I hoisted my pack higher on my shoulders and took one last look at Pike's Crossing. By the gate, Levi shifted his weight from foot to foot, notebook tucked under one arm like always. He was trying to smile, but the corners of his mouth kept twitching nervously. I couldn't help a small grin of my own, the poor lad looked like a kicked puppy. I reached out and gave his arm a light, playful punch.
"Don't go looking so glum," I teased, tilting my head at him. "What, afraid I'll have all the fun without you? Or that June'll make you carry two feed sacks by winter and I won't be here to see it?" I raised a brow, recalling June's joking threat from that time before I left the farm. My tone was light, meant to poke at him just enough.
Levi's ears went pink instantly. He let out a breathy chuckle. "I– I'll have you know, I could carry three," he bluffed, puffing up his chest for half a second. I looked at his arms that were only slightly bigger then mine and I had super low stregth..Then his bravado faltered and he rubbed the back of his neck. "You sure you don't want some company out there? I could... I mean—"
"Nah." I shook my head and adjusted the strap of my laser musket across my back. "I'll be alright, promise. Besides, someone's gotta help keep track of stuff on the caravan, aye?" I flashed him a quick wink. Levi opened his mouth and closed it again, a different kind of flush warming his face now.
He scuffed the dirt with his boot, trying to hide a grin. "Okay, okay. Fair." He glanced up, and the worry crept back into his eyes. "Just... be careful, Morgan." He stumbled over my name a bit. "The Commonwealth's bigger than it looks. You sure you know where you're headed?"
I didn't answer right away. The truth was, I wasn't entirely sure what i would do after getting to the bunker, like what if there was stuff in there I just couldnt deal with right now, where would i go then? Maybe toward Diamond City, I wanted to see the Green Jewel for myself eventually, maybe, back toward Vault 159 for answers. But I didn't have a concrete plan beyond go. What I did have was an itch under my skin to move, to do something on my own terms for once. Those weeks of relative peace had been a gift, but I could feel the road calling me out. Or maybe that was just restlessness.
I reached up and ruffled Levi's dusty hair. "I've got a map in here," I said lightly, tapping my pip-boy with my other hand. The screen's soft amber glow reflected between us. "And Claptrap, of course." At the sound of his name, the Protectron standing patiently at my side with a mechanical whirr. I patted the robot's metal shoulder plate. "He'll keep me on the straight and narrow."
Levi eyed Claptrap and let out a short laugh. "Right. Protect and serve." He attempted to mimic a Protectron's monotone, and I snorted.
"Exactly," I said. Then I shifted my weight, and an awkward silence settled for a heartbeat. This was it. Time to go. "Don't worry about me, Levi," I murmured. "I'll see you down the road if theres ever a chance for us to meet again, okay?"
Levi nodded a bit too quickly. "Yeah. You better." He tried a smile again. This time it stuck, even if it was small. "We'll save a bowl of stew for you."
"Aye, and I'll bring the mystery spices." I grinned, taking a step back. Rose was on the guard platform by the gate, pretending not to watch our goodbye and failing spectacularly. Behind Levi, I caught a glimpse of Karma lingering by the corner of the outer wall, arms crossed, a knowing smirk on her face.
I lifted a hand in farewell to all of them. "Until next time!" My voice came out steady, confident even, which was funny because my chest felt tight. In a good way, I decided. In a ready way. Without looking back again, I turned and walked through the open gates, Claptrap's heavy tread following in my wake. The settlers' voices faded behind us, and soon it was just me, my robot, and the wide world ahead.
The cracked road out of Pike's Crossing stretched before me. I walked along the center line, where faded yellow paint peeked through years of dust and creeping weeds. Claptrap trundled along to my right, one pace behind as usual. Each step of his metal feet landed with a soft hiss-click, hiss-click, a steady counterpoint to the lighter crunch of my boots on broken asphalt. Overhead, a few wispy clouds drifted across an otherwise blue sky. A pretty morning for my first day truly alone.
Well, not entirely alone. I glanced over at Claptrap. "How you holding up, big lad?" I asked. The Protectron's single ocular sensor bobbed toward me.
