Crossover With Non-anime Series Fan Fiction ❯ A Certain Machinist ❯ Crawl Out Through That Fallout ( Chapter 9 )

NINE

“I’m not letting you take Sean!” a woman’s voice cried. I was struggling to breathe, shivering with cold and the air was really bad. I’m in a metal box? It is cold. Really cold. Through a frosty window I could see a man raise a gun to the woman and fire. She went limp and a figure in a plastic suit caught the infant and carried it away. The face of the killer looked in the window at me.

“At least we have the backup,” he said, scar over his left eye, bald head, hard killer’s face. The gas went worse and I fell back unconscious.

Time passed.

“Critical failure in cryogenic array!” repeated a recorded woman’s voice over tinny speakers echoing off the metal walls. I pounded on the door and it levered open on hydraulics, wheezing as if very old.

“Come on come on come on!” I yelled at it, finally getting out and falling onto my face. The air was bad, like a cargo plane flying over the Chugach Mountains, heading for Anchorage and the doomed Chinese invasion. Why did I know that? I managed to stand and lurched towards the capsule across from me… my… wife?? That isn’t Glynda. The woman is named… Nora? And she has dark curly hair. I pulled on the console, buttons doing nothing but the emergency latch activated and the door opened slowly. Inside was my… wife? Nora. She was dead, frozen solid. I touched her and withdrew my hands… not my hand. I looked at it. These are bigger than my hands. And paler. I am going to need a mirror. I stepped back, recovering my sense of self.

I got sniped outside my building, didn’t I? That’s what that was, wasn’t it? All those attempts and someone finally got me. That’s what I get for being the nail that sticks up.

Whose body am I inside? Nate. His name is Nate. I guess I can live with that. The last name I used was made up too. I turned towards the exit signs as the message kept repeating and breathing this mix of leaking gases will kill me eventually. Better get out. Nate’s memories were hazy, but I was underground, in a fallout shelter at the bottom of an elevator shaft, maybe 100 feet down. Enough to cut off the radiation from the nuclear war that they’d just been through. I pulled the emergency release on a door and it opened. I moved towards the next door where the exit sign flickered and pulled it.

“Bzzt bzzt. Door mechanism failure. Please contact Vault Tech for maintenance. Use alternate exit,” the voice said from a speaker above me. I sighed. There was an adjustable wrench. I picked it up, testing it, then applied the jaws to the bent section of the latch and pulled gently, then firmly until the door jerked. I pulled the wrench loose and it slid open into the ceiling. To a machinist, locks are just mechanisms, and I know how to make those.

“Huh. Okay,” I said. At the end of the corridor I could see a huge cogwheel shaped door. I walked towards it. At the end of the hallway I spotted a cockroach that was a couple feet long and backed up in visceral horror behind the wall, seeking cover. What the fudge? Sorry. Military doesn’t like anyone to swear. They’re really fussy about that. But still. What the fudge? A giant cockroach? What the hell kind of fallout shelter breeds those? I’d backed up all the way to the door I’d opened, bumping into a work cart and several tools. I looked at the tools and noticed a ball peen hammer, which is a useful tool if you work with metals. I do. I also noticed a red toolbox on top of the rolling cart, which I opened and examined. Socket set, several wrenches of SAE type, and no rust. Useful. I put the adjustable wrench and a big red-handled screwdriver into it, a flat-head, then shut the lid, latching it. I picked it up because a toolbox is a fabulous weapon, much like the hammer in my right hand.

I crept forward and peered around the corner towards the giant roach. It had moved a couple feet. Its antenna twitched. It is definitely alive. The air was better here, at least, even though it stinks from that giant bug, probably ammonia and cyanide. I wish I had a gun. That thing was big enough a pistol would do. I wonder how thick the carapace is? I noticed the giant bug was next to a… skeleton, wearing decomposing dried clothes. That’s… how long does it take a dead body to turn into a skeleton? Actually, that’s a really good question. Two centuries, I think. Something like that. They were bare bones and rotten polyester fabric. The cockroaches probably helped that along, so maybe 150 years? The fragmented memories of the owner of this body were of living people, a completely new construction, handing out suits like the one I am wearing. It was bright blue, skin tight, and looked like something a superhero would wear while talking about justice or punishment.

