. He remembered holding her as the world burned. He remembered telling her he loved her. That would have to be enough for him. He hoped she hadn’t suffered.

He didn’t remember burying her. He didn’t remember leaving home. He didn’t remember going to get his pip-boy from the club house in the back room of Hubris Comics where he and his hacker buddies would meet and talk about all the government agencies they were going to go after and then play video games all night. But he had done all of those things. He didn’t remember eating all these doughnuts, but he must have done that, too.

He was scared at all the things he did not remember doing. He was sad about his momma being dead. He was nervous about having to go it alone. He was happy to have all his memories back from before but angry to have lost everything from after.

He wondered how many times he had stood right where he was and wondered what to do. He had no idea how much time had passed since Sebastian, Florida had been blown from the globe. Hell, he had no idea how much of the globe was left.

He rapped on his skull with his knuckles. “Goddamn broken brain.” His brain had been fixed and then broken again in new ways and it frustrated him.

“I don’t know what to do, momma,” Stephen spoke to her spirit.

The sun crested over the walls of the garage, which had been largely undamaged in the destruction. He knew his dad had fortified the garage walls when Stephen was just a boy. He had intended to build a fallout shelter under the house and put the entrance in the garage. He would tell anyone that would listen that the world was “going straight to hell.” Those that cared about him would nod and say they agreed but everyone, including Stephen, thought he was more than a little paranoid and would dismiss him out of hand. Stephen’s dad had apparently done a fine job, because the house was almost completely leveled, but the garage stood strong like nothing had happened.

The sun coming up over the garage meant it was between ten and eleven in the morning. The light slowly reared its ugly head into Stephen’s eyes and he squinted. That was another new “post-war Stephen” trait, great vision at night, over sensitivity to the light. The brilliant yellow light that reflected the sun and focused into his eyes like a laser did not help matters any.

“GODDAMN IT!” Stephen exclaimed. When he didn’t know what or who to goddamn, he always goddamned an it. It was all encompassing and was usable for many different emotions.

If you were surprised: “Goddamn it.”

If you were scared: “Goddamn it.”

If you were angry or sad, but didn’t quite know who to blame: “Goddamn it.”

He stepped to his right so the beam was not directly in his eyes and followed it to it’s source. Whatever it was the sun was reflecting off, it was inside the yellow Slocum’s Joe box laying near the headstone he had made his momma at some point. He shielded his eyes as he walked several gentle paces to his momma’s grave. The light coming from the box was near too bright for him to see, so he blindly rummaged through the crumbs and sprinkles until he felt something warm and round.

He gripped it in his fingers tightly, blocking the sunlight it seemed to be itself emitting, and pulled it from the box. He squinted his eyes just as tightly as he could but still be able to see. He held his hand close to his face and cautiously opened his fingers. He half expected whatever it was to blind him again, but all the light had gone from the small golden object. He recognized it immediately. He kneeled before her grave and cried.

His momma’s ring was still warm with radiation it had absorbed when the goddamn world had gone to shit. He turned it over and read the inscription on the underside. George Loves Birgitta.

Stephen smiled. His father was no poet, that’s for sure. He unclasped the chain from around his neck and placed the ring on it with the crucifix key. He placed the necklace back around his neck and closed his eyes. The warmth next to his heart comforted him. He wondered how long gold stayed radioactive.

Radioactive…

He opened his eyes and looked around. “Why am I not dead, momma?” When everything else had succumbed to the radiation, he had not only survived, he felt better than he had felt in years. Decades even. Except for the memory issues, he was the picture of health. He looked down at the cooked leather of his hands. With all the radiation he had to have taken in, he was not surprised at his own condition.

“Goddamn, why am I not dead?” he asked God or whoever might be listening.

He looked down and saw the yellow Slocum’s Joe doughnut box. He smiled briefly before realizing the box was empty.

“Goddamn it.” He picked up the box and looked underneath it.

Nothing.

He glanced around him.

Nothing.

It was then that he saw the grave marker.

Here Lies Birgitta Newsom

October 2000 - October 2077

I love you, Momma

He didn’t remember doing it, but he must have buried his momma after the bombs. He felt himself start to cry. His lower lip quivered and he closed his eyes tightly. Then he opened them again and swallowed back the tears.

How many times have I been here, he wondered. Goddamn it, how many times have I discovered that momma is dead?

He felt a pang of dread in his chest. Am I doomed to repeat this for the rest of my life?

He knocked on the side of his head with his knuckles just hard enough to be painful.

“Goddamn MS,” he said aloud. Only it wasn’t the multiple sclerosis anymore. Or was it? He didn’t know. “Oh, momma, I don’t know what to do.”

He heard Anthony’s voice. “I need you to do something for me, Stephen.”

He stood up too quickly and his head swam. Pins and needles in his brain threatened unconsciousness. He shook it off and looked around. “Tony?”

Nothing. Of course Anthony wasn’t there. The last time they were together Stephen had forgotten who Anthony was, and his best friend had left in tears. It was all in his head.

“GODDAMN IT!” Stephen screamed as loud and as hard as he could.

“Stephen, are you paying attention to me?” his friend asked.

Stephen closed his eyes and saw his friend’s face. He imagined he was here, talking to him like he always had before Stephen’s MS pushed Anthony away. “Yes, Tony.”

“I need you to start writing things down,” Anthony said. In Stephen’s vision, he had handed him a little notebook and a pen. It had been Stephen’s favorite brand even. A Zebra. Point five millimeter.

He felt Anthony put his hand on his shoulder. “Focus, Stephen, this is important.” 

“Sorry,” Stephen said and looked him in the eyes.

“You are starting to forget things,” Anthony began. “No, no, don’t feel bad. It’s not your fault man, it’s the MS.”

He had felt bad. He had felt guilty, goddamn it.

“So I need you to start writing things down.” Anthony had handed him the notebook and pen. “Especially if you think it’s important.”

Stephen remembered this conversation well. He had forgotten his computer terminal password for the hundredth time. Normally Anthony remembered those kinds of things for him, but Stephen had changed it and not told Anthony what he had changed it to so he had had to come over to unlock it for him.

Stephen had smiled the smile he always had when he was about to say something he thought was witty. “I’ll have to remember to do that.”

They had laughed and gone out to eat together at Anthony’s favorite restaurant. That was over ten years ago before Anthony had joined the Renaissance Festival troupe. But of course he had NOT remembered to do that. Something would happen, like a much needed password change, and he would remember what Anthony said, but he would tell himself he had to remember to write it down. Later. But he wouldn’t.

He had used the notebook for some other purpose. Video game cheat codes. He had lost the pen. I didn’t lose it, it fell behind my desk. I only THOUGHT I had lost it. He would have to remember to get a notebook later…

He looked at his wrist and the portable computing system attached to it. “I’ll do it this time, Anthony,” he said, navigating to a word processor he had installed on it on a whim one day. He opened a blank page and flipped open the mini keyboard he had attached under the screen. What if the terminal you were trying to hack had a broken keyboard? He typed just as fast as he could with only one hand.

Stephen, your momma is dead.

Check your necklace for proof.

DO NOT GO HOME! There is nothing left for you there.

FIND ANTHONY!

KEEP GOOD NOTES!

He nodded, satisfied, as he saved the file as “IMPORTANT! READ ME NOW!” Then he smacked himself in the forehead. What if I forget to read it?

He smiled. He knew just what to do. He clicked over to the menu he needed.

Add Alarm:

0600 AM

Repeat: Every Day

Label: READ “IMPORTANT! READ ME NOW!” FILE!!!

Save Alarm? Y/N

His finger hovered over the enter key. He caught something skittering across the ground out of the corner of his eye. He looked up and saw a giant roach the size of his leg. The roach stopped and lifted its head toward Stephen. The thing actually appeared to be looking back at him.

“Goddamn!” he said admiring how huge roaches were now.

The roaches antennae flicked about for a moment, then it made a motion that looked like it was giving Stephen the finger before grabbing the pink Slocum’s Joe box and scurrying under a rather large section of the street. A road sign stuck out of it like a spear. Here lies Carnival Terrace and Periwinkle Lane. Rest In Peace.

“Hey! Those are my goddamn doughnuts!” he yelled and dove after the roach.

