Chapter Text
.
and the bird was no longer mocking,
it was asking, it was praying
but the cat
striding down through the centuries
would not listen.
I saw it crawl under a yellow car with the bird
to bargain it to another place.
summer was over.
—Charles Bukowski, excerpt from the poem, “the mockingbird”
.
.
.s.
.
Vault 33’s walls catch the afternoon sun in a manner that used to project stability and a sense of home. Now the numerous laser turrets gleam balefully at Lucy, their threat palpable even from this considerable distance. Outsider, they say, leering without eyes. Not-Vault. You’re not welcome anymore.
Cooper grunts where he’s on his stomach next to her. “We go in the same way we left,” he says. “Wait til nightfall. Breach it then.”
“But, the door’ll be shut. It can only be opened from the inside.”
“Gotta solution for that.” He crawls backwards, keeping low.
Lucy’s about to join him when the cages snag her attention. They’re huddled together as if for warmth. It’s hard to pick out how many Rogers are imprisoned within, tongueless and afraid. The urgency to break them free redoubles.
A hand tugs on her ankle. Soon, she thinks, reversing course on her elbows and knees. Soon, and done right.
Shadows stretch and elongate as the sunset comes and goes. As the last of the light dies away, they slink towards the hidden door, her Pip-Boy’s green glow keeping her from tripping.
“What if something goes wrong?” she says. Why does it feel like she’s walking into the gullet of some ravenous beast? Do all outsiders feel this outclassed and overwhelmed as they approach? “What if you’re caught again?”
“If it starts shiftin that way, well.” The smile he flashes her has too many teeth. “We’ll take it as it comes.”
It’s his memory and not her Pip-Boy that leads them to the emergency entrance, and even then it blends into the environment like a secret. A lifetime has passed since she’s been dragged from it, clutched to Cooper’s side like an ill-gotten prize.
He selects a tapered round from his bandolier. He’s barely finished chambering it into the revolver when he fires at the seam’s middle, punching a neat little hole straight through the metal. The door, severed of its locking mechanism, swings open.
Jeepers, Lucy thinks. That was never secure at all.
A red murk waits for them like a throat ready to swallow them whole. She enters first, Cooper at her heels. The homecoming she once envisioned now feels more akin to an invasion, or a virus infecting a system.
No words are exchanged as they traverse the long tunnel. Dampness presses on all sides, smelling of cold, musty earth. The rounded aspect of the walls lends the sense she’s treading in place without progress, that Hank knew they were coming and had planned accordingly. Worry grows like a tumor. Maybe there’s no exit, that it’d stretch on without end until she loses her way.
It’s foolish, of course. The door leading into the unit materialises out of the darkness like an unholy miracle. It possesses no window, offering no hint of what’s waiting for them on the other side. But it’s there, and as she lays a palm on its chilled surface, it’s with an irrational relief and a surge of renewed dread.
Before Cooper can dig for another tapered round, she mates her Pip-Boy’s remote link with the terminal. After a bated breath, it accepts her request, light switching green.
The door’s hardly finished unlocking when he’s stepping in front of her, revolver sweeping the room. He gestures her to follow. She slips in, gooseflesh breaking out across her arms. The table lurks against the wall like an insect, its straps neatly folded. What took place on it feels like it happened only hours ago.
In the far right corner, The Man from Deadhorse poster peers at them. At first glance it appears the same, but as she moves closer, crumples and noticeable rips mar the printed Cooper Howard. It’s been put back together with liquid paste and meticulous attention. The real Cooper bristles like he wants to tear it to pieces again.
Footfalls move above their heads. She stares at the ceiling like it’d fall on her, a sourness in her mouth she can’t swallow down.
“C’mon,” Cooper says low through his teeth. “Let’s get this shit over with.”
.
.s.
.
Let’s get this shit over with.
That’s what Lucy intends to do—yet she falters to a stop not two steps into the kitchen. Everything’s how it was before she left, right down to the smell of cleaning solution and coffee.
Hank’s at the supper table, mug in hand, reports spread in front of him. The overhead light casts the familiar scene in a warm, cheery glow. It’s as if no time has passed: the overseer pin on his front shines to perfection; the hair’s combed to distinguished sleekness; his skin glows with a vigor healthy for a man of his age.
How can this be the monster responsible for so much heartache? He looks no different than the person who reared her, who read her bedtime stories, who doted on her whenever she fell ill. This man wrote her a good morning note nearly day of her life.
