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 Into the Pitt pt 2 View next topic
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Goatse Messiah
Goatse Messiah

Joined: 17 Jul 2004
Posts: 5327

PostPosted: Tue Mar 29, 2011 2:55 am Reply with quoteBack to top

Follow up to the story I posted yesterday.


“You got business here?” the guard asked. He and the guard flanking the other side of the gate both clutched well-maintained FN-FAL rifles and clean mark II combat armor.

“Was wondering if I could come in and trade, pick up food and medical supplies if you have any to spare,” Brody said. He stood outside the Leetsdale Industrial Zone, a fenced in area of factories and barracks.

“That’s not how it works. No one gets inside LIZ unless they have food and medical supplies to trade for textile or screen printing. Maybe you can get a nice design across some of those armor plates of yours,” the guard said. The metal-backed ceramic armor plates clipped onto Brody’s thick leather body glove glinted in the rising sun, the light of the March morning catching their frosted edges.

“So you’re not going to help a guy out?” Brody asked. He had plenty of food and supplies – he just always liked having more than he needed.

“Unless a guy needs tiling, carpeting, light bulbs, raw material to make clothes, or a logo stamped on something, no,” the guard said. Brody looked up at the barbed wire-topped ten foot fence, sparing a glance at one of the guard towers anchoring the corner. LIZ had a lot of valuables inside that fence, and the guards that were visible looked professional. There was a distinct lack of heavy artillery – no miniguns, one rocket launcher – and while the guard force looked professional Brody doubted they could stand up to a serious, organized assault.

“I’ll just keep down that road, hungry and thirsty,” Brody said.

“You look well enough fed to me. Keep moving, waste trash,” the guard said.

“Well aren’t you cheery,” Brody said. The guard glared at him.

“Scram, asshole,” the guard said.

“You kiss your mother’s pussy with that mouth?” Brody spat. The guard raised his rifle, aiming it at Brody from the hip. At that distance, the guard’s chances of hitting without proper aim were pretty good.

“One more word out of your fucking mouth you’re going to need those meds you were begging to trade for, you son of a bitch,” the guard said.

“Fine, I’m going,” Brody said, throwing his arms wide as he fought the grin threatening to light up his face. “Hope the flooring business works out for you guys!”

Brody walked down the ruins of Route 65 away from LIZ, hoping the guard he antagonized wouldn’t have second thoughts and put a bullet or three in his back. He had stopped despite the fact he knew he wouldn’t be let in – the intelligence reports before they had been sent on their mission were thorough – but he had a nagging feeling he was being followed since leaving Ambridge. He’d hoped passing so close to LIZ, with the wide open field of view cleared around it for the guards to see approaching danger, and its back to the river, would have flushed his pursuer out. The encounter hadn’t flushed anyone out, which reassured him; he was starting to convince himself that it was all in his imagination when he heard a single, sharp bark of a dog.

According to the modified Pipboy 2000 Color he wore strapped to his wrist, he reached his destination around thirteen hundred hours. He noticed some gunk caked around the raised B.E. stamped underneath the Pipboy logo and poked at it with a gloved finger before sighing and moving forward again.

On a chunk of land that held the rusted remains of playground equipment, an old man was inspecting the moving parts of a see-saw. Its pivot was long frozen, and Brody didn’t know what the geezer was hoping to accomplish.

“Excuse me, sir,” Brody said. The man jumped, then looked him up and down. He seemed completely nonplussed by the pistol, shotgun and cobbled together hunting rifle Brody wore with his junk armor. Either the guy was so important that threatening him would be the last mistake Brody ever made, or the guy had nothing to live for.

“Afternoon,” the man said.

“You, uh, didn’t happen to see some guys in big suits of metal armor come through here, did you?” Brody asked. The ‘metal’ was composite plating, but your average wastelander didn’t know that so he kept it simple.

“Yes I have. Orley’s boys, they the law around here, got themselves some fancy suits about three weeks ago,” the old man said.