Chapter Text

Stephen Newsom

The Christmas Special

Cape Fear

The Ruins of Wilmington, NC

Stephen Newsom woke to the steady and almost rhythmic din of a pulsing buzzer. He recognized the sound as his Pip-Boy alarm from when he installed it.

His arms and neck were sore. Come to think of it, so were his knees and back… oh and lets add a headache to boot.

He slowly peeled open his eyes. The green light from his Pip-Boy flashed, lighting up the darkness that surrounded him. Whenever he had to force his eyes open like this, it usually meant the night before was a rough one.

His eyes came into focus and he saw bars.

“Goddamn it.” Did he drink too much last night and get wicked up? End up in jail?

Not that he would remember.

That’s the thing about his condition. He could remember absolutely everything, even things he had forgotten, right up until the moment the bombs dropped practically outside his bedroom window. No… more than that.

He could remember the world shaking. He could remember the blinding light that filled his vision. He could remember how his skin burned with the fire that rained down on him from above. On him and his momma.

“Momma?”

No response but the continuous buzz buzz buzz from the device on his left wrist.

“Momma!” He screamed into the darkness.

He knew there was something he was supposed to remember about his momma. He knew there was…

“Your momma’s dead, son,” came the voice of a man he couldn’t see. It was loud and echoed all around him. “Now why don’t ya just shut that thing off so we can talk.”

Stephen Newsom went to do just that, only he couldn’t move his arms. He looked first to his left then to his right. He was strung up in chains like a human letter Y. 

He looked down and saw he was on his knees. No wonder he was sore.

“I said, shut that fuckin’ alarm off,” came the voice again. The man didn’t sound aggressive in anyway, just loud and assertive? And raspy, like the man had spent his entire childhood figuring out just how much sand he could swallow and not die.

A lot apparently.

It reminded him of his father’s voice. He sounded like that right before the black lung and emphysema took him. Goddamn cigarettes.

“Can’t,” Stephen replied. His mouth was dry like the Sahara. Not that he had ever been to the Sahara to determine just how dry it was. It was just something people said. Did they still?

“What d’ya mean ya cayn’t?” Not “can’t.” Cayn’t.

“The goddamn thing isn’t exactly voice activated, ya nimrod.” Stephen had no clue who this guy was, but he was beginning to get on his goddamn nerves.

Stephen’s mind immediately dreamed up a brilliant idea on how to make his Pip-Boy exactly that. Voice control would be so awesome and so easy to pull off, but then just as fast it was gone. He would have been upset about it if he would have remembered even having the thought.

A man walked out of the darkness and stepped up to the cage. There was something wrong with his face. Like it was made of wax and had begun to melt. He had no nose, but where it was supposed to be were two moist holes bored directly into his face that moved as he breathed.

The man didn’t look like a cop. He certainly wasn’t dressed like a cop. Were there even still cops in the wasteland? He was dressed more like a cowboy. The only thing he was missing were spurs on his shit kicker boots.

“Huh,” he rasped. “That’s the exact same thing you said yesterday.”

“I don’t remember.” Stephen looked away. “Can’t remember.”

“You also said that.”

Stephen glared at the man. “Well fuck me running I’m a goddamn record on repeat.”

The man stifled a laugh. He covered his mouth, literally wiped the smile off his face.

“Sorry.”

Stephen rolled his eyes. “Lemme guess…”

“Said that, too, yep.” The man opened the cage door with a key he had hanging around his throat.

“Goddamn memory loss.”

The man pushed a button on Stephen’s Pip-Boy. An eerie silence replaced the terrible noise of his alarm.

The man squatted before him. “Look, I promise I’ll tell ya evy’thin, but I need ya tuh promise to behave.”

“What do you mean behave?”

Chains.

A cage.

Did he hurt someone?

Goddamn it.

“I mean, you’re a big guy. I don’t want you hurting me or anyone else for that matter. We have our reasons for keepin’ ya locked in here and I ontuh chance to tell you why, ya dig?”

The man twirled the key in his fingers like a carrot. Here’s your prize, you just have to be a good boy.

“Well, I’m ain’t gonna kill anyone if that’s what you mean.”

Stephen looked away. “If I haven’t already.”

The man stood and with a clink and a clank, Stephen’s wrists were at last free from the chains that had held him captive for God only knows.

“You haven’t kilt anyone. At least not as far as I know,” he said. Only it came out as more of a mash up of words that sounded like, “Tleast notsa far syno.”

“You’ve laid a couple of my best and finest for their effort, but they’re still alive and kickin’.”

 Stephen stood, his knees argued with him at every move. His captor was right, he was a big guy apparently. He towered over the man at least a foot. Either this stranger was very very short, or a side effect of his glowing up was a substantial increase in size. Stephen was only five nine on a good day and brand new shoes before the bombs. That would have made this man a goddamn midget.

“Name’s Clyde. Clyde Harris.”

Clyde extended his hand gentleman like to Stephen, and he took it.

“Not that the Harris really means much anymore.”

Clyde laughed a hissing wheezy laugh that again sounded like he had swallowed sand too many times in his lifetime.

Stephen supposed once was really too many times to swallow sand, but to each their own.

“Stephen, since the Newsom don’t really mean much anymore.”

“Ayup,” Clyde said with a wink.

“I thought I was in prison,” Stephen said, rubbing the marks the shackles had made on his wrists. He almost had to will the blood back into his fingertips.

“Oh you are,” Clyde laughed or hissed or wheezed.

 Stephen lifted his brow.

 “C’mon. I’ll show ya.” Clyde waved Stephen over.

 The way this man said come on irritated Stephen. It wasn’t come on. It wasn’t even C’mon with a soft “o.” No it was C’mon with a hard capital “O.” Like the man was trying to say he was injured. Kim Ow! N.

For a moment Clyde disappeared into the darkness. His Pip-Boy had gone into stand-by so there was no light beyond the single bulb that dangled above the cage he had been shackled in.

Maybe because it was old. Maybe because it was caked in… What was that? Mud? Blood? Whatever it was, that one solitary bulb emitted a dim yellow aura that couldn’t even fully illuminate the ten by ten cage he was in.

“Well, C’mon,” Clyde said from the shadows.

Stephen cringed. Kim Ow! N.

“I can’t exactly see you, ya know.”

Goddamn darkness.

“Step out da cage.”

Stephen did. Stepping into the complete blackness hurt his eyes like he walked out a dark room into the sunlight. Then within a second his eyes adjusted and he could see perfectly.

Clyde wheezed a laugh. “One of the perks uh bein’ who we are I guess.”

Stephen took in his surroundings. He was in some sort of warehouse. There were cardboard boxes stacked together from wall to wall and floor to ceiling and he could see it all though there were no lights to light his way.

Clyde was right, being able to see just as well in the dark as in the light, maybe even a little better, was definitely a perk. Not that he would remember any of this in a few minutes.

He walked over to where Clyde was leaning against a wall. There was a set of double doors to Clyde’s right. Above it, a sign that read:

CELL BLOCK A - MINSEC

“Minsec?” Stephen asked.

“Minimum Security. Means bunks swell as bigger rooms with sanks and twi-lits, tootie paper, that kinda thang. Amenities that we took fer granted before, but,” Clyde pushed the bar on the door and swung it open.

“Maybe here we can hang ontuh juss a lil bit longer.”

Stephen thought back on every spaghetti western he had ever watched with his momma—he could remember them all now. You know, the kind that even the black men were white men painted black. Watching those films made Stephen realize that “ontuh” was a multi-faceted word with many uses.

It could mean “onto” as Clyde had used it.

You could use it when you wanted to ask someone if they were interested in doing something. You ontuh go fishin’ with me tuhmarrah?

Or wanted one of something. You ontuh apple or an arnge?

The possibilities seemed endless.

Stephen stepped through into a miniature town of hundreds of people, scarred and hideous, just like him. Men. Women. Children. It was sad to see that even little ones could be turned into monsters like him. It was also heartening to know that they had survived, even if they would never win any beauty pageants.

Like Clyde had said, they were in a prison. Stephen could see two floors of cells. All the doors were open, and people were coming and going freely. Some carried baskets overstuffed with laundry. Others carried metal tool boxes to destinations unknown.

Still others were gathered in a huge open central area. There were various stalls and kiosks made from scrap wood and pallets. A few tin sheds outside had been stripped down and brought in to reinforce a few of the fancier stalls.