Hank sets the mug down. He takes in her borrowed clothes and bruises with a politeness that leaves her feeling unbearably rude in comparison, unfit by every metric.
His attention shifts over her shoulder and freezes. “Oh, good girl.” His eyes widen. “Oh, my very good girl, you’ve brought him back to moof!”
A pistol-whip knocks him clean from his chair, spilling him onto the floor.
Certain all’s under control, Lucy hurries around the unit, closing every curtain. Nothing’s outside except the glow of the streetlamps and tidy hedges. By the time she returns to the kitchen, Hank’s upright in the chair again, bound in rope. She makes no attempt to fix his tousled hair or disheveled clothes. His overseer’s pin remains off-kilter.
Despite the indignities done upon him, Hank settles within his confines as if it was his intention all along. “Well. This is certainly a reunion.” He beams at Cooper. Blood trickles down his temple. “A touch dramatic, wouldn’t you say?”
Before Lucy can speak—how hard can this be? she’s done this for two decades—a soft plink from the sink makes her twitch. A water droplet, pure and cold, gathers on the faucet’s lip, growing fat.
Hank nods gentle encouragement. “You know where the glasses are, sugarbomb. Help yourself.”
“That’s not why I’ve come back.” She wrestles her attention away from the sink. “I’m here to have you answer for your crimes.”
“Oh? I’m afraid you’ll have to elaborate on that. I know you’ve been taught the importance of clarity in one’s accusations.”
Lucy digs into her pack and thrusts the mangled piece of 32’s wall in his face. “Is this clear enough for you? I saw what’s left, Dad. I know what you did.”
“Ah.” Hank leans back with the manner of someone adjusting their eyesight, not recoiling in horror. “I don’t think you do, my dear. Because if that were truly the case, you’d be thanking me, not putting on this show.”
“Thank you?” Does he not see what she’s holding? Does he not comprehend its magnitude? “Why the fudge would I thank you for killing Mom and Norm?”
“Because you’re not seeing the bigger picture, Luce, and that failing’s on me. I’ve always wanted to protect you from the unpleasantness of life, but I see I’ve been too zealous in that regard.” He peers at her with a sincere earnestness. “I was following orders, nothing more.”
“Orders?” She clenches the chunk of metal to the point it cuts into her palm. “What orders?”
“Without getting too lost in the details, but after your mother took your brother and abandoned her place here, I reported the troubling behaviour to my supervisors. The decision was to cauterize her influence, so that’s what I did.”
Troubling behaviour? Cauterize her influence? There’s nothing in his tone Lucy can hold onto, nothing to make what’s being said understandable.
“I don’t know why you seem so surprised,” Hank says. “You didn’t think Vaults operated without oversight, did you? Management’s necessary in making sure everyone plays their part, especially when the business at hand’s unpleasant.” He affects a small grimace. “I didn’t want to, you know, but orders were orders. The harmony of the community must come first.”
“You had everyone killed . . . because Mom left you?” Lucy’s rocking on her heels when she brushes against Cooper’s front. He hasn’t moved from his position behind her, as steady as a pillar. A gloved hand finds her lower back and stays there.
“Now, it’s a little more complicated than that—”
“No.” She regains her footing. “Why should I believe anything you say? You let me think Mom and Norm were alive for years. You’ve been lying to me your whole life.”
“You’re right, Luce.” Hank drums his knuckles on the chair’s arm rests. “No, you’re absolutely right. And from here on out, there’ll only be honesty between us. Take me to my office and I’ll show you the communication logs of that day. You’ll see the choice was out of my hands.”
And here he offers her a smile that, up until this very moment, has never failed to make her feel she’s swallowed the sun. Its pride shines warm benevolence on her. “Speaking of which, I’ll admit you had me worried your mother’s influence had passed onto you. But! That’s in the past. You’ve come back to me and brought my ghoul home. All’s well that ends well.”
The ghoul in question stiffens, gun belt creaking.
“I did no such thing,” Lucy says. “Cooper Howard came back with me of his own volition to help set to rights the wrongs you’ve committed. I know the truth about ghouls, Dad. I know they’re people like us, and what we’ve been doing to them must stop.”
His pleasantness stays fixed in place. “Well, not to split hairs, but the term people is subjective here.”
She stares at him like she’s never met him before. “You’re calling an assembly tonight.” Do I even know you? “Everyone will know.”