“Thanks,” Brody said, fighting off a sneer. He had been expecting the guys he was after to be a criminal gang, not a symbol of order respected by an old man.

“If you need to talk, their station house is down the road apiece. The compound is made up of the old Chryslus dealership and the apartment complex across from it so they can control the bridge, can’t miss it,” the old man offered.

“Talking to them is exactly what I need to do,” Brody said as he walked away. He passed a shattered wooden welcome sign from before the war, which now read
the first two letters of the long words non-existent because the sign ended in a ragged tear of rotting wood.

Across the Wickley bridge, Brody knew, was Cori, then 51 could be taken into Moon and eventually the airport. If he survived Wickley, the airport would be his next logical stop; word was Ashur’s people had taken it over, and it was a hell of a lot closer, and probably safer, than jamming down 65 into downtown Pitt. Of course, if he had a functioning ride he could chance 65, but he shuddered to think how many bridges had crumbled into nothing between Wickley and the Pitt.

As Brody walked to the police station, he felt conflicted. Part of him wanted to forget this, go straight to the airport and make contact with Ashur’s representatives to follow through with the original mission. The other part of him knew he had to resolve this business in Wickley first, even if he was heavily outnumbered – people who stole from the Brotherhood of Steel needed to be made an example of.

His mind was made up as his anger flared at what he saw in the distance. In the Chryslus dealership lot, which contained three vehicles, he saw the Humm-Vee he and his squad had been riding in when they were ambushed. They had replaced the crumpled roll bars and spotlights that had broken when the mine flipped the vehicle over, and had shoddily painted “Wickley P.D.” over the Brotherhood symbol in black spraypaint. As he got closer, he made out an armed man in front of the building wearing combat armor, but on his head was the unmistakable form of the horned power armor helmet emblematic of the midwest Brotherhood of Steel.

It took every fiber of Brody’s being not to drop prone and attempt to take the fucker out with his subpar hunting rifle, but he continued onward as cold logic over-rode his hot anger. The man watched as Brody approached, and finally put up a hand to stop him.

“What can I do you for, stranger?” the cop asked. The power armor helmet he wore was missing the lenses, and he could see the thief’s rheumy brown eyes. The combat armor he wore was also one of the suits stolen from his squad, the Brotherhood insignia present on one pauldron. He had tried to scrape off the name of the previous owner with little success, and Brody saw the suit used to belong to the ghoul McAdams.

Brody wanted to pull his pistol and jam it into one of the gaping eye holes of the helmet; one pull of the trigger would turn it the ruined headgear into a bucket of brains. Instead Brody looked the man in the eyes and said, “I have business with Sheriff Orley.”

“We call Orley captain, not sheriff, but I take the meaning,” the man in McAdam’s armor said. “You go to that apartment building across the street there, check your weapons with the guy at the front desk. The Cap’n’s room is first on your right as you enter.”

“Thanks,” Brody said, then turned to cross the street.

As he entered the apartment complex Brody saw a scruffy black guy behind a reception desk, his skin color several tones darker than Brody’s own.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked. He seemed bored, his demeanor made complacent by years of routine. He wore a leather jacket, puffed up in the peculiar way that meant it was kevlar lined, and Brody was disappointed he wasn’t wearing a suit of Brotherhood armor. His squad had four suits of Brotherhood combat armor and two suits of power armor among them; Brody didn’t intend to leave without recovering them all, in addition to weaponry. He recognized the bullpup Winchester combat shotgun casually lying on the reception desk as the weapon Paladin Lars used to carry, because it had his name scrawled across the black composite butt in white-out.

“I’m here to see Captain Orley,” Brody said.

“Sure. Hand over your guns. I’ll catalog them and you can get them back when you leave. While I do that, sign in here with the time on that clock on the wall,” the receptionist said. Brody dropped the magazine out of his 14mm, checked that there was no round in the chamber, then cleared his bolt action rifle and pump shotgun. He handed the weapons over one at a time and watched as the receptionist, now standing, bent to record the property. Brody picked up the pen to sign in and examined it.

