Wasteland PULP
CHRONICLES OF THE VIOLIN
BK 1:- BROKEN DREAMS
By: Rama Toulon
AKA Carib FMJ the Nuka-Cola Chaser
Inspired by my friend Charlyn Vidal AKA Red Violin
Decadent Downtown, Old Moscow, apartment complex area, north Main Street...
PROGRAM RUNNING...
ENTER the RED VIOLIN
One of those rare places that still remained intact after the war. Old Moscow, Idaho of the dead United States was spared the nuclear war but not spared the dark human survivalist that lurked within. It fell into major disrepair, and of course, looters, the nuclear winter and the acid rain didn’t make anything easier for the human remnants trying to eke a pathetic existence. The small apartment on the forgotten lane of Pulma, a residential area, there was a small, quaint apartment complex which was muddled with graffiti – new and old. Most rooms were intact, some expanded by breaking down walls and sharing into other apartments for family extensions.Ahead lay a wooden door reinforced with rusting metal grill work and the copper plate numbers stamped on the wooden door. 16A was an unpolished copper lettering that long turned green from oxidation century or so ago.
Room number 16A which consist three main rooms in it. The weed which was tidy and would fit in well with the standards of the EPA, even for post war standards. It had a fully stocked fridge from Nuka-Colas to other products, especially dry food stuffs, the kind that never spoil once they’re kept moisture free. A one bed room, which had more room than a standard eight by eleven prison cell. And the main room where an old junked out TV from the pre-war era stood on a stack of books and the coffee table was the main feature. On the coffee table you can see several different books and articles that survived the holocaust. Mostly surplus gun magazines and civil defense guides. Herbert the CD Turtle was demonstrating the proper way to duck and cover.
The TV looked like some alien with it’s one straight antenna and the other crocked, probably bent to adjust to the signals that floated through the air. It read in the fading tin-foil letters – Panna Tranna, in Techni-Color. The books stacked on the table adjacent.
Sociology and Psychology 101 by Vault-Tech Research. If you turned over the book you’d notice a disclaimer about the unlawful reproduction and coping of this document for profit or to a foreign nation was punishable under the Espionage Act. 0A42. That would translate to death, wouldn’t it? Oh, well, no G-Men around to enforce that law, no men in black suits and dark shades.
Two Popular Mechanics for all those budding new mechanics and electricians out there.
A Popular Science about the wonders and complexities of micro-biology. A stack of Pulp Comics. Three black and white, noir-esque dime store novels that was gritty and violent.
Then there was the Red Rose, a pre-war romance novel by fabled romantic and erotica author Sophia Dyke. The cover depicted a woman laying on a bed of blood red petals.
As you progressed through the rest of the apartment, things seem to change. Not so much as color or vibrancy. It turned so much as in vibe. It was neat apartment, even by post-apocalyptic standards.
There was a sound of shuffling feet and a male voice cursing in a drunkard’s version of coherent speech.
Behind the door, you'd see two women and single man. The man was tall and had a face that was very hard to look at, old poker marks and other horrible knicks, probably from bar fights or him trying to give himself a shave with a combat knife while hopping on chems. His name was Albert, and Albert wasn't happy. Not happy at all. It wasn’t totally with the girl getting dressed, the young girl with the wearing leather jacket and the dusty looking shotgun on his table top. His anger, his grievance was with the pale skinned brunette woman who was in bed, covers over her naked torso.
She had been caught cheating. But not with another man, no, not that, that would have been simpler to understand and deal with, but a woman was a totally different and dynamic factor Albert’s drunken mind couldn’t handle. And that made Albert angry, made him see red, and that was the reason why he had a knife in one hand, his sweaty, pudgy fingers working the wooden handle nervously and anxiously.
He took another step. His already bloodshot eyes seem to get redder.
"Al... Please don't. You don't understan'-" The wife began, her voice shaky.
"Shut... the...(hic)" He seems to be so angry that the words came within intervals of cheap whiskey scented burps, a synaptic lapse of judgment that was clouded by primal emotions that drove humanity. "Shut the fuck... up... cow... can't... you see... Yer man is at work. Don't worry, I settle with you after I deal with the chicra here.
"Yeah, so wanna screw my fuckin' wife, huh?" His voice rose, it was clear with murder was intent. The sound of a man who was seeing himself at the edge of everything.
The woman stood and shrugged her shoulders, it was part defiance. "It seemed she needed..." she licked her honey brown lips at Albert's wife for spite, "That she needed a woman's touch. I did you a favor." She had enjoyed the lust derived from the woman; she always liked them when they felt another woman's touch for the first time. And she knew how to please.
"A fav-favor?" He seems to stutter at the words, his hands on his ears as if trying to block out mental interference, and it made him shutter with rage. "A favor... You fuckin' lesbian-cock-suckin’ whore! I am gonna carve you from crack to neck. You hear me, I am gonna--!"
The girl simply made a crack sound from her neck and smiled evilly. "You are going to die." She finished for him. The man made his move, but she was faster.
With a whirl and pivoting on one foot, a pale brown figure moved like a blur and swung her Widow-maker to her right, squeezed the left barrel trigger.
BAMMM!