People were bartering and bargaining. No one was paying cash that Stephen could see. They were trading. Goods and services for goods and services. Even trades. 

A young boy at one of the stalls was selling Nuka-Colas out of a rusted out radio flyer wagon. He would give one full bottle in exchange for an empty and its cap. The empties he would put into small milk crates behind him.

A man walked up to the boy and completed an exchange. The man had a rifle slung over his shoulder.

When the man had his Nuke, he walked over to a set of stairs and climbed them. 

He set his rifle down and sat at a small fold out table across from a man who looked like Santa Clause with the same melted candle skin as the rest of them. Santa has his arms crossed across his chest and a sly smirk on his face.

A few towers had been erected out of sturdy wood and corrugated steel. Men and women with guns sat with other men and women and played cards and other games. The towers faced doorways. They were keeping things out, not keeping these people in.

Santa and the Nuka guard were on one of those towers staring at a chess board, and Santa had just put the guard in check.

The guard looked exasperated and pushed over his king.

Santa gloated and they both laughed.

The whole sight made Stephen feel comforted. He felt relaxed and at ease here.

“Are ya gonna buy a Nuke, mister?” The boy asked him. A street peddler at heart. “They’re only a bottle and a cap so as I can refill ’em.”

“I’m sorry I don’t have an empty, though I do love me some Nuka-Cola.” Stephen smiled as he remembered the overflowing trash can he had back at his house in the garage. With all the caps in there he could buy a thousand bottles.

“Well mister if you don’t have any empties, I could part with one for five caps.”

The man standing next to him gave a cough.

The boy rolled his eyes. “Like I said, I could part with one for three caps.”

Stephen felt a little dejected. “I don’t have…”

“Check your pockets, mister. I bet you gotta have something’ you can trade.”

Stephen reached into his right front overall pocket and pulled forth more pocket lint than a man should have in one pocket, a paperclip twisted into a shape what looked like a key, and one, two, three bottle caps.

“Score!”

He quickly handed them over before he forgot what they were for. He popped open the top and chugged it down.

“Jeez, mister. Did you even taste it?”

Stephen smiled and handed him back the bottle and cap.

The boy took the bottle and cap, grinned, and handed him another. 

A little blonde girl of maybe twelve ran up to Stephen. She had a smile on her face and a steaming bowl in her hands. The smell of stew meat, potatoes, and carrots, wafted up to where his nose once was, now nothing more than two narrow slits in a skull-like indentation on his face.

The girl held the bowl out and up to him, carefully so she wouldn’t spill its contents.

A long strand of his own drool fell into the bowl. He wiped at his mouth. He was embarrassed, but he was also starving. He couldn’t remember when he last ate.

He couldn’t remember anything post war, to be fair. Obviously he was stopping to eat every so often at least, or he would be dead by now.

Wouldn’t he?

He had no idea to what extent his super powers went. He was larger and stronger, and he was pretty goddamn sure he was immune to the radiological effects of nuclear fallout. Was he also immortal?

Did he have other powers?

Trying not to be obvious about it, he pushed with his toes in an attempt to push off the ground. Nothing happened. Goddamnit.

The girl giggled. “You are so weird.” She pushed the bowl into Stephen’s hand and ran off.

Stephen marveled at how the bowl seemed so big in her hands. She had to use both to lift it to him. She was so tiny and innocent and…

“Mommy, I think Uncle Stephen is trying to fly again!”

Now hold up a goddamn minute.

Stephen asked out loud, “How does she know my name?”

“Because you’ve met before,” came a man’s deep southern voice from beside him.

Stephen jumped in surprise.

“Goddamnit, you ought not to sneak up on a man like that.”

The man put his hands up in the air to show he meant no harm. “My name’s Clyde,” he said and held one of his hands out to Stephen.

Stephen didn’t take it.

“Okay she’s met me before.” Stephen looked at the girl and her mother. “Doesn’t explain why she called me ‘Uncle.’”

The man who called himself Clyde whistled and shook his head. “Well, that’d be because you’ve been here two months, partner.”

“The shit you say! There’s no way I have been here for months. I would have…”

“What? Remembered it?” The man named Clyde said with a voice that sounded like he had swallowed sand.

Stephen, confused, sincerely asked, “Remembered what?”

The man standing before him nodded his head and put his arm around him. “Exactly.”

The man led him to a place he could sit, and he did. He had a bowl of food in his hands and an ice cold Nuka-Cola. He had no idea where he got them, but he had them and there he was sitting down to enjoy them.

He looked around as he ate. He felt at peace here. Like it was home. Was it home? He had no idea how long he had been here, or how long he planned to stay.

He wished Anthony was here.

He must have looked sad because the man sitting next to him asked, “Thinking about yer friend again? What’s his name?”

Stephen nodded. “Anthony.”

He looked around. As happy as he seemed to be here—as welcome as he was—he needed to find his friend.

“You know he’s probably dead, don’tche?”

“Don’t say that,” Stephen said angrily. “He’s not dead.” His voice resonated throughout the prison. Everyone inside that had been going about their business like the bombs had never dropped at all looked his way. He shied away from them.

The man raised his arms in surrender. “Okay, okay. He’s not dead.”

“I’m sorry,” he shouted to everyone.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly to the man in front of him, and went back to eating his meal like nothing happened.

In his mind, nothing had.

“Stephen,” said the man who sat with him like they were friends. Maybe they were.

Stephen looked up from his empty bowl. “Hmm?”

“Gonna tell ya some things. I know ye won’t remember them. Hell I think I tell you more so I feel better about mahself than anythin’ else.”

Stephen fiddled with his Pip-Boy, a custom job he had worked up himself before the multiple sclerosis rotted his brain. He pushed some buttons. He twisted a knob. There was a clack and a whirl from inside the device.

“You see,” the man whose name he could not remember began. “Everything here is not as it seems.”

The man talked for a while, and Stephen did his best to retain it all, but the man was right. He forgot sentences he spoke the moment he went on to the next.

“Hey, Stephen.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Because we’re friends of course.”

“Oh, okay.” Stephen stared long and hard. “What was your name again? I’m sorry, but I have this condition.”

“Yep, don’t remember shit since the bombs.”

The man reached out his hand to him, and he took it in his.

“Name’s Clyde Harris. Not that the Harris matters much anymore.”

“Just call me Stephen. Since the Newsom don’t much matter anymore.”

They shook hands like they had just met.

“Hey, Stephen.”

“Yes, Clyde?” Stephen said and took the last swig of his Nuka-Cola.

“Your lady friend is here to see you.”

Stephen spewed the last swig of his Nuka-Cola all over the man’s face. “My lady what?”

The man wiped the Cola from his melted wax face. “You would think after three months I would be more prepared for that.”

“You must be mistaken,” Stephen said to the man he had already forgotten the name of. “I don’t remember shit after the goddamn bombs fell, but I remember everything from before, and there was one truth about my life that I hate. I never had a girlfriend, or lady friend, or anything of the like.”

Stephen laughed a hearty laugh that echoed throughout the prison.

“I don’t imagine much has changed in that regard since.”

The man in the cowboy hat and shit kicker boots leaned in close. “Well now, I cayn’t speak for what happened before the war, but apparently you have become one helluva catch in the here after.”

The man stood, so Stephen did too.

“Let me re-introduce you to your wife.”

“Stephen, this is Malinda Rae. Malinda Rae, of course you remember Stephen.”

Stephen swallowed hard. “Goddamn.”

Her skin was just like everyone else’s, but to Stephen, she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Or at least on Cell Block A Minsec.

“Hello…” he looked to the man for help.

The woman stepped forward and took Stephen by the arm. As she led him away, she said, “Malinda Rae, but you can call me Molly.”

“Molly. I will try to remember that.”

Molly smiled.

“You won’t, but it’s okay. I forgive you.”

“Have fun you two,” the man dressed like a sheriff said as they walked away.

And fun they had. They walked the market place in the center of the prison town together. He held her hand, and she held his.

He would forget where he was. She would remind him.

He would forget her name. She would remind him.

He would that they were together, husband and wife, but he would look down at their interlocked hands and remember at least they he loved her.

When night hit, there was a party and for the first time that he remembered, he danced with a woman that wasn’t his momma.

And before the party was over, she took him to her cell, and then she took him into her bed. She removed her clothes.

