Fallout: Fury Blood

Chapter 71: By A Camfire On The Trail

The severance of the storm clouds gave permission to the sun to blare down on the desert. Danse was stirred awake by the clatter from beyond his tent walls. He was still covered in yesterday's filth, and took the time to wipe at the sweat on his face and wash at his body with a wet cloth before stuffing his helmet on and poking his head out of the tent flap.

It was a pale yellow morning. The air was dry in the passing of the storm, meaning it was going to be a scorcher of a day. He ducked back inside to dress and suit up. A shirtless man with a helmet on would be an odd sight.

If he was honest with himself, he would much rather just lie in the tent all day and hibernate from reality. The tent could very easily serve as his private sanctum, and memories of the bunker flushed back to him. But then the slim possibility of seeing Kelly, even just glimpsing her, drove him out from his sanctum and into full daylight.

Most of the others were already up and about, loitering around their secluded camp. Dogmeat was the first to greet Danse, trotting over with his ears tucked back and tail fanning between his legs in timid excitement. When Danse bent to pat along his fur, the canine pawed up on him to nose at his helmet, smelling his familiar scent but unable to understand why his face was hidden. Danse murmured quiet words of reassurance until the dog settled down and followed on his heel.

"Morning sunshine," Hancock chimed from the dim campfire. He was armed with a metal rod and was poking at the kindling, encouraging flames to lick up at the pot propped over it. Both Deacon and MacCready were sat nearby, while Preston leaned back against a crate of munitions. All four were sipping at cigarette stubs, pale smoke wafting lazily in the still wind.

"These crates are full of the compensation Paladin Svensson promised us for rescuing Kelly," Preston let Danse know as he neared. "It's a pretty generous stock. Munitions, meds, construction materials. Even a field workbench for weapon and armor modifications. The guy really set us up."

"Svensson is a good man. I served with him a couple times." Danse scoured over the wooden crates and barrels with approval. Were they barrels of beer? Outstanding. They would be needed before this war was through.

"Good to know we got one of the good guys lookin' out for us, then," Hancock said. "The girls are doing some scavving around the outside of the base for any interesting ingredients to add to the breakfast menu. So far, it's squirrel stew with your choice of a side of slightly moldy and irradiated corn or, you guessed it, crispy squirrel on a stick. What's your preference?"

Neither sounded appealing to Danse. He was more curious about who exactly 'the girls' were, since Cait was the only female among them right now. Unless Kelly was back in camp. He stood expectantly at the campfire.

"Don't worry, feel free to take your helmet off and talk your heart out here," the Ghoul said nonchalantly. "Richter has a short-range radio and has the entrance to our little niche under guard so we'll know if the Brotherhood are spying on us. That's what we're calling it, by-the-way. The Niche. Cute, huh? Deacon came up with it."

The spy raised his hand to collect the credit, blowing out a stream of smoke.

"I still like my idea of Butt-Crack Canyon better," MacCready snickered, shrugging in a mock snot.

Danse didn't really care what they were calling their space. He reluctantly reached up to pull his stifling helmet away, breathed in the fresh air, then scanned around. Who was missing? Nick, Cait, and Clay-Crawler. "Where are the others?" he asked.