"ALL SYSTEMS – NOMINAL," he droned in that flat-toned, pre-war service voice. I smiled at his answer. It was the same phrase he'd used a dozen times before, but it was oddly comforting to hear it now.
"Good to hear," I said softly. I reached down, fiddling with the dials on my Pip-Boy until the crackle of static gave way to the soft tune of Diamond City Radio. The familiar notes of an old '60s song filtered through the tinny speaker. It was "Crawl Out Through the Fallout" – an upbeat little ditty about braving radiation for love. The irony wasn't lost on me; here I was literally walking through the post-nuclear fallout, though the background radiation hardly fazed me. Sunlight dappled the road through the overhanging branches of dead trees as the singer cheerfully crooned about weathering atomic bombs.
I hummed along under my breath, the tune ridiculously catchy. When the chorus repeated, I couldn't help but sing a few words aloud, quiet and wry: "Crawl out through the fallout, baby, to me…" My voice cracked on the last note, I was a okay singer. With a self-conscious laugh I shook my head and muttered, "God, I miss Mr. New Vegas."
Claptrap gave no sign he'd heard my complaint. Of course he didn't; Protectrons weren't exactly conversationalists. If this were New Vegas, the radio DJ would've responded with a smooth quip or a velvet laugh. Instead, Diamond City Radio just segued into Travis's timid voice announcing the next song. Travis was charming in his own way.... okay maybe not, he was no Mr. New Vegas. I sighed and let the music play softly as we walked.
The road eventually narrowed and broke apart entirely, forcing me to pick my way along buckled concrete slabs. I guided us off the old highway and onto a dirt path that wound through a patch of woods. Here the air was cooler in the shade of gnarled oaks and pines, and the ground was littered with dry needles and leaves. Birds chirped somewhere high above, a sound I was still getting used to hearing and the fact that some of those birds could be spying on me... Every so often, a distant pop echoed through the trees—maybe gunfire, maybe something falling apart on its own. The Commonwealth was alive with noises, even when it seemed quiet.
Claptrap's servo-motors whirred softly as he navigated around a fallen log. He was doing well in the rough terrain, though I noticed he had to take extra care not to snag his boxy legs on roots. I slowed my pace to let him catch up and scanned the surroundings. The path was creeping gradually downhill, and through the thinning edge of the woods I spotted the remnants of a neighborhood ahead.
"Let's watch ourselves through here," I whispered. My hand slid to my hip, where my charge pistol hung in its makeshift holster. Claptrap clicked in acknowledgment, and I heard a tiny electronic beep as his threat sensors likely went on higher alert.
The wooded trail spat us out onto the cracked pavement of a suburban street. Or what was left of one. Ruined houses flanked the road, their mailboxes rusted and leaning. A faded green car, half-cannibalized for parts, sat dead in a ditch. Wind stirred an old newspaper page down the sidewalk with a dry skritch skritch. I took a slow breath, tasting the lingering mold and soot in the air. This place had been abandoned for a long time. Maybe since the War.
I stepped over a heap of broken glass that once was a bus stop shelter, ears pricked for any sign of trouble. Claptrap's footsteps were the loudest thing around – hiss-click, hiss-click. I almost envied how carefree the Diamond City Radio song sounded in my ear; the singer on my Pip-Boy.
We passed a crumpled house with a caved-in roof, then another charred foundation. I kept my eyes moving, checking between burnt-out cars and down overgrown driveways. Places like this could be home to radroaches, ferals… or molerats. I unconsciously tightened my grip on the pistol.
A few notes of the next song, some jaunty number about Uranium had just started playing when Claptrap suddenly halted, raising one clawed arm. His sensor blinked rapidly.
"WARNING: MOVEMENT DETECTED," he intoned. I froze mid-step. "Where?" I whispered back. My heart kicked up, adrenaline washing the weariness from my limbs in an instant. I heard a faint scrabble underfoot.. Then the ground exploded at my feet.