“Goddamn,” he whispered to her. “You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said with a smile.

She removed his clothes.

“GODDAMN!” He exclaimed. He hadn’t just grown taller when the radiation poisoned his blood. He had grown… longer.

She giggled. A few other girls from the party giggled as well, and he was immediately embarrassed.

She took his manhood into her hands. As she slid him into her, she whispered into his ear, “Every time with you is like my very first time.”

Excitedly he blurted out, “Mine too.”

There were more giggles, but he no longer cared. He was making love to his wife.

However long it took, which to him seemed like a good long time, he was clear headed. He was absolutely in the moment, coherent, lucid. He didn’t forget what he was doing midway through and panic. It was like nothing at all was wrong with him.

When they were finished, as he was holding her and the thoughts started to fade, he told her, “I won’t remember you.”

She sighed and nestled into him. “I know.”

“I don’t want to wake up in your bed and panic. I worry I might hurt you.”

She lifted her head from his chest and looked him in the eyes. “I know. That’s why we’ve been keeping you locked in your own cell in the storage room.”

Stephen rubbed his hand across her bald head. The feel of her skin, though it was marred and disfigured by radiation, felt wonderful against his.

“Take me there.”

She rubbed her hand against his chest. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

When they had dressed, she took him to his cell. He didn’t remember it, but it was the same one he had woken up in that morning.

Stephen got on his knees and raised his hands in a Y above his head.

The woman with him locked the chains around his wrists and kissed him.

Goddamn. That’s weird, he thought. Never had a girl kiss me before. Other than my momma.

She disappeared into the darkness.

Within seconds he was fast asleep.

***

“Momma?” He screamed into the darkness.

His Pip-Boy alarm blared.

“Your momma’s dead, son,” came the voice of a man he couldn’t see. It was loud and echoed all around him. “Now why don’t ya just shut that thing off so we can talk.”

“Can’t.”

“Whaddya mean ya cayn’t?”

“The goddamn thing isn’t exactly voice activated, ya nimrod.” Stephen had no clue who this guy was, but he was beginning to get on his goddamn nerves.

“Huh,” said the man as he stepped out of the shadow into the dim light of the cage.

“What?” Stephen asked.

“Just wondering how many days will go by with you saying the same exact mutha fuckin’ thing.

Stephen glared at the man. “Well fuck me running I’m a goddamn record on repeat.”

The man shook his head.

“Look I promise to tell you everything, even though I know you won’t remember any of it tomorrow. Deal?”

Stephen wondered just how many times this day had repeated itself. “Deal.”

The man, dressed like a sheriff from one of those old spaghetti westerns his momma loved so much, pulled a tiny key from the breast pocket of his vest where a watch would normally go.

He used the key to unlock Stephen’s shackles.

The man pocketed the key then extended his hand. “Name’s Clyde.”

“Stephen,” he said as he took Clyde’s hand.

Clyde helped him up. “C’mon.”

The man’s accent made it sound like Kim Ow! with an N at the end, and for some reason it just absolutely dug at Stephen’s nerves.

Stephen allowed Clyde to lead him into the darkness. He marveled at how well he could see in the dark and wondered what other superpowers he might possess. He stood on his tip-toes and tried to push away from the earth.

“Momma,” yelled a little boy. “I think Uncle Stephen is trying to fly again.”

“Wait how the hell does he know my name?”

“Well, Stephen,” said a man from behind him.

Stephen about jumped out his boots as his momma would say.

“Goddamn! You can’t just sneak up on a man like that,” Stephen told the man.

The man raised his hands as if he was surrendering to him.

“I’m sorry. Truly.”

The boy handed Stephen a large bowl of some form of gruel. He didn’t remember the last time he had eaten but his stomach growled for sustenance.

The boy looked up at Stephen and said, “Uncle Stephen, you are so weird,” before he ran off into the crowd.

“How long have I been here?”

“Oh, I would say going on about six months now,” the man replied like it was nothing. Common goddamn knowledge that six months of his life had gone by in this… this… this what? Prison turned community?

Six months had gone by when he was supposed to be searching for…

“You’re thinking about him again aren’t you?” Asked a woman. She was pocked and melted like they all were, but she was so beautiful in her own way.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Anthony was my best friend. I was supposed to be looking for him.”

“You do know he’s probably dead, don’tcha?” The man asked.

“He’s not!” Stephen yelled. The entire Cell Block quieted and stared at them.

The pretty woman with skin like melted candles placed her delicate hand on his shoulder. She had to reach to do it. The feeling of it comforted him. Like he knew her somehow but couldn’t force the memory to the surface of his irradiated brain.

“Do I know you?” He asked her. “You see I have this condition.”

“I know, Stephen. I know,” she said in her soft voice.

The man who stood with them said, “Let me reintroduce you to your wife. Stephen, this is Magnolia.”

“Please just call me Maggie,” said the woman.

“My wife?”

The woman took him by his hand and nodded. She had a smile on her face that reminded him of lovers in those sappy movies he and his momma would watch like “Love Sets Sail!” Another Vera Keyes flic. Now there was a real looker.

Stephen whistled a cat call as he remembered ole Vera.

The woman before him smiled and shied away from his gaze.

She was no Vera Keyes, but she was pretty in her own way. Besides, he doubted very much Miss Keyes looked half as good now that the bombs had fallen.

“Welp, I will leave you two to get reacquainted like,” said the man, and he walked away.

Stephen and his wife had probably the best day he had ever had that he could remember, though he did have to constantly be reminded of who she was.

He hoped she didn’t hold it against him. Probably not if they were married.

After the festivities, when she had taken him to her cell, she pulled down his pants to pleasure him and…

“GODDAMN!”

Laughter and giggles came from the other cells, but Stephen didn’t have time to be embarrassed. His wife was naked on the bed waiting for him.

He discovered that night that he could fly after all, if only in his mind.

When they were finished, Stephen begged her to lock him in his cage. She did as he asked and chained him inside.

She stood there a moment and looked him in the eyes.

“Goodbye, Stephen.”

He looked up at the woman in his cage. He tried his best to fake recognition.

“Goodbye,” he said with a smile.

Goddamn she is pretty.

He fell asleep to pleasant thoughts of “Love Sets Sail!”. Instead of Mike Berlyn, it was he, Stephen goddamn Newsom, on a cruise with Miss Vera Keyes. They never showed the love making scenes in the movies, but in his version, it was outright pornographic.

***

“Momma!” He screamed into his cell.

“Your momma’s dead. Promise to behave and I’ll take those chains off. I’ll tell ya everythin’ over some nice hot chow and a cold Nuka-Cola.”

“I sure do love me some Nuka-Cola.”

“You’ve been here eight months, Stephen.”

“Your wife Emily will tell you all about it.”

***

“Momma!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake your momma is dead, Stephen. Surely you remember that?”

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry, I have this condition…”

“Condition. Yes, we all know.”

“Name’s Clyde. Kim Ow!N. I’ll tell you about your life over the past nine months.”

“Okay.”

“And I’ll reintroduce you to your wife Charlotte.”

***

“Shut that fuckin’ alarm OFF,” the voice yelled at him.

His alarm was buzz buzz buzzing like it was supposed to, but what had woken him up was the angry sound of this man’s voice.

“Can’t”

A man dressed like a cowboy leapt out of the shadows into his cage.

He grabbed Stephen’s shirt and glared at him. His gaze bore into him like a drill.

“Cayn’t?”

The cowboy straight out of a spaghetti western balled up his fists and shouted, “Cayn’t?”

The man shoved Stephen with all his might, but with how big Stephen was compared to this man, he didn’t succeed in doing much beyond rocking Stephen back on his knees.”

“I mean turn it off permanently, you ijit.”

The man pushed a button on Stephen’s Pip-Boy and the alarm clicked off.

“The only reason we lock you up at night is so when you wake up in the morning you dont read your stupid little notes about your momma and your stupid fuckin’ friend.”

“Anthony.”

“Yeah, Anthony.”

Stephen looked at his Pip-Boy confused.

“Your Pip-Boy is set to remind you to listen to a holotype and read some notes you have so you don’t forget. Well guess what you dumbshit, you’re going to forget anyway, and your friend is probably dead.”

“No! He’s not dead!”

“The world got nuked you ijit. Ninety percent of the world died. Anyone not dead looks like us, and most anyone who looks like us turns feral.”