“Hey, I have a question,” Brody said.

“What’s that?” the receptionist said, standing up to look at him. Brody lashed out with one hand, clamping it over the man’s mouth, and jammed the pen into his left eye with the other. Brody leapt the desk as the man stumbled back, keeping his hand over his mouth so his screams were muffled. Brody landed on top of the receptionist, the swivel chair behind the desk crashing to the side, and he made sure to force the man’s head back with enough force to crack his skull off the rotting tile. With his free hand he yanked the bloody pen out of the ruined eye, then shoved it into his jugular. As the life pulsed out of the receptionist’s neck, Brody leaned in.

“My question is, what the fuck did you was going to happen when you fucked with the Brotherhood of Steel?” Brody hissed. The receptionist glared at him with panicked eyes, then the life left his face. Brody rose, reloaded his weapons aside from the shotgun which he’d never liked but used out of necessity, then grabbed Lars’ Winchester. He checked to make sure it was loaded, grabbed the two spare magazines the receptionist had on his belt, then moved out.

Brody stopped outside of Orley’s door and put his ear to it. Through it, he heard faint sounds of flesh slapping and female moaning. He tried the doorknob and found the door to be unlocked, and he slowly pushed it open.

Brody found himself in the living room of an apartment, the sounds of sex coming from a hallway to his left. He drew his combat knife and silently stalked down the hallway. Peering into the bedroom he saw who he assumed to be Orley, back to him as he humped away with some woman’s legs on shoulders. Brody’s eyes scanned the room to a pile of power armor sitting next to the bed, and he grinned.

Footfalls heavy as he darted forward, Brody grabbed a handful of Orley’s gray hair before he could react to the noise. He yanked Orley’s head back, then slashed the serrated edge of his combat knife across his throat, blood jetting to cover the wall and the chick he had been fucking. Brody pushed Orley to the side, who fell to the floor and lay there staring up at Brody as he gurgled to draw in air through his sliced windpipe. Pointing the knife at the terrified, blood-covered woman in the bed, Brody said, “You scream, shout or try to run, you’re next.” Then he turned his attention to Orley.

“I understand you’re the ring leader,” Brody said. Orley’s eyes turned to him in mute appeal.

“Without a doctor, you’re a goner. And while I’ve been trained as a medic I’m not wasting anything on you. You killed Brotherhood of Steel soldiers and stole their equipment,” Brody said. “The Brotherhood’s name might not be worth anything out here, so maybe you don’t have the right cultural background to understand the shit you’ve gotten you and your lackeys into. But where I come from, committing a crime against the Brotherhood is the last fucking thing you do even if you think you’re doing it for noble reasons.”

Brody would have talked more, wanted to, but he had made his point. Besides, Orley was already dead, suffocated with air all around him. He looked at the woman, and noticed she was handcuffed to the headboard.

“Was that consensual?” Brody asked. She nodded, her face a mask of terror. Her teeth were crooked, and she had some kind of hairy tumor jutting from her side. The rest of her wasn’t much to look at either, so Brody didn’t.

“I don’t want to kill anyone who wasn’t involved, even if she’s a kinky mutant bitch” Brody said, picking up the alarm clock next to the bed and setting it. “I’ve set this for an hour. Once it goes off, you can start screaming your fool head off so someone can rescue you. You make a sound louder than a whisper before that, I will end you.”

The woman nodded in agreement and Brody began unhooking his armor plates and throwing them into a pile in the side of the room. When he started slipping out of his leather body suit, the woman’s eyes grew wide in terror.

In nothing but boxer shorts, Brody crossed the room and picked up the recon armor that helped interface with power armor. He slipped it on, then frowned at the fit around the midsection.

“That old fuck stretched it out,” Brody complained as he bent to start sorting out the jumble of armor. In the mess he found another pleasant surprise, the AK-112 assault rifle that had been his pride and joy since he was fifteen.