Hank readjusts in his seat. His smile’s slipping out of reach—and for a moment Lucy hates the instinct to run after it to coax it back. Can’t you see I’m doing what’s right? How can you hate me for doing what you’ve taught me to do?
“If you insist,” he says. The blood on his temple’s drying black. “But now? At this late hour? How about we schedule it first thing, when everyone’s refreshed.”
“No. This can’t wait.”
“Luce, a few hours won’t make a dif—”
“You heard her.” Cooper’s sneer’s etched so tight it seems hardboiled into his skull.
“Wow.” Hank’s expression softens like butter in a pan, melting into something else entirely. “It sure is lovely hearing your voice again.”
“Gonna put your eyes out, slow-like,” Cooper says, “if you keep fuckin lookin at me like that.”
“You were his ex-wife’s assistant,” Lucy says, louder than necessary.
“That I was.” Hank’s not looking at her. Her favourite smile doesn’t return.
“Over two hundred years ago,” she says, louder still.
“Yup! Right you are again, sugarbomb.”
“Were you ever going to tell me?” Hurt spills over her words before she can stop it. There’s pain she can’t dislodge, seated deep.
Hank turns to her the same way a flower follows sunshine. “Oh, my girl. Shh-shh, it’s okay. I apologise for keeping you in the dark—truly, I do—but that small fact has always been reserved for a need-to-know basis. My hands were tied. I promise, it changes nothing. I love you. I have always loved you. You and your mother and brother.”
Even after everything he’s done and moral injustices he’s committed, the I love you brings forth a reciprocal surge of emotion that hurts in its intensity. Why couldn’t it be simple? Why couldn’t he be the father she always thought he was? Yet here she is, cheated from what should’ve been, on the cusp of an irreversible decision.
“That didn’t stop you from killing Mom and Norm,” Lucy says. It’d be easier wringing blood from a stone than say these words. “That didn’t stop you from selling me to that awful man. And that also didn’t stop you from raping Cooper.”
She takes a deep, grounding breath. “That’s why you’re going to gather everyone in the atrium—tonight. That’s why we’re dismantling the systematic abuse towards ghouls—tonight. And that’s why we’re going to your office so we can hopefully locate his family—tonight.”
“That’s quite the stacked agenda.” Although Hank continues to sit without struggling, there’s something plastic about his demeanor, a forgery she’s coming to recognise. “As for your last point, there’s no need to bother with the terminal. I already know where his family is.”
“Wait, you do?” she says at the same time Cooper nudges her aside with a brusque, “Where?”
“I’ll tell you,” Hank says to him with a little head tilt, “after you kiss me.”
The air itself freezes. For a moment no one moves.
“Dad!” Lucy says. “How could y—”
A gloved hand clamps on the back of her neck, spinning her to collide with Cooper’s mouth. It’s a simulacrum of the real thing, all teeth and stiff lips. It hurts. There’s nothing in it telling her she’s his. His focus stays locked on Hank like she isn’t there at all.
Instead of breaking free of the false intimacy, Lucy palms his cheek. I’m here. He resists. She cups her hand along the prominent socket, breaking his line of vision. This time when she applies pressure, his head turns, gaze finding her own. Stay with me.
His jaw unlocks the way a rusty hinge might, increment by increment. The hand on her neck unclenches. She falls into the softening kiss, because this is what affection’s supposed to look like, not what Hank wishes to manufacture. His tongue slides over hers and she welcomes it in.
The chair creaks. “If you’d prefer, I can just as easily kill wife and daughter both.”
Cooper becomes stone. His eyes stay open but become unseeing, passing through Lucy to someone who isn’t there.
“Don’t listen to him,” she says into his mouth. “It’s a bluff. He can’t—”
“Lucy.” Hank’s raised voice stings like a snapped belt. “Be quiet.”
All at once her deepest fear of disappointing him rushes in, squeezing her silent.
“This evening has proven there’s a lot you don’t know,” he says, “but he does. He understands what I could do. Besides, what I’m asking for shouldn’t be difficult, especially after your little demonstration.”
A haunted pall has stolen over Cooper. He disentangles from her, features twisting like he’s being forced to eat something rotting.
“If you untie me, we can do it standing up,” Hank says. “Otherwise, it’d probably be best if you were on your knees.”
“Dad, stop. Enough.” This can’t be happening. It can’t. “Stop!”
“I said be quiet,” Hank says with the same forceful sting. “If he wants to see his family alive, he knows to do as he’s told.”