The man sat in the corner of Stephen’s cage and removed his hat. He had sparse patches of hair that poked out of his skull like an Abraxo scouring pad.

“That’s why we’re here, ya know.”

Stephen was the most confused he had ever been. Even when he had lost his memory because of the goddamn MS, he had never felt this confused. What did he mean, that’s why we’re here? “I…”

“This is a real prison,” the man said, twirling his hat on his hand. He looked sad.

“I mean of course it’s a prison, but I mean we just didn’t move in here, ya know. We were put here by those fucks in Wilmington.”

He smiled. “Ghouls they called us. Said we were a danger to society, and so they sent us here.”

The cowboy man laughed. “What fuckin’ society? Society is gown.”

Stephen looked at the chains that held him. Is that why he was here?

“We were sent here to rot and die or worse, lose our fuckin’ minds and kill each other off.”

The man set his hat on the floor and counted out their woes upon his fingers.

“First comes the bombs, vaporizing everyone we knew. All our loved ones. Our friends.”

He lingered on that thought for a moment.

“A lot of us were safe in shelters below ground, but no, then came the reactor melt down. Saturated the earth like water to a sponge. Turned those of us that survived into this. This fucked up freak show.”

Stephen looked at the man. Sure he looked like partially cooked steak, but at least he survived.

“The upper class, just as fuckin’ ghoul as the rest of us, decided that some of us were quote unquote too far gone, and for safety reasons we were rounded up and sent here. To this fuckin’ place.”

He looked around.

Stephen looked around too, but he couldn’t see anything past the confines of the cage and the tiny little scum caked bulb dangling above their heads.

“The radiation made us sterile. Hell most men… it just fell right the fuck off.”

He got quiet almost long enough for Stephen to forget what they were talking about.

“Then you came along.”

Another pause.

“Stephen Goddamn Newsom.”

“I don’t understand,” Stephen admitted.

“Well, son, you are the most well endowed ghoul that any of these girls had ever seen. Hell probably better endowed than any human. Knowing you wouldn’t remember it, the girls started having their fun with you, and then you know what happened?”

Stephen swallowed. He was all of a sudden nervous about what was going on. What even started this conversation.

And why was he chained?

Stephen shook his head. Of course he didn’t know what happened next.

“Mary, my own fuckin’ wife, got pregnant.”

“Congratulations,” Stephen said happily.

The man pulled a pistol out of the holster at his hip and shoved it under Stephen’s throat. “Tweren’t me that impregnated her you sum bitch.”

His voice shaky, Stephen asked. “Whose kid is it.”

The man sat back and stared at Stephen like a parent who can’t believe their child just asked such a stupid question.

“Yours goddamnit!.”

Stephen, as confused as ever why this man was yelling at him and what exactly was his that had made him so angry, said, “I’m sorry I don’t remember. You see I have this condition…”

The man holstered his gun.

Stephen was a little disappointed he didn’t do it all fancy like in the movies. With flair.

The man stooped to pick up his hat and popped it onto his head with a hollow pock.

He stood before Stephen for a moment. Just long enough for him to forget everything.

The cowboy, dressed like in those fun spaghetti westerns he and his momma used to watch, took three deep breaths. A smile stretched across his lips. It was sincere and welcoming.

“Good morning, Stephen!”

“Good morning. Why am I in chains?”

The cowboy pulled a tiny key from his breast pocket where a watch should have gone.

“Well that’s a story to be sure, and I will gladly tell it to ya true, if you promise to behave.”

“I promise.”

The man’s smile grew. “Good.”

When the chains were unlocked, he rubbed his wrists. If not for the condition his skin was already in, he would have marks from wearing those chains every night for almost a year.

“C’mon.”

The way the man said c’mon with a long O grated on Stephen’s nerves.

“We’ll grab some grub and a Nuka Cola.”

Stephen forgot his annoyance at the man’s accent and grinned. “I sure do love me some Nuka-Cola.”

“Well the little girl who sells them is a hustler. You have some caps in your pocket, don’t let her bargain you out of more than three.”

“I’ll try to remember.” Stephen marveled at how well he could see in the dark and wondered what other superpowers he might have.

“You won’t but I’ll be right here to help ya.”

“Thanks.”

The cowboy man clapped him on the shoulder. “And afterwords, I’ll reintroduce you to your wife.”

Stephen stopped in his tracks. “My what?”

“Well, son, you’ve been here almost a year. What did you expect?”

“A year?”

“C’mon. Food first. Explanation later.”

***

Stephen watched as his wife, Georgia, did as he had asked and locked his wrists into the chains in his cell.

“I don’t like deceiving him like this, Clyde.”

A voice came from the pitch black beyond his cage.

“I don’t really give two fucks what you like or don’t Maggie. We need him.”

“He called me Molly tonight.”

“So?”

A man dressed like a cowboy, presumably the owner of the voice, stepped out of the shadows. The brim of his hat cast a shadow over his face that made him look menacing.

A tense anxiety passed over him like an ocean wave.

“What we’re doing is wrong,” said the woman.

Stephen felt like he should recognize her, but of course he didn’t.

Goddamn memory loss.

“It’s the only way we grow as a society, Georgia. The only way that one day we can take back what’s ours.”

“With an army of feral children?” The woman snapped at the man.

“Don’t speak to me that way, woman.”

“Or what? You going to send me to Cell Block B like the others? Tomorrow I’m telling everyone your experiment is failing.”

“It’s not failing.”

“All the children are going feral. Not just feral. They’re… they’re something else entirely.”

Stephen didn’t know what they were talking about. This woman who seemed so kind looked at him, so he looked at her.

“You’re not going to tell anyone anything.”

The woman turned to face the cowboy.

“Oh yes I am. I’m going to tell every…”

There was a flash of light. Stephen was temporarily blinded.

He could hear a dragging sound that frightened him. It reminded him of something that he couldn’t quite place. A time from long ago. It reminded him of…

“Momma!” He screamed into the darkness.

“Your momma is dead, son.”

***

He woke to the buzz buzz buzz of his alarm.

He was on his knees, and his arms were strung up like a Y, chained to the ceiling.

A light caked in mud, or blood, or some other scum lit his surroundings enough for him to see that he was in a cage.

He was alone and scared. There was only ever one person who knew what to do whenever he felt that way.

“Anthony!” He screamed into the darkness.

“Stephen?”

The voice was faint. At first he wasn’t even sure he heard it.

“Anthony!” He cried out again.

“Stephen!” The voice called back. It was closer this time. “Call out again buddy!”

He took in a deep breath and screamed louder than he remembered ever screaming.

“Anthony!”

A set of double doors burst open and light flooded in. The sound of gunshots could be heard from the room beyond.

A figure ran toward the cage. He couldn’t quite make out who it was because they were shrouded in shadow from the bright lights from the doorway.

The figure appeared in the cage like a huge reveal in a movie that the hero we thought was dead was alive all along.

“Anthony!”

His friend being there brought him to tears.

“Goddamn I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you to, buddy. Let’s get you out of these chains.”

Another figure, someone Stephen did not recognize, appeared in the cell. He was armed with what looked like an AK-47 with a shovel handle for a shoulder butt.

Then another figure appeared. She had a ten mil pistol in each hand. They were shiny and engraved with dragons. Expensive custom job.

More figures remained in the shadows beyond.

“We have to hurry, Anthony. We won’t be able to hold them off much longer.”

“I know, I know.”

“I don’t know where the key is, Anthony.”

Anthony smiled. “Don’t worry, bud. I have a universal key.”

Anthony reached behind him and lifted a pair of bolt cutters from his back like a knight drawing his greatsword. The bolt cutters had jaws that looked like they could cut an actor from a ship, and handles that were easily three feet long if they were an inch.

They massive cutters sliced through Stephen’s chains like butter.

Once free, Anthony handed him a rifle.

“Hey, Stephen.”

“Yeah, Anthony?”

“Merry Christmas, dude.”

They smiled at each other like best friends about to raise hell, and raise hell they did.

Chapter Text

Professor Armin Scholtz cowered behind a tree in hopes that the bastards calling out to him would not find him. He had easily avoided them for almost two weeks, but he had messed up. He knew he shouldn’t have gone out scavenging in the daylight but he had run out of Rad-X during the last storm, and the queasiness had begun to set in. If he didn’t get a dose soon, the chances of his survival went down by the day.

