Old Glory Once Again! (Modern US in Fallout)

[SecretCervix]

Very excited for future updates. I can't wait for more!

 

[Fellow Human]

Looking forward to first contact.

*BOOM*

A clap of thunder. Louder than anything she had ever heard, drowning out all noise. Followed by a heat that was hotter than every campfire she had lit. All of which was followed by a wave that seemed to lift her into the air.

Click to shrink...

Doesn't really matter, just trivia to share: Mythbusters busted the myth of being carried by blast waves. A decent sized explosion couldn't even lift a piece of paper.

 

[Egoist]

Good work hope for more soon

 

[ATP]

Well,raiders would be raiders,even lead by some Legion dude.Yet they would still win the day,if Calvary do not come to save the day.
I hope that both Sandra and most of her gang survive and start making bussiness with old USA.

And,i could not wait for general Monroe reaction to Legion !
Only his later reaction to Enclave would be more funny.

 

[hrepdrep]

This is really good writing! Shame it's stuck in the SFW section where it'll be easily missed, but I can understand why. I'll be following this thread with interest.

 

[t99_2020]

This is really good writing! Shame it's stuck in the SFW section where it'll be easily missed, but I can understand why. I'll be following this thread with interest.

Click to shrink...

Thanks for the compliment!
As much as I want to put it in the NSFW section, I have no experience writing smut, and it would be dishonest of me to put it in the NSFW section.

Besides, Old Glory isn't really a fic that I want to focus on smut. It's a fic that focuses on the experiences and lessons that the US will learn, forcing them to confront the path that it wants to go down, seeing the mirror timeline where everything that could go wrong, did go wrong.

 

[ATP]

Thanks for the compliment!
As much as I want to put it in the NSFW section, I have no experience writing smut, and it would be dishonest of me to put it in the NSFW section.

Besides, Old Glory isn't really a fic that I want to focus on smut. It's a fic that focuses on the experiences and lessons that the US will learn, forcing them to confront the path that it wants to go down, seeing the mirror timeline where everything that could go wrong, did go wrong.

Click to shrink...

No,not everytching go wrong.Imagine TL where China win.Your modern USA soldiers would go to country full of chineese settlers with remnants of local population keep in gulags and their young woman used to breed more chineese.

Mad Max future is alway better then commie future,especially in Mao version.

 

[davelll]

No,not everytching go wrong.Imagine TL where China win.Your modern USA soldiers would go to country full of chineese settlers with remnants of local population keep in gulags and their young woman used to breed more chineese.

Mad Max future is alway better then commie future,especially in Mao version.

Click to shrink...

yup better dead than red!

 

[t99_2020]

While I continue to write the next chapter, here's a small joke that inspired by the RL joke:

You see a bunch of figures down below, and you fire a few shots over the heads. How do you know who you're fighting?

You're fighting the Legion if they charge at you full stop.

You're fighting the NCR if you start getting picked off by sniper fire.

You're fighting the Brotherhood if lasers start to pepper the ground you're near.

You're fighting the Enclave if a vertibird drops PA troops.

But if you don't hear anything for 5 minutes, and then the hill you occupy spontaneously explodes?

You're fighting the Americans.

 

[Kilvanya]

The USA is gonna fucking love PA for how cheap as shit it is for the durability it grants.

 

[Bomberfett343]

The USA is gonna fucking love PA for how cheap as shit it is for the durability it grants.

Click to shrink...

honestly it also lets a trooper substitute a tank in indoors and other inclosed environments which vehicles won't fit, which lets it fill its own selective niche outside the durability and the intimidation factor of seeing a group of guys all built like a refined mk1 ironman with miniguns and other typical mounted guns just swung around like they we're standard guns.

 

[Kilvanya]

Very much expecting a M2 to be modified into a shoulder-fired assault rifle for PA as soon as grunts get ahold of them.

 

[ATP]

The USA is gonna fucking love PA for how cheap as shit it is for the durability it grants.

Click to shrink...

Yes,even if they do not get plans from Brotherhood, they still could reverse engineer it.Althought it take time.

 

[t99_2020]

Thanks to @Ferrum Bellator Warsmith for checking over the first half of this chapter! Now... onto the chapter.

---

THREE WEEKS AFTER EXTERMINATION OF MUTATED WILDLIFE…

Standing in the repurposed office on Level 1, now the Air Force's Drone and Communications Hub, Lieutenant Colonel Lambert of the 11th Attack Squadron stared at the screen for a moment, before hastily grabbing at a specific two-way radio at her waist. All the while, the bandits started their attack.

"Chief Hills?"

"Colonel?" A gruff voice replied back.

"I need you and your men in the air right now! We've got a mass casualty event happening Southwest of the base. I need a platoon on the ground ASAP, alongside any medics we can spare. Brief them while they're in transit."

"Affirmative! Moving out right now!"

Furrowing her eyebrows, Lambert kept her eyes on the screen as she picked up the handset to the portable radio on the desk.

"General Monroe, we've established first contact. It's a bandit attack however. Forces are already en route. "

It didn't take long before the good General uttered a reply.

"I'm on my way to the Communications Hub. Brief me when I get there."

"Yes Sir!"

---

As the ground crews finished the final preparations, Chief Warrant Officer Hills of the 160th Operations Aviation Regiment slammed the fuselage door shut, getting himself seated for takeoff.

When he had been deployed to an alternative reality (and wasn't that a fucking doozy), Hills hadn't anticipated being in the air so quickly.

Especially when he first saw the state of the primary industrial cargo lift. Over a century old, the neglected and partially rusted lift could only lift fifteen tons, and wasn't wide enough to fit most helicopters. About the size of one of those pickle ball courts he used to play back in Philadelphia. Frankly, he was half sure that the thing would collapse on the first test lift.

But they needed air support right now, and well?

The Army Corps of Engineers had managed to make miracles with less. And the 160th needed no Apaches to deal with bandits.

It also helped that the elevator had seemingly had a shelf life of over two centuries, from the reports that he had gotten.

Opening up the throttle, Hills could feel the AH-6 come to life, the helicopter thrumming with vibrations from the rotors.

A constant pull on the collective, as well as steps on the anti-torque pedal, and it wasn't long before the AH-6 'Little Bird' lifted off the ground, away from the refurbished helipad. With a glance, Hills nodded to the air marshal, who gestured Hills to keep moving up.

"Displays are reading right." His copilot, Warrant Officer Bajwa muttered into the intercom. "Radio signal is clear. We're good to go."

"Perfect. Let's not fuck up the first flight here." Hills replied, both him and Bajwa chuckling in private amusement.

It had been fortuitous that several helipads had been constructed near the entrance of what was now dubbed "Fort Ridgway", partially hidden underneath a thin layer of sand. Granted, the elements hadn't been kind to them, with the white paint being barely legible. But they served their purpose well enough.

Glancing back down, Hills could start to see the entirety of the mountain where Fort Ridgway was situated. Across the slope of the mountain, lines of trenches ran through the rocks and sand, a line of barbed wire complementing the first trench.

Spread out across the trenches were several AFVs, from Humvees to LAVs, dug into hull down positions between the trenches. Only a single, narrow path to Fort Ridgway now remained, guarded on both sides at the front by another two AFVs.

A formidable defense, by any measures. And that didn't include the numerous artillery pieces situated on the peak of the mountain, ready to introduce any bad guys to 105 and 155mm shells.

However… that wasn't Hills's focus right now.

Climbing further into the sky, Hills brought the AH-6 to hover in formation with the other two Little Birds, as well as the Black Hawk in the back. Adjusting the knob, Bajwa switched radio frequencies.

"All craft, this is 2-1, check in." Hills spoke into his headset.

"2-2 standing by."

"2-3 standing by."

"This is 3-1. Standing by."

"Right then…" Hills stated. "We got multiple hostiles attacking a convoy. Sixty kilometers, south-southwest, coordinate square 19-20. Keep your eyes peeled for any SAMs or rockets. Just because we're in a nuclear wasteland, doesn't mean we get to be cocky." Hills informed the rest of the formation. "3-1, we'll be covering you when you're on the ground."

"Copy 2-1. Moving on your signal."

"If that's the case, let's move people!"

In a spearhead formation, the AH-6s led the charge, with the Black Hawk in the back. Reaching their maximum speed, the helicopters raced to the battle site, stealth be damned.

---

'Shit shit shit shit!'

Amidst the hail of bullets flying through the air, Crunell could only tuck himself even closer behind the lead brahmin corpse, gripping his laser pistol tightly, two other caravaneers to the right of him. In the distance, the cried pains of brahmin down the other side of the road were drowned out by the aforementioned gunfire.