"Shite—!" I barely had time to curse before a pale, wrinkled creature burst from an underground tunnel in a spray of soil and rocks. A set of gnarled teeth snapped inches from my calf as the creature lunged. Instinct overrode surprise; I stumbled back and fired my charge pistol in one motion. The weapon whined and kicked an arc of blue energy straight into the molerat's face. The thing squealed, a horrible high sound, and collapsed in a smoking heap of gray flesh.
Before I could breathe, I heard more scrabbling. Two more molerats erupted from the ground to my left, clods of dirt flying. They moved fast, sightless little monsters skittering on long claws. One charged at Claptrap, jaws wide, while the other barreled straight into my shins with the force of a rabid bulldog.
I hit the pavement hard on my backside, gritting my teeth as pain jolted up my tailbone. The molerat wasted no time – it scrambled onto me, sharp claws ripping at my jeans. I snarled a curse and got an arm up just in time to keep its yellow fangs away from my throat. Hot, reeking breath hit my face. I shoved back with my forearm against its neck.
Claptrap, a few feet away, swiveled his torso towards the second molerat scuttling around his legs. "HOSTILE IDENTIFIED. ENGAGING," he droned. A red laser beam lanced out from his left arm emitter with a zap, scorching a line across the molerat's hide. The creature screeched but kept coming, launching itself at the robot's sturdy metal leg. It began gnawing furiously, teeth scraping against steel with a teeth-on-tin squeal.
"Clap—shoot it again!" I ground out, struggling under the weight of the beast on top of me. My pistol had skittered from my hand when I fell; it lay just out of reach on the road. The molerat on me thrashed, trying to clamber higher up my body. I jammed my forearm harder under its jaw, using every ounce of strength to hold its snapping teeth at bay. Its claws dug through my sleeve into my shoulder and I yelped at the burning pain.
Claptrap fired another laser blast. This time the beam drilled clean through the molerat worrying his leg, blowing out the creature's side in a burst of singed meat. The molerat gave a final twitch and slumped, half draped around Claptrap's foot. The Protectron shook his leg twice, dislodging the carcass with a disgusted little hiss of hydraulics.
"TARGET NEUTRALIZED," he reported, voice emotionless.
"Over here!" I gasped, still locked in a macabre wrestling match with my own slobbering attacker. My arms shook from the effort of keeping its maw away from my face. The molerat's weight was pinning my hips to the broken asphalt. My fingers scrabbled for anything – a rock, a stick – but found nothing useful. The creature shrieked again and lunged, finally knocking my straining arm aside. Rotten breath and tiny, mad eyes filled my vision.
A surge of pure instinct (or maybe plain panic) shot through me. I swung my head forward and smashed my brow into the molerat's skull as hard as I could. The crack of impact sent stars across my vision, but it stunned the beast too. It recoiled with a wheezing grunt, just a split second of disorientation – enough. I planted my boot against its belly and kicked.
The molerat tumbled off me, scraping and squealing. Before it could recover, I lurched forward and seized my fallen charge pistol from the ground. I didn't bother aiming carefully; from two feet away I just pointed and squeezed the trigger. WHIRR-CRACK! The blue bolt caught the molerat mid-squeal, and half its head was shot clean off. Bits of smoking tissue sprayed across the pavement.
Silence slammed down in the wake of the fight, broken only by the ragged sound of my breathing. My hands trembled with an aftershock of adrenaline. Slowly, I pushed myself to my feet. My backside and shoulder throbbed from the impacts and claws. When I brushed my hand over my left shoulder, I felt the sting of broken skin beneath the torn fabric of my shirt. My palm came away smeared with a bit of blood. Just scratches, nothing deep. Not worth using a stimpack.
I looked around: two molerats down by my doing, one by Claptrap's laser. The first one I'd shot lay a few yards off, a whiff of scorched flesh rising from its limp form. I swallowed, trying to steady my heartbeat. Nearby, Claptrap stood as implacable as ever over the rodent he'd killed. A thin wisp of smoke curled from the barrel of his laser emitter.