Cooper’s killed many of Dom Pedro’s posse—over a dozen, maybe all of them; heck, he’s spilled Pedro’s guts like one would a bag of potatoes—yet not a finger twitches towards the revolver. He’s staring a point over Hank’s head, entire body locked in a rictus. He takes a rickety shuffle-step forward, resisting even that spare inch. Another shuffle-step warps his mouth into a clenched snarl.
“Stop, stop! You don’t have to do this. Dad! Just tell him where his family is!”
Hank ignores her as if she isn’t there, focusing solely on Cooper’s infinitesimally slow approach. The insignificance redoubles as Cooper himself avoids looking at her. She grabs his elbow but he shakes free. He flashes her a tiny, furtive head shake. He’s nearly in front of Hank now. Another step further he’ll have to either kneel, bend, or untie him. Lucy
—is behind the sofa, huddled out of sight, the clap-clap-clap going on and on without end, and she—
swings down, stabbing the hunk of 32 into Hank’s non-vital thigh. The jagged end skids off the femur to sink deeper, sending him gasping and writhing in his bindings in shock.
Cooper lurches like all his joints are frozen, swatting her arm away a second too late. He stares at Hank transfixed, as if he’s convinced his daughter will drop dead from the ceiling and sway there. Although nothing of the kind happens, he whips his head at her, the What have you done? shouted unspoken.
Hank hisses between his teeth. Blood’s darkening his pants leg, runnels flowing down. “Stimpak. I need a stimpak.”
“You’ll get one once you take us to the master terminal,” Lucy says over the loud ringing in her ears. There’s a small tremor to her hand as she yanks the wall fragment free. Her father groans.
Cooper shakes his head as if unsure he’s broken free of a nightmare or is still trapped within. There’s no relief on his face.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I couldn’t—it’s a bluff. He’s bluffing. He might not even know where your family is.” She swallows hard. “He’s bluffing.”
“Oh, daughter. Just like your mother.” Sweat shines on Hank’s face. “You’ll never have children now. The wasteland’s taken that from you.”
“If you think I ever wanted kids in the first place, then you don’t know me either,” she says. This isn’t productive. “Let’s go.”
.
.s.
.
Hank limps between Lucy and Cooper as they pass under buzzing streetlamps. She keeps an arm wrapped tight about his waist, helping bear the brunt of his injured leg’s weight. At first glance the scene’s no different than a dutiful daughter helping an ailing parent take a late-night stroll. It’s only upon closer inspection would someone notice the bloody band of cloth, or the rope lashing his wrists together.
It was never supposed to be like this, she thinks. She holds his Pip-Boy in her free grip. Hank has made no attempt to steal it back, plodding along cooperatively. Cooper stays latched onto his other side like a baleful shadow, revolver digging into his spine. He’s yet to say a word since leaving the kitchen, the tension around him dense and caustic.
Lucy twitches at every perceived sound or movement despite the empty streets. At any second someone will walk out and wish them a Good evening or Balmy weather we’re having! Then what would she say?
The truth, she thinks. Not enough has been said around here.
She’d be lying if she didn’t admit a small part of her yearns for the simplicity of before. The world had made sense. A little over three weeks ago the sight of the darkened units with drawn curtains meant everyone was tucked safely in their beds; now all she can focus on are the attached sheds and the awful truth they harbour.
Even the lush blanket of grasses and trees, once so commonplace, feels like a needless decadence. The scenic pond of purified water could quench the thirst of so many others. It’s selfishness at its most extreme, a clear demarcation between the haves and have-nots.
Cooper clicks his tongue, drawing her from her thoughts. He’s pointing his chin to a unit up ahead. Two she-ghouls, far past usual yard work hours, are huddled about some shrubbery, each clutching small, mechanical clippers. They’re crouched like animals scenting danger, their eyes and nasal cavities nothing but dark holes in their faces.
Lucy pulls on Hank’s arm, tugging him to stop. “You two!” she says, raising her voice to a fervent whisper. She motions them over. “Come here!”
“Don’t. Lucy, don’t; you’re making a mistake,” Hank says, but a hard cuff from the revolver quiets him.
The ghouls rise with obvious reluctance. They shuffle towards her at a snail’s crawl, dragging their feet as if chains weighed them down.
Lucy shifts from leg to leg, drumming her fingers. Calling them had been spontaneous. Should she’ve stayed quiet? Was this the right way? Looking at Cooper reveals a grim sort of approval, telling her everything she needs to know.