Fuck this brahmin shit! Fuck the raiders that had decided to set an ambush here! And fuck Marcel for choosing this route! If they got out of this alive, he and Marcel were going to have words!

But right now, he had to save his own skin.

With a brief break in the amount of gunfire, Crunell took a glance over the brahmin, glancing down below before squeezing the trigger. The raider nearly up the hill didn't even have a chance to scream, before the wind blew away the ashes.

"YER GOING TO PAY FOR THAT!"

Subsequently, the meaty thunks emanating from the brahmin corpse increased in frequency, the smell of blood and guts mixing in with the scent of cordite to make an unpleasant odor.

It also didn't account for the eight caravaneers on the ground, either deadly silent, or screaming out to the world, fruitlessly trying to plug up the gaping holes. Crunell had already tuned them out, glancing left and right at the surviving caravaneers.

Wielding an assortment of shotguns, brush rifles, and pistols, they should have been overrun long ago, even with the steep hill the raiders had to climb. The chemmed up raiders hopped on on Jet and Psycho could easily take numerous bullets, while the rest would eventually climb over the top.

That would have been the case, if Marcel hadn't been such a sneaky bastard. Because when one of the Brahmins had collapsed, what came out of the packs was definitely NOT food or water..

With another long spray, another group of raiders, one of which was strong enough to carry a massive sledgehammer, were thrown back, the .308 rounds punching large holes.

"YOU WANNA PLAY, LET'S FUCKING PLAY, YOU PIECES OF SHIT!"

Two brahmins down, Crunell could hear the defiant cries of Krusoe, laying down fire with a machine gun. Some sort of pre-war antique that had been recently refurbished, judging by its state. Evidently, the supplies for Two Sun also included weapons and ammunition. One that Krusoe was using to great effect.

For all of his previous bitching, Krusoe was saving their asses for now.

But that type of fire couldn't last forever. Especially with how frequently Krusoe had to reload, the magazines being pitifully small for a machine gun. Alongside the fact that the damn fool didn't know how to fire in bursts, and that gun would be out of action in no time.

Something had to be done, or the raiders would soon wise up.

And Ol' Nell wasn't going to let some two-bit fiends be the end of his journey.

Firing a few more shots over the brahmin to keep the raiders at bay, Crunell turned to the other two caravaneers. Trent and Karlie were their names, if he remembered correctly. Good news? They were keeping their nerves, staying in cover while waiting for opportunities to shoot. Bad news?

"Ammo?" Crunell asked, a grimace on his weathered face.

"Not good." Trent replied, gesturing to their hand, a few shotgun shells in his hands. "Six shells left."

"Three mags over here."

"Fuck." Crunell cursed, looking through his sack. " A few energy cells over here, but not enough if they do a concentrated push."

"Krusoe there seems to be keeping them at bay." Trent said, taking a moment to take a pot to the right of the brahmin. "So long as they don't get close enough to target him specifically, we can try to see if there's any other weapons that Marcel didn't tell us about."

"That's if we- hold on…" Crunell stopped. "They aren't firing anymore."

Other than the dying moans of the casualties, the raiders having claimed another three lives, the gunfire from the raiders had ceased. No gunfire, no explosions, nothing. If Crunell was a fool, he would have thought that they had retreated back, the caravan having cost too many bodies.

But there was no way in Hell these raiders would back off. Not with the amount of resources they had invested.

So where did these shifty bastards scurry off to?

It was only through years of experience, as well as his good eyes, that Crunell distinguished the figures climbing near the still burning wrecks, ignoring the radiation spewing out.

"Shit! They're coming from the side!" Crunell yelled out. "Krusoe! See if you can get that machine gun pointed over here!"

"Come on, you sons of bitches!" Krusoe yelled out, adjusting his prone body to direct his fire at the raiders coming from where the burning cars were. "I'll show you what happens when you fuck with the Jasha Family!"

And then, before Krusoe could fire, an excited voice yelled out in front of them.

"OL' PAINLESS WANTS SOME FRESH MEAT!" That statement of glee was followed by a soft electrical whirr.

A prelude, giving way to a cacophony of carnage.

*BRRRRT*

In just a few short seconds, the brahmin that Krusoe had been hiding behind was perforated completely, shredding both the brahmin, and Krusoe alike.

Just like that, their one advantage had been completely negated.

As Crunell's body went on autopilot, trying to keep himself scarce from the hose of bullets that seemingly was without end, the panic that had been kept at bay, spilled out, as his shaking hands tried to reload his laser pistol. Out of the corner of his eyes, Trent's facade finally broke, trying to make a run for it, before more bullets bisected the man in two.

An ignominious end, for Ol' Nell, torn apart by raiders that seemed to wield pre-war military weapons. In many other scenarios, this would have been true.

That was… before he heard the buzzing sound coming from behind them.

---

"2-1 to TOC, we're coming up on the site." Hills spoke into the headset, seeing the plumes of black smoke emanating from the site, as the helicopters went over the last mountain.

"Affirmative, 2-1. Be advised that hostiles have access to a minigun. Currently engaged against the convoy, but proceed with extreme caution. Avoid any direct fire on the convoy, we need information."

Hills could only blink his eyes for a moment, processing what he just heard, before responding. "Copy that. 2-1 out."

A minigun, even if it was aged by nearly a century of disuse, was still a fucking minigun. The rockets would cause too much collateral damage, and hovering in the air would simply make them an easier target.

Leaving only one option.

Switching to local frequency, Hills sent his orders.

"2-1 to 2-3. Ensure that 3-1 is cleared for deployment. 2-2, with me!"

With 2-3 breaking off to assist 3-1, Hills and 2-2 maneuvered the helicopters to fly over the asphalt road, following the route the convoy had taken, the plumes in front. On his infrared display, Bajwa could see that many of the bandits had congregated near the wrecks.

"Once we're clear of the convoy, use the rockets against the bandits up ahead." Hills ordered, keeping the AH-6 at medium height.

Not too high, but not too close to the ground.

Perfect for a strafing run.

"Hostiles are reacting." Bajwa muttered, his hands on the trigger. "Weapons ready."

'900… 800… 700… 600 meters…'

"Fire!"

Bajwa squeezed on the trigger.

---

In the midst of the bullet hose that was shredding the caravan to pieces, Crunell wouldn't hear the buzzing sound, not until it was far too late.

One moment the raider was laughing maniacally, hosing down each individual brahmin with a barrage of bullets, any return fire plinking off the metal armor he wore.

The next moment?

Silenced in a heartbeat, as a thunderous roar echoed out, rendering the raider into viscera, blood and shredded guts splattering the already desecrated road.

'What the actual FU-'

A sudden whiplash of emotions ran through Crunell, as he could only gape in shock at the flying objects passing over his head, kicking up enough wind to blow his hat away.

Wordlessly, Crunell could only stare, as he saw the raiders near the wrecks being blown to pieces, their bodies disappearing in a storm of bullets and rockets. In the distance, shots rang out, as the raiders seemingly tried to take down the flying machines, who turned away from the incoming fire on a dime.

'Vertibird. That's what that is. That's what they're called.'

All of a sudden, Crunell felt a chill down his spine, as he recalled the tales that Marcel had told to Sandra. He connected those stories to what he was seeing right now.

These… vertibirds were only targeting the raiders, as he observed them strafing down the last remnants of the raiders, their guns bellowing out in anger, rockets saturating the very ground the raiders were on. Which meant only one thing…

The Enclave wanted them alive.

And he knew that they would not take kindly to a person who stole their "property". By the time they were done with him, he would wish he were dead. A strange feeling overtook his body, as if he couldn't feel the pain of battle anymore.

No… he would deny them their sadistic pleasure.

Before anybody could respond, Crunell placed the laser pistol underneath his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

---

AN: Let me tell you, researching the helicopters that could actually fit onto a fucking industrial lift was a bit of a bitch.

As for the suicide, I always felt that Wastelanders in general are much more prone to commit suicide, as there are MANY creatures and factions in the Wasteland that are more than willing to make you wish for death. Better a painless and quick one, rather than a torturous existence.

Let's see if I can crank out another chapter for the 4th of July!

As always, here's the Song of the Day:


View: https://youtu.be/KNXj4wyE44Y

 

[AlphariusOmegon]

The US Military after seeing a guy kill himself after being rescued: This dimension is one giant mindfuck.