Once he was back inside of the suit he felt powerful again, the easy confidence of being a Brotherhood Paladin having been robbed of him over the past month. Squaring his shoulders and feeling the strength in the motorized suit around him, he slid the helmet on and sighed when he saw the visor overlays driven by his Pipboy were still functioning.

Orley’s girl stared at him, trembling, as he hunted around for his assault rifle’s magazines. He unloaded his piece of shit hunting rifle and tossed it to the ground like the litter it was.

“You don’t have to say anything, baby,” Brody said as the woman continued to stare. “I know I look better in this than he did.”

He left Orley’s room and strode down the hallway, Winchester City-Killer in his hands.

“Cap’n, we have a problem!” the guard from across the street shouted. He was frantic, and ran towards Brody, unable to tell it wasn’t Orley under the concealing armor. Brody turned to face him, holding the combat shotgun from the front desk, the guard still oblivious.

“Rocko got killed, Cap’n, there’s blood everywhere. Some stranger, black guy about your height, came in asking after you --”

Brody interrupted the guy by tearing the assault carbine out of his hands. Then Brody grabbed a pauldron on the combat armor so his forearm was across the cop’s chest, and slammed him against a wall.

“We need to take stock,” Brody said, jamming the barrel of the shotgun into the cop’s face one-handed while still holding him against the wall. “You’re wearing one of the suits of armor I’m after, and the helmet for another. That leaves three sets of combat armor, the second suit of power armor, a minigun, another assault carbine, an M1 Garand, and various pistols.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m a wraith. I’m the spirit of bloody vengeance that’s come here so the last lesson you learn is to not fuck with me,” Brody said. “Now tell me where the other things I’m after are.”

“You are so dead,” the cop said.

“No. As much as I’d like to keel over sometimes, the universe won’t let me die until I’ve fulfilled my mission. And that mission is to make you sleazebags pay. So I’ll ask again – where are the things I’m looking for?”

“All that shit is being used by our guys,” the cop said. “It’s ours now, we need it to protect our town, and the boys will fucking murder you to ensure the safety of the people.”

“As soon as you and your friends swarmed over the crashed Humm-Vee and stole from the Brotherhood, your lives became forfeit,” Brody said. “Your life isn’t worth much, but I’ll take it.”

The cop opened his mouth to respond, but Brody shoved the shotgun’s barrel into one of the helmet’s eyeholes and pulled the trigger before words could form. Blood erupted from both of the holes, thick and red as the slug smashed the cop’s skull, and Brody let go so the corpse slumped to the floor.

“What the fuck?” a voice shouted from the end of the hallway. Brody turned towards it, and found the location of the second suit of power armor.

And the minigun.

The armored figure hefted the huge rotary cannon as Brody moved back, pumping out two shotgun slugs that harmlessly bounced off his target’s breastplate. The minigun opened up and Brody dived behind the cover of an adjoining hallway. He crawled about a foot then sat up, pushing his back against the wall as the minigun roared. Thumping, rapid impacts got his attention, and he looked up to see the corner where the hallways joined getting chewed and torn away as the minigun blasted it. The wall stopped getting pounded, and there was a series of clicks as the minigun ran out of ammo. Brody heard cursing and the clink of metal, and he knew the guy was reloading.

Brody unslung his AK-112 and darted out into the open. He raised the weapon and hunched forward as he advanced, taking careful aim. The armored figured, his head capped with a ballistic helmet, saw him and began fumbling to reload the minigun faster. Brody fired three armor piercing shots in rapid succession, all three rounds entering the armored guy’s face and stopping inside his head when they cracked against the inside of his helmet. His face contorted, then he fell straight down in a boneless heap.

At the end of the hallway was an emergency exit, and Brody kicked the crash bar before rushing through it. He stopped abruptly, faced by four men with melee weapons. He clicked the rifle’s safety on and dropped it; they were about twenty feet away, too close to engage with a long gun before they would be on him.

He pulled his pistol and looked down the line of them. Two of them wore Brotherhood combat armor, the other two were in junk leather. Two of them had sledge hammers, one a chain, and the other held a baseball bat with spikes driven through it.

