Fallout: Fury Blood

Chapter 131: Sandbox

The blood vessels beneath the skinsands of the land were a watery paradise. Without his mutated gills, Clay-Crawler couldn't imagine travelling through them without drowning. He had found pockets of air and little caverns above the water channels, but spaced too far apart for anyone to survive the swim between.

How had his ancestors survived the journey? Maybe the water levels had been lower hundreds of years ago. Maybe there had been more Bloodchildren back then, drinking all the water, before they started killing each other over it.

The mutant raider swam for days, stopping only in cave pockets to eat his food in waterproof packaging. He drank straight from the waters, knowing his cherub mutation would stave off most of the rads he swallowed.

The subterranean rivers flowed at their own pace, gently carrying his body when he grew too tired to paddle onward. Clay-Crawler was awestruck that all of this was man-made, or at least altered from it's natural formations. He never once got stuck in crevices or had to wriggle through any obstacles. How long had it taken to carve out these channels, with nothing but hand tools? It didn't seem possible.

On some of the passages, his eyes caught glimpses of cave art and engravings, some of warfare, some of scenes depicting peaceful times. They seemed to tell stories, but he couldn't swim against the current long enough to decipher them.

All of it ignited dreams in his head of the rich history of the land, his land. He longed to understand it all, to reconnect with the Red Claws, with his ancestry. But was he only surging toward a suicide mission? Doubts snaked through the waters behind him.

At the end of the third day, he found the first opening back to the surface. Dragging himself over the rocks like an amphibious creature, his legs felt gelatinous and his gills kept gasping for water, even while he sucked up lungfuls of air. The little cave folded out into something of a crevasse, opening to the sky through a craggy, wending climb. The rock face was crawling with Redshade vines. One scratch and he would be as comatose as Deadskull.

"Fuck this," he declared to the indistinct vanilla sky. A warm breeze tumbled in through the crevasse in response. It felt nice on his cool, moisture-wizened skin. "A fire," he said next, just to himself, for his own company. "I must build fire."

So he did. Kindling was provided by the nature around him, and the spark was provided by the striking of iron pyrite he always carried on his person. It took him roughly twenty minutes to nurture, but once the flame was strong, he fed it more and more until he could feed it into the vines.

The fire took to it's prey with reckless greed, spreading up in orange wisps and pouring smoke into the sun. The Redshade flowers squealed as air burned out of them and shrivelled into black ashes. Mesmerized, the raider dedicated the scene of beautiful tragedy to the Apocalypse Demons, hoping it would keep them satiated for the remainder of the day.

He ate and drank his rations, warmed by the fire, and when it burned out, he tried his one hand at climbing up the crevasse.

Upper body strength was not his strong point, not with only one arm, and especially not after days of swimming underwater. As nightfall jumped him, he had made no progress, slipping and falling multiple times. It was impossible.

He really didn't want to go back underwater and find another way out. But it was looking as though that was his only option. Feeling defeated, Clay-Crawler sparked up another fire and jack-knifed his legs into his stomach. At least on the surface, he could sleep by a fire and get some fresh air.

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He woke to something tickling his nose.