He swiveled to face me. "AREA SECURE." There was a pause, and then in a softer tone his speaker crackled: "UNIT Morgan, PLEASE CONFIRM STATUS."
The fact that he asked in his own programmed way, made me smile despite everything. I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand, then realized I'd smeared a line of molerat gore just above my eyebrow. Lovely. "I'm alright," I panted, nodding to him. My heart was still thudding, but slowing from rabbit-in-a-snare speed back to something like normal. "Just needed my morning exercise, apparently."
Claptrap gave a single approving beep. I nudged one of the carcasses with the toe of my boot, grimacing at the sight. Ugly damn things. I didnt realize how fast molerats could be when they wanted a piece of you.
I blew out a slow breath and holstered my pistol. The adrenaline was ebbing, leaving in its wake a wash of weariness and a few new aches. I noticed Diamond City Radio had gone silent; in the scuffle, my Pip-Boy's volume knob must have gotten nudged all the way down. I tapped it gently, hearing the tinny sound of Travis's voice come back. He was rambling nervously about "uh, that happens sometimes folks, haha… here's Bob Crosby singing something about happy times!" I huffed a quiet laugh. Happy times, sure thing. I went and picked up my charge pistol and placed it into my storage for now.
"Mute," I murmured, twisting the dial until the radio cut off. I wanted to hear my surroundings clearly now. If there were more critters nearby, best not to be caught unawares with music drowning out their approach.
I surveyed the street ahead. It wound deeper into the cluster of ruined homes. A faded street sign hung off a bent pole: "Sycamore Lane." I could see the remains of a corner store at an intersection just beyond, its big windows long shattered, a Nuka-Cola machine toppled on its side out front. Could be some supplies there, but I wasn't eager to stick around longer than necessary. The smell of burnt molerat fur and the metallic tang of laser scorches hung in the air. That would attract other curious noses before long.
My eyes caught on a two-story house a little further down on the right. Unlike its neighbors, it was mostly intact – the roof sagged but hadn't collapsed, and the windows on the ground floor were boarded up tight with nailed planks. Someone, long ago, had taken the time to seal this place off. If it hadn't been picked over by scavengers yet, maybe there was a reason. Could be someone's old safehouse, or just that the neighborhood was too out-of-the-way for regular looters. Either way, a locked-up house might mean a place to catch my breath without worrying about a raider stumbling in. Or at least four walls to put between me and the elements for a bit as it was now getting dark.
I pointed toward the boarded house. "Let's check that out," I said to Claptrap. I kept my voice low; sound carried eerily in abandoned streets. "If it's empty, maybe we spend the night. If it's not empty... well, we'll deal with that."
Claptrap's green eye-light pulsed once. "ACKNOWLEDGED," he replied simply. We approached the house cautiously. The front yard was choked with waist-high brown grass and a tangle of briars creeping up a picket fence. I unhooked my laser musket from my shoulder and cranked its handle slowly, charging a few shots just in case. The familiar whirr-click, whirr-click of its winding mechanism was oddly soothing. Claptrap stomped through the brush beside me, flattening a path.
Up close, the house's door was also covered with nailed boards in a makeshift crosshatch. Faded graffiti on one plank read "KEEP OUT" in flaking red letters. I tested one of the boards with a tug. The wood was old and dry. The nails groaned but held fast – whoever had hammered these had meant them to stay.
I glanced at Claptrap. "Think you can pry this open?" I asked. The Protectron stepped forward wordlessly. He braced one clawed hand on the door frame and gripped a horizontal plank with the other.
With a mechanical whine of effort, Claptrap began to pull. The board creaked, then gave with a sudden CRACK! Splinters flew as it snapped in two. Claptrap tossed the broken piece aside and moved on to the next plank, repeating the process. One by one, the old barrier came apart under the robot's relentless strength. I found myself silently counting seconds, it took him less than thirty to break enough boards that the front door was visible and accessible.
When the last plank clattered to the weed-choked porch, I held up a hand. "Good, that's enough." I carefully tried the door knob. It was locked, but the door itself looked flimsy now that its reinforcement was gone. I nodded to Claptrap. "Alright, give it a push." As he did I made sure to have something on my belt I could grab just in case.