 

[Bomberfett343]

Let's see if I can crank out another chapter for the 4th of July!

Click to shrink...

Hmmmm well I think you've got time, not sure though might be a little tight but I'm sure you can pull through.

 

[ATP]

The US Military after seeing a guy kill himself after being rescued: This dimension is one giant mindfuck.

Click to shrink...

After they discovered,that he killed becouse he thought they are USA army.: This dimension is even more fucked that we thought.

But,it was logical decision,i would kill myself if i thought that Enclave could take me alive,too.

Interesting,who would survive? out of 30, 3 including Marcel and Sandra was taken by blast,10 next killed/injured by bandits,and one committed suicide.
Which leave 6,if they do not kill themselves,too.
Sandra should be only injured,and,let say,that there are 4 other injured among hit by bandits.

So,we should have 5-10 survivors depending on how many more kill themselves.Karlie,for example,after dude nearby kill himself,probably would kill himself,too.

But - injured,like Sandra,could not kill themselves,so they would get their info.After they show proofs,that they are not Enclave.
It would be nice,if they manage to take alive that Legion dude,but - he either die or commit suicide here.

After that - they would probably destroy Legion first,and Enclave later.Maybe use tactical nuke for that?

 

[t99_2020]

First Contact Report
10, May, 202x

Situation:
At 1400 Hours, Lieutenant Colonel Lambert of the 11th Attack Squadron, identified and confirmed an ongoing attack on a civilian convoy by bandits. At time of confirmation, such an attack was deemed a Mass Casualty Event, requiring immediate response.

Responding:
A scrambled flight of the 160th Special Operations Aviations Regiment, alongside a QRF consisting of a single squad of the 75th Ranger Regiment, was initiated and authorized by Lieutenant Colonel Lambert of the 11th Attack Squadron, subsequently approved by General Monroe. Subsequent response was authorized to reinforce QRF, consisting of elements of Trojan Company of the 2nd Chemical Battalion.

Flight Roster:
Four Craft
Three AH-6s
One UH-60 Variant Carrying Quick Response Force

QRF Roster:

1. Staff Sergeant Barnes - Squad Leader
2. Sergeant Kingsley- Second in Command
3. Sergeant Coleman- JTAC
4. Specialist Flores- Grenadier Rifleman
5. Specialist Dyer - Automatic Rifleman
6. Specialist Reginald- Squad Medic
7. Specialist Yang- Attached Medic
8. Specialist Benard - Attached Medic
9. Private First Class Hahn - Rifleman
10. Private First Class Cutler- Rifleman
11. Private First Class Raslow- Rifleman

---

It was no Highway of Death, not by a long shot.

But by God was it a good attempt.

Peering through the binoculars, Staff Sergeant Barnes slightly winced, as their escorting Little Birds did another strafing run, explosions ringing out in the distance, followed by a sound more akin to ripped cloth, than machine gun fire.

His attention directed on the road, the few bandits that were still alive weren't even trying to fight anymore, scattering in all directions. Barnes couldn't blame them, seeing the amount of body parts and viscera coating the road in front of the stopped convoy. One group that was too slow to get off the road simply disappeared, rockets detonating in their midsts.

However, by sheer luck or tenacity, a trickle of survivors, coming individually or in small groups, ran back to the hill that they had originally come down from.

Poor bastards didn't even realize they were walking into a trap.

Scythed down at range, the chaos of war drowned out the fire his men put down on the exposed bandits. One by one, the bandits simply collapsed to the ground, some screaming out to the world, while others shuddered, choking on their own blood. Many were simply silent.

Overall, twelve enemies neutralized, joining their comrades that had been killed by the convoy, with no casualties.

"Cease fire! Cease fire!" Barnes put his binoculars down, the M7s and M250 falling silent. "Coleman! Get a count on inbound hostiles!"

"Yes Sergeant!"

Radio already set up on the ground, Coleman was soon in contact with their escorts, two of which had peeled off from the battleground to deal with any stragglers.

"Thunderclap, this is Yankee Five Charlie!" Coleman stated into the radio, observing the lone helicopter in view, patrolling the surroundings. "Any eyes on hostiles near our position?"

"Negative. No combatants detected in your sector."

"Copy that. Be ready to assist if things get hot."

"Roger, Yankee Five Charlie. Thunderclap Three, out!"

Barnes smiled behind the gas mask for a moment, before frowning at the smoke emanating from the slaughterhouse. The easy part had been completed, with the bandits being neutralized as a threat. What came after however? Well… he needed to make sure there were civvies to save.

With a slight nod, Coleman adjusted the frequency, before handing the radio to Barnes.

"Yankee Six Bravo to TOC, what's the status of the civvies?"

"Not good." Lambert's voice sounded out after a bit of interference. Evidently, even with the retranslator drones, the signal was weak at this distance. "Casualties are estimated to be over half the convoy."

"Damnit." Barnes spat out. Even with their rushed deployment, it had taken the QRF a good fifteen minutes to arrive on the site. Casualties were expected to be high, but it still stung to hear it be confirmed.

"What about the rest?"

"Holding position for now, but they're not daring to peek from behind cover. Whoever they are, you're going to have to calm them down if we're to extract them out. ETA for reinforcements: Twenty mikes."

"Roger, TOC. Keep an eye on them if they try anything."

"Will do, TOC out."

With that, Barnes handed the radio back to Coleman, before gesturing to the rest of the squad to pay attention.

"Well… civvies are going to be shitting their pants, considering this may be the first time they've seen a chopper in their entire lives. We won't be able to do much without getting shot at. Gotta keep them compliant as well before we extract them out. Any ideas, gentlemen?"

"Not sure." Specialist Dyer murmured to the far right, switching out mags for his M250. "They just saw an entire group turn to hamburger meat in the blink of an eye. Going to be mighty jumpy if we threaten them with the chopper."

"We could try to let them process what just happened, allow them time to breathe." Cutler suggested, glancing through the scope of his M7. "Let them cool their heads a bit before we move in."

"Not possible." Specialist Reginald, their medic, shot down that suggestion. Beside Reginald, were two other medics from other squads, embedded in for this mass casualty event. "Longer we wait, the more likely they do something rash, and the more fatalities we get on our hands."

Reginald was right, in that regard. These weren't trained soldiers, but scared post-apocalyptic traders. From their point of view, flying machines that spew death from above was out of the purview of regular survival.

"Fair enough, Doc, but we can't just walk up to them right now. Don't have many options…" Barnes trailed off, before something on the road catched his eyes. In particular, at one of the mutated beasts of burdens, and its cargo.

'Wait a minute…'

"You have an idea, Barnes?" Kingsley asked.

"An idea, Kingsley? No. Plan, yes. Dicey as hell, but a plan nonetheless." Barnes stated, turning to Private First Class Hahn, ordering him to get the megaphone stored on the Black Hawk. While he did that, he picked up the receiver again.

"Thunderclap, I'm going to need you to trust me on what I'm about to do."

"Copy that! Standing by for orders."

"Land somewhere safe. Keep quiet for now, and turn the engines off. "

Conveying the rest of the plan to both Thunderclap Three and Kingsley, Barnes could only hope that the survivors could be reasoned with. Certainly would have a bad impression on the rest of this nuclear hellscape if things went wrong.

For their sake, he sincerely hoped they would listen.

---

Pain.

That was the first thing that came to mind.

As Sandra slowly woke up, blinking her eyes, it felt like a spike had been directly drilled into her skull. Worse than when she had mistakenly drunk from Dad's flask once. Opening her eyes just made the pain even worse, as the world seemed to swirl around her, a mixture of red and orange, dunked in with the all too bright Sun. Finally, a persistent ringing in her ears, blocking out all noise.

'What happened? We were just on the final stretch of the trip…'

The first indication of brahmin shit was when she noticed she was lying on the hard rocks and sands.

In the middle of the scorching Day.

'...Crap.'

Scrambling to get onto her feet, the sudden vertigo didn't do so well with her stomach, as Sandra expelled her lunch out, the acidic aftertaste of dried jerky and water lingering in her throat. Wobbling to the left and right, her foot caught on the body lying next to her.

One whose neck was twisted in the wrong way.

If laying in the sweltering heat had tipped her off, Marcel's corpse was the figurative cazador that indicated things had gone horribly wrong.

'Where is it?! Where is it?!' Sandra thought to herself, hurriedly searching the sands for her hunting rifle, knowing full well that whatever had attacked them, was going to be on her soon. With shaky hands, the furnished wooden stock was a small comfort in the shitshow she was in now.

