Fallout: Fury Blood

Chapter 122: A Manhandled Manservent

The young raider had always liked the acid rain. It made the air smell of sulfur, reminding him of the natural springs dotting the crust of his homeland like hot pustules on the skin of a slave dying from radiation sickness. The spirit people would always warn of the bad omen, that the skies were weeping with the suffering of the Lost Voices, the acid in the raindrops burning with the pain of the apocalypse fires that effused their souls to the Dark Deep. But to Clay-Crawler, it was just some mad demon weather.

All the more Madness to embrace in becoming the Fury Blood.

The innocuous droplets poured off his fancy spaceman suit in steady rivers as he followed the soldier through camp. He had never seen a material quite like it before. It was like a flexible metal, polished and reflective like chrome. He was too busy inspecting his cool outfit to notice his arrival at the command bunker, listless Brotherhood flags on either side of it's entrance wilting in the acid rain. A deep pit was dug into the soil leading down to the opening in the bulkhead. Water was collecting there in a dirty pool, and the soldier was forced to slosh through to reach the hatchway. The tops of his boots were almost completely submerged. A water pump had been installed, but it appeared to be malfunctioning, or corroded by the acid.

Clay-Crawler failed to suppress a giggle inside his gasmask, knowing that someone in the Brotherhood had really fucked up - after all, the current weather was the very reason the bunkers were converted to subterranean designs in the first place.

Even tightly operated clans of mass destruction had their share of idiots.

When the hatch was pushed open, the water careened inside the decontamination chamber. "Argh. Fuck sakes," the soldier complained as he ushered the raider inside with him. "Damned Scribes can't get their shit together and do their fucking jobs. The Elder's gonna be pissed. Heads will roll if this isn't fixed soon."

Clay-Crawler removed his gasmask. The air in the chamber was humid and sticky, just as the air outside. As cool as his outfit was, it was making the sweat squeeze from his pores and congeal on his skin. Raiders of his ilk hated the feel of clothing that trapped in the heat of the body. He splashed his cool shiny boots in the water, wishing he could paddle naked in it. "Used to play in acid rain as kid. Rain fights. Collect as much as we could in bowls, then throw at other kids, or old people."

His laughter wasn't shared by the soldier. "You're a savage bunch, Dragon-Rider. I used to think the common raiders in the wastes were crazy, but you guys blow them out of the water."

Sure enough, the moment the inner hatch cracked open, Elder Maxson's anger was rearing from the central command station for all to witness. "-not good enough! Those vertibird ablative coatings were decommissioned for a reason! I will not have another man die taking unnecessary risks. We just have to accept the terms of our situation and be at the mercy of this infernal weather, as frustrating as it is. And for god's sake, would somebody do something about that damned water pump before it spontaneously combusts and we all find ourselves swimming?"

"Yes sir!"

"Yes, Elder!"

"At once, sir!"

"Sir, yes sir!"

"Now, is there anything else I should be concerned with, or can I have the liberty of enduring my hernia in peace?"

That rare morsel of humor served to take the edge off the tension permeating the bunker. Soldiers and Scribes chuckled in the Elder's favor before bowing back into their work, burying their focus in tightly condensed workstations that were somehow neatly arrayed with terminals, piles of paperwork, clipboards, stationary supplies, coffee cups and water bottles, and random personal effects. Clay-Crawler had never seen such a neat mess before.