Fallout: Fury Blood

Chapter 17: Combat Ready

"Danse."

He felt the radiation deep in his core, the taste of it, the smell, the sound, the burn. In the land of red, it was a presence, something tangible, something sentient. He moved, and it followed. To escape would be to give in to it.

Radioactive dust and red rock gave way to a path he must tread, distant battlecries overpowering the sounds of the battlefield. The roar of vertibirds, the zap of laser discharge, the clashing of metal on metal; all of it he knew. But the dust obscured it.

His boots scuffed through sand as his legs pumped faster, needing to break through the red, and when he did, he knew none of it.

Cloaked men and women collided in a chaotic brawl, reduced to barbaric methods. Machetes severed limbs, knives punctured vital organs, primitive spears stabbed out whole chunks of flesh, even bows sent arrows to pierce from afar. Rocks were thrown, bashed with, hands and fingers gripped and gouged, teeth shredded, feet stomped. The battle grew as his eye extended out in the distance, the vast mass of bodies writhing and tearing through blood and gore for nothing but fury and survival.

"Danse."

He turned. It was her. She was cloaked just like them, face obscured like her figure was in the red glow. He called to her, or tried to, but she was whisked away in the dust.

Her dust left a trail of blood in the sand, burning it black. He followed, right into the heart of the battle, shoving his way through the mangle of the dead and dying, the bloody and baring. The screams were muted to him, the force of their rage unable to touch him, like he was only a ghost passing through. So he passed through like a madman, keeping to that black trail, eyes scouting the skies wrought with thunder and lightning scarring through the red.

Until finally, there she was. On the outskirts of the battle. Waiting.

"Danse."

He cried out her name, but his voice was mute. Staggering closer, he could see blood weeping out from under her hood, like she was crying tears of it. It began to pour heavily, dripping down her jaw and onto the sand, where it sizzled into ash. Then it got even worse, her cloak growing saturated with the redness. The sand surrounding her darkened and hissed in it's burn. He had to tend to the wounds, stop the bleeding, keep her alive.

But the sentient radiation congested into his core, rooting him to the sand, throbbing in his head and crunching in his chest like a heart attack that brought him to his knees. He could feel his skin blistering raw and flaking away into ash. His hands were ash.

Then, she came at him, face shadowed and drowned by blood, a combat knife in her rigid claw. There was blood, screaming, endless, echoing, all around him, a slash of motion and a burst of pain. Then, she was down, in the sand, and the radiation released him.

"Danse."

Her hand was on the knife's handle, the handle on the blade, the blade in her body. She held it firmly in her chest, in her heart, even more blood pumping out to burn the sand black. She should be dead.

Why? Why did she do this to herself? Was the radiation that unbearable? It had told her to kill him, so why couldn't she? Why kill herself? She was a soldier. She was supposed to be strong. Why did she do it?