The one with the chain and wearing rough black leather leered at him, twisting the chain in his hands. There was a whistling noise and a bullet entered the chain-wielder’s head, and Brody didn’t hear the crack of the rifle until the round exited the man’s head in a gout of blood.

The other three were shocked into inaction, and Brody raised his pistol and fired down the line of them – one bullet to the head, two to the chest, just like he had learned in basic training. He dropped the empty clip out of his 14mm and replaced as he admired his handiwork.

There was another whistle signaling an incoming bullet, and Brody heard a scream of agony behind him. He whirled around to see a guy kneeling in Brotherhood combat armor with an assault carbine on the ground next to him, clutching his knee in agony as the rifle report echoed off of ruined buildings. Brody walked up to the guy and kicked him the face, sprawling him on his back. He then dropped to a knee and ripped off the man’s helmet.

“How many guys are in the Wickley P.D.?” Brody asked, resting the barrel of his pistol against the man’s forehead.

“Fuck you,” the man said through gritted teeth. Brody sighed and pistol whipped him in the forehead, and the guy writhed in a fresh bout of pain.

“I asked you a question,” Brody said.

“Nine,” the guy croaked.

“You bullshitting me?”


“That include Orley?”


“That’s all I needed to know,” Brody said. He pulled the trigger, not even pulling away to avoid the blood splatter. He closed his eyes and breathed heavily, the sniper forgotten. Brody sincerely doubted that the rounds could pierce his armor, and if the shooter wasn’t friendly they wouldn’t have helped him.

The vengeance he was after was finally over. It gave him the closure he needed, and time would heal the psychological and remaining physical wounds of the ambush. His dead had been avenged and the unbreakable will of the Brotherhood had been enforced.

“Took me a little longer to get into position than I wanted, but I’m still glad I could help out,” a woman said from behind Brody. He whirled around, pistol raised, and saw it was the woman from the warehouse the night before.

“What are you doing here?” Brody asked.

“Seriously? Lower the gun, we already went through this song and dance,” Star said.

“Give me one good reason.”

“I killed that one guy, which freaked his buddies out, then I stopped the guy who you just killed from unloading an assault rifle into your back,” Star said.

“Fair enough,” Brody said, holstering his gun. “So, what brings you here?”

“Been following you since Ambridge,” Star said. “Seemed like you had a story and an agenda, I wanted to see what it was.”

“Do you often stalk strangers based on brief Mexican standoffs?” Brody asked.

“Not often,” Star said, smiling. In full light, Brody thought she was on the ragged edge of beautiful, thought that might have been more to do with her doing an impression of a guardian angel. Despite the bags under her eyes she had a heart-shaped face and high cheekbones, and Brody figured there wasn’t anything wrong with her some decent sleep and a good meal couldn’t fix unless the rawhide and thick cloth she was bundled in hid some kind of horror.

“Looks like the natives are getting restless,” Star said, shielding her eyes to look across the street. Her dog, Spaz, sniffed the air and looked too, examining the six men in simple clothes and holding lackluster weapons.

“Wait here, I’ll be right back,” Brody said, disappearing into the apartment complex. He emerged with the minigun and stopped next to Star to slap a new box of ammo into it. The motor cycled up as he depressed the trigger, then the weapon started spitting rounds. He aimed above the heads of the gathering townspeople, and as expected they scattered at the display of firepower.

“I’m going to need you to wait here again,” Brody said, putting the minigun on the ground. He started off towards the car dealership, hopping over the railing enclosing the patio as he did.

Once Brody was at the Humm-Vee he checked it over to make sure it was mechanically sound as best he could. It would run, but the repairs the Wickley P.D. made were amateurish, the new rooftop rollbars and spotlights welded on in a sloppy way that would never hold under stress. The replacement wheel didn’t match the look of the other three, though he supposed the wheels on the Humm-Vee had never been a matching set. Only thing he couldn’t really inspect was the new front axle. Brody had to hope the Wickley P.D. was mechanically competent enough not to kill themselves despite the fact their other decisions didn’t display that competency.