With a quick Hold him, she hurries to meet them. The pair shrinks together as she approaches.
“It’s alright,” Lucy says. She raises her palms in a sign of peace. “I’m not going to hurt you. This isn’t a trick. I know you’re people. Look. My, uh—” lover? partner? “—friend’s the Ghoul. We’re putting a stop to what’s happening. So, please, let me take your collars off. Help me help the others.”
When one of them smiles at her, it’s little more than a nervous baring of teeth. They both peer at Cooper, then her, then to each other. Something passes unspoken between them that has nothing to do with their forced muteness.
The first she-ghoul steps forward, presenting her neck under the brightness of a nearby streetlamp. An urgent beeping begins the moment the keypad’s compartment’s opened. The other ghoul fists her clippers, but Lucy doesn’t concentrate on that: all what matters is undoing this great wrong.
She inputs Hank’s master code and with three cheery tones, the green light goes dark. The collar unlatches. The ghoul lets it drop onto the carefully manicured lawn, rubbing her neck as if unable to comprehend the fresh air on her skin.
Her companion crowds into Lucy’s space, hesitation gone. Her collar lands right next to the first. She aspires a rasping grunt as she too rubs at her wrinkled neckflesh.
“Use this,” Lucy says, reciting the code. She repeats it three times for good measure. “Free all you can.”
Both she-ghouls straighten from their slouches, taller than before. There’s a predatory stillness in the way their black gazes meet hers, and when they smile again, their discoloured teeth gleam for a different reason. The clippers stay tight in their hands.
The next second they’re darting beyond the halo of light, out of sight. Two down, Lucy thinks. That should expedite things.
“Oh, my daughter, you’ve no idea what you’ve done,” Hank says when she returns to his side.
She bristles. “What should’ve happened a long time ago.”
“How bout we do less talkin,” Cooper says, leering at Hank like he wants to gut him right then and there, “and more walkin.”
As they resume their crawl to 33’s central hub, she says, “Did you know? About the Vault experiments?”
There’s less vigor in Hank’s shuffling, like it’s leaking from some other wound she cannot see. “That’s not something you should be concerned with,” he says.
“So, you knew?”
“If I said yes,” he says, “would that make you feel better?”
No. No it wouldn’t. It only confirms a truth she doesn’t want to admit, but unlike the glued The Man from Deadhorse poster, some broken things can never be repaired.
.
.s.
.
Hank’s limping slows them considerably, but at last they arrive at Vault 33’s heart. Upon unlocking its main doors, they enter a hallway of polished floors and empty offices smelling of lemon cleaner. Coolness hums from several vents, maintaining a dry, artificial crispness to the air.
The overseer’s office stands like an imposing fortress at the very end, its steel door sealed shut. Lucy’s once again grateful for Hank’s Pip-Boy and the lack of fight for it. He’s yet to make any attempt to stop her; then again, maybe the revolver jammed into his kidneys has something to do with that.
The metal door has barely finished retracting when Cooper shoves him in. A large window along the far wall fills the room with pre-dawn blue. Lucy clicks on a nearby lamp before helping maneuver Hank to his desk.
A computer’s perched there, its glass screen dark. A framed Cooper Howard movie poster—Valley of the Gun this time, not autographed—hangs on the opposite wall in perfect alignment with the monitor.
Hank collapses in his chair with a groan. Sweat’s rolling down his temples. “I’d accept that stimpak now.”
“Pull up the logs of that day first,” she says. “Prove to me what you said about 32’s true.”
His movements are stilted due to his hands bound in rope, but he does as he’s told. A single keystroke awakens the system, and after several imputed passwords and prompt navigations, the communication transcripts appear as demanded.
She leans over his shoulder. The banality of the report feels no different than someone requesting flower arrangements for the communal picnic tables. The entire conversation takes less than three mouse scrolls to arrive at its conclusion: Upon review, Vault 32 and its subjects therein will be terminated tomorrow, Oct 10, ETA 21h00. Thank you for your diligence and cooperation, Overseer MacLean.
Gosh, even Betty had signed off on it. Lucy pulls away. What if Hank’s only a symptom of the disease rather than the root cause? It suggests a poison, unseen but omnipresent, tainting every aspect of Vault life. It’s no wonder people like Roger saw her kind as something to shun.
“You see, Lucy?” Hank says. “It was sanctioned.”
It doesn’t matter, she thinks. You still thought to turn her in instead of letting her go.
“And the treatment of ghouls?” she says. “Was that sanctioned too?”