He obediently pressed a heavy metal hand against the door. BAM! The doorframe shuddered as the old lock gave way, the door bursting inward and slamming against an inside wall. The sound echoed sharply through the house's interior. I winced at the noise, so much for a stealthy entry.
Weapon raised, I stepped through the doorway with Claptrap right behind me. Dust hung in the air, sparkling faintly in the daylight that slanted through the now-open entrance. Inside, the house was dim and still. The front room appeared to be a living room of sorts, mildewed floral couches, a low coffee table covered in a thick layer of dust, and a brick fireplace blackened with soot. Every window was boarded from the inside as well, leaving only thin slivers of light seeping through cracks in the planks.
I motioned with two fingers, and Claptrap halted just past the threshold. "Stay here and cover me," I whispered. His eye swiveled, scanning the gloom.
"AFFIRMATIVE. ENTRYWAY SECURED," he replied softly (or as softly as a Protectron could).
I pulled the pip-boy up and clicked on the built-in light. A cone of pale greenish-white glow illuminated motes of dust dancing in front of me. Slowly, I crept further into the living room. The floorboards creaked under my boots. I held my musket at the ready, cranked to a full charge.
The living room opened into a short hallway. To the left, I spotted a kitchen – its doorway was partially blocked by an upturned dining chair. To the right, the hall led toward what I assumed might be stairs and maybe a back door. The whole place smelled of stale air, wood rot, and a tinge of something sour I couldn't quite place. But no whiff of recent smoke or habitation. It really did seem deserted.
Quietly, I edged into the kitchen first. The pip-boy's light revealed rusted appliances from pre-war days: a refrigerator toppled onto its side, an old oven door hanging open. Broken dishes littered the counter. In the far corner, I noticed a pantry closet with the door ajar. A faint glint caught my eye – two little pinpricks reflecting my light. I stepped closer, heart thumping anew, but exhaled when I realized what I was seeing: rats. Two of them scurried away through a hole in the baseboard as soon as my light hit them. Just rodents, nothing monstrous for once.
I let them go and scanned the rest of the kitchen. No sign of anything threatening. Returning to the hallway, I glanced back toward Claptrap. He remained stationed by the entrance, facing outward to the street as much as his bulky frame would allow. Good; he was watching my back.
I moved toward the base of the staircase at the end of the hall. The steps ascended into darkness, littered with more debris. An ancient coat had been left draped over the banister, now mostly chewed through by moths. There was a closed door under the stairs – likely a storage closet or basement access.
I tested that door's knob gently. Locked, or jammed. I frowned, pressing my ear to the wood. Nothing. Just silence and the faint echo of my own breath. I decided to leave it for now – no sense making more noise busting it open until I finished checking the rest.
One more doorway on this ground floor: across from the stair closet was what looked like a small study or office room. Its door was half open. I nudged it fully with the muzzle of my musket, peering in. A desk with a terminal (long dead and dark) and a disintegrating swivel chair. Papers strewn about, some pinned on a corkboard on the wall. Home sweet home, decades ago perhaps. I sighed and backed out.
"All clear so far," I murmured over my shoulder. Claptrap didn't respond, but I saw the glow of his optic sensor in my peripheral vision, he was keeping watch.
I took one careful step onto the staircase. The wood groaned but held my weight. Slowly I began to climb, musket raised in one hand, Pip-Boy light guiding the way. Each step creaked, and I cringed inwardly at the noise. If anything's here, it sure knows someone's coming now. The thought made my skin crawl, but I pressed on.
Upstairs, the hallway was as dark as a tomb aside from my swath of light. Two doors on the left, one on the right. One of the left-side doors was ajar, leading into what looked like a small bathroom – the tiled floor gleamed faintly. The door on the right was closed. The door further down on the left was open and led into a bedroom, from the glimpse of a dresser and bedframe I got.