The blast had struck Albert dumbly in the chest, shattering his sternum like glass and filling his lungs with lead fragments and blood, and he rocked backwards. With gravity pulling Albert in it's embrace, he staggered backwards, his massive frame broke the window he stood directly behind, sending him downward. For those who looked upward, they saw something odd.
A figure is propelled through the darkness of an apartment window and lands awkwardly on a dumpster, two stories down. His shattered remains stare blankly to the sky. Back in the apartment room, the barrel smoked as it had laid low a man.
One shell left...
Albert wasn’t a very much liked man. He worked with the Atomic Union Workers, an anti-mutant Regulator organization. More like a remnant of the old racist groups, except people of all color and ethnicity were allowed to join – the new enemy had been the ghouls and the mutants. In Old Moscow, there must be twenty members in the district. They were men and women who had hydrofoils tattooed between the thumb and fore finger. Albert was the hard hat man, the tough. Big and stupid, but honest and headliner for the group. Downstairs he had a few good men and a lady, Ronald McGurry, Bobby Depape, Jonny Dee and Mia Reynolds. They were all passing time shooting the shit, hitting back home brew beer McGurry brought for them in paper bags.
McGurry owned the Eighty Hole, a tavern of sorts that actually sold decent liquor. He was a middle aged man with a bitchy wife he hoped to outlive and crackling knuckles he knew he’d be cursed with for life. A man of stalky build and at the age of forty six. He had a gruff beard that made many think of old man Rip-Van Winkle or an Amish.
To his right was Bobby Depape. Quick handed with a gun but some felt god might have traded his wits in exchange for the swiftness of the draw. He had no facial hair and was easily the youngest in the Union at the age of seventeen. Reddish hair and green eyes, some called him a mick, because of his Irish heritage. Depape wasn’t too bright but he had fast hands and a hardness that the Atomic Union liked. So apart from his daily runs at the whore houses, he is spending his days in town collecting tribute for the AWU.
Next to Bobby Depape was a Jonny Dee, a post apocalyptic version of a greaser. He had dark hair combed back with engine grease giving it that thick smell of oil and the shiny gloss of pitch that depper-dan couldn’t give. He wore dual sleeve leather jacket complete shiny zippers and hydrofoil on the back. His jeans were skin tight, but no one dared call him a fagot. Jonny was known for his bad temper and quickness with a knife. He had a kids face, even though he was twenty seven. Jonny Dee was lanky in frame and prone to snapping his fingers. A hook like nose. Some called him Jonny Fish-Hook. He had a lucky strike between his lips and passed one to the woman next to him.
Now, Mia Reynolds was known to affect a dark brown trench coat with a red scarf around her neck. She had black, seedy hair and crossed eyes. This didn’t alter her vision in the slightest and she was tough. No man’s woman but her own. She always had a six shooter tucked under her shoulder. It was blued steel Remington Revolver a family heirloom, loaded with freshly gained .357 magnum hollow points. It was from her grand father. Mia was a single mom, but not lumpy in the least, she had two kids, twins, each the age of seven. She was pretty, maybe even model material, except for ungenerous breasts which looked more like apples than full sized bosoms. Her eyes were hard flicks of ice and her speech was like a chipmunk, but many learned the hard way never to underestimate Mia, not in the least. Albert was her friend and like a big brother to her. Almost a daddy figure. They all liked Albert, even though he was hot headed and even stupid, they loved them. The AWU looked out for their own.
The few inhabitants saw the spectacle, but didn't seem to care. The only one's who seem to take notice were the Atomic Union Workers down stares by the old pay phone who saw their comrade fall to his death with a gapping hole in his chest. In fact he was dead before he hit the ground, but that didn’t change the price of water in Bard Town, now did it?
They weren't pleased. A second later, feet began to rush upstairs in that noisy shuffle of moccasins, boots and sneakers.
The footsteps came pounding up the stairs, but there is the sound of another set of footsteps coming in the opposite direction. There's a voice in the hallway. "HEY, FELLAS!" It sounded different, jovial.
It's followed by the sound of gunfire and two thuds. The door opens, and Ron Spears steps in, Beretta lowered. "Did you kill that fat guy?� He asked though her eyes told the tale. “Guess you did. Well, his hombres were sorta pissed off. Must be a good shot with that scattergun, huh? Have fun."
The mercenary shuts the door with a grin and a wave.
More gun fire ensues.
The woman who blew Albert Tanner out the window stood smiling, her widow maker tapping her shoulder blade. She was a slender girl, she could pass as maybe as young as seventeen or perhaps eighteen, but she was older, you could tell in those shinny indigo eyes. She had a round face as if it were perfectly round face - or perhaps a bit of genetic artistry - that even looked girlish. She had soft colored brown skin with unique feature of having fiery red hair at the same time, something uncharacteristic of a woman of nergoe heritage. She wore bangles and bracelets and her fingers were assorted with a few rings, around her neck she carried a tooth of some sort and a domino chip with seven dots.
But she was a woman, either through years of killing or perhaps experience, she was a woman. She was more than a woman. She was a woman who carried a shotgun and a Colt MK4 Delta Elite was tucked, hammer cocked back in the waist band of her belt.