And as Sandra's vision and hearing cleared up, what she was greeted with wasn't the quiet desert that the caravan had been walking through. Dangerous in its own way, but quiet all the while.

Instead, that same quiet desert had been transformed into a scene out of an Old World place Dad called Hell.

Bodies, everywhere. Blearily looking left to right, it seemed the landscape was littered with the remains of corpses, the sands decorated with viscera and guts. Crimson red as well, as the buckets of blood seeped into the ground. And the smell…

Sandra could only dry heave, as the smell slammed into her, the metallic tang of rusted metal mixing in with the foul stench of shit and piss; remnants of numerous meals being laid out in the blistering Sun.

Sandra wasn't a stranger to death. Her hands had bled by the time she had buried Dad in the dirt, close to the well nearby. The raider corpses had been hefted to the nearby gecko nest, the bodies gone by the next day.

But never had she dealt with such a sheer scale and depravity of… death.

It took her a solid few minutes before she had finished dry heaving, consciously trying to breathe through her mouth. Wiping her mouth with a grimace, Sandra shook her head, directing her attention to the caravan down the hill.

'Right. Ok, Sandra. Get off the ground, and start moving. Salvage whatever we can, and get the fuck outta here.'

Crouching to the ground, Sandra tried to push the feelings of guilt down, as she patted down Marcel, taking care to ignore the wide eyes of dismay on his face. It took her a while but she managed to find a 10mm pistol, some ammunition, one stimpak, and most importantly, the worn-out key for the cap stash.

'He doesn't need it anymore. Would have done the same if it were me.'

Still… it felt like a disservice to the man who had possibly saved her from the explosion. One who had given her the chance to save her family.

Sandra took a moment to close his eyes, before standing up.

Step by step, she passed through the slaughterhouse, scanning the corpses for any movement. She didn't need Mentats to know these were raiders, judging by the crude armor some of them wore. Numerous weapons, ranging from rusty machetes to centuries-old firearms, littered the ground. She didn't dare take any of them. More likely, they would blow up in her face.

"Kill… me."

Pointing her rifle to the road, Sandra couldn't help but shudder.

He looked to be about her age, someone rather young. The only difference was that right now, he didn't have much time left. Especially since his lower part was a good distance away from him, a trail of guts marking the distance he had dragged himself from.

It was a waste of precious ammo. The raider was going to be dead in the next minute or so.

But the screams and moans…

Her hands shaking, she made her decision.

---

Approaching the caravan, the gunshot that sounded out forced her to the ground, the bullet impacting a few feet in front of her.

"Stay back! We're armed!"

While she wasn't close with the rest of the caravan, she did recognize that voice. "For fuck sake, Toledo! It's me, Sandra! Don't shoot!"

For a moment, the caravaneers paused, lowering their weapons slightly.

"Sandra? You're alive?!" Toledo voiced with dismay before shaking his head. "Nevermind that, get over here!"

Passing by the dead brahmin over the sides of the road, she couldn't help notice that the surviving caravaneers seemed to be hiding behind the Brahmin corpses for dear life. Payne silently screamed into a rag, as Mary tried to staunch the bleeding near the torso.

"You're one lucky bastard to have survived that explosion, where's Marcel?"

"Dead. Broke his neck, saving me." Sandra despondently replied, noting that there were only four people she could see still alive. "What about you?"

"Fuck! I was hoping you wouldn't say that." Toledo pursed his lips, before gesturing to the others. "There's only five of us left, six including you. Crunell took the easy way out." Toledo said, pointing to the headless corpse she had passed by. "Was hoping that Marcel would know what to do."

"So why are we hiding behind here? We need to get off the road immediately, see if we can get to Two Sun before any remaining raiders come back."

"We can't!" Vinmo exclaimed, shaking like a Jet junkie. "Not with the flying machines still in play!"

Apparently, Sandra had missed a whole lot while she was knocked out.

"Wait. Wait. Wait. What the fuck are you talking about, Vinmo?" Sandra asked, trying to piece together what was going on. "Toledo?"

"You didn't hear it?!" Toledo spoke with disbelief, as if she was blind. "Them flying machines?! Tore through the raiders like a Deathclaw! It's gone now, but we don't know if it's coming back! I'm not moving till that thing is gone for good!"

Flying machines? Tore through people "like a deathclaw"?

Sandra swore she had heard about this from Marcel, during the first few days of the trip. She wracked her brain for any clues, but her memories came up short. Maybe if she had a few hours for her head to not feel like crap, she could recall what Marcel said.

But before she could say anything else, a loud voice, louder than anything she had heard before, rang out.

"Greetings! My name is Staff Sergeant Barnes. We're here to help you!"

---

AN: Apologies for the long time for the chapter. Several things came up that required my attention, which delayed the chapter.

Thank you to @Ferrum Bellator Warsmith for betaing a lot of the initial chapter out, especially the military stuff!

Song of the Day:
View: https://youtu.be/EpBjgQlT_jA

 

[ATP]

Well,i read rest on SB,and it is interesting and logical.Only question is - if they want remain not known to others,could they afford to keep Sandra alive after she and others say everytching they knew?
I knew,that they promised that,but....

P.S i found something funny on YT:

- YouTube

Profitez des vidéos et de la musique que vous aimez, mettez en ligne des contenus originaux, et partagez-les avec vos amis, vos proches et le monde entier.

www.youtube.com

By the way - interesting,what would modern USA do to get power armours?

 

[t99_2020]

As he spoke out into the megaphone, Barnes had a flashback to his younger years.

During high school, Barnes had been assigned to make a book report, focused on Science Fiction. While he didn't remember the details, the main gist was some sort of analysis on how contemporary authors of the past viewed the future. For that report, he had decided to choose The Time Machine, by H.G. Wells.

What stuck him most, reading the book, was how Wells had depicted humanity far into the future. Shaped by time and influences to such a degree that what came after, couldn't be considered the same species.

While not as severe as the novel, Barnes couldn't help but compare the novel with what he was doing right now.

"Greetings! My name is Staff Sergeant Barnes. We're here to help you!"

Silence seemingly greeted him.

"This is your great plan?" Hahn asked in disbelief, backing down with a glare from Kingsley. All the while, Barnes continued his soft-ball approach.

"We're not here to hurt you! We saw that you were in trouble, and dealt with the bandits to save you! Let me be clear here, our intentions are peaceful!"

"Just leave us alone! You can take anything from the caravan! We don't want trouble!" A voice yelled out in fear. A middle-aged man, with a bit of a Southern twang, if his ears weren't deceiving him.

Two thoughts came to Barnes' mind:

'A caravan. Caravans are for selling goods. There could be an economy here."

'Oh thank God they actually speak English.'

"Sir! We genuinely don't want anything from you!" Barnes' muffled voice emanating behind the gas mask. "As it stands, I'm pretty sure our flying machine is worth more money than every item in that caravan, combined."

The survivors were silent again.

"TOC, what are the survivors doing?"

"Appears that they're conversing with each other. Weapons in hand, but they're not appearing to make a last stand. Shellshock is the most likely factor. Of particular interest is that one of the survivors is bleeding heavily. Wound is being staunched, but further medical treatment will be required for prolonged survival."

There was his avenue of approach.

"Acknowledged. Keep the drones on them and the surrounding areas. Report if they're planning drastic measures. ."

"Will do, Yankee Six Bravo. TOC out."

Five minutes later, the survivors hadn't moved from behind cover, not even attempting to peak their heads over the mutated cows' corpses. Barnes was about to contact TOC again for an update, when the same man asked a question.

"You're not joking?! This isn't a trick?!"

"This is not a trick sir! We've withdrawn our flying machine from the area. That machine was deployed to kill the bandits that were attacking your caravan. We're not here to do any harm. In fact, we're willing to send down a few doctors on hand, to help with the wounded!"

"Y'ALL HAVE DOCTORS?!" A woman's voice exclaimed from behind the carcasses, disbelief and hope emanating. "YA GOTTA HURRY!"

"Don't worry ma'am. We have doctors and plenty of medical supplies on hand." Barnes confirmed, mentally preparing for what he was about to say. Because if there was one aspect of America that could survive the apocalypse, it was this aspect. Speaking slowly, so as to prevent any misunderstandings, he cringed at the sentence leaving his mouth.

"But in order for us to be able to safely administer such treatment, we need you to disarm yourselves. Guns, knives, explosives, anything that can be considered a weapon. If we cannot guarantee the safety of our men, we cannot in good faith move in to help you. "

This time, there were a few hushed, yet dismayed voices coming from his own men.

