Fallout: Fury Blood

Chapter 98: No Man's Delta

The damage was done. The wealthy hollows that ran beneath dead desert Earth were chewed up and burned out, spewing corrupted smoke into the sky like black aroma diffusers. The Bloodlands were crying in flakes of ash, intermittent winds carrying the grey mood over the dried up flood plains. The nuclear airstrike had put a sour note on the conflict for water at No Man's Delta.

The Brotherhood policed the still battlefield in categorical order. Soldiers in full power armor moved about in silence, collecting their fallen brothers and sisters, dragging the bodies of dead tribals, piling the carcasses of specimens. The only sound these soldiers emitted was the constant crackling of their geiger counters, adding industrial tones of anxiety to the air.

The stench of the dead was putrefying the wind. Wounded and irradiated soldiers who hadn't made it far enough from the caves in time were stumbling through the charred sand, some alone, others in groups aiding in keeping each other on their feet. When one fell, all would double back to wrest them back up from the ground. All were making for the medical bunkers and the rushing Scribes, who were harried but eager to tend the needy. Those who were suffering the worst of the radiation burns were airlifted to the awaiting Prydwen.

Clay-Crawler stood in the eerie backdrop of fallout, staring at the back of Elder Maxson's fur collar. It flapped in a sharp gust of irradiated wind. But the man did not stir, standing a rigid statue in the aftermath, staring at the burning craters, black wounds in the vistas of golden sand. A gas mask hung limply in the hand at his side, unheeded.

The raider had watched him stare for what felt like hours. He had found him, followed at a distance, and just watched as the man had found a small piece of interlude from his ardent war delegations. The raider's outrage and heartbreak wanted to storm at him and declare their existence. Declare the man react to his feelings, react to the horror, react to something! Those had been his people down there. Poor souls enslaved down in those caverns, condemned to explicit suffering for a war they would lose no matter who won.

Through the soft haze of radioactive materials in the air, a lone figure emerged from one of the craters. It was red raw, lumbering forward as if compelled by preternatural force. The armor still compounded to the body was of Dark Blood design, and rags of leather hung from the limbs. Or was that rags of skin? It wasn't long before the survivor gave in and collapsed to the smoking ground, twitching it's limbs until it was never to move again.

A Scribe was running toward the motionless Elder, clutching an I.V pack of fluorescent orange fluid in one hand. He proffered them out to Maxson, who waved him off with a curt hand.

The interruption must have shattered him from his ruminations, because not long after, Maxson at last moved. He turned and trudged through the ash and sand with seething strides, a blackness about his gaze that existed not only in color. Clay-Crawler went unnoticed, or ignored. He continued to watch as the Elder flung a summoning gesture of the chin at a stationary Paladin in power armor, not slowing his pace as the Paladin stomped into his tow and then increased step to form up at his shoulder.

"What tidings do your men bring from the South, Paladin-Commander?"

The raider only just caught a metallic sample of Paladin-Commander Cardona's response before they moved out of earshot. "They located a pillaged travelling camp with many dead, Elder. Only, some of those dead were riddled with bullet holes, suggesting-"

Clay-Crawler didn't think much of it. All he could think of was how swiftly the Elder's's focus had moved on from the tragedy at hand and back onto the events further South. It riled the lean muscles that barely gave him worth as a warrior. A confused anger swirled with hurt and a sense of betrayal, as if a blood-bonded brother had taken his hand in mutual respect only to stab him in the back with the other. He grew short of breath, he was ill experienced in controlling such a rotten mish-mash of personal emotions. A sensation built in his chest cavity and he thought it a coming explosion of bravery. A bravery to chase after the Elder and demand answers, demand validation, demand to be heard! His old people dead or dying, his best friend at the mercy of the cherub's kiss, his clan leaders missing and in danger, his motherland at war, his world falling apart. And the Boss-Man had all the power to change his world for better or worse.