He knew how to make the shit, he had been a chemistry professor at Vault-Tec University for God’s sake. He just needed to find the herbs he needed.

He should have waited until it was dark.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The darkness carried its own dangers with it, but his former students raided during the daytime and kept to the streets at night or were tucked away in the apartments they had ransacked and taken over. However, It was much harder to see at night, and most of the plants near town were already picked clean or destroyed. These selfish bastards had not carefully removed the pieces of the plant they needed. They ripped the entire plant up, ruining any chance at long term cultivation. Just another thing they hadn’t paid attention to in class. He was also certain that they were using the herbs were being used to make chems to get high rather than healthy.

Lack of supply and the need to stay hidden meant he needed to venture further and further into the forest that surrounded Morgantown, West Virginia, to obtain plants he could use. His students had an illogical fear of the cryptids West Virginia was famous for even before the war, so it was rare to see anyone else in the deep woods.

Before the war…

If you could call it a war.

He had no idea what had actually happened that morning. He knew bombs had dropped, probably by the Chinese since that’s who the United States was at war with. A stupid war over things no one needed. Why fight over coal and crude oil when we had so many other power sources at our fingertips? He would never understand why humans continued to rely on fossil fuels when nuclear power was so readily available. There were fusion batteries so small you could put them in your pocket! There was also solar and geothermal energy. Instead of fighting over what has been running out for a century, why not corner the market on something that is limitless?

Then again, nuclear energy is what had caused all this devastation, and it continued to severely affect the world around them. The bombs, though none had directly hit anywhere near them, had sent dangerous levels of fallout and radiation into the world.

Every few days, like clockwork, storms of radiation would come. The sky, normally a light powder blue, turned a sickly but beautiful green. The air felt dry and staticky. Billowing cotton ball clouds would roll in. Electricity filled the air and bolts of green lightning would arc incessantly. Just being outside would irradiate you. You could survive with a single dose of Rad-X, a pill that would block radiation, but only IF you were inside. If you were unfortunate enough to be caught outside, in addition to your Rad-X dose, you would eventually need an IV of RadAway to remove the radiation you had absorbed.

Taking RadAway gave you a terrible headache and would make you nauseous, that is if you weren’t one of the lucky one percent of the population that suffered no ill effects from the drug. No matter how bad the RadAway made you feel, it was always better than radiation poisoning. The air you breathed would smell like ozone and your mouth would taste like metal. You would feel crippling stomach pain, and your heart rate would plummet. You would vomit, have uncontrollable and explosive diarrhea, and would begin bleeding from various orifices. The fatigue would set in and if you didn’t get treatment by the time you passed out, it was too late for you.

It was a slow, painful way to die that was completely avoidable with the right medications. Unless you were hit by the green lightning strikes. If that happened… That would be it. You were done.

Well done.

Like a burnt steak.

That is if you weren’t instantly reduced to a pile of glowing ash.

Good times.

“Professor,” a young man called out. He recognized that voice. Billy Peters, the little shit. He was one of those kids that did not do well in class but you passed anyway so you didn’t have to ever deal with him again. Of course HE survived. So many others, dead, but Billy Peters?

God had a sick sense of humor, and his latest grand cosmic joke was for Billy Peters and crew to live where so many others…

He had seen the bodies of kids lying around campus. Kids that Professor Scholtz liked. The good kids.

Some of them died to radiation. Some of them…

Well, some of them died in ways that he couldn’t believe human beings were capable of. He had listened to some of those kids die painfully and brutally at the hands of monsters the likes of Billy Peters and his “friends.”

He was so afraid of his students that he had refused to step out of the apartment he was living (hiding) in to help them. He knew that more than likely he would have just signed his own death warrant, but he still hated himself for being such a coward.

Still others that ran out of their supply of radiation chems or had just been flat out refused them had not died. Not really. Something far worse had happened to them. They, just as painfully, just as brutally, had become something else.

Something monstrous.

Something he feared far more than being killed by these punks.

He had watched as Susie Jenkins had slowly what? Melted?

No, it was more like the radiation had slowly digested her flesh and mind. The world had swallowed her whole and spit out a partially digested mutated version of her. Before this happened, they had chained her to a bed inside a cage and done things to her. Unspeakable things.

When she had started to change, they hadn’t even had the decency to kill her. They just took her down to the streets of Morgantown and left her there. And oh how they had laughed as she screamed through the night.

The following night, Armin had seen her. She was no longer Susie of course, having become more of a movie zombie or ghoul, but it was still in Susie’s clothes. She was wandering the streets in Susie’s dress and Susie’s shoes. It even had Susie’s cat-eye glasses on, though they were now a permanent part of her face. He told himself that if he had a weapon, he would have killed her himself. But would he have really?

He’d never had to kill anyone. He had talked about doing his civic duty and volunteering for a tour in the military, but never had. He made excuses of course. He would do it after college. He was going to, but then he was offered a more important job with Vault-Tec University. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Excuses, excuses, excuses. What it all boiled down to was he was afraid. He didn’t know if he was ever faced with killing a man if he could actually pull the trigger, swing the bat, push in the knife. He hated most of his students, but he valued their chance to live the life they were given. Even if they lived a shitty existence.

“I know you’re out here, Professor Scholtz,” Billy Peters yelled again.

Armin rolled his eyes. It wasn’t like Billy was inherently evil. He just had no morality switch. If his so called friends asked him to do something, he would do it. It didn’t matter what it was. It was a shame, too. Out of all his group, he was the smartest. He could have actually done something with himself if he wasn’t so prone to doing every stupid thing people asked him to do.

“Hey, Billy, steal that six pack of New River Red Ale for me.”

He did, and he was caught. He told the police that arrested him that his friends asked him to do it, so he had.

“Hey, Billy, slap Stanley in the back of the head for me.”

He did, and he got his ass whooped for it. Stanley just so happened to be the captain of the football team and NOT one of Billy’s friends.

“Hey, Billy, throw this stone at Susie.”

He did, and was suspended for it. Luckily he had only split the skin and knocked her out for a few minutes. Armin had begged for Billy to be expelled from the school, but the Dean had not, otherwise things might have gone easier for Susie Jenkins. At least for a little while.

“Hey, Billy, throw this water in Susie’s face.”

He had.

Susie had covered her face and screamed. Everyone had laughed, even when smoke started coming off of her skin. The “water” that Billy Jenkins had thrown into her face had actually been hydrochloric acid. Susie had stood up and run blindly to Armin. He had scooped her up and ran her to the chemical shower, stripped her naked and rinsed the acid off as quickly as he could, but it had still burned the right side of her face. He had sat there on the floor with her and held her while she cried, the cold water of the shower drenching them both, until campus emergency services had come to take her to the hospital.

That was almost two months ago. Billy had finally been expelled from the school and criminal charges had been filed. He never did say who had told him to do what he did. When anyone asked he would just say, “They told me to.” Then he would smile.

Armin didn’t think he was even aware that what he did was wrong. Billy seemed to have this deep seeded need to please his “friends” at all costs. Armin was sure it came down to some weird psychological thing like his mommy didn’t hug him enough as a kid or something. He was a chemist not a shrink.

***

“Why did you throw the acid on Susie Jenkins, Billy?” The criminal psychologist asked.

Professor Armin Scholtz looked at Billy Peters with disdain. He sat in the middle of the Dean’s office in a simple folding metal chair that looked out of place amongst the dean’s expensive furniture. Billy was surrounded by people, some like Professor Armin Scholtz and the officer who arrested Billy, hated him. Others, like the psychologist and the dean, honestly wanted to help him.

He had laughed and told them, “It wasn’t acid, silly. It was just water.”

The psychologist smiled calmly. It was a practiced smile that tried to convince people he was on their side, even when he wasn’t. He had introduced himself to Armin before this meeting began and again to Billy Peters when he had come to the office, but Armin still didn’t remember his name. He had enough time memorizing all of his students’ names every year. He couldn’t be bothered to remember a name he would never hear or say again.

“Okay, Billy,” the psychologist conceded, “then why did you throw the ‘water’ on Susie Jenkins?”

“They told me to,” he said as calmly as if he was telling the time.

“Who are they?” Dean Wilkins asked.

“My friends,” Billy replied, smiling.