I paused at the top of the stairs, listening. My own breathing sounded too loud. A trickle of sweat slid down the side of my face; I ignored it. For a long moment, I heard nothing but the pounding of my own pulse in my ears. Maybe the house really was empty aside from pests.
I moved toward the open bedroom door first. Lightly, I toed it open wider. It was a bedroom, alright. The bed's mattress was missing, leaving only rusty springs in a frame. A closet door hung open, empty hangers rattling on a rod as the draft from my movement disturbed them. No human or creature, living or dead, greeted me. The dust on the floor was thick and undisturbed.
I backed out, turning toward the closed door across the hall. Probably another bedroom or maybe an upstairs study. The door handle was dirty brass, tarnished almost black. I reached out and clasped it, gently twisting. Unlocked – it turned with a click. Taking a breath, I pushed the door inward.
My Pip-Boy light swept the room and I froze. There, hunched in the far corner by a boarded-up window, was a shape. For half a second my brain didn't register it, it looked like a person crouching, facing away from the door.
"Hello…?" I whispered before I could stop myself. Some stupid part of me thought survivor? But even as the word left my mouth, the figure moved in a way no normal person would. The head jerked at the sound of my voice, snapping around with an unnerving speed. Two milky white eyes caught the glow of my light.
My stomach plummeted. "Oh hell—"
The creature that had once been human screeched, a high, feral keen that made my blood run cold. In an instant it lunged across the small room straight at me. I stumbled back, trying to bring the musket to bear, but it was too fast. The feral ghoul slammed into the door and into me, the impact driving us both into the hallway wall. I heard the door bang against the stopper and then I was grappling with a snarling, half-decayed ghoul.
We tumbled in a thrashing tangle onto the upper landing. The laser musket was wrenched from my hands and clattered down the stairs behind me. The ghoul gave a rasping hiss and swiped at me with claw-like fingers. I felt dirty nails rake across my cheek, burning trails of pain. I tried to scramble back, but it had a fistful of my shirt in its other hand.
"Claptrap—!" I screamed, hoping the robot heard me. I threw up my arms just in time as the ghoul lunged again, its teeth snapping inches from my face. It smelled rancid – a mix of sour rot and old blood. It was all bone and sinew in my grasp, horribly strong for how emaciated it looked or was I just that weak...
Downstairs, I heard the heavy pounding of Claptrap's footsteps and the whining whirl of his servos as he attempted to ascend. "ALERT: HOSTILE DETECTED, STAND CLEAR," his voice echoed up the stairwell.
Stand clear? He was going to take a shot. "No, no! Stay—!" I gasped, but I couldn't even get the words out properly. I was too busy wrestling with the ghoul, terrified I'd feel its teeth sink into me at any second. If Claptrap fired his laser up here, he might hit me by mistake in this melee.
The ghoul's milky eyes bulged as it snapped its jaws, eager for flesh. Its weight bore me down; my back slammed against the floorboards. My hands flew to its throat, trying to hold the snapping jaws away. Adrenaline roared in my ears. Its skin felt rubbery and cold under my fingers. I managed to keep its teeth at bay, but barely. The ghoul gurgled something like a growl and pressed closer, pinning me.
My mind raced. My musket was gone; my pistol wasin storage, and even if I got it, shooting a ghoul grappling on top of me was a risky proposition. I needed something else – anything else. With a desperate grunt, I shifted my weight and let go with one hand, leaving only my left arm pushing against the ghoul's chest. My freed right hand fumbled blindly along the tool belt. My fingers brushed metal – a screwdriver? Yes!
The ghoul took the opportunity to lunge closer, snapping at my left forearm now that only one hand held it back. Its teeth scraped my leather jacket sleeve, centimetres from skin. With a cry of effort, I raised the screwdriver and drove it forward with all my might.
The tool punched into the side of the ghoul's skull with a wet crunch. I felt the resistance give as the long screwdriver sank into the soft cavity of its temple, plunging deep into brain matter. The ghoul stiffened, a grotesque shudder rippling through its body. Its jaws fell open, a horrible gurgling sigh escaping.