"This ain't going to work."

"Wouldn't be dumb enough to surrender their weapons in this environment…"

"Should we wait for backup?"

"Everybody, quiet down!" Barnes interrupted the discussions, daring anyone to start up again with a short glare. "No matter how improbable the possibility is, I'm sure as hell not leaving anybody here in a bodybag! We do this the right way, or we don't give them aid at all. Not until Doc and the rest ain't at risk of taking one to the head."

With the men quieted down, Barnes started to play the waiting game. At first, it did seem like Barnes' idea wasn't going to work.

"WE SURE AS SHIT AIN'T GOING TO-" The gruff and weathered man, in stark contrast to the fear from the first, seemed to cut out before he could finish his thoughts. Again, Barnes was left with nothing but the crackles from the fires still emanating up ahead of the road.

"You sure they're going to fold this easily?"

"Honestly Kingsley? Not sure." Barnes murmured back. "But alongside the wounded, I'm betting that most caravans need large amounts of water for the trip. Especially considering how hot it gets during the afternoons."

Barnes pointed to one of the beasts of burden that had gone off the road, visible to all. In contrast to the numerous boxes and goods strapped on the others, this mutated two-headed cow was the only one to carry a large cylindrical container on its back. One which was leaking water at an alarming rate, due to the numerous bullet holes that had been carved out.

"Judging by how wet that sand is now, that's their water supply gone. With their casualties, if the creepy crawlies don't kill them, the dehydration will."

"Gotta admit, it does make sense, even if it's a bit cold."

"It's the truth. Either they continue to lose more people and perish in the desert, or they take a chance that we truly are helping them."

But before Kingsley could respond, Dyer yelled out.

"Movement!"

In an instant, every gun was trained on the figure emerging from behind the carcasses. Swiftly putting up his binoculars, Barnes was able to get a first look at a post-nuclear survivor. And with one glance, all those preconceptions of what survivors would look like were permanently put to rest.

No mutated monstrosity emerged, having three eyes, or bulbous tumors growing from the face. Instead, it was a young woman who wouldn't have looked out of place in the Southwest.

Two braided ponytails flowed down the red, long-sleeved shirt, covered by a brown cowboy hat. Complimenting that, were the pair of weathered blue jeans and brown boots that she also wore. Physically, she didn't look bad either. A thin but tanned face, but nothing to suggest starvation. And while not overtly muscular, the girl had real strength.

Prominently highlighted by the various weapons she carried in her arms.

With slow and steady steps from behind cover, the girl winced and froze for a moment.

"We're not going to shoot. Place the weapons on the ground, and keep a good distance away from the weapons!"

With that encouragement, the girl sidestepped the various bandit corpses, arriving at the edge of the road. Crouching to the ground, she dropped the weapons gently, as well as putting a sack to the side. Opening it up, Barnes could see numerous knives and blades.

"You're doing great! As a precaution, are you certain that these are all the weapons on hand?"

"Yes! Everything is here!" She yelled out.

'Definitely late teens. Jesus.'

Sunshine and rainbows at the endgame. Now, it was a matter of whether or not the survivors were hiding anything else.

"TOC, are there any weapons being held by the survivors in cover?"

For a brief moment, Barnes was afraid to hear what Lambert was about to say. Until she confirmed that the girl was telling the truth.

"Negative. All survivors have relinquished weapons."

"Copy that. Moving in to assist with survivors. Yankee Six Bravo, out."

Hanging up the radio, Barnes addressed the squad.

"Listen up! We have the go-ahead to assist! This is a First Contact scenario. What happens here will dictate all future operations in the area. So be on your best fucking behavior. Hell, treat them like the Goddamn President, if that's what it takes. And remember…" Barnes stressed the last word.

"No mentions of affiliations to the United States. We are the Prometheus Force, nothing more, nothing less." Barnes stated, gesturing to the new patches placed onto the uniforms.

"Any questions?"

---

Sandra couldn't help but shiver.

Was it the explosion, or was it the decision that she had made, Sandra wasn't sure. Since she had been the tie-breaker for whether or not to listen to this Barnes, she had volunteered to honor the deal.

Far as Sandra could see it, if these people had been here to kill them, there was already no chance. The remains of the raiders were proof enough. And while she had heard of raiders trying to trick people into giving up, no raiders would have been so deceptive if they had this much firepower.

Still, it was a bit of relief not to get shot when she had emerged from behind the brahmin.

As the figures got closer and closer, it was apparent to Sandra that whoever these people were?

They were something completely different from raiders.

For one, what they wore seemed to blend in with the surrounding desert, a mixture of tan and brown, with a hint of green mixed in. By the time she realized her eyes weren't playing tricks, they were already halfway across the field.

Second, rather than a chaotic and messy sprint to the caravan, like what most raiders liked to do, these figures marched with purpose, spread out in a specific pattern that she couldn't put a finger on. Guns at the ready, they seemed to sweep the area with an almost machine-like precision, each person supported by the rest.

In fact, if she were to guess, they almost operated like-.

Sandra slapped her face with her palm. Of course they acted like soldiers, because they were soldiers.

But new answers brought forth new questions. Just who were these soldiers? Sandra hadn't heard of any military that was operating in this area. Caesar's Legion tended to wear red, while the rumored NCR was simply too far West to be here. And none of those armies seemed to have such access to the firepower that was unleashed on the raiders up ahead.

For once in her life, Sandra cursed her crappy memory. Marcel definitely had said something about this during the beginning of the trip. But as it was, those days were like a fog, seemingly vanishing from her memory.

But before she could wrack her memories futilely, the first of the soldiers appeared, climbing over the steep hill.

In the markets of Rohead, Sandra had seen a few items that seemed to date back before the Great War. One of the items for sale was something called a gas mask. According to the old lady, it was something that could protect against the elements, such as desert storms or radiation. It was a bit too expensive, about three hundred caps, so she had left it back in Rohead.

Evidently, whoever these soldiers were, such monetary concerns didn't apply to them.

Gas masks adorned the faces of each soldier, the whole of the head being sealed from the outside elements. Aside from height, each soldier couldn't be differentiated from one another, each carrying so many pouches and items on their front. And the weapons…

Sandra may have been a bit of a gun nut, but she couldn't help but feel that Toledo would be boggling at what they carried. Brown in color, there wasn't a hint of rust, or disrepair whatsoever. In fact, they looked brand new, as if they had been made before the Great War.

"Ma'am. Ma'am!"

It was then that Sandra realized that she had kind of dazed off, ogling at the sleek and smooth design of the rifles on hand.

"Yes?" Sandra stared into the eyes of the lead soldier, who was at least a head taller than she was. She noticed that the gas mask revealed the soldier's eyebrows, which were furrowed in concern.

"While I would love to do introductions, your group said there were some severe injuries?"

"Yeah, yeah." Sandra felt like the words were coming out wrong. "Mary was able to staunch the bleeding from Payne, but without further treatment, he's not going to make it to the night."

"Concerning, but I think we can deal with it. Would you mind taking us to them?"

"Su- sure."

It didn't take long for Sandra to guide the soldiers to where the survivors were held up, judging by the muffled screams that Payne was emitting. At the sound of the boots on the pavement, Toledo's head popped up, eye widening at the soldiers. Then, he directed his attention to Sandra.

"You know. I was half expecting Sandra to be dead. So the fact that she's still alive is encouraging. Though I will admit…" Toledo's eyebrows furrowed at the soldiers behind Sandra. "I'm not entirely happy to be meeting the ones who tore an entire raider group to pieces."

"I understand your concerns, but I feel that there are more pressing matters with Payne over there." The soldier pointed to the wounded man in question, whom Mary was holding his hand, looking at the soldiers with fragile hope.

Toledo sighed. "Not sure how you're going to go about this. Not unless you have a stimpa-" Toledo's words were caught in his mouth, as he stared at the syringe that one of the soldiers had pulled out.

"Huh. So that's what they're called." The soldier in question murmured.

"Doc. Get this Payne fellow back up on his feet. Do the usual afterwards."

"Affirmative."

With those orders, the soldier-doctor moved towards Payne, saying a few encouragements to Mary, before plunging the stimpak into the wounded area. Immediately, Payne stopped screaming, as he started to breathe easier.

Blinking rapidly, Toledo was helpful in conveying what Sandra felt.

"Just like that."

"Like what?" The first soldier asked.

"Those stimpaks cost like two hundred caps a pop. And you just used it up without a second thought. Who the hell are you?!"

