Fallout: Fury Blood

Chapter 46: Blood War

The cave walls were a bloody mosaic, painted with arcs of fresh crimson or stale in deep maroon, layers of violence encrusting the Earth's skin. The air was thick with the heat and reek of bodies, both living and dead, and carried the ever-echoing hubbub of raiders living underground, too compact for comfort.

The Initiate stumbled his way through the tunnel, bare and blistered feet catching on stray rocks and stabbed by sharp little bastards of stones. He had been walking through the desert for days, and his every limb and muscle were deeply imbedded with the harrowed pleas for rest.

The tunnel would eventually branch into the main cavern, what the raiders here liked to call 'The Big Cave.' Not the most original or inspiring name, but they were a bunch of dumbass savages, after all. The line of slaves ahead of him was blocking a clear view down the tunnel, but through the chinks of their movement he could pick out the details of a mass congregation. The loud ruckus of many raiders definitely gave proof to it.

The small group of slaves were ushered out into the expansive cavern by their guards, shoved through the heaving heat of the crowds, and hustled into an alcove meant only for them. Urine and faeces spilled across the ground at their feet while the guards snapped steel collars around their necks, chaining them to the rock wall like dogs.

After enduring a bout of 'sportive' slaps around the face and head by one of the more eccentric of his guards, who then told him he was due to suck him off tonight-oh, great-the Initiate took in the surrounds with a fusion of awe and fear. Illuminated by fiery torches and lanterns, the cavern was alive like never before. Piling up into two spiralling levels, the upper ledge was brimming with malevolent waves of bared and painted psychopaths, gathered in groups on makeshift or stolen furniture.

Was the entire clan here? It couldn't be, they couldn't afford to amass everyone while the Red Claws were actively raiding the outer encampments and prodding for weak points in perimeters, and the Initiate felt almost certain that the entire clan wouldn't even fit in here. There had to be at least hundreds of them here, though.

Slay and Dark-Drinker must be announcing something big.

Like war.

Hours passed while the swarm thrashed together, waiting on the arrival of all inbound patrols, slave escort parties, or runners who would absorb the spiel of the battle commanders and then run the message back to the other movers and shakers at the smaller outposts. The stifling atmosphere began to grow unbearable, and the fetid stench was thick enough to punch through the smell of human waste in the slave alcoves. It was of the Dark Bloods-pungent sweat and the musk of sex, decayed breath, and the hot tang of oil and blood.

Raiders were impatient, especially the caveman variant, and soon, fist fights broke out over stolen seats, drinks, or from someone accidentally stepping on a foot or groping a claimed sex-slave. Anyone who didn't bother throwing themselves into the brawls hardly took notice, however. It was just usual backdrop.

Just when the Initiate was about to begin plucking the hair from his balding scalp out of chronic anxiety and to rid himself of lice, a voice that both boomed and scratched the eardrums sliced the clamor of the caves.

"Blood Children!" All were in the thrall of the reedy figure that overlooked them from the highest point in the cavern, shrouded by a thick hood and cloak. The Initiate knew who he was. War-Cry. The spokesperson for the battle commanders. The inciter of war. The voice of battle. "Still your bones and heat your blood... for your battle commanders!"