The now-would be widow, sat cringing in bed. She expected a fight, but never expected the slender, chocolate skinned woman to blow her husband out of the window like that, blew out like a candle. The way she carried out the act as if it were like an involuntary reaction. She raised the weapon, squeezed the trigger and death came out from a barrel.
True her husband was a fat slob, a bigot but she never wished him death. He never hurt her or beat her, he was always kind, but he wasn't very apt in the art of love, and when she strolled the streets, horny and hungry for pleasure and happened by and saw the young female violinist, she was instantly seduced by the girl. The young, fresh looking teenager. But as she got involved, she realize the girl wasn't as young as she looked, and when they made love, which was the first for Albert's widow; it was a whole new world of colors and flavors. But all that seemed dull as she reawakened in a nightmarish reality where the violinist murders her husband.
"Why did you kill Albert?" She asked from the bed, her legs shivering from under the covers in fear. Any moment she could have urinated on herself in just fear. What made her more afraid is how angelic the girl looked, how pure and clean, not the murderess she saw before her.
"Easy," The girl began. "He had a knife, he threatened me... bamm, problem solved." She formed gun finger and made a pow-pow sound.
"Charlyn... I-I… Just go. Go, please... Go." The widow began to weep bitterly. She hugged her pillow, the stained, off white head rest and wept into it, further staining the fabric.
"Fine," Charlyn hissed, “you don’t have to ask me twice.� She was getting annoyed now. She began to walk towards the window, she didn't even take on the merc, as if absorbed in her own world. Charlyn felt confused, wasn't sure how to feel. She reacted with her usual instinct, and now the woman whom she was falling in love with has pushed her away...
�They will kill you… they will hunt you down like a dog.� The wife muttered just above a whisper. Charlyn didn’t turn to answer, she knew people would be after her all her life. Hadn’t it been so for so long? The Atomic Union Workers. Bring them on.
Like so many of the others, she thought broodingly. The violinist was adept at hiding her outer emotions. From the outside one could see a haughty girl, but in the inside, rage was brewing, that unchanneled anger.
Now the merc, she thought as she got a glance at the man. Can't have him thinking I left him ignored. That'd be rude.
Her indigo eye's scanned the merc who came upstairs and had gunned down the angry lot of thugs.
A cruel lopsided smile rose on her face and she answered Ron Spears. "I suppose I should thank you for killing those bad men. So thanks. Anything I can help you with? I was on my way out." She quickly walked quickly past him and took the books on sociology and other materials on the coffee table.
"This is my fee for today’s festivities." She muttered in respect to her love affair with Albert's widow.
She nudged the merc by the shoulder with her own as she walked by.
"Oh, yeah, thanks for the help. Though I could have taken them, I am glad your ammo and not mine got wasted." She said coldly. Her hands grabbed the ends of the window and she opened it. The fire escape was still there.
Opening the barrel of the shotgun, she removed the used shell and inserted another one from within her wearing leather jacket. Smiling happily as it snapped shut, fully loaded. She began to head out of the fire escape and looked back at the merc. Ron Spears the Mercenary, a man with short cropped haircut (military style) just stood there, waiting to be noticed or at least invited.
"You want something?"
Ron shook his head calmly. "Where you headed from here?"
She halted in her tracks. Are all people this talkative? Asking and knitting questions? Charlyn thought with cold contempt. But with her little memory she had, it was something she had to endure.
"Going away from here before some decides to be a hero and I have to kill someone else... or get killed." She always acknowledged that there was someone faster and deadlier; reason why she always made sure she was a step quicker... and a little deadlier. "You wanna come?" She offered. She hated walking by herself and perhaps the merc might know something. And if she found anything fishy about him, she'd kill him.
Simple and easy.
She looked back at Mrs. Tanner and blew her a kiss. The woman seems frozen in a livid and frightened state. Charlyn decided she had tasted enough of her pain and headed for the window.
"So you comin'? We head down town or something. I saw a place somewhere outside town that looked interesting."
The corner of Captain Spears' mouth turns up in a smile. He nods. "I was gonna go downtown, too. Yeah, I'll come with you." He gave the widest shit eating grin he could afford, his smooth face and boyish demeanor almost endearing to Charlyn, of course, she didn’t believe in innocence. He wore a leather armor with, almost looked like football gear and had a red bandanna around his forehead and a pair of shiny stainless steel dog tags around his neck.
She gave an untrusting eye, not sparing Spears anything. Honesty was a vice she had in spades.
"Fine," She crept out the window and reached the main stair well of the fire escape. The escape ladder was pad locked to the main stair case. Grabbing her small lock picks, she began to pick at the lock, working the tension wrench and pick. Her brown bag was placed at her feet. It had most of her stuff, she still had another bag stashed somewhere.
"So, you have a name? Or do you charge in berettas in hand and save people from a raging mob coming up the stairs?" As usual, she spared no one her dry and caustic humor. No one. She used the tumbler to pick at the lock. At an other time, she would have used her own gun to blast the lock, but doing so at such a close range would break pieces of steel into her face. And she didn't want that.