Attaching his weapon to the front of his chest, Sandra could see the soldier straighten his back, as if he was about to deliver something important.

"I'm Staff Sergeant Barnes." Barnes slapped his shoulder, giving both Sandra and Toledo a look. The image was that of a torch, the three flames burning in unison.

"And we're part of the Prometheus Force."

---

AN: For reference, this is the image that Barnes is referring to, subtracting the blue and white colors for camouflage.

As always, thanks to @Ferrum Bellator Warsmith for looking over the first half!

Song of the Day:


View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQxuvdVg7ZY

 

[t99_2020]

For a moment, Sandra shook her head, wondering if what she was witnessing was just some weird Jet and Psycho trip.

After a shake, no it wasn't. This was actually real.

"There you go." The soldier-doctor, who had called himself Specialist Yang, handed Payne a canteen. "These stimpaks make my job easier, but I'd advise a bit of rest, as well as food and water for the next few days. Other than that, you'll be alright."

"Huh…" Payne smacked his lips. According to Yang, dehydration from stimpaks was a common side effect. "Gotta admit, I didn't really think I would still be alive. So thanks for the save, I owe you one."

"Just doing my job, that's all."

"Brahmin shit! If this is what you call a job…" Payne opened the canteen, before gulping down the fluids. Widening his eyes, Payne chugged down the canteens before gasping for air, staring at Yang. "Is this actually clean water!?"

While the doctor continued to answer the surprised caravanner, Sandra directed her attention to the rest of the soldiers. A few were still scanning the surroundings, with their beautiful crafts of art, as if daring any raider to come out and fight. Most were lifting the supplies from the brahmin, organizing them into a neat pile. Gunshots rang out, finally putting the surviving brahmin out of their misery.

But what was of interest to her, was the conversation that was taking place right next to her. Toledo, having taken charge as the most experienced caravanner, was asked the pressing issue at hand with Barnes.

"I'm sorry if this sounds a bit too early, but how would you like us to treat your fellow deceased?"

"Deceased?" Toledo asked, confused at the new word.

"Dead. We apologize for not getting here sooner. It's possible that we could have saved more lives."

"Bah." Toledo brushed the statement off. "You don't have to apologize for that. Most raider attacks don't leave many survivors. And let me tell you, you're better off dead than if you're taken alive."

Toledo shuddered for a moment in disgust. "That's a fate I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. So the fact that we're still breathing and free, is something that we can never pay back. As for them?"

Toledo sighed, looking at the black bags laid out on the ground, as another body was stuffed into another bag by a pair of soldiers. "You're definitely new to these parts, cause out here? You're lucky if you get a dugged grave. We just see what stuff they have on them, and leave them for the critters. They would have done the same for us."

"I see." Barnes neutrally stated. "So what's your group's decision?"

Toledo glanced at Sandra and the others in earshot.

"Leave em'. Ain't that much space in those flying machines." Vinmo stated, shrugging his shoulders. "Unless you got some other fancy machines out there, we aren't moving anywhere."

"Makes sense, if a bit crude." Sandra tried to keep her emotions in check as she spoke. While Marcel was supposed to be her boss, she couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. The man had allowed her to get settled into the caravan life. Strict but fair, it felt like a disservice for him to be struck down so unceremoniously.

Especially since he had potentially saved her life.

"And even if you did have more of those… helicopters," Payne pronounced the strange word slowly. "How are we even supposed to get to Two-Sun in this state? Over half the caravan's dead, and those goods are going to be impossible to carry."

"Well, you've heard them." Toledo said to Barnes. "If we want to get to Two-Sun, and salvage this caravan, we're going to have to leave the bodies."

"Actually… we may not have to."

"Wha- what do you mean?" Mary cautiously asked, seemingly connected to the waist with Payne. Evidently, a near-death experience had made the couple's bond even stronger.

"Well, we actually do have more vehicles in storage. In fact, there's a few… cars that are on their way here."

"Cars, you mean like the ones before the War?!" Vinmoe exclaimed, pointing to the dying flames emitting from the wrecks up ahead. "Actual working cars?!"

"That's the closest term that I can describe them. And yes, they do work."

In contrast to the wonder in Vinmoe's eyes, Toledo creased his eyebrows in concern. "And what do you plan to do with these… cars? Cause while we're glad for your help, let's just say that there are many raider groups out there that'll slit your throat when you're sleeping."

Barnes put up his hands, his eyes widening behind the gas mask. "Nothing like that Mr. Toledo-.

"Eh.. don't call me that. Makes me feel like one of them nasty bigwigs."

"As I've stated earlier, the Prometheus Force is not your enemy. The cars are there to give you options. In fact, these options will be helpful in completing this caravan contract you have."

For a moment, Toledo was silent.

"...Continue."

"There's two options that are open to us." Barnes put two of his fingers up, clad in black gloves that seemed to shine in the Sun. "One, when the cars get here, we load up all of the supplies and proceed down to Two-Sun. No harm, no fuss. You complete the contract, and we'll cover you all the way there."

"Seems reasonable. What's the second option?"

"When we load up, we can proceed back to our base. Now before you get worried…" Barnes stressed his words, stopping what Vinmoe and Mary were about to say.

"The base can act as a sort of rest stop. We'll provide you with food, water, shelter, medicine, and anything you need. Get you back on your feet, so to say. In about a week's time, the caravan can arrive in Two-Sun, just like option one."

"And what do you get out of this?" Toledo skeptically asked. "Sure ain't ever heard of a group that's willing to provide supplies for free. Not a single one."

"Well, there is one thing that we'd like to obtain."

Sandra couldn't help but hold her breath at that sentence. What did these soldiers want, when they had so much overall? They certainly didn't need weapons nor money, considering the carnage they had inflicted on the raiders.

Sandra was prepared to hear a dizzying amount of demands that these soldiers wanted.

What she wasn't expecting was a simple request.

"Information." Barnes stated casually. "Like you said, we are new to these parts, so the Prometheus Force is more than willing to pay for information. Locations, figures, advice? Good info will be rewarded. For instance…"

Barnes hefted his backpack to the ground, opening it up, before his hands grabbed onto an item, pulling it out.

Sandra wasn't sure what it was at first. Brown in color, the package wasn't made out of a material that Sandra was familiar with. Certainly not leather by how shiny it was. Luckily, she had been taught by her mother on how to read, as she could recognize the few words etched onto the front:

MRE
Meal, Ready-to-Eat, Individual

MENU 14
Mexican Style Rice and Bean Bowl

"This right here, is an MRE." Barnes pointed to the package. "You need a meal for when you're on the move? This will keep you full for the rest of the day. Beauty of these MREs is that they last for a while. I guarantee you that if you don't open the package up, they will stay good for the next few years. In this Wasteland, I don't need to tell you that these are going to fetch a hefty price."

Sandra didn't need to look to know that the remaining caravanners were suddenly now interested in what Barnes had to say, herself included.

"If you decide to choose option two, payment of crates of MREs is something that is on the table. So…"

"What's your choice?"

A brief huddle, and a brief conversation.

That was all it took before Sandra and the others made their decision. Caps were the way for the Connor family to survive. And well?

Sandra knew when there was an opportunity to make caps.

As well as sate that oh-so deadly curiosity she had about these soldiers.

---

It took a good few hours, but when the supporting convoy left, the ruined caravan had been picked over completely. Crates, bundles, anything of value had been carried over to the Black Hawk, ready for delivery back to base.

In short, the road that had been the site of carnage, was once again silent, the sun setting over the quiet desert.

That was, until the sound of engines filled the air.

The five JLTVs that emerged onto the road stopped, their occupants stepping out, weapons drawn. Overkill with the various weapons attached to the JLTVs, ranging from M2 Brownings, to M230 Chain Guns.

But as far as Agent Knight was concerned, one could never be too careful. Especially in such... foreign conditions.

"Remember, the eggheads want samples." Agent Knight said, ignoring the stuffy conditions of the CBRN gear he had on. "Blood samples, dental work, anything of that nature. Get them into the freezers quickly, because they've been rotting in the Sun for a while now. However, priority is to be given to relatively intact bodies. Place them in the ambulance."

"What about live ones?" One operator asked dispassionately, scanning the area for movement. "Could easily pull back to see if there's anything worth taking."

While the day's events had made time a concern, their veil of secrecy was the Prometheus Expedition's greatest weapon currently. Without access to the heavier equipment, Knight knew that Monroe's forces were in a vulnerable state.

And as it stood, interrogations wouldn't be happening in the near future. Not until Fort Ridgway was completely renovated up to modern standards.