I yanked the screwdriver out and a spatter of blackish blood splashed my hand and shirt. The ghoul collapsed onto me, suddenly limp, its full dead weight pinning me down. I gasped for breath, adrenaline still screaming at me that it wasn't over, that I had to move, had to get it off.
With a frantic scramble, I pushed the ghoul's corpse off to the side. It flopped onto the floorboards with a dull thud, one arm twisted beneath it. I scooted back on my hands and heels until my back hit the hallway wall. My chest heaved as I sucked in air.
Down on the staircase, Claptrap's head emerged slowly, one step at a time – he had managed to haul his bulky frame up a few stairs but it looked comical, like a grown man trying to ride a toddler's tricycle. The steep, narrow steps were clearly not designed for Protectron navigation. "UNIT Morgan, PLEASE EVACUATE. WEAPON FIRING SOLUTION COMPROMISED," he droned. I could see his arm was raised, but from his angle on the stairs he had no clear shot into the hallway.
"It's… it's fine!" I called down, still catching my breath. The surge of terror was ebbing, leaving me shaky and nauseous at the edges. "Stand down, Claptrap. Target's… neutralized." I gulped. "I got it."
Claptrap's optics flickered as he processed that. He slowly lowered his arm and ceased his awkward climb. "ACKNOWLEDGED. HOSTILE TERMINATED. RESUMING STANDBY." He backed down one step with a heavy clomp, then another, until he was safely on the ground floor again. I heard him mutter, "STAIRS – INCOMPATIBLE."
A hysterical little laugh bubbled up in my throat at that understatement, but it came out more like a strained cough. I pressed a hand against my forehead, willing myself to calm down. My cheek stung where the ghoul had scratched me, and I could feel something warm trickling there. When I wiped it, my fingers came away smeared with a thin line of red. Superficial, nothing a bit of water and time wouldn't fix. My left forearm ached too – the ghoul had bruised it where I'd pressed it into its bony sternum.
I looked at the corpse sprawled a mere arm's length away. It wore the tattered remains of a button-up shirt and slacks. Once upon a time, this might've been the homeowner, or someone seeking refuge here. Now it was just another feral that got the drop on me. "Dammit," I sighed, shakily getting to my feet. The screwdriver still sat where I'd dropped it, rolling a little in the slight dip of a warped board. I picked it up, grimacing at the sticky dark matter on its tip. Using a scrap of a curtain from the hall window, I wiped the tool clean as best I could and slid it back into my belt. Never know when it would come in handy again.
I went downstairs to retrieve my weapon. My laser musket had come to rest on the second step from the bottom. I checked it over; no damage. Claptrap stood in the foyer, dutifully waiting for instructions, his sensor scanning me up and down as I descended.
"I'm okay," I assured him quietly. "Just a feral. Only one, I think." As I said it, I realized I should double-check to be certain. No way was I bedding down here or even resting if there were any more surprises lurking.
Leaving Claptrap at the base of the stairs, I went back through each ground floor room with my Pip-Boy light, thoroughly this time. I nudged aside a few pieces of collapsed furniture, checked that under-stairs closet (just old cleaning supplies and a moldering mop, no ghouls stuffed in there). The basement, if the house had one, remained locked from that interior door – but I saw no evidence of anything trying to break out from below, and through a vent I could smell only damp earth. Perhaps the feral upstairs was the only one, trapped on the top floor after boarding up, slowly starving until it went fully feral. Or it could've wandered in later somehow. Either way, the house was silent now except for me and Claptrap.
Back in the entryway, I propped what remained of the front door closed and then dragged a heavy sideboard from the living room to block it. The sideboard's legs screeched as I shoved it across the floor, but eventually it thumped into place against the door. That would do for a makeshift barricade. If any curious creatures came sniffing outside, they'd have a hard time pushing their way in.
Claptrap watched me work, his head rotating smoothly to follow my movements. Once I finished, I leaned against the wall and exhaled slowly. The events of the day, hell, of just the past hour, was catching up to me. My shoulder and rear still ached from the molerat scuffle, my cheek stung, and my hands were smudged with dirt, blood (some mine, mostly not), and who-knew-what else. I felt a twinge in my lower back and suspected I'd have a nice bruise by morning where I hit the floor. But I'm alive. A wry smile tugged at my lips. First day on my own in the commonwealth and I'd already been ambushed twice. So much for an easy stroll.
