Fallout: Rise Of The Burned Man

Chapter X

And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword. [Book of Revelation].

Joshua Graham had watched the attack on Hoover Dam from a look-out point he'd found himself, half a mile away. He'd sat atop the hill for days now, first watching the NCR being cleared out and seeing the river run red with their blood, and then seeing the new red, the crimson red of the Legion beginning to flock the Dam. He saw the shape of the Bull, hanging from the Dam over the body of the NCR General Oliver, who had been nailed to the walls of the Dam by Caesar's men, his lifeless body slumping forward, undignified and pasty. He'd been joined soon enough by captured NCR Rangers, who hadn't so much as shouted in pain as they were nailed to walls of the Dam, their eyes facing west so they could watch the death of their democratic world.

Joshua watched another contingent of prime legionary soldiers running the road to Hoover Dam, their feet walking the way which had been cleared for them through blood. It hadn't been like this when Graham had taken the Dam, he hadn't remembered so much blood and reeking despair. He did not mourn the death of the degenerate, but nor did he feel as though such brutalism was warranted. They were only men after all, and nearly all men were weak.

The Legate is a beast, he thought to himself as he squinted at the goings-on at the Dam through binoculars, and he must be slain by the hand of God.

He raised a canteen of water to his lips, sucking it between his teeth to make a whistling noise as he raised the binoculars to his eyes again, affixed on the road. More men ran up, another fresh group; recruits by the look of them. He supposed that they were perhaps using the Dam as a point to regroup before pressing forward with their onslaught upon New Vegas: an onslaught that was surely quickly coming. He watched them running alongside the river and hummed:

"Oh, sinners, let's go down, down to the river to pray."

The Courier had since left the Dam, walking back the way he'd come with a group of legionaries at his back. Not that he'd need them; who on the road would dare to stand against the infamous Courier of the Mojave now? He was walking the road to New Vegas Graham expected and assumed it was he who'd be leading the attack on New Vegas through Freeside. He'd prayed for Follows-Chalk the previous night and the Lord had promised him that he would be kept safe, so he was assured as he glanced down the road, waiting for the sign of only one. The one he was waiting for.

"The Lord Caesar approaches!" Graham read the lips of a legionary manned at the entrance to Hoover Dam and smiled to himself; letting the binoculars hang free about his neck. He ran his hand over his book of scripture, readying himself and calming the quickening beat of his heart.

"My Lord, I am ready," he said, "I will let your Will be done."

He crossed himself with water taken from the reservoir Dam and began to walk down the sloping path, leading down to the wall of Hoover Dam.

"Medic!" a voice screamed over the din that was Freeside, "I need a fucking medic over here!"

"I am coming!" Follows-Chalk shouted, ducking down over a rattle of return fire from a King's member. He ran across to the screaming man, keeping his head down and clutching a first-aid kit in one hand, his gun in the other.

The battle for Freeside had begun twenty-four hours before, at noon on the previous day. It seemed that the Legion men had been aware of the various resistance efforts planned and the Freesiders had found their tunnels and routes blocked, their safe rooms quickly cut off by Legion troops. Some of the locals had managed to make it out regardless, and a group of them were hiding up at the Wrangler, the current street which was being held down ferociously by a combination of the Kings and the Van Graff's staff. The white coats of the Followers of the Apocalypse and their medics with cream coloured arm bands and the Followers' crest darted from screaming body to screaming body, the corpses threatening to pile on top of one another as the Legion hacked and tore at their defence.

Follows-Chalk had never known war like it.

"Put your hand on that," he said, pressing down on the man's crippled leg and pulling out a roll of bandages. He reached to inject a stimpak, but found there were none left and instead quickly bound the shot wound tightly shut, ignoring the man's screams. He just needed to stop the blood loss.

"Thanks," the King grunted, "I'll cover you, g'on now."

"Take cover!" he heard a voice scream further down the street and he abruptly hit the deck as a frag mine blew a hole in the road next him, the blast scorching part of his face and bringing tears to his eyes. A shriek of pain mingled with a groan, and the cries for a medic started up as the after-effects were felt, the Legion pressing home the advantage at stunning some of the defence.

Follows-Chalk struggled to pull himself to his feet, lights popping in front of his eyes, his ears ringing. A legionary ran past and he shot at the man's legs, crippling the man who fell to the floor. The King shot him in the head as he fell and the legionary's grey matter spattered back onto Freeside's concrete.

"Fucking medic!" a voice groaned, "Doctor, I need a doctor!"

"I'm coming!" Follows-Chalk shouted, pulling himself from the tarmac and finding himself being power-fisted into the dirt by a legionary, only to have the man fall back to the floor with him, as a pile of grey ash. Jean-Baptiste Cutting ran past, taking cover behind a barricade of a burned out car and dragging Follows-Chalk with him.

Follows-Chalk hissed as his elbows were grazed up by the gravel and shattered glass and he crawled along the ground as Jean-Baptiste covered him, making his way to an injured local with a laser pistol. He bound his wound quickly and apologised for his lack of stimpaks before moving to the next twitching body who was also being aided by Arcade Gannon, Jean-Baptiste covering his moves and holding back the torrent of Legion.

"No," Arcade said shortly as the tribal arrived, "Gone."

Follows-Chalk spared a moment to glance over the local's pale face, which was streaked with grime and tears in death. He was a boy, one of the children who Follows-Chalk had seen chasing giant rats through the streets days before.

Abruptly, Arcade's face grew slack as he looked up from the child's corpse, his eyes fixed on the Legion ranks. It took Follows-Chalk but a moment to see what the cause of this was.

The Courier stepped forward, his sniper rifle cradled in his hands as he dispatched a pair of Kings and a local within a bare moment of one another, before reloading and taking out a Followers' medic, allowing a torrent of Legion to pass through. A frag mine was hurled overhead by a King and Legion and Freesider alike hit the floor to hide from the blast which had failed to knock the Courier out.

"No, no, Arcade, no!" Follows-Chalk shouted as he watched the doctor scramble to his feet, not hearing his own words over the ringing in his ears, "What are you doing? No!"

The doctor dropped his first-aid kit and was already pulling his gun from his belt as Follows-Chalk attempted to drag himself to his feet, still woozy from the concussive blast and staggering to the side, clinging to the wall. He watched with dismay as Arcade ran across the battlefield, rolling behind a burned out car just inches from the Legion's frontline up the street.

"Arcade, no-" his voice died in his throat as Arcade stepped out from behind the car, his finger on the trigger of his the .44 magnum he'd been given by a King. He aimed it at the Courier's chest and the Courier snapped his finger shut, blowing a hole in the doctor which knocked him backwards; an explosion of red spilling over the white of his doctor's coat. His eyebrows flipped up surprise then down in annoyance that the Courier had bested him and he groaned, actually attempting to pull himself to his feet once more.

"Arcade Gannon," Follows-Chalk's voice came out as a cracked whisper as he ran across the street, not bothering to duck down and yet somehow not falling prey to the cracks of gunfire and minor explosives around him. He hit the floor behind the car hard, throwing himself forwards onto his stomach and crawling over to his friend's side.

"Arcade," he repeated, his fingers trembling as he clutched his friend's hand. He could see, he was dying before his eyes and still the researcher seemed surprised, feeling his chest as though unsure it was real.

There were no last words for the man of many as he died. In death, Arcade found that he had nothing to say; nothing at all.