So, Knight uttered two words.

"No witnesses."

---

AN: Trying to get a more stable upload schedule, so this is a bit shorter than I would like. Next chapter should be larger.

There's one thing to note, the MRE has been completely stripped of anything related to the US government. Those words, are the only words.

Song of the Day:


View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CX45pYvxDiA&list=PLD3MboLuMLE1nFTc1bFj3Sz2g6FhBdVKB&index=63

 

[t99_2020]

"RISE AND SHINE!" An electronic voice yelled out amidst Reveille blaring out for all to hear. "GET UP! GET UP! GET UP! TURN THE LIGHTS ON! ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL DAY IN UNCLE SAM'S ARMY, AND I SURE AIN'T LETTING YOU SORRY MAGGOTS RUIN IT!"

Amidst the scrambling for uniforms and groans from the rapidly awake soldiers of Fifth Platoon, Private First Class Sullivan of the 2nd Chemical Battalion couldn't help but wonder:

Who the fuck thought it was a great idea to let the unstable robots have the job to act as if they were drill sergeants from Basic?

Of course, the brass said it was something about getting accustomed to the strange bullshit that was going to be here. Amidst the killer robots and zombies, it was clear that this "dimension" wasn't going to be filled with hajis or Russians. Instead, it was going to be stuff that came straight out of B-movies from the 1950s.

Better they got surprised by the friendly tin cans that didn't have weapons, rather than the hostile ones that did outside.

Still, the novelty of the robotic drill sergeant had gotten old real quick. And while the remaining bots had impressive hearing, it didn't stop the nicknames from spreading like the plague.

Quickly putting on his boots, Sullivan glanced at his watch, which was now adjusted to this world's time. The trundle of new arrivals into the barracks, beelining for their bunks, confirmed his suspicions.

'4 AM. Shift in two hours .'

---

Sullivan had to admit, if there was one upside to this whole secret operation, it had to be how the portal had been located near Nellis.

Which meant food that tasted like, well… food.

His plate loaded up with Texas Hash, Italian Roasted Vegetable Mix, Scrambled Eggs covered in hot sauce, and an apple, Sullivan navigated through the mess hall.

A dreary color scheme of black and silver steel, the mess hall couldn't really be distinguished from the other sections of the bunker, apart from the small opening in the wall on the far side of the mess hall, where food was being served. Aside from where sunshine shone, the only lighting available were the dim ceiling lights that barely illuminated the room.

There were once those 13-starred US Flags that had been draped across the four walls, but those had been taken down, for health and safety reasons. Leaving behind a hall that had no soul, no proud history of the soldiers who had once occupied this bunker. Just a cold interior that felt more akin to a prison.

Combined with the fact that he knew that the whole facility had once been a mass grave, Sullivan couldn't help feeling a sense of unease and dread when inside the bunker.

Still, that dread and unease had been balanced out by the lively commotion that now filled the air. It had taken a good week to get the equipment into place, and Sullivan had seen the almost constant flow of crates that had to be placed in the refurbished freezers, but the mess hall had been a welcome change of pace from the MREs that they had been forced to eat here.

For now, it was quite empty, only a third of the hall being occupied by Fifth Platoon. Which meant that it was relatively easy to find where his unit was.

"There you are!" Eli Reed exclaimed, gesturing Sullivan to the table. A stocky man from Kansas, Reed was somewhat of a wiseass, quips and sarcasm being the norm when around him. Still, he was the closest friend Sullivan had in the unit, and while he could rely on the entire fire team, Reed was the one he trusted the most to have his back.

"What took you so long hogging all that food?"

"Oh you know, just trying to make sure that I'm full when we're out in the middle of a nuclear wasteland." Sullivan replied, rolling his eyes. "Not sure how tasty radiation is."

"Fair enough, but you gotta try the gourmet bugs out there." Reed started to spin his unique type of bullshit. "Certainly has a spicy taste, if rumors are to be believed…"

"Ok Reed." Myers, the resident grenadier, interrupted, seeing where this conversation was going. "We get it. This shift is going to be boring as hell. Sure won't be like the first week."

"That's what you say. After all, it's not like we're going to be cooking in the Sun, waiting for the sweet release of death."

"Bit harsh to name Fort Ridgway like that." Clayton, a soft-spoken man from Virginia, said. "Especially when this is our only refuge from the outside world."

"Well, it's a crappy home, I'll tell you that."

As Reed and the others started to go off on a tangent, Sullivan just rolled his eyes, digging into the food in front of him. Even if it was annoying at times, the banter between Sullivan and the others was so much better than the subdued mood when the team had first eaten here.

While the fumigation teams had come before them, cleaning the rooms of their previous occupants, items slipped through the cracks, so to say.

Such as the heart-shaped locket wedged between one of the bed frames that Sullivan had discovered. The silver color had long been tarnished by age, but what remained inside still was pristine. A black and white picture of a beautiful woman, proudly smiling in her Sunday's best, Sophia written on the side. Her face, frozen in time, unaware of the horrors of nuclear devastation.

Even Reed was quiet when he had brought the locket up to Sergeant Ingram. A reminder that the undead feral zombies that had roamed these halls, were once proud members of the United States Army, ready to defend their country from threats, foreign and domestic.

It was no wonder why many of the men had found it disconcerting that they were occupying quarters of long dead men, whose blood and guts had recently been cleaned off.

So, Sullivan was glad that Reed was able to keep the fire team's spirit up. Enough for them to make peace with the gruesome discoveries this world had in store for them.

"Still… it's going to be a bitch and a half to keep ourselves sane for this duration." Reed said, biting into a bagel. "No Wi-Fi, no cell phones, no PCs, nothing. All because they don't want this leaking out to the civvies. I mean, even if you do leak it…" Reed gestured to the hall they were in. "Who the hell is going to believe you? May as well storm Area 51, for the sake of it."

"Fair. But rules are rules, and well, you never know." Falls, their automatic rifleman, said, eating a bit of his hash. "Weirder shit has already happened, and I think the brass aren't taking chances."

"But that still leaves us stir crazy. I sure ain't playing poker again, not after that BS streak." Reed stated, eyebrows furrowed at Clayton, who simply just shrugged his shoulders.

"Actually, speaking on the subject of entertainment, I think I got something from Lewis a few days back that may break the boredom." Myers stated, a stupid grin on his face as he pulled out a book from his pack. One depicting a great battle between Two Demigods, Guilliman clashing with Mortarion.

WARHAMMER 40,000

IN THE GRIM DARKNESS OF THE FAR FUTURE THERE IS ONLY WAR

CORE BOOK

"No fucking way…"

"Wha- how long has he had that?!"

"You've got to be kidding me." Clayton spoke in a deadpan tone. "Do we even have dice?"

"Not yet." Myers stated. "Which is why I'm tasking you jackasses to find any dice from the other squads. Lewis is expecting this back in two weeks, so get to it when we have the time."

It was then the loud whistle interrupted all conversation.

"Alright! Two minutes!" Lieutenant Pazosky sounded out, the soldiers starting to pack up, several shoving the last bits of food into their mouths. "Report to the main gate at 0600 hours. You all have an hour to shit or shave, cause we aren't coming back until the next shift arrives."

"Well, we can always talk about this later." Myers said, before turning his head to Clayton. "Sooner or later, I will teach you how to play."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I have a few books that I want to catch up on."

"One day, Clayton. One day…" Myers replied, hefting Clayton to his feet.

Stomachs full of food, Sullivan and the others left the mess hall, dropping the dishes at the entrance of the mess hall.

Now, it was time for a world of sweat and pain, standing guard in a Nuclear Wasteland.

What fun.

---

AN: Not sure how accurate this is, but the vibes I want to convey is that of established boredom.

Song of the Day:


View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=It7MrzMzMQ8

 

[t99_2020]

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we are now in possession of a Pandora's Box that will either secure American Hegemony for the next century, or will plunge us into the Third World War. May God have mercy on our souls."

• The President, addressing the Inner Circle after brief presentation of potential of Fusion Cores

---

Standing in front of the massive cog-wheeled blast door, Sullivan had to admit no matter how shitty this US became?

The stuff they built was built to last.

"Good luck out there!" The gate operator exclaimed, before pulling the switch, drowning out any response, as the century old alarms started to blare out. Sullivan swore the little shit was doing it on purpose. Perhaps to stave off the boredom at the console.