I took my best guess and got closer, then threw the toolbox onto the giant roach, which was utterly crushed by the weight. I smack crushed its head, for insurance. Naturally, another roach appeared a couple feet away and I swung my hammer wildly at it, getting bitten by sharp mandibles before I crushed its head with a lucky shot. I looked at my fingers and winced at the damage, hoping I can find something. I wouldn’t use these tomb rags or their piles of bacteria for bandages. No thank you. I could see that there was another skeleton, missing its left arm, which had some kind of gauntlet on it. Weird. I picked it up, examining it. Kinda heavy aluminum housing, some kind of large battery on one side, a four inch square screen on top, like on a computer. A display? It was dark. There was a rotating switch on the right, indicating power on and alternate settings for status, inventory, aid, misc, map? Weird. Might be useful. I turned it to the on position. The screen boot up paused. It was simple black and green monochrome? Haven’t seen that type except in museums of computer science. What did it say?

User not found. Please shut down, attach to arm, and reactivate to authenticate user. So it wanted me to wear it? I shrugged, pulling up my left sleeve a few inches and put it on. There was a latch which clicked. It was comfortable, though heavy, around four pounds. I clicked the power to on. The screen booted up and I felt a slight tightening of the gauntlet… it says its a Pip Boy OS? Interesting. Primitive, but interesting. The features started working. The cut on my hand sealed up as the Aid section detected my wound and injected me with something 200 years old… oh dear? But it worked? I waited to see if I would drop dead in the next thirty seconds. I continued to breathe and move through this bout of understandable anxiety. At this moment I really wish Ruby were here with me. She was good at distractions.

I noticed a loop of cord coming off the far side of the pip boy and an old style round connector which plugged into the control console. It turned on suddenly and a big red button reading “Open Vault Door” lit up from within. I pressed the button and all sorts of alarms and steam started venting. I stood there watching this huge dance of heavy equipment slide overhead, mate with the locking system on the door, twist under steam power and hydraulics and bolts slid out of the door, water valves shut and gushed down to the basin at the floor and the huge gear-shaped door was pulled around eight feet towards me onto a cogged track, then began to roll on it to the right, opening the hole. Bright lights turned on and a mechanical walkway slid forward over the opening in sections, across to the landing on the far side. There was dust and noise and then slowly a gate on the far side slid up to reveal a platform for what was certainly an elevator to the surface. I could get out of this tomb.

I picked up my toolbox, noting a box of ammunition nearby, which I added to it. 10 mm? Interesting. Not a bad round, if it is full power and in a handgun made for it. 1911’s could be made to fire it, but it was the very limit of their strength, and making them explode was a risk you took. My own weapons used a larger case to reduce pressure and prevent some of the problems. And I still have all the specifications for those in my head. I could make those in my sleep, at this point. I got on the elevator and pushed the lift button. The door descended and I rose up to the surface, doors opening as I went. Three sets of them. It was more than 100 feet, closer to 200.

I emerged on the elevator platform into a bright sunny day, into a world of sweaty summer heat, and if my pip boy was to be believed, in Boston, Massachusetts. Or The Commonwealth of Massachusetts, as they liked to insist there. I was many miles north and a bit west, close to the Vermont border. I suspect that Vermont may be even more wild than the greater Boston area. I clicked over to Radio and noted that the selections were labeled. I tuned into Diamond City and adjusted the volume. And oldies song came on, from before my birth.

“I don’t want to set your heart on fire… I just want to start… a flame in your heart…” crooned the singer. Ominous?

I noticed that this platform, the top of the elevator, was next to a bunch of shipping containers, a small control shed and various pieces of broken and rusting cars. I checked the control room and noted that it had a button to activate the elevator, so could get back into that shelter if I really need to. The air up here was far better. I smell pollen, dust, a bit of campfire smoke somewhere not far away, and plenty of plant life, as well as what is probably creek water.