Dean Wilkins kneeled down in front of him and placed a hand on the boy’s knee. “Who are your friends, Billy?”

Billy looked at Dean Wilkins quizzically. He answered the question like the dean should already know, “The boys from class.”

“Which boys, Billy?” the dean asked.

“Which boys what?” Billy asked back.

Armin’s hatred grew. He was ready to explode.

Dean Wilkins had the patience of a saint, but even his calm was beginning to waiver. Still he pressed on. “Your friends from class, Billy.”

“What about them, Dean Wilkins?” Billy seemed honestly confused. He looked around the room. The smile fell from his face when he saw Officer McBride.

“Am I in trouble, Dean Wilkins?” Billy asked. “It was just water.”

Dean Wilkins closed his eyes and stood. He rubbed his temples with his fingers. Hard.

Armin had known the dean for a long time. He had seen this look before. When Wilkins looked like he was trying to squeeze his brain out the top of his head via his temples, he was done. Done with trying to be nice. Done with trying to be reasonable. He was done with you and whoever else was in the room.

The psychologist looked up at Dean Wilkins and sighed. He focused back on Billy. “No, Billy, it was not just water. It was acid.”

Billy looked at the psychologist with disgust. “It was water,” he said firmly.

“Billy,” the psychologist said just as firmly. “It was acid.”

“No.” Billy shook his head.

“You hurt Miss Jenkins pretty badly,” the psychologist added gently. He spoke to Billy Peters like a parent would speak to their ten year old that doesn’t quite understand that burning insects with a magnifying glass isn’t supposed to be fun.

“No, no, no, NO!” Billy shouted and slammed his fist down on his own leg with each no. As his shouting got louder, so did the strength of each blow.

Armin jumped out of his skin.

The dean would have leapt back into his chair if not for the giant oak desk in his way.

The psychologist didn’t blink. He peered over the edge of his glasses at Billy, unwavering.

The police officer put his hand on his nightstick and stepped forward.

The psychologist put his hand up and shook his head slowly. The police officer stepped back. He slowly turned his nightstick in it’s holster. The feeling of the leather wrapped grip against his fingers appeared to give the officer comfort and a strange peace of mind. As dangerous as his job could potentially be, that wooden stick must have made him feel like he wasn't completely defenseless.

It also reminded those who needed reminding that he was prepared to give them a beat down if necessary. He smiled. How ironic that the first time he might have to use his “Billy Club” would be on this little shit.

Professor Armin Scholtz watched the bludgeon turn slowly in the leather strap below Officer McBride’s belt. He watched as the miniature VTU Police badge that had been stamped into the shaft went in and out of sight as it spun. It was almost mesmerizing.

“I would never hurt Susie!” Billy yelled, pulling the professor out of his daze. “She’s my girlfriend!”

Armin stared at Billy in disbelief. He hated being derogatory at all towards his students, but this kid was completely mental. He had to be. Didn’t he?

The psychologist shifted in his seat.

Dean Wilkins took to rubbing his temples again. “Billy…”

Billy looked at him. “Yes, Dean Wilkins?”

The dean sighed and walked around his desk to the equally giant oak chair with big puffy red leather padding. He wrote something quickly on a sheet of paper. Armin mentally jumped for joy when he read the header on the paper. Dean Wilkins had just signed William Peters’ expulsion papers.

“Susan Jenkins is not your girlfriend, Billy,” the Dean said calmly as his pen moved gracefully across the paper.

Billy Peters went rigid. His entire body tensed and his hands clenched in his lap.

Officer McBride stopped turning his baton and wrapped his fingers around the handle.

“She IS my girlfriend,” Billy said through clenched teeth.

The criminal psychologist placed his hand on Billy’s hand. Billy tensed for a moment as he stared down at the hand over his. “Sorry, Billy,” the psychologist said, unbelievably calm. “We didn’t know she was your girlfriend.” The psychologist looked around the room nodding slowly.

Dean Wilkins rolled his eyes. He didn’t even try to hide it. He put his elbows on his desk and rested his chin on his hands. “Sorry, Billy. So, Susan Jenkins is your girlfriend?”

Billy smiled. “Yessir! We had sex and everything.”

Armin stared in disbelief. He was so focused on Billy Peters that he couldn’t see that he wasn’t the only one.

“Wait, what?” Dean Wilkins asked.

Armin doubted it was an actual question, but Billy felt the need to go on.

“My friends said she was playing ‘hard to get’ so they held her down for me.”

Armin’s breakfast did somersaults in his belly.

Dean Wilkins stared at Billy, unmoving.

The psychologists yanked his hand away from Billy. “I’m sorry, they held her down for you?”

Billy bared his teeth in the most disturbing smile Armin had ever seen in all his fifteen years of teaching. “At first, yeah. She was being really loud, though,” he explained like they were all buds at a bar and he was dishing out the juicy details of a hot date. “I had to cover her mouth so no one would hear us.”

Officer McBride’s grip on his nightstick was so tight, Armin could hear the leather of the grip popping on the wood underneath.

Billy turned to Armin and looked him in the eye. “Apparently I held her mouth too long, because she just passed out.”

“Oh my God,” Armin exhaled the words from the pits of his soul more than spoke them.

“I know right?” Billy laughed. “My friends didn’t have too hold her anymore after that.”

“What did you do?” Dean Wilkins asked, disgusted.

Billy spun in his seat so he could see the dean. As if the dean was asking, What did you do next, Billy kept telling his story. “Well, when I was done, I did what any good friend would do and let them have a turn!”

Armin couldn’t hold it in any longer. His three strips of bacon, two eggs over easy, and a garnish of orange came back up and displayed themselves all over the floor of Dean Wilkins office.

Dean Wilkins stood and shouted, “Get this son of a bitch out of here!”

Armin expected Officer McBride to go ballistic and just start beating Billy Peters until his brains mixed with his breakfast on Dean Wilkins’ office floor, but he let go of his club and pulled out his handcuffs instead. “Gladly.”

He grabbed Billy by the arm and yanked him out of that fold-out chair so fast that Billy didn't have time to lose the smile off his face. “William Peters, you are under arrest.”

Hearing those words, it finally clicked. Billy tried to squirm, but Officer McBride had already clicked the handcuffs into place.

Billy could be heard screaming through the halls as he was being led out of the school by Officer McBride, “It was just a little bit of water!”

***

The first week was like you would imagine the week after the end of the world would be for spoiled rich kids that survived the apocalypse. One gigantic alcohol binge, drug induced, sex crazed, never-ending party.

Morgantown had become a looter’s paradise. The students that hadn’t already been shipped off to their assigned vaults had banded together to form a gang of self entitled raiders. That gang had hoarded or consumed every last ounce of food, clean water, alcohol and chems they could get their grubby little hands on.

Those that didn’t join up with the gangs were tortured, killed, or worse. Armin had no idea what had become of Officer McBride or the criminal psychologist, or any of the other faculty at Vault-Tec University, but judging by what he had seen the university students do to other survivors in the past two weeks, it was not anything pleasant. The Dean, Brad Wilkins to his friends, had been flayed alive. His body had been hung for all to see in the university commons. His abdomen was stretched out like a butterfly, his organs removed. His twenty-two feet of intestines had been strung like Christmas lights around him. Armin didn’t know what became of the dean’s other organs.

He had hopes that some of his former students and colleagues that hadn’t resorted to gang violence had escaped Morgantown and were somewhere safe. That somehow they had escaped the massacre that followed the initial shock of the end of the world as they all knew it and made their way south. Maybe some of them had been allowed entry into Vault Seventy-Six.

Then there was Susie Jenkins. She hadn’t escaped. She no longer had to wear the bandages, but the scars had been clearly visible. Had been. Now all of her skin looked like it had been burned by acid. Armin was sure the acid burn, though excruciatingly painful, had been nothing compared to the post-war torture she had to suffer at their hands stuck in that cage. He was also sure that the acid burn, again, excruciatingly painful, had been nothing compared to the pain she had felt as her insides had slowly dissolved from the radiation that had eaten her alive. He hoped that she was no longer in pain.

“PROFESSOR!” Billy Peters yelled. He was getting impatient.