I checked my Pip-Boy. It was mid-afternoon, the pale light sneaking through boarded windows had taken on a more golden hue. Through the cracks, I could make out the sun angling toward late day. I realized I hadn't eaten since early morning, but the idea of Brahmin stew right now made my stomach turn. Adrenaline does that. Maybe in a bit I'd break out snacks i had...
For now, I wanted fresh air and a better view. "Claptrap, with me," I said quietly, heading back up the stairs. The Protectron followed as far as the first step, then halted and emitted a small forlorn beep. Right, stairs were a no-go for him. I waved a hand. "On second thought, stay. Guard the door. I'll just be upstairs."
"AFFIRMATIVE. MAINTAINING POSITION," Claptrap replied in his flat voice. He planted himself facing the door, ready to roast anything that tried coming through my hasty barricade. Satisfied, I climbed up.
On the second floor, the hallway was still empty and still smelled like ghoul death. I wrinkled my nose and headed into the bedroom I'd first cleared. That boarded window there faced west, I recalled, good for catching some late daylight. Using the butt of my musket like a lever, I started prying at one of the wooden boards nailed over the window frame. The nails were rusted and the wood soft; it gave way with relative ease. I pulled one board free, then another. Sunlight immediately burst into the room in dusty shafts, illuminating swirling motes in the air.
Warm light painted the warped wood floor and the peeling wallpaper with a gentle glow. I took a moment just to stand there in that sunbeam, closing my eyes. It felt good on my skin, even filtered and weak as it was this late in the day. I hadn't realized how dim and oppressive the house felt until now, with this one window open to the world.
I leaned on the sill and looked out through the now half-uncovered window. The remaining shards of glass in the frame had long since fallen out, leaving a clear view of the street and yards below. I could see the road I'd come in on, the trio of dead molerats like dark lumps near the curb. Beyond, the trees of the little wood swayed gently. In the far distance, beyond rolling hills, a faint outline of downtown Boston's ruined skyscrapers clawed at the horizon. Diamond City was somewhere out there among them, its stadium walls hidden from here but present in my mind. That would be my next destination after checking my shelter, I decided. Maybe after a few days rest if I was lucky and that place wasnt that bad Id head to Diamond city. I was roughly on the right path, give or take a few degrees of Pip-Boy map guesswork.
For now, though… I exhaled, feeling tension I'd been holding in my shoulders slowly unknot. I took off my bloodied jacket and used the clean side of it to wipe the sweat and grime from my face. My fingers brushed the tender scratch on my cheek, it had stopped bleeding, just a thin scab forming. Could've been worse, I thought. At least I didn't have to worry about ghoul bites or illness the way others might. Still, I was fortunate; an inch closer and those teeth might've taken a chunk out of me. Immune to disease or not, I doubted I'd fare well missing part of my throat.
Outside, the dying sun painted the sky in stripes of orange and purple beyond the ruins. A quiet fell over Sycamore Lane, the kind that comes when day creatures settle and night ones have yet to emerge. I rested my arms on the windowsill, taking it in. My first day alone in the Commonwealth wasteland had been anything but dull.
I allowed myself a small, weary smile as a light evening breeze caressed my face through the open window. "Well," I murmured to no one in particular, "we survived, Morgan." The sunlight caught the dust motes dancing around me, turning them to floating gold. Downstairs I heard Claptrap shuffle in place, the floorboards creaking under his weight as he kept vigilant watch.
I stood there a minute longer at that second-floor window, soaking in the last rays. When the sun finally dipped below the distant skyline. I would settle in for the night soon. Tomorrow was a new day, and I had miles to go.
But for now, here in this dusty, dead-silent house, I allowed myself a rare moment of peace. I took one last look at the golden-lit ruins outside, then turned away as the shadows of evening began to claim the room.