Fallout: Connections of Fate

Chapter 7: Crippled

Scorn awoke on the rocky shore of the river. Rubbing his head, he sat up and looked around. Corpses of people who had also been thrown off the bridge lay bloodied on the rocks or floating in the water. His armor had been completely shattered by the explosion and the fall, but it certainly saved his life. He couldn't see his rifle anywhere.
He looked up at the bridge and grunted. He could see tall flames rising on top, and decided to make his way back up. He didn't care much about the other people up there, but he wanted his rifle back. That was his. He picked himself off of the ground and slowly made his way up to the burned mess atop the bridge to take back what was his.
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The man took off his dark leather jacket and hung it on the oak chair. He slumped down into a chair beside a desk covered in caps and knives, removed his eyepatch, and let out a deep sigh. Opening a drawer, he grabbed an old book, the cover stained with dried blood. He turned to about halfway in and began writing.
"Good score yesterday, just got back. Ended up with 13 bodies on our hands, the rest scattered. Blew a big green fuck off the bridge. Had a nice looking rifle, explosion bent it out of shape. Left it behind. Could probably fence most of this stuff to Dave down in Atlanta, but I hate looking at those trees. Need more jet, boys getting antsy about our plan. Long walk and a lot of prep still needed."
The door behind him swung open, and a young man quickly entered.
"Hey boss, I was wondering- Jesus fuck!"
Doc had swung around to face his uninvited guest, and had caught him off guard by not wearing his eyepatch. His intruder was staring deep into the scarred, bloody hole that was his eye. A bullet had taken his sight, and left nothing but a gaping mess in return.
The younger man sputtered and shut his eyes. "Boss, I'm so sorry, I didn't see anything, I swear!"
Doc chuckled, and slowly stood up from his chair. "Don't worry about it, Mike." He walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder, while his other hand made its way to his belt. Mike opened his eyes to meet he scarred hole in his leader's face. Just as he was about to speak, he felt a sharp pain in his stomach. Then another. He looked down to see the jagged edge of Doc's knife plunging into him. Everything went dark.
Doc threw the knife across the room, knelt down, and wiped his crimson stained hand off on Mike's checkered flannel. He sighed and turned back to his chair, screaming. "Nick, get up here and clean this up!"
Sitting back in his chair, he opened the leathery journal once more and scrawled a few more short sentences.
"I miss having a competent crew. Mack was great. Fuck Ty."
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Scorn stepped over the bodies and empty bullet shells that riddled the war torn bridge.  He came across the puny human, Adam, and his bloodied face, which resulted from Scorn's big green fist planting itself in the nose. He didn't seem to be breathing, but Scorn didn't pay much mind to it. His rifle had to be nearby. He glanced around, turning over bodies and brahmin in an effort to find his shiniest weapon. He knew he would not be that far north any time soon, and wouldn't be able to find a replacement. As he lifted an old car door up, he spotted his rifle. Bent at an odd angle, his rifle had broken quite badly.
Scorn grumbled deeply, and turned back to Adam's bloodied corpse. He exhaled strongly, and repeatedly began stomping on his chest. Over and over, his thick foot came down, reducing Adam's ribcage to a red pulp. He turned to kick his head off the bridge, but it ricocheted off the supports and rolled over to a bullet ridden raider, stopping at his foot. Scorn turned and trudged off in the direction of The Hart of Alabama. He was already much later than expected.