Fallout: Rise Of The Burned Man

Chapter V

Here is wisdom. Let he that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is six hundred threescore and six [Book of Revelation]

Follows-Chalk's eyes grew round with excitement. Could it be his Courier? The one who had been to Zion and was now back home, in the Mojave? Could it be the very same? No, it wouldn't be. His Courier had spoken of returning to his Legion and Caesar; there would be no reason for him to show up in the Old Mormon Fort.

He paused, noticing the surly expression on Arcade's face. "You do not like this Courier," he said. "Why is this? Julie Farkas was happy that he had arrived."

"You notice a lot, don't you?" Arcade's face cracked into a smile as he wound a roll of bandages out of the first-aid box. Follows-Chalk noticed they were actual bandages, not the strips of cloth he'd so often used on his own wounds in Zion.

Civilized.

"I notice only what the world shows me," he replied, "I met a Courier once, he was a very good person. He brought peace to my home. Why do you not like this Courier?"

Arcade cut through the bandage, severing it off after just over a metre. He frowned as he did so, pressing his lips together. "First, it's not that I don't like him," he said, "I mean, I don't, but that's not the main issue here. The issue is what he stands for, what he stands by." he pulled a stimpak out of the first aid kit and injected it into the wound, "The Courier is a man of science," he said slowly, thinking the words through as he spoke them, "Like me. We are the same man, he and I, but he chose the Legion. He chose it. He wasn't inducted, as a slave, a tribal, a power-thirsty rapist. He thought about it," he said, "Then he chose. He could have picked anyone."

He began to wrap the papery bandages about the boy's palm. Follows-Chalk watched the face of the man opposite him as the blood ate into the material.

"He could have chosen Mr. House," Arcade said quickly, "He could have chosen the New California Republic. He could have chosen anyone he liked and he chose a nation of slavers, led by a ruthless Machiavellian dictator.Caesar." His hands were balling into fists, "He chose him, he chose the future of the Mojave to be one of oppression," he punctuated his words by tightening the bandage, "Of domination, of cruelty and of persecution. That is what he chose for us."

The light glinted on Arcade's glasses, "Do you want to know what I hope for, when I lie in my bed at night, looking at the canvas over me?" he laughed, "It's not a free New Vegas or peace descending across continental North America, don't worry."

"What do you hope for?" Follows-Chalk asked, studying the man.

"I hope that one day, in a few years' time, when all of this," he gestured about him, "Belongs to Caesar, I hope that the Courier will walk by the lands he handed to the Legion. And I hope that he will see a woman screaming as her child is taken from her. Or an entire tribal village razed to the ground as through the flames they wouldn't submit, wouldn't fall to the Bull. And I hope, that as he walks down crucifixion avenue, with traitors or degenerates lining the pavements and the streets, I hope that he knows and feels guilt. I hope that he sees that all this is him, that he gave the Mojave this crown of subjection and thorns."

He frowned at the look on Follows-Chalk's face, seeming to slip out of his bitter reverie, his voice lightening, "Hmm. Well, maybe I don't hope for all that pain and mountains of corpses. Or a biblical shower of blood coming down on Freeside. But I do hope he understands that this was him. And that it could have been so different and so much better," he tied the bandages tight, tucking the knot under. "There. All done. I hope I haven't depressed you too much."

"Oh, no," Follows-Chalk said, "Your words were fine, even if I didn't understand every one."

Arcade smiled at the youth as he stood, "You tribals are always so polite. I prefer your way of speaking than the way we savages of the Mojave do to one another." He left the tent quickly, leaving the canvas flap open and letting the gloom of twilight creep in.

Follows-Chalk stood also, realising he'd pushed the brim of his hat too far back and the tattoos creeping across his forehead were on show.

He lowered the brim quickly, cursing himself internally for his foolishness. But still, the doctor had seemed to be friendly about it - perhaps the people of the Mojave weren't as wary of travellers as Joshua had said. Perhaps, after Joshua's work was done, he could make a home for himself here.

Joshua! He had to meet him at twenty-one hours! What was the time now? He leapt from the tent to peer up at the sky and relaxed. Good. It was only seven o'clock or so he guessed, and he still had time to gather stimpaks for whatever Joshua needed them for. And perhaps a little more news also, although Arcade had given him a lot. The Courier. Joshua should know about the hell-demon Courier who was ravaging the Mojave. He would have to tell him right away.

Isaac could feel eyes burning into the back of his neck and turned to see a man, his body wholly consumed by bandages apart from a slit from which he could gaze out of. He wore a thin black flak jacket with the words SWAT stamped at either shoulder and his eyes were steady and apathetic, not seeming to blink often enough. The Gun Runner was familiar with the style of customer, and his heart sank a little. This man was a serious buyer.

Isaac looked up from the work bench, pressing a bubble of chewing gum between his lips. It popped with a snap. "Buy all merchandise through the robot," he said, "Don't look at me."

"I look to you because I do not think the robot will have what I need for my request." He said, "I wish to purchase a huge load."

Isaac sighed. He'd guessed right, the man was a big buyer. He spat his gum out and lit a cigarette, observing the man through the veil of smoke. He should be happy at the prospect of such a big buy. But he wasn't; he hatedcustomers like the bandaged man; hated to think they got up to with so many guns and bombs. He didn't have a heavy conscience: it wasn't something that could be afforded in the weapons business, but he still didn't like it when a customer with the same unbroken gaze as the man before him walked by the store and walked away with enough weapons to raze a city to the ground. It gave him the heebie-jeebies.

He passed the cigarette through his lips and exhaled. "What do you need?"

Graham considered the supply courier in the dying light of the day.

"I require as many explosives as you can give me. Payment is not an issue," he tossed the man a dark burlap sack, wrapped about something which didn't jingle like a bag of caps. Isaac frowned, keeping a gun trained on the man as he tugged the sack opened. A glimmer of gold glistened in the fading light of the Mojave sun.

"Gold?" the man asked, almost exclaiming where the heck did you get this? Instead, he shuddered as he thought how many explosives the man could buy with this. Too many; he had given Isaac enough to fund a nuke trade.

"I do not want a nuclear bomb," Graham intoned, "Or a dirty bomb. I require as many high-powered conventional explosives the Gun Runners can find. There is a list in there of all the things they must be. I will return to collect," he glanced at a pre-war watch he had strapped to his wrist, the battery of which he'd replaced more times than he could remember. "At seven o'clock, in two weeks' time."