Armin kept his mouth shut. He could hear the coaxing whispers telling Billy to call out again, which meant they were close. He was equally afraid of being found by them as he was afraid of alerting anything that called the woods home. He had no idea what kind of wildlife the vast forests of Appalachia held, but if the radiation could turn a human into a ravenous zombie like creature, he didn’t want to know what it had done to the local wildlife.

“PROFESSOR!” Billy Peters yelled again. He was so close.

Armin’s heart pounded fast and hard. He felt like he was in a nightmare, the kind where safety is just there, out of reach, but you couldn’t move. He slowly rose to his feet behind the tree that had so far kept him hidden. The panic he felt was crippling. His mind was racing through a myriad of stupid and brilliant ideas.

He should run!

No, he should definitely not run.

He should stay hidden.

He should surrender!

What if they killed him anyway?

He should fight!

What are you nuts?

He…

He didn’t hear anything.

Did they wander off?

He slowly peeked around the tree.

“BOO!” Billy Peters yelled. He was staring Armin in the face, mere inches from him.

Armin fell backwards into the leaves and twigs that coated the forest floor. He landed with a thud but adrenaline shot through his veins like a nitrous boost into a fuel line. He scrambled to his feet and ran. He screamed like a wild banshee, and he flailed his arms around like he was trying to fend off a swarm of bees.

“Stop him, Billy,” someone yelled.

“Okay!” Billy yelled back.

Armin felt like he was running like the wind blows. Age and lack of adequate food and water meant whatever burst of speed he may have had at the start quickly wore off. His legs burned like fire from the lactic acid building up in his veins. His chest ached from his irregular breathing and his heart pounded like thunder. He didn’t know what a heart attack felt like, but he sure as hell felt like he was having one. If not for Billy Peters, he just may well have.

He felt a grip on his shoulder. He tried to yank free but the grip tightened and grasped a fist full of his shirt. He was quickly pulled to a stop and was spun on his heels. The momentum of the spin connected with Billy Peter’s fist in a perfect example of Newton’s third law of motion. The force of Billy’s fist combined with Armin’s poor balance spun him in the opposite direction and he kept spinning…

and spinning…

and spinning…

and then he realized that though his vision was still spinning, he was lying on the ground. Several pairs of boots and shoes came into view.

“Damn, Billy,” a male voice said. “When I said to stop him, I meant shoot him.” There was light laughter among the group. Mostly males but he could hear at least two distinct females.

He would say men and women, as they were of appropriate age, but these were nothing but grown up kids playing God.

As if to prove Armin’s point, Billy said, “Sorry,” like a child who had just been scolded. Then excitedly, he asked, “Should I shoot him now?”

Armin swallowed nervously as he lied there on the dirt and leaves, afraid he was about to die.

After a few moments the one who was obviously in charge replied, “Nah, chain’im up with the mute girl.” The boy knelt down in front of him. “I have something special in mind for you, Professor.”

Armin gasped as he realized just who the leader of this merry band of fools was. Someone he once thought to be one of the good kids. A young black man with brilliant blue eyes. A freshman—the youngest in VTU history at only seventeen—with the potential to become an amazing pathologist, the best in his field.

“Nathaniel White?”

“Good morning, Professor!”

Chapter Text

Rise Up!

The Down Below

He watched helplessly as the man he once knew and loved as a brother killed the only woman he ever loved.

He tried to stop him. He did.

But he… this… this man… he had attacked.

Why? Why had his own brother tried to kill him? Left him for dead?

Then he had turned on her. Killed her with such rage and hatred in his eyes.

And all he could do was lie there and watch.

He had never been religious. Shied away from it completely. Almost rebelled against it.

But she had believed.

So he prayed. He prayed to whatever God might be left to rule over this nightmarish landscape. He prayed to live. Even faced with life in this apocalypse, he still did not want to die.

His vision faded, and in his dreams, he was a mighty ruler of others left to die. He dreamt of her, and in his dreams she was still alive, not murdered. She was still beautiful. Still his.

Together they ruled over their kingdom of cast outs.

His vision faded to black again, and he knew this was it for him. His time had come. He would die here.

Trapped.

Broken.

His last thoughts would be of her.

The sound of breaking stone roused him from the darkness.

With the one eye he had left, he strained to focus on what was causing the ruckus. Such an odd word “ruckus.” Not a word he would have used, but she used it.

There was an ache in his chest. An ache he had never felt before.

His good eye came into focus.

He was back! Why had he come back? To gloat over his kill? To make sure they were in fact dead?

He strained to move, but with a broken arm trapped beneath rubble, he wasn’t going anywhere.

He wanted to kill him.

He yanked and he pulled, but his arm was well and thoroughly stuck, and any more movement would attract attention to the fact that his friend, his brother, had failed to kill him.

He would wait.

At some point in the afternoon, he fell asleep. When he woke, it was dark.

Night time.

His “friend” wasn’t anywhere around that he could see so he took the opportunity to try to escape.

He twisted around so he could push on the stone with his free arm. Still no good.

The pain was almost unbearable.

He twisted again, screaming out in anguish, and positioned his legs against nearby rubble. He held onto his shoulder socket with his free arm and pushed with his legs. He twisted back around.

The pain!

Finally, before he thought he would be unable to take any more, there was a loud pop.

He was free!

No…

He had pulled his arm clean off.

Where his arm once was burned like fire. The rest of him tingled. His vision filled with tiny sparkles.

He slipped again into dreams of her.

When next he regained consciousness again, her murderer was there again and her body was gone.

What had he done with her?

The next time his former friend left, he knew he had to hide or he would disappear next. He didn’t know what he had done with her body, but he knew if he didn’t disappear on his own, his friend would make sure of it himself.

At least a dozen times that man came back to the scene of his crime, and that was the times he was conscious for. Each time he came back, he would have more and more supplies.

Is he planning on living here? Where he killed us?

Maybe, but then why were the supplies the exact same every time he returned. Two boxes and a bag. Always from the same place, always the same size, and by the smell, always the same exact contents.

The two boxes contained pure carbohydrate food rings.

He could go days without eating, it was in his nature, but with every passing day he grew more and more hungry. He had eaten what he could of his own torn off limb during the first few days, and what was in those boxes made his stomach ache. He was salivating to such an extent that he was able to quench his thirst on that alone. He would need to eat, however, and soon.

Under the rubble, in a hole he had bored out for himself, he had rested and recovered his strength. His wounds must not have been as severe as he had originally feared. Even his eyesight in his second eye had started to return. It was only a blur of light, but it was no longer just nothing.

The radiation had done something to change him, and he was healing at an alarming rate. A nub protruded out of his damaged arm socket. Another couple weeks and he would likely have a ew shiny arm to replace the one that had been crushed when he tried to escape his best friend’s wrath.

I think he has lost his goddamn mind.

His former friend had just finished off another of his flavored carb rings, and was crying over the spot where he killed her. It’s the same thing he does every day. It’s like he doesn’t even remember doing it. He will come into what was left of their home together, eat his carb-rings, call for her and cry. Every. Goddamn. Day.

Two months or more have passed.

He couldn’t take the starvation any longer.

His buddy ole pal was hunkered over, fiddling with the giant device on his arm. He saw his opportunity and took it.

He dove out from under the rubble he had been hiding under while he recovered and faced the man that was once family.

His former brother stood and cried out.

“Goddamn!”

He must be admiring my new size.

You’re not the only one who has changed my friend.

He threw a hand forcefully into the air. He had seen his friend do it many times before. He knew what it meant. It meant to screw off, piss off, fuck off. He had no fingers like his friend did, but the disdain rang through loud and clear.

Stephen cocked his head at him.

While Stephen was distracted, he crawled his way over to the closest box of food rings. When he was within mere inches, he dove at the box and grabbed it in his jaws.

“Hey! Those are my goddamn donuts!”

Stephen swung at him with his giant hammer again. He tried to step on him.

But George was just too goddamn fast.

When he was safely back in his tunnel, George squealed in anger and conquest. He swore vengeance for her. He would seek it in the blood of the man who killed her, who tried to kill him.

He cried out for her like Stephen had done every day for so long.

“Momma!”

The earth rumbled all around him.

New tunnels opened up and creatures that looked like him burst forth from tunnels of their own. They weren’t as large as he, but then again, they had not dined like a king on eggs and bacon their whole lives.

He took one of the carb-rings for himself and kicked the rest to those that had come to the sound of his scream.

They bowed to him, and they feasted like royalty.