I wound past what looked like a portable construction office, surrounded by trees and read the large billboard “Prepare For the Future!” which depicted happy people running from mushroom clouds for a vault. Probably this vault. Where I was the only survivor. Well, me and my kidnapped infant son Sean. Or Nate’s son anyway. I wonder if his brain died or got overwritten by my soul? Something like that. I am coming to terms with being six inches taller and a good 50 pounds heavier and made of muscle. This guy was a war veteran, infantry. Probably mobile infantry, one of those crews that jumped out to find snipers while the tanks went through obvious ambush points.

The walk down the hill to the creek found a working foot-bridge, which I crossed, and entered the neighborhood where Nate used to live. I turned left toward his house and found most of them missing windows, roofs wrecked, a few of them ruins that hadn’t fallen flat yet but would eventually. The radio had moved onto another song about Butcher Pete with an obvious reference to sexing married ladies.

It was here that I noticed a flame below a ball of metal with dangling arms moving at a task of gardening a hedge. I stared. Not again. There is not way that flame has enough thrust to hold up what had to be 100 pounds of metal, and what is moving those jointed arms? Wishful thinking? Telekinesis? It may as well.

“Ah, sir! You’ve returned!” said the robot in an English butler voice, its three eye modules turning to regard me. Nate’s memories revealed its name.

“Codsworth? You’re still here? Still operational…” I managed to say instead of accusing him of violating multiple laws of physics. The last world had a moon that couldn’t exist, and continents shaped like dragons and turtles. This one had impossible gravity problems too.

He was blathering at me. “And where is your better half? And young Sean?” Codsworth asked finally, shaking me out of my rant on physics.

“She’s… she’s dead. Some men came into the vault and kidnapped Sean and killed her to get him. I was trapped. I’m going to get him back. Have you seen anyone?” I promised.

“Other than the occasional mosquito or wild dog it’s been very quiet here since the bombs fell,” he admitted. “Perhaps we can search the neighborhood?” he suggested.

“Is there anything dangerous?” I asked him, wishing for a better weapon.

“Some flies, rather large ones,” he admitted. I looked around and headed inside the house, noting that my umbrella still existed. I picked it up, testing its opening, which worked. I closed it again. I may be no Ryouga, but I could use a battle cane. I sure hope I find a weapon soon.

I emerged from the house. “Lead the way,” I ordered and Codsworth did, heading next door. The flies were a foot across and I opened the umbrella to stop a larvae an inch across and three inches long from biting my face with it. It chewed into the fabric and I shook it free, crushing it under my boot, which hissed from acid. Ruined boot? Wow. I let Codsworth light the remaining flies on fire or cut them in half with his electric rotary saw. We visited another house with more flies and he killed those too.

Inside this house in the kitchen, partially concealled by an open refrigerator door I found a skeleton with some kind of zip gun made from pipes which would probably explode if fired more than once, and considering the owner was dead, probably had failed under pressure. There’s some logic to be had when it comes to military weapons. If you find them next to dead people, they might be bad.

I took my find and several other items of salvage to the garage space across the street from my home, which appears to have been used to repair vehicles since the bombs dropped. There were workbenches inside, including a shop mill and lathe. It was a sturdy model and would probably work after cleaning and lubrication. There was also a weapon’s bench, made to help with the cleaning and special vice to hold a gun’s receiver, more tools to help remove a rifle barrel, additional equipment in a toolbox beneath. I put the zip gun on the bench, then opened up the mechanism. It was really unsafe. The main portion was actually oak or maple, and it was load-bearing, and cracked. A few more times firing this and it would tear itself apart, probably taking off the hand of the fool holding it.

With all these buildings around, nobody thought to melt that metal down and cast ingots to use in machining? Really? I looked around and considered my options, noting a lot of scrap metal present, and understanding that a working radio station, with a live DJ, means there are still people around. Sure, many may be hostile, like Codsworth said about the ones in Concord, but some will be sane or there wouldn’t be any people at all.

Odd thing about the homes here was that their roofs were low and the carports lacked walls or doors to keep the weather off. And it snows here, with ice storms and other foul weather during the winter months. Every home should have a deep foundation to deal with the deep freeze, yet few had a basement. Almost like this place was betting on global warming rather than nuclear winter. And after two centuries, apparently, according to the Pip Boy which updated when I turned on the radio, it was just before Halloween 210 years after Nate took his nap in the vault. And more than 260 years in my own future. I wonder how Glynda is doing? Knowing my wife and her pregnancy were far from this place is a relief at least. She was safe.