“That system was put in place before I arrived; I merely maintained the status quo. I had hoped you would understand,” he says, “that a certain latitude’s allowed for those who have it all. Many of the community share that viewpoint. It was put in place for a reason, after all.”
Lucy can only stare. It isn’t lost on her he used the word arrived rather than defrosted.
Hank must read this from her because he says, sigh in his voice, “But maybe I should’ve listened to you, sugarbomb. Maybe we should’ve let him go.”
Her knee-jerk reaction’s to agree. So much suffering could’ve been spared if he had. But then how else would she learn the truth? As terrible as the events of the last three weeks have been, if they hadn’t happened, she’d be wed to Monty, trapped in the very cycle that’d trapped Rose. Ghouls would continue to be used and discarded without recourse. Life would plod on as always, poisoned and gleaming under its spit shine polish.
She glances at Cooper. He’s ignoring them, locked on the computer screen with single-minded focus. She follows suit, leaning in. It’s only then does the signee at the bottom catch her eye.
Barbara Howard.
He doesn’t seem surprised his ex-wife had a hand in this. If anything, he turns to Hank with grim satisfaction. “My family,” he says. “Where are they.”
“In Las Vegas.” Hank smiles despite the pain he’s in, as if recalling a fond memory. “Remember that business trip? You were quite handsome riding that mechanical bomb.”
“That Vault’s filled with concrete,” Cooper says with quiet menace. “You’re lyin.”
“Oh, not 21. The one you want is located under the Lucky 38 casino. Of course, you’d need my Pip-Boy to access it.” There’s a short pause. “Which, I suspect, I won’t be needing for long.”
“No,” Cooper says, soft and cold. “You will not.”
Hank sits back in the padded faux leather plush of his chair, the greased hinges soundless. “I take it I’m not getting legal counsel either, am I.”
“No. You are not.”
Hank nods. A pained wince breaks his softening smile. “Well. I’d rather it be you than anyone else,” he says.
Although Cooper doesn’t physically react, the space around him condenses, squeezing all the air from the room.
Lucy looks from one to the other with deepening concern. Wait—this can’t happen yet. It’s too soon. But just as she goes to say this, a faint screaming breaks her concentration. It sounds like it’s coming from outside.
“What the heck?” she says.
“We had fun, didn’t we, sugarbomb.” Hank hasn’t stopped studying Cooper. “And now you’ve let the wasteland in. It’s over.”
“You knew this couldn’t continue, Dad,” she says, but she’s already drifting from his side, foreboding rising. The doors at the end of the hallway bang open and the screams, once so removed, echo and rebound off the floors like a firecracker set off in a tin can.
“Help, help!” It’s an older woman. “Help! Oh gosh, someone help meeeaaughk—!”
Lucy rushes into the hallway in time to witness a ghoul, different from the ones she rescued earlier, tackle Mrs. Lewiston to the floor and proceed to tear her throat out. Her struggles wane under the onslaught, gurgling. The pooling blood fixes Lucy in place. It’d felt very different when it was Pedro bleeding out on the ground.
The ghoul, collarless and slathered in gore, looks up. The eyes are pale, and when he stands, he’s taller than Lucy by a wide margin. He takes a single threatening step forward before hesitating.
The rustle of the fabric and hammer click of the revolver draws her from her daze.
“You got yours,” Cooper says beside her, gun withdrawn and ready by his leg, “and I got mine. So goan. Git.”
The new ghoul eyeballs the weapon that isn’t quite pointed at him, then Lucy. With one final sneer, the newcomer leaves, but not before dragging Mrs. Lewiston away with him. The opened door lets in more screams and shouts, and when it closes, what’s happening’s once more reduced to a faint, far quality.
“Reckon there won’t be any left come sunrise,” Cooper says. “Y’all’s reapin what’s been sown.”
“I, I—I didn’t—I’d wanted—” and then she can’t speak, the enormity of it sitting on her like a mountain.
“I know, sweetheart. But this is what happens when folks’re driven to their limit. Speakin of which.” He levels a heavy, significant look at her.
Everything’s going much too fast. She’d thought there’d be time for communal discussion, for introspection, for amends—instead the tinder’s already been lit, burning Vault 33 on the pyre of its own making.
A small, terrible part of her doesn’t want to say goodbye. But when she turns to the office again, Hank’s ignoring them, as if the spilling of his community’s blood means nothing. He’s fervently typing.
