Fallout: Fury Blood

Chapter 49: Idiot Savant

The wind was fresh in his face, cool in his airways and sweet to his senses. Not like it was out in the Blood Lands, hot and dry in the day, cold and sharp in the night.

Be like the wind. Fast and agile and silent and...

No... no, the wind didn't kill things. Not like how he was trying to kill things.

Be like... a gun? Fast and loud and strong... Well, it was the bullet that was fast and strong, but the gun was loud. So he needed to be fast, agile, silent, loud, and strong...

Be like... The Whisper! Be fast and agile and silent, but loud and strong, like... The Dancer!

Yes. Yes! Be like Whisper and Dancer!

Clay-Crawler stalked his prey, prowling through the dry, reedy grasses to get nearer. His prey was a creature he had never encountered before, a big four-legged mammal with two heads, each with long, gnarly horns. He wanted those horns.

The raider had pulled from his reservoir of hunting skills inherited from his Red Claw clan and spent the first day since set loose from the Brotherhood just observing the small herd from afar, gathering knowledge on their movements and behaviors. He knew that they were extremely perceptive and skittish, knew that they were fast and agile, that they opted to flee when faced with danger, but that the males would fight to defend their females and young when offered no other out. Usually, a hunting pack of Red Claws would target the weakest prey, but Clay-Crawler wanted the horns of the male.

Be like Whisper. Be like Dancer.

He swirled his pilfered machete in his hand to flex his wrist and gain a fresh grasp on it's weight and lethality, moving his lithe body through the wilderness on bare, silent feet. The radstag was grazing intermittently, lifting it's two heavily ornamented heads to survey the surroundings for hostiles before stooping back to graze. The raider approached from behind, getting every inch as close as he could before he would inevitably be spotted or heard. Agile and silent.

Like Whisper.

One of the females spotted him first, giving a shrill call that alerted the rest of the small herd. Clay-Crawler burst into attack-mode, pushing off with the balls of his feet, unleashing a loud battlecry to intimidate, rearing his machete above his head. Loud and strong.

Like Dancer.

The herd scattered, and the big male's eyes rolled back to flare it's whites in alarm before they sighted in on the single charging raider. It snorted a gust of rage, braced it's mighty rack forward, and pawed the dirt with it's hoof, returning the intimidation factor.

Hollering with wild bloodlust, Clay-Crawler accepted the challenge and came in range to swipe his machete for the radstag's jugular, but the creature swiped back with twice the strength and speed, it's barbed rack connecting across the raider's vulnerable ribs and lifting him off his feet. Clay-Crawler flailed for a good distance before plummeting through the dirt and rolling to a defeat. Grime was in his mouth, clinging to his tongue, and he spat and licked his palms desperately to rid himself of the taste and grit.

With a smug snort of air, the alpha radstag declared the raider a failure, before galloping after his herd. Clay-Crawler mimicked the snort in annoyance and scrambled back to his feet.

"Not over!" he called after it, fist pumping the air. "Will come back for you, Horny! Cut off horns, take as trophy! Sleep with eye open, Horny!"