The homes around me offered a lot of potential salvage. I noticed lots of sheets of aluminum siding. There is less rust than you’d expect, but also less wood used in the buildings. Most of the trees in the neighborhood were either overgrown or dead and ready to come down for use. On the flip side, many of the building that still stood were missing lots of roof and water had been falling inside the home so the smell of mildew was everywhere inside them. I expect that gets worse during the winter, which will be soon despite this last bit of late-fall heat, Indian Summer they call it. And with giant bug running around, and my geiger counter ticking now and then, there is still contamination around. And it will be around for tens of thousands of years. Unless someone finds a way to collect it up and put it in a series of reactors to make use of the heat from the radiation to generate power until the isotopes evolve into lead or iron, which are the two endpoints of fission and fusion. Stable atoms with nearly no radioactivity. The universe is full of iron and hydrogen.

The radio DJ, some nervous guy named Travis, listed off the bands and song titles of the last three songs and then a bit of news… about me. Apparently I’d been spotted leaving the vault? That’s pretty weird, but distant gunfire was slightly audible from a mile away, towards Concord. I don’t really want to get shot today, so I continued my search of the neighborhood for resources. The garage revealed a welder, and a cutting torch setup. This would be exciting if I had the missing gases. I eventually found a plasma cutter, and a laser cutter and their manuals were intact so I could reach how to use them. I organized them in the garage and reminded myself to come back and read. I found a set of clothes for a woman, some 1950’s lounge wear made from velour fabric and better living through chemistry bright colors. I do not want that. I found some Radaway IV bags, name written heavy bold text. Instructions to use an IV needle and let it run would remove radiation contamination from the body. I suspect the need for a piss afterwards would be a result. A radioactive dick? How am I going to get clean water? I went down to the water, a lake on the south side of this… island? Sort of an island. I brought my pip boy near the water and picked up a steady clicking of radiation. So the water is hot. Not super-hot, but drinking that would probably be fatal.

I need a distillation setup, and some means to extracting the radioactive waste from the clean water. I had to consider that a while. I wonder if the population are violent and crazy because they’re desperate for water and getting heavy metal poisoning from the radioactive isotopes in the water they can drink? More distant gunfire sounded over the nearby ridge, towards Concord.

I searched each house in turn, finding various items useful for a settlement or farm. I even found expired seeds I could plant and maybe something would come up. Maybe not. I also found a garden of melons and a few pumpkins behind the garage building. More importantly, I found a drill-style farm well pipe and handpump system. I had a hammer, so I pounded it into the ground and then attached the handles to turn the screws which dug it deeper. Repeat for the next twenty minutes, digging the well-pipe deeper and deeper. Attached the next segment and deeper yet, and finally hear the sound of water at the bottom of the pipe. Drill a bit further down, and then attach the pump and handle. Run the pump handle with pure arm strength and after a moment water starts moving up because the effort increases. I pump and test with my pip boy, with no clicks. The water is clean? Huh. That’s good news. I won’t die today. I pumped water and filled up some of the bottles I’d been organizing, many of them empty beer bottles. Wash them out, using some of the borax powder in a metal bucket and clean water. Fill and empty several times, rinse under the well pump, then fill and taste. Clean water. Relatively clean. Tastes wonderful, actually. I guess I was thirsty.

So now I have shelter and water. Fire is easy. There’s some food, based on those veggies, and if I want to risk cooking these radioactive giant bugs. Or eating 200 year old canned food, which can’t be healthy after five years, nevermind two centuries. I wonder how many rads old food absorbs?

I searched more houses and eventually found a safe, which I opened with a bobby pin and that red handled screwdriver. Many rounds of ammunition, the local funny money from 200 years ago, some drugs I couldn’t identify, and a proper 10mm pistol, made of metal, and in full working order. I took it apart to verify this in the garage area, cleaning and oiling parts so they would move fully. Not bad. Actually pretty good. I need a holster. I carried it and the toolbox as I went from house to house in the neighborhood, in this Nate’s former neighborhood. I found old clothes that were still wearable. I found shoes that had dried up into brittle garbage. I found intact cardboard boxes with stuff in them, some of it useful. I found more old food in their original packaging. The radio played old music at me, and I turned on the ones I found, which apparently still worked.