He clacks one more keystroke before Cooper fires, blasting his hands and computer both. Hank recoils with a cry as gristle, bits of glass, and plastic go flying. Cooper strides forward and shoots again, aiming lower this time. Hank falls. He curls on the carpet, trying to stem his gushing crotch with exposed wrist bones.
Lucy doesn’t move, feet frozen to the floor.
“Shit. Shouldn’ta broke the computer too.” Cooper walks back to her. “Look away, Lucy,” he says as he nears. He pushes his duster aside and holsters the revolver. “You don’t want no part of this.”
“No, he’s my—I should—I—” she says, but he’s pulling in close, smelling of leather and gunpowder. She allows him to maneuver her into one of the empty offices, unable to see through the sudden rush of tears. Her father doesn’t deserve them, not after what he’s done, but they fall regardless, beyond her control.
Once she’s sitting and comfortable, Cooper squeezes her upper arm, the pressure of it grounding. When it’s clear she isn’t going to trail after him, he leaves in a clinging of spurs.
Hank’s agonised cries soon reach a crescendo.
Outside the window, the sun begins to rise.
.
.s.
.
Daybreak peeks over the walls like a fresh coat of blue. The new morning reveals Vault dweller bodies that’ve been dragged into piles or left where they lay. Most are decapitated or have their jaws unhinged, making everyone she’s ever known no longer recognisable.
Ghouls mingle about, some covered in blood, others not. Many of them carry the kitchen knives, clippers, or whatever else used to kill their masters. Though trees and lack of vantage obscure Lucy’s sightline, it seems squabbles are breaking out for possession of the heads.
The tongues, she thinks with a shudder.
Cooper haunts the doorway behind her like a specter. It’s been over thirty minutes since Hank’s gone quiet and he’s yet to enter the room or cross into her space.
“We have to warn them,” she says, breaking the silence. While her face’s no longer warm and splotchy, she coughs to clear the knot in her throat. Exhaustion pulls. “We have no way of knowing what message he wrote, if it was sent, or even if it was received.”
Spurs jangle soft and low until they pull to a stop next to her.
“Fuckin stupid on my part,” he says.
“We both took our eyes off him. This is not all on you.” The larger implication isn’t lost on her: without guaranteed time to manufacture an antidote, these ghouls are dead without their supply of vials. Lucy grimaces. Then again, they might be more inclined to rip her apart and take her tongue than accept her help.
Cooper’s ambient warmth’s a comfort. She could lean on him if she wanted to, so she does, light as a feather, easy to avoid. When he makes no attempt to move away, she rests more weight on him. Her attention dips. He’s holding Hank’s Pip-Boy, its screen splattered in viscera. Without a word he tucks it into the saddlebag, reducing it to a bulky lump.
Both look up as a Vault dweller, previously hidden between two units, streaks towards the city’s exit. It could be Monty, but it’s hard to tell at this distance. In either case, a group of ghouls cut him off and drag him hollering to the ground.
“I ain’t got enough bullets for the whole crowd,” Cooper says. He cocks his hip, and whether by accident or design, has shifted closer. “We could lay low and leave when the heat dies down.”
The skies remain clear, but for how long? If Hank’s request for annihilation went through—for what else would he be typing?—there’s no telling how much longer they have. “I’m not waiting to be found like some cornered roach. We go and warn them now.” Lucy squares her shoulders. “It’s the right thing.”
Something bittersweet crosses his face. “The right thing’s gonna kill you one day, darlin. Maybe you’re bout to meet your makers exactly as that fucker jus did.”
“All things meet their end eventually.” There’s no tragedy in that. “But promise me you’d make it quick? Please? If it looks like they’re going to get me?”
Cooper exhales, more bitter than sweet. “Yeah.” He presses a kiss onto the crown of her head. “Yeah, I can do that.”
.
.s.
.
It takes less than a few dozen steps outside before ghouls are turning their way, perking like they’ve scented fresh meat.
“Cooper,” she says.
“Yep.” He cocks his revolver. “I see em.”
Lucy waves, motions a touch frenetic. “Excuse me! Hello! May I have your attention please?”
More ghouls gather. The one who killed Mrs. Lewiston stands in the forefront, expression difficult to interpret under the mask of dried blood. He and the rest are moving in when Cooper takes aim at him.
“That’s bout close enough, friend. I ain’t inclined to waste good bullets.”
The ghoul sneers. He’d be first to reach Lucy if he lunged. “All I see is one of you and plenty of us.”