Brody got in and fired up the engine, and grinned as he heard the familiar purr. The gauge said the tank was half-full; he would have to scrounge up some microfusion cells in the next town over. He gunned the engine, driving straight for the patio and crunching the flimsy railing before squealing to a stop. He threw it in reverse and turned the wheel, backing the Humm-Vee up to the apartment complex’s emergency door. Through the armored slats that took the place of a glass windshield, Brody saw Star staring at the vehicle in wide-eyed shock. Brody turned off the engine and opened the door

“Pretty cool, huh?” Brody shouted as he slammed the door shut.

“Uh… yeah,” Star said. “What now?”

“We load up anything with a Brotherhood stamp on it and throw it in the storage compartment,” Brody said, tapping the symbol on his power armor’s pauldron. “We better move quick – those townies aren’t going to be shitting their pants forever.”

He bent over the last guy he had killed, who was barely above five feet tall, and began stripping him of the armor he had stolen. It had been Initiate Paula’s, the sole female in Brody’s squad. If this had been back in Illinois, the corpses of the Wickley P.D. would be hung in crucifixion on Y-shaped racks as a warning to anyone else who would dare oppose the Brotherhood, but Brody didn’t have the time or inclination to teach a lesson no one in the locality would understand.

“This is for you,” Brody said, holding out the stacked armor. The plates were a forest green, with a blue triangle where the bifurcated chestplates met with the silvery bare-metal gorget.

“Yesterday you were suspicious of me, a few minutes ago you were pointing a gun at me, and now you’re shoving high-tech armor at me,” Star said. “What’s the deal?”

“I thought about it. I don’t have any reason to distrust you other than I’m not sure what your exact motives are. But at this point I know you won’t try and steal my shit, so that’s a good start,” Brody said.

“And what makes you think I won’t steal from you?” Star asked.

“Look around. This is what happens to people who steal from me,” Brody said. “Go change into that suit, but don’t turn the helmet on – you’re going to need some training for that, or else it’ll just confuse you.”

“This some kind of plan to get me naked?” Star asked, smirking.

“While that is relevant to my interests, no. I’m going to be loading up gear while you’re doing that,” Brody said. “There’s plenty of empty rooms in there for you to use.”

Fifteen minutes later, Brody had loaded up everything but the second suit of power armor, including the food and chems that had belonged to the Wickley P.D. While he was wrestling the power armor off the corpse Star emerged from a vacant apartment, Spaz on her heels. The helmet was lopsided on her head, black visor down. Brody began laughing.

“This visor makes it dark in here, the helmet looks ridiculous, and I had trouble with the connectors,” Star said, trying to keep her aggravation in check. Brody walked up to her, flipped the visor up, straightened the helmet, and tugged on the pauldrons as he examined the fit.

“Looks like you got everything strapped together right,” Brody said. “Do me a favor and haul those chunks of armor out to the truck while I get the rest of it dismantled.”

Once the Humm-Vee was loaded, Star stared at it.

“What’s on your mind?” Brody asked, moving towards the driver’s side door.

“I’ve never been in a functioning car before,” Star said. “When I was a kid, we would get inside wrecked cars and sit in the driver’s seat, pretending we were in pre-war traffic. Being in an actual car is a childhood dream of mine.”

“Hop in, then,” Brody said, opening the driver’s door. Star opened hers, then motioned for Spaz to get in. He looked up at her, then at the open door, before hopping up on the seat then moving to the rear of the vehicle.

“Let’s see what we have here,” Brody said, rifling through the holotapes in the center console. A couple of the tapes were missing, and he was pissed to see the Queen Greatest Hits was one of them, but at least they’d left him the Credence Clearwater Revival. He selected one of the tapes and jammed it into the player.

“What is that?” Star asked.

“It has Metallica, ZZ Top and Louis Armstrong on it,” Brody said.

“I have no idea what you just said to me,” Star said. Brody laughed and fired up the engine, and a “Kiss to Build a Dream On” blared out of the stereo speakers.
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