The massive cog-shaped blast door, as always, screeched like a bat out of Hell, as it moved against its frame, sliding to the right. Thereby revealing the gray and silver chamber that led to the actual blast door. A two-layered solution, in case the primary blast door was compromised, according to the researchers.

Coincidentally, it served as the perfect decontamination site.

Stationed on both sides of the metal chamber were massive water tanks, filled to the brim with a water-boron mixture, each connected to the various tent showers set up. Next to the showers were vacuums, ready to clean up after every return excursion.

In addition to the various Chemical Corps teams, several eggheads, clad in white CBRN gear, roamed the hall, pens scribbling on the notepads they carried. Another fresh team had accompanied the platoon, carrying containers filled with replacement clothing and potassium iodide pills.

All in all, a slow and controlled process, ensuring that Sullivan and his squadmates weren't going to be puking their guts out from radiation poisoning. Even if there hadn't been any traces of radiation detected in the immediate surroundings.

Bit bullshit, but the brass weren't taking any chances, which Sullivan could appreciate the sentiment somewhat. Still didn't make guarding the sappers any easier, especially in a radioactive desert, either too hot or too cold, depending on the shift.

With the secondary door firmly closed, the main blast door opened up to the world outside, the rising sun drenching the world in a hue of red and orange. Several of the men covered their faces, their eyes not used to sudden sunlight.

"Alright then!" Pazosky addressed the platoon at the front. "You all know the drill by now. We'll be switching between guard duty and construction. Anything remote or strange, call it in. Water bladders will have to last for the entire shift. Long as none of you chucklefucks think Mountain Dew is water, we'll be back in time for chow. Now then…"

"Any last questions?"

---

"MOVE IT! MOVE IT!"

The empty silence, prominent in the desert beforehand, had given way to the sounds of construction.

Caterpillar excavators dug through the adobe rocks and dirt, while loaders carried the earth away, ready for disposal.

Nearby, where the locations had been fully prepared, teams of sappers, alongside elements of Fifth Platoon, scurried about like ants, working round the clock to build up the fortifications. Planks replaced the ground, while sandbags were positioned at the front, barbed wire stationed to disway would-be invaders.

All the while, Sullivan and the rest of the squad continued to look over the entire operation from one of the hills. Officially, guard duty was to ensure the work teams weren't ambushed by incoming hostiles, whether it be some mutated beast or some killer robot.

But in the two weeks Sullivan had been outside, there hadn't been a single incident. Well, besides the mutated wasps, Fifth Platoon not having the privilege of being in that battle.

All of which lead to a sense of, well…

Monotony.

All that initial excitement of being in a completely different dimension, in a top-secret mission that few knew about, had given way back to the experiences of just standing around, waiting for something to happen. Just like in Afghanistan, Iraq…

Or being stationed in the Middle East, in general.

Which meant that when Reed tapped his shoulder, Sullivan knew that it would break the boredom somewhat.

"So, would you rather have a sexbot, or a robot butler?"

…

Of course, this was Reed he was talking about.

"We've already had this conversation multiple times. I'm still not budging."

"Oh come on!" Reed exclaimed, his voice being drowned out by earth-moving vehicles. "Think of the possibilities!"

"Yeah, and I'd rather not have my dick snapped in half, because the bot decided to malfunction."

"Alright then, smartass. Make your case for the butler."

"Fine. I'll play along." Sullivan replied back, rolling his eyes. "You get a robot butler? Your schedule just got a whole lot easier. Cleaning the dishes, prepping meals, washing the car, mowing the lawn. You name it, it probably will be able to do it. Less time needed for chores, and more time to do what you want. And most importantly…"

"What? Spit it out, I don't got all day."

"No need to pay their salary. I mean, what does a robot need money for, repairs?" Sullivan snorted in amusement, the image of one of those Gutsies trying to fix itself coming to mind. "All the benefits of an actual butler, without any of the costs."

Reed remained silent, processing what Sullivan just said. While he couldn't see his face, Sullivan knew silence meant only one thing for Reed.

"Jesus Christ, you just realized that?!"

"... Fuck you."

"Ah, same to you as well." Sullivan said with a shiteating grin on his face, as he won this little game of theirs.

Whatever happened in this nuclear hellscape, he could alway count on Reed to make the hours go by.

---

In the shade of the parked bulldozer, on break, Sullivan sipped from his water bladder. Helping the sappers, in this weather, was exhausting, to say the least.

But looking down from atop the hill, the results were hard to deny.

In the eight hours since their shift began, a good four miles had been transformed into a network of trenches, more akin to something from the First World War. Front line trenches led back to numerous support and reserve trenches. Parapets, towering high with sandbags, protected the front, while parados shielded the back from artillery fire.

And of course, enough firepower to protect it all.

The concrete pillboxes would need some time to be set up, but the newly formed MG nests, firebays, and sniper posts were easy to distinguish, the number of sandbags prominent amongst those positions. By next week, this would be the most heavily fortified region on this Earth.

"So, where do you think we are?"

Sullivan turned towards Clayton, his musings interrupted.

"Well, we're in some prime real estate over here, if you ignore the radiation filled sk-"

"I'm being serious here, Reed. It's clear we're still in the US. Just not the right one."

"Well, if you want an actual answer," Falls started, putting his hand up to his chin. "I'd reckon we're somewhere in the Southwest. No ocean for miles on end, if the flyboys are right, and it's hot as Hell here."

"Sure is a long way from Virginia…" Clayton muttered out loud. Something that caught the attention of all the members of the squad.

"What, already homesick? We just started this tour."

"Not homesick. It's just…" Clayton paused for a moment, needing some time to form the words in his mind. "My family lives in Fredericksburg. Not that far from DC."

Just like that, the mood turned somber real quick. It didn't take a genius to where Clayton was going with this.

"It is a bit much to think about, isn't it." Reed said, no hint of the jokester present. "Maybe the blast wouldn't reach that far."

"No. It would reach that far, although I appreciate the sentiment." Clayton nodded to Reed. "If DC isn't saturated in nuclear isotopes, then it's not a nuclear war. Frankly, I'm not sure it would be better if my family actually survived. I mean…" Clayton gestured out into the distance. "Would you want them to survive day by day in this?"

And to his shock, Sullivan couldn't find himself denying that rhetorical question.

Maw and Paw, alongside his sister, Gianna. Who had such a cute little baby named Chloe, two years to be exact. It felt… unimaginable, to think of them having to scurry about, hoping that they could scrounge up enough food for the day. A breakdown of society, as neighbors and friends turned on one another, all in the name of survival.

The True End of the World, not created by the Lord Almighty, but by Man itself.

"Never thought about it like that." Myers said. "But it's not likely we'll be in the same situation. Certainly if we're not as batshit crazy as this US."

"But, it still happened in this world, didn't it?" Clayton asked somberly. "Could easily happen back home. Just takes one mistake, or one tinpot dictator, and that's that."

With that final sentence, the squad settled into an uneasy silence, before they were called back up for construction work.

Sullivan… he needed to send a letter to his family. Anything to tell them that he was alright, that he loved them so much.

It took him a solid two hours, before he finally went to sleep, uneasily.

---

AN: Let me say this up front: this last part was not easy for me to write. Fallout, for all of its goofiness, is all based on one of the most plausible end of the world scenarios we currently have.

I happen to live near the Capital, and I am not that naive to hope for survival. If I'm lucky, I won't feel a thing from the canned sunshine.

So on that morbid note, let the story continue!

Song of the Day:


View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HsM_VmN6ytk

 

[SecretCervix]

Damnit I got all excited for more chapters, only to realize I already read these on SB a few days ago lol
Keep up the good work!

 

[davelll]

yey updates

 

[Dragon Bob]

Something that will probably make you feel a bit better, nuclear war probably wouldn't actually cause an apocalypse. It would be terrible, Megadeaths and could collapse the American government, but the actual long term effects aren't as bad as people assume. To summarize, radiation from nukes doesn't actually last that long, it would be safe after around 20-30 years. America has tons of plans for a nuclear war and modern nukes are much smaller than in the past. It used to be that you couldn't aim a bomb very well so a bigger bomb was needed to be sure you hit, now you can hit a window on a building in Iraq using a missile launched from Kansas. So modern nukes are relatively small.

 

[ATP]

True about better not live in Fallout,BUT - they arleady survived End of Times,nobody would nuke them again.Maybe it would be safer for modern americans who could live in hard conditions to go to Fallout Universe? At least some of them.

About robots - yep,butlers are better then sexbots.If they malfunction,they only damage your property,not you.

 

[Intothekillzone]

Will you post omakes from the spacebattles version on to here