Several others rumble in agreement. Those that can’t speak rasp grunts instead.
“The hell are you protecting it for?” another says. “You’re free now. Give us the smoothskin and move on.”
“Please! It’s very important you all listen! There might be bombs on the way,” Lucy says, but the group continues pressing in as if it doesn’t care. More appear, drawn to the commotion. Cooper pans his revolver, eyeballing hard those who are starting to circle around. He shoves her behind him. Dewy grass clings to her boots as he keeps pushing her back. At this rate they’ll soon be pinned to the building’s siding.
At what point will Cooper decide to shoot her? Will he give her any warning? Or will it be a swift shot between the eyes before anticipation could set in, too fast to register? At least it’ll be you, she thinks.
“Stop! Wait! Not her.” One of the initial she-ghouls Lucy had saved rushes in to stand before the others. “Not her. She’s the one who gave me and my sister the code.”
The advance falters to a staggered halt. Cooper lowers his gun in a slow arc but doesn’t holster it, keeping it tense by his leg.
“Thank you.” Raising her voice so all can hear, Lucy says, “There’s no way to confirm it, but the overseer may’ve gotten a message out to his supervisors. There’s a chance this city will be erased in the coming days.”
Murmurs ripple through the gathering.
“Why should we believe you?” one says.
“Believe me then, cause I was there too,” Cooper says. “Maybe it won’t happen. Maybe it will. Either way, I suggest hightailin outta here for a spell.”
The ghoul in the front narrows his eyes. “It’s true. I saw them both with the overseer.”
Another shifts in place. “And if we choose to stay after?”
“If shit’s left standin, then that’s on you,” Cooper says. “But I reckon it won’t be long ’fore others hear what went down and want a piece of the pie themselves.”
“All we ask is you to find safe ground and wait,” Lucy says. “Take the G.E.C.K. and whatever else you want.” She winces. “And all the vials you can.” It still doesn’t sit right with her that she isn’t helping more with solving this drug dependency, but as she’s about to offer, the she-ghoul says,
“We’ll deal with that on our own.”
“If that’s bout the end of it, we’re gonna head our way, and y’all find yours. But, ’fore y’all do.” Cooper cocks his head towards the central hub’s entrance. “Another tongue’s in there. Office at the end. Fresh.”
Several rush for the doors. There’s no more discussion after that.
.
.s.
.
Lucy wastes no time raiding the communal pantries while Cooper stands guard. Although no ghouls have attacked them, that doesn’t stop a number of them from stopping and staring.
As she loads up a backpack full of essentials for a journey with no clear end, the irony of leaving the requisition forms blank for a second time isn’t lost on her. By the time she’s done, the RadAway and Rad-X shelves are bare; she can only trust she’ll find more to buy along the way. Enough radiation turns folks into ghouls, Vaultie. Or kill em. One or the other.
Well. That’s a chance she’s willing to take.
She clicks her belt, her pack’s weight settling heavy on her hips. Cooper isn’t looking at her, locked on a pair of ghouls loitering nearby. He becomes her shadow the moment she makes for the exit.
The city’s so much smaller than she remembers, compressed somehow. In what feels like a blink, they’re walking through the gates, dust kicking about their boots. Empty cages with doors swung open watch them go by. Lucy acknowledges each of them, alert in case any ghouls were still trapped.
There’re some wounds spilled blood will never satisfy, but hopefully this was enough to break the cycle of violence.
By mutual unspoken agreement they don’t stop until Vault 33’s half the size. While she can’t deny she’ll breathe easier once this place’s far behind her, it won’t stop her from remembering. Maybe in time those injuries will heal. That, too, she can only hope for in the months and years to come.
“Even if it isn’t destroyed,” she says, “why would any of them choose to stay?”
“Let em make their own decisions bout that. They’ve been starved enough as it is.”
Cooper’s peering northeastward like a man filled with new hope, the echo of the man he once was there for clever eyes to see.
“Las Vegas, huh?” she says.
“Mnn. S’called New Vegas nowadays. A shitshow no matter the time of year.” He pauses, as if coming back to himself. His gaze flicks to the bruises on her throat before meeting hers in that steady way of his. “That what you want?”
Lucy pulls in a deep breath of the outside air and releases it in one big whoosh. Most of the morning glow’s gone at this hour, adding to the wasteland’s starkness.
“Yes.” The unknown lies before her, vast and new. “More than anything, yes.”
.
.
.
-fin-