I found some more giant bugs, which I killed, and another safe, this one with a really obvious trigger mechanism on it, and a bomb built into what is probably a cigar box. I can say probably because of the name and the picture of the cigar and the words “fine tobacco” stenciled on it. I disconnected the wires and disabled the spring trap before removing it entirely. I set aside the bomb for later and finally opened the safe with a bobby pin and screwdriver. More drugs, weapons, ammunition in several calibers, including 10mm. I noticed something outside the window, some kind of workbench? I went around the house and stared at what looked like a pressure vessel, like something you would use to make moonshine, really. This is an poor location, a huge field with critter noises and presumably passing snipers and wandering murder-hobos. I recall seeing a hand-truck with wheels I could use to get this near the garage. Easier to move it than to build a new one. I wonder if it actually works?

Moving it required use of the shovel I’d found in the garage to dig it out of the ground, remove some hummocks of grass, and when I got to the gate I need to unscrew sections of picket fence. It ended up a couple hours before I could get it onto the street, which still has pavement between the hummocks of grass and air-blown dirt. From there I slowly dragged it to my own driveway. Or Nate’s driveway anyway. I really need to build a smelter, or a basic blower and anvil setup for heating steel so I can reshape it. I found enough tools for that. It would be helpful if I could get a couple feet of heavy rail from a railroad. That makes a good anvil if you can get it loose and then attach it to something heavy enough that can take the beating. I don’t often have to go this base-level when I’m rebuilding civilization from the bottom up, especially when I have a lathe but no electric generator. Speaking of, I’d found a small 2-stroke engine, and some lawnmowers which could be turned into small generators. The cars rusting away were electric, unfortunately, but I’d spotted a truck engine rolling the creek across the bridge, and there was a lit-up sign for a Red Rocket gas station. Might find something useful there, along with more tools. Maybe a welder will turn up. I’m going to want one of those once I have power, maybe a bank of batteries. The first arc welder used a field of car batteries, before there were cars. Good proof of concept.

If this were a video game all these steps would be glossed over and selecting a power generator would take seconds to appear rather than require all kinds of effort to recover, repair, restore to operation, setup a gearbox to run a generator and a power regulator to prevent overcharging and a way to cut power to the generator so it only ran during demand. Stuff like that is very convenient, but also a lot of work to setup when you’re having to make tools to make more tools to make more tools.

“You just got to bootstrap yourself, sonny-jim! Just get back on your feet and buy a house for $50 and a stick of gum and turn it into a million dollars by the time you retire, because that’s the Boomer way!” I cackled like a vile old man lost in delusions. Richest generation with the easiest lives in history and the best economy of any country, anywhere, EVER, and talk to me about bootstraps. I wonder if the locals had to deal with those people here? Considering the magazine and newspapers I’d found were published in October of 2077, they’d had 40 years would boomers screwing things up. Of course, that still left Millenials and Zoomers demanding free stuff, and the Alphas probably lost their tempers by the time they were old, and maybe they were the ones who raised younger generations with even highest expectations and ever increasingly demands for resources and finance that was impossible. It lead to them dropping the Bombs, and here we are two centuries later. But we still have radio.

I found a book with a manual for repairing that engine in the creek and tore it apart until the light got low. I bedded down in a bomb shelter I’d found with working ventilator fan and once I’d cleaned the filter, clean air. I managed six hours of sleep and woke up hungry. Determined to try what I can to survive, I cooked up some of those bugs and found the radiation missing once cooked, which is not how physics or chemistry works. But I tried eating it and wished for some kind of sauce. It was a little too much like eating lobster without butter, complete with the fishy smell. But at least my stomach wasn’t aching with hunger anymore and I found several pumpkins and some weird purple fruits with seeds. I planted the seeds from each of them along the street and watered those from my clean pump and a metal bucket I’d found. Nice and easy. Maybe those will grow