Ron chuckles. "Ron, Ron Spears. What about you?" He watches her pick the lock and follows her down the ladder, keeping a barely safe distance.
The fire escape began to shimmy slight as Ron made a move forward. "That is very unwise." She said with caution. Her voice alone conveyed the message as she spoke the ominous words from over her slim shoulder.
Snap.
The lock came free and the ladder slid down. "Piece of cake." She tucked her tools away and faced Ron. "The names Charlyn. Some call me Violin." She grabbed the side handles and slid down the ladder military style; hands on the side, legs on the side handles and gently slid down.
Her bag was on her shoulder as she plopped down on the wet snowy side walk. It wasn't as cold as it looked. Summer was climbing weakly to this area of Idaho, and it was welcomed. Ron waits for her to get away from the bottom of the ladder, then slides almost all the way off of it. Then he kicks off of it and flips backwards, landing like a cat on his feet. He walked after her calmly.
"Violin, huh? You play one or something? My mom used to play one."
Charlyn didn’t respond, she walked ahead of Ron, she wasn't really into small talk and would spend most of her time replying and not looking him in the face. "Yeah, I play a violin." She said tersely.
Passing in a narrow alley, they passed through the ruined area of Moscow, a place of rotting buildings and bones interwoven into the very asphalt.
A small red sign, long has the neon light died from within, but it still stood.
The Jack Rabbit bar, busted sign, covered in white snow and only the barest glimpse of a jack rabbit holding a pitcher of beer – or rat piss – could be seen.
It had an out of business sign hanging near the sign. As they descended the small steps to the back door, Charlyn once again took out her lock picks and preyed at the lock. "Have to pick up some thing's here." Charlyn said from over her shoulders.
Ron yawns and watches behind them, one hand under his leather holster for his best throwing knife. He watches Charlyn alternately.
"What stuff?"
�You know… stuff.� Charlyn replied vacantly.
Entering the bar, it was a very dusty place the brown was layered by a thick film of gray dust. The sound of her feet was muffled by the gray blanket that was everywhere to be seen, her nose had even begin to tinkle with the hint of a sneeze, but she fought it, taking in shallow breaths. The days light shun through the boarded windows of the long forgotten bar. Taking some matches she had pilfered from her ex-lover, she lit some wax candles that lay standing.
The dull amber light filled the room and the tiny rats creeping about ran. One rat, a plump fella stared at her with muddy black eyes. It had no fear of man in all his years of life, having helped sire hundreds of litters, he was a grand father of sorts, he and his once brown coat now dusty gray, but all the same it had no fear of man.
Red was about to re-instill that fear. Her boot toe kicked the furry beast in the head, shattering the vertebra and killing the creature upon impact, she even heard the audible pop.
"One for the rat catcher in the sky." She muttered antipathetically. She hated vermin. The creepy eyes, the hair, the fleas, the worm like tail; it was something innate to her. She hated rats - period. Taking glance left and right she saw the bar was the same as she left it months ago.
It was a roomy bar complete with four different dispensing machines. The red cigarette dispenser had long been raided of it’s nicotine laden bounty and a candy machine that fell to the early raiders and of course, rats. The classic orange-copper tinted Nuka-Cola machine, which oddly after how many years of neglect (and abuse) could still give a fresh Nuka-Cola - this of course, if you knew how to shake it just right - then there was the candy machine. The glass broken and the candies nibbled on and rotting.
The sign of dead vermin could be seen. The third machine was a coin machine. It was out of service, the red sign painted in bold couldn't be missed, lest you couldn’t read.
The bartender's area was webbed, and glasses of old liquor had been long plundered during the end times, before the rebirth of the world. Maybe two or three bottles of booze or copper tops remained. Near the cash register was a packet of expired 9mm JHP rounds, they were hidden behind a plank of wood Charlyn had set up within the register. She grabbed the box and sent it to Ron, who caught it, it was a Winchester brand.
"Could come in handy," she said flatly, “down payment for you saving me from the mob.�
Jumping over the bar counter, she went near a floor panel and picked up a crow bar that sat webbed in the adjacent nook to her right. Swallowing whatever disgust that welled up inside, she took the bar and removed the sticky material that was meant to entrap insects and small prey.
"I have some -" She thought on the words between her prying and lifting motions to snap the open the boards. "Personal things and other stuff. Oh, and be a dear, Captain Ron and fetch that colorful map on the wall to your... far right; the one of the upstate area." With that, the board snapped and a thick leather duffel bag with multiple straps lay underneath.
"Gravy pot." She said with a confidant smile as she lifted the bag out of the compartment. Slinging the bag on her shoulder and placing the lesser bag within the larger one. It was one fit and it was light.
"Hid it here for years... and still good. So we can now head up upstate. Find somewhere warm to sleep. Oh, and one more thing - what are you Captain of?"
Ron cocks one of his eyebrows. "I... never said I was a captain." He figures she saw the dog tags and made a wild guess, or maybe even heard of the Nightmare Company or Ron Spears. He shrugged and walked over to the map, grabbing it off the wall and rolling it up. He walks back, taking a moment to really process her question. He remembered all too well.
Fire. Screaming. A tremendous explosion. Men screaming either in horror or rage... sometimes both. The stench and taste of blood. Copper tang, like a penny. The musky scent of urine--one of the rookies who couldn't handle himself, maybe, or even one of the bodies that pissed itself a few minutes after death, or maybe that one kid with the little freckles that had been whining about having to piss for the past mile. Mutants roaring, ghouls screeching. The second in command, Chase Segal, holding his intestines and staring at Ron, blood smeared on his face. "CAPTAIN, WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!"
Ron snapped back to reality and coughed. He spoke up, and sounded very shaken.
"I was leader of a group called the Nightmare Company. We were a paramilitary defense group for a Vault in the east."
He says nothing else, because it's obviously a very emotional subject.
Charlyn smiled, but softly. "Well Captain, your tags gave you away and well, the way you move, the way you handle your beretta for example. Obviously you are military and one of rank. Don't ask me how I exactly know this just call this my 'sixth sense'. ESPM. I think ESP." She tapped the side of her covered temple with her fore finger. She had a deep insight into many things, she could see little details one ignored and saw a thousand possibilities. It was a handy trait to have, but it was unpredictable and often left her feeling confused when she knew so many things about others and nothing about herself.
Edden. Edden... Something entered her head.
Who the fuck is Edden? She thought. Then after a moment, the Red Violin thought about the name and recalled the place of darkness and remembers a brown skinned man with cold golden eyes calling her that name. He stood next to her and handed her a grenade. His look was gaunt and stoic, the type that didn't show affection, be it for someone he loved or when he was placing a pistol to someone's skull and squeezing the trigger.
He had the eye's of the hunter. Of a predator.
'Remember, Edden. Take cover.' He had said, his voice hinting a sense of concern, but it was hard to decide if it was comradeship or something more...
The past faded and Charlyn was back in the world. A piece of the puzzle set down in the giant mosaic made by amnesia or self inflicted mental trauma.
"Well, it seems I found something, a piece of the puzzle. Call me Charlyn or Edden. Charlyn is my name, I guess, but do call me Edden if you please." She said to Ron. He nodded his head, but seemed vacant again.
AWW, GODDAMMIT-- another flashback?
Edden... Eddins. Eddins... PFC Michael Dwayne Eddins... his body swinging from the wreckage of the watchtower, disemboweled with a trail of organs leading ten feet to the ground, swinging helplessly, his eyes bulging in their sockets with his face black, mouth fixed in permanent agony...
Ron cleared his throat. "Edden. Pretty name." He tucked the aforementioned dog tags under his shirt. "I saw an inn about a half a mile north of here. They said they had running water and a working tub in every room. And not that swill that looks browner then shit, or the kind that makes your piss glow green."
"Thanks, I think the name is pretty too. Just hope it’s my real name." She said in agreement. But still she felt some frustration in getting fed bits and pieces of memory. As if someone from within was giving her what it wanted, making her dangle for the carrot before the eyes, so to speak.
Edden gathered her stuff and didn't really pay mind what Ron said till she hoped over the counter and grabbed a coin from her pocket. She was feeling a twitch in her left hand.
"As for the Inn, how far is it from the Nuka-Cola Facility on the map?" She asked. She wanted to head there, but some warm water and good bath never killed no one. And she knew the cold was being generous, but from her tip from the desert of Arizona, she figured she smelled a bit wild.
Caffeine was low and she had no more caffeine tablets. Reaching in for a silver dollar coin, she dropped in the slot of the Nuka-cola machine and punched for the Nuka-cola classic.
Slapping the button there was a rattle but no response. Grabbing each ends of the machine, she began to shake it like a maniac and threw two kicks near the dispenser slot and a knee.
The machine rattled and the sound of a cola falling into the basket was heard.
"Gravy." She said as she grabbed a bottle. Doing a reverse snap kick, the machine rattled and dropped three more. She took two and offered the third to Ron. "You want one?" This was a rare moment when she looked at him directly.
Just as Charlyn - or was it Edden was handing Ron the cola, a rat who had crawled up the back of the Nuka Cola machine launched itself at the unfortunate girl.
Rats were highly intelligent, very social beings. And unlike many animals, they had the ability to not only see effect, but also cause. So when the rest of the rats who lived in the abandoned bar saw the woman in the brahmin-smelling clothes crush the hapless old rat's vertebrae, they frenzied. A single volunteer was selected to bring about justice.
Despite Charlyn's superb reflexes, the entirely unexpected attack surprised her completely. Her arms were laden with Nuka Cola bottles, and even when the furry creature landed on her shoulder she didn't drop the precious liquid to be shattered against the hard floor.
Take this you smelly human!
With that, the rat, his claws digging into the leather, bit hard and deep into her neck with teeth hard enough to crush bone and eat the marrow. At this point Charlyn's eyes bulged, and she frantically reached for a weapon - any weapon -, but the rat quickly jumped away. Before anyone had time to react, it had scurried in underneath the rubble, its blood-covered nozzle in a ratty grin.
The cold emotionless void filled Edden, even when blood trickled from behind her neck wound, she didn't care. The rat was what mattered. She grabbed her widow-maker and let loose the double barrels. But as the smoked cleared she didn’t see that ratty grin with her blood dripping from its whiskers. She didn’t know the rat had marked her. The rat, the one who would be a god called Dirt-Napp had marked her.
A second rat made the jump, inspired by his brother, Dirt-Napp. This rat wouldn’t meet with the same success as his brethren.
Her hand grabbed the rat in mid air. "I... hate... rats." She said stiffly as her thumb pressed harder into the vermin's skull, and the last pitiful squeak was heard just before the creatures head splattered in her palm like a grape. Looking at the ruined creature in her hands, she cast the creature away. It fell with a wet thud in the dark corner. Dirt-Napp would looked from the distance, he would mourn his brother and someday, he would avenge his brother.
Grabbing her bottles she tucked them in the bag. Removing a single Quik-Heal, or Quik-E, she gave herself an injecting and felt the healing chem work in a flash as her wounds began to heal. Causing accelerated mitosis of the cells which brought about healing but too many would make you hungry and sleepy, right now she felt a bit of lightheadedness and in need of a bed.
"Let's go before more rats jump out of the wood work." Ron suggested, offering her a hand with the gear, but she declined.
Ron smiles, taking the Nuka-cola. He opened it easily with a knife and drank the entire bottle in two swallows. He threw it out one of the windows and followed Edden out of the bar.
"From that last little nibble, I'd say they don't like you either." He looks at the map and laughs. "This inn is a real geographical oddity. It's a half a mile from everything, us and the factory. It's to the east if you want to go."
Edden seemed to agree with the captain. "Fine. Let's go. Lead the way... Cap’n." She turned to look at the old bar. "It was a nice stash den while it lasted. Fuckin' rats." She muttered in contempt. The quickest ways out of town was to follow the eastern block area and traverse through the alleyways to reach outside of Moscow and to find this fabled inn. By now three of the surviving AWU men would find the rest of the Union and begin to work up a posse. Some time wasn’t a luxury.
A warmth bath would be nice. She thought. Grabbing her shotgun, she decided she'd carry it all the way.
"So, let's go. And when we reach the Inn, I play a tune for you on my violin." It was a promise in gold. Charlyn had been itching to play a tune, one of he tunes she heard on a holo-disk that an old ghoul gave her in Denver. The ghoul was very kindly and had taught her many of the extinct sounds long forgotten after the great war. Now she wondered ever became of the ghoul. The ghoul in question was a lanky figure dressed like a man fit for a funeral with his black spaghetti tie.
Ron walks behind her all the way to the Inn, aptly named the Cold Oasis. He opens the double doors and enters, nodding to the man at the front desk. A man in a three piece suit with a stupid looking tie with silly red dots on the material.
"Hey. How's it going? Can we get a-- 'scuse me." Ron began, approaching the desk, fighting his temptation to tap the bell, he noticed Charlyn looked a bit lost.
He turns to Edden. "You do want your own room, right?"
A sign on the wall reads:
ROOMS AVAILABLE--TWENTY DOLLARS A NIGHT, THIRTY WITH SHOWER:
There was an addition to the notice. It was drawn in red paint that one could swear was fresh blood.
NO MUTANTS ALLOWED
**************
The Inn of the Cold Oasis
She reached in her pocket, grabbing a wad of cash and placing it on the table. "One room for me, and one for my handsome friend here. And a shower for me, and well, if he wants one. Separate rooms, no interruptions and makes sure people knock." She gave an extra ten dollars to the Man at the desk.
�Thank you for your generosity, my lady.� The hotel clerk said in a crisp accent of the Midwest. He sounded from the West indeed. He had a bald spot in the middle of his head that would have been fit for a crows nest. Edden could imagine a bird setting up a roost there. Breaking that chain of thought, Charlyn/Edden felt compelled to get to her room.
It was a quaint place, a pre-war inn that was preserved from the horror of the nuclear holocaust that engulfed the continent so many centuries ago. A vending machine caught her eye. Grabbing a coin, she inserted it and pressed the button. A snicker bar was being moved by the coil, the slender chocolate bar sliding forward and dropping down in the bin. With a hand movement as a quick as a cobras strike, she had the bar in her hand. There was also a stock of MREs of vacuum packed meals.
It was preserved by ICE-Tec, a special freezing technology that kept anything tasting good and fresh. Anything. She peeled the plastic rap and picked at it.
Her shotgun was hanging around her waist and the Colt MK4 in its leather holster.
Ron pays money for his room and takes the key. He walks up the stairs towards the room. "Night, Edden. I'll see you in the morning."
He opens the door to the room and shuts it quietly. Edden's room is right next to his. First thing he does is lock and bolt the door. The bolt's a little cheap piece of shit, and so is the lock--one hard kick and the whole thing would fly in.
He removed his shirt and pants, then his underwear, and got into the shower. He let the hot water wash the accumulated dirt off of his body, and made good use of the soap and rag. He looked in the cabinet by the stall and found a bottle of Head & Shoulders. Hot Damn. Even two hundred years and change and you could still find some descent shampoo.
Ten minutes later, he got out of the shower and put on a pair of loose boxer briefs and a sleeveless shirt, both from his knapsack. Laying a knife on the nightstand and the Beretta--safety on--under his pillow, the tortured man fell asleep.
Program running...
Second Scenario... Identity found, humanity lost...
((("The subject is in position. Awaiting advice to pursue."))) The voice halts on the radio awaiting further orders.
A voice speaks, but no one but the figure looking from the shadowy roads could hear.
((("Understood. Observation prerogative activated."))) The man said in response to the mysterious figure behind the radio.
A second figure emerges from the shadows. "What are our orders?" He asked, his voice even and patient. As if he was always in the habit of being formal.
"To observe the subject. Monitor behavior. So far there has been one incident in the town of Moscow. A dispute that ended... rather badly." The first man said.
"I see." He seems to weigh on the words. "The subject is remembering."
"Yes. But Mr. Essex expresses that we follow and not reveal ourselves."
"Understood."
Both men stood in the distance and looked at the Inn. Waiting and pondering.
*******
ColdOasis Inn, Room #6... 23:00...
A key enters the slot, the tumblers meet, a turn of the wrist, the door opens. As Edden enters she sees a small room before her. Not the sort of tight space that would cause a claustrophobic to hyperventilate, but it was still small. Or maybe, Edden just had picky tastes.
It was the latter. She was picky.
A single bed fit for two or four people. Two people would be comfortable. Over that, it was crowded. Edden hated the thought of slumming. The room was also complete with some posters and two paintings. One was a fuzzy painting of some long forgotten rock star she recalls vaguely seeing such portrait sometime ago during her hazy travels.
The bed was enough, clean sheets, two pillows. It was Heaven.
Another feature was the small bathroom complete with toilet, toilet paper, a shower and tub.
A TV was sitting on a table. Whether it worked or not, wasn't much of an issue yet. Three book shelves complete with books and other reading materials. A foot locker and locker were just next to the head of the bed. She opened the foot locker and dropped her bag inside. All her items, belongings and lost memories lay inside that large bag. Sealing the lid, she took her footlocker key and closed it. The key was a skeleton key, could work with almost any locker or foot locker. A key-man back in some one horse town had given her a set when she cleared out some unwanted guests.
Grabbing the handle of the larger locker, she opened it and placed her shotgun inside, leaving it to stand. To her surprise, someone left a small box of .12ga shells, AA Winchester made buckshot. Making a mental note, she made sure she'd take it when the time came to leave.
Grabbing the beige towel, she began to undress. Boots, sox’s, jacket, shirt, panty, bra, it was all gone. She was naked and swathed in a towel.
Reaching to the locker once more, she removed a rectangular strong box and grabbed some scented soap. She had some cleaning to do. The feeling of being grimy ticked Edden badly. A clean woman was a good woman.
She made sure her door was open and grabbing the Colt 10mm, she took that along. Her room door was locked, but in case someone came charging in, they'd get a nasty surprise. Paranoia was a short coming of the lovely Edden. She knew it and accepted it. It had saved her life a couple times.
Turning the handle counter clockwise, warm water began to fill the tub. A couple candles lay about. Taking some matches from the cabinet by the sink she lit them and waited for the tub to fill before she would settle in.
A tune came to mind. Something like the moon light sonata. She had sung that song before with the violin. Dropping the towel.
A sound of water being moved by human flesh could faintly be heard as the sound of a sigh of pleasure escaped through her lips as she set her self in the tube. Her upper torso save her breasts were submerged in the warm water. The sound of relief echoes through the walls as the steamy water began the process of loosening the dirt on her flesh. Her many rings were set aside on a small bench and she rested her head backwards as the heat from the water relaxed her tight limbs.
This was heaven on some scale. The chain of a key was hung around her neck, accompanying the domino piece and tooth. She wasn't sure what the round key was for, but soon she'd find out.
It would all come back to her... eventually.
Grabbing the violin and stick, she began to play the low haunting melody of the Moonlight Sonata. Even Ron in his room could hear the melodic tragedy being played out, and whom ever heard it couldn't help but be moved by tears...
The man's tortured dreams wouldn't stop. He knew the rule--kill yourself in the dream, you wake up. Not the case. In every dream, he died only to have a worse one.
The smell of burning fat was accompanied by a sizzling sound--one of the three obese men in Nightmare company had met up with a super-mutant carrying a flamer. Pork rinds for everybody. A ghoul with a crude saw was ripping hunks off of Caparzo's legs and letting him watch as they were cooked and eaten. The whole time he was in a ditch surrounded by waste and corpses. Sludge, that's what it was. He could feel where the meat hook had gone into the space between the bones in his left lower arm. If he pulled, blood would shoot out. He slipped in and out of consciousness.
The dreams would last for so long tonight...
She played on as if possessed, the cat-gut strings met and clashed and played music that tore at the hearts of all who heard it. One old man was sobbing like a baby at the frenetic playing of Edden. She in her tub, her cut short hair and head tilted forth, tears streaming down her cheeks as she recalls the past... and the song plays on.
The Past
Men and women screaming as rotten things jumped from nowhere and ripped into a young would be merc. She remembers his face well. He was a young lad, handsome, courageous, but also kind and warm hearted. She remembers sharing a cup of coffee with this lad at some palace among others like their kind.
The playing intensifies. Her eyes shut, but the fingers and hands moved along as if possessed. The violin rod dances across the strings of the taught cords and she plays on the tears blinding her to the world.
The past reels on...
The boy was standing back to back with her when the wolf monsters came out of the shadow, as if they were being spawned from the very darkness. His rifle went off and her shotgun blazed death. They were fighting tooth and claw, one not giving up. They were winning.
But it would be short lived. The kid’s antiquated, but powerful dough boy m1 Garande had run out of ammo, she knew because she heard the ammo link pop out with the audible chink. The lad had his throat ripped out as a wolf pounced on him and clenched its teeth on his soft voice box, tearing it out like a ripe piece of fruit. His screams had been the sound of a man drowning on his own blood. He was dead and Edden was screaming as she blasted the wolf's head off clean. Then another figure came and grabbed her by the arm. Same golden eyes and brown skin. He pulled her away from the battlement, his free hand unleashing death on the shadow hounds. They reached the silver gates.
Tears were in his eyes when she faced her 'savior'. His eyes held no warmth, nor did his touch. He saved her life. When the gates slammed shut, She kept looking at the direction of the fallen lad...She could hear the shadow hounds of hell feast on him.
The song ends, and claps erupt from all around the inn. She stops, her hands aching and her eyes full of tears of for a past she can vaguely recall.
There sat in the tub of warm water, was a weapon, a woman with no past... and she wept because she feared she had no future.
Somebody else screamed. Ron caught glimpses--an M-60 firing wildly, laser beams slicing a ghoul into sections, someone's head exploding. Dell Jones, Ron's best friend, running from a huge mutant. Ron ran towards him, hand outstretched. Not fast enough. Dell was impaled through the back, mutant's hand suddenly growing from his chest.
The entire Inn, right after it was done clapping, heard the scream as Ron bolted upright.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
He picked the Beretta up, breathing heavily. There was enough clear, odorless sweat to fill a bucket coming from his forehead. He chuckled weakly. Just a dream, he told himself. Just a dream.
The shell-shocked soldier got up and put his pants on. He didn't feel right now. He tucked three throwing knives into their harness and took the knife with a black, weighted blade. He tucked the Beretta into his pants. He rose and walked towards his door--when he heard a noise from in the hallway. Something scratched on his door.
Shit.
He pulled the Beretta out... then changed his mind. He looked in the closet--instead of a rack, there was a cord to hang your clothes. He tore it out, then ran to the bathroom and got to the sink. He turned the water on as hot as possible, and filled up a small glass full of it.
He put the water glass up above the door frame, and wrapped the cord in a loop under it. The door opened, and the man from the front desk stepped in with a shotgun. He expected the captain to be sleeping in the bed--not standing in the blind spot, smiling.
Ron tugged the cord, and hot water landed in the clerk's eyes because he looked up. He screamed, and Ron hit him square in the Adam's apple, causing him to gag and stumble backwards. He let go of the shotgun, and Spears kicked the front end of it, causing it to flip over. He grabbed the stock and pulled the trigger, blowing the clerk into Edden's bedroom door. No pellets went through his body--none hit anything inside Edden's door.
The captain laughed, spun the shotgun like a toy, and cocked it. The clerk's sightless eyes stared up at nothing. Another clerk with an M4 rushed up the steps--and got blasted. Ron shouted to Edden.
"EDDEN, WAKEY, WAKEY, EGGS AND BAKEY!"
The old man down the hall ran out of his room with a rifle, saw that the clerks were fighting a tenant, and decided to help the clerks. He thought they were on the same side. He raised the old rifle--and Ron put another shotgun shell into his ancient body. Several clerks in plain clothes were running around in the lobby.
NOT ANOTHER AMBUSH!
Gun fire and screams awoke her from her daze. Like a snake coiled for the kill, she sprang out of bed and began to get dressed. Putting on her clothing as before and grabbed her double barrel shotgun, she got dressed.
Her large brahmin hide duffel bag was slung across her back, pistol in one hand, shotgun held in the other.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and her shotgun's barrel slamming against his temple sent him recalling backwards. An unfamiliar hand was treated as a hostile. Nothing more... nothing less.
Ron gave a war cry.
He was in trouble. It was an ambush. They were under attack. Mind focused, Edden inserted herself into the terrible world of battle mode. Opening her door, she blasted tenants and clerks who got in her way. One such man got one barrel of peppered lead and the second man got a double tap with the powerful 10mm to his chest. If one didn’t do the trick, two did.
A thunderous double blast from the widow maker sent a man fly through the air and across the lobby. His chest eviscerated his eyes clouded and dead. She moved along, reloading the shotgun with two more buckshot shells. The wily Edden hadn't forgotten to take the extra shells she had found in the locker room.
Red began to fill her gaze and instead of gunfire and screams, all she could hear was the symphony of a hundred red violins.
TO Be continued...
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Wanna Read more? And please some constructive feed back, no counter instructive critque.
Chronicles of the Red Violin
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Antimeasure
- Strider
- Posts: 744
- Joined: Fri Jan 14, 2005 8:24 pm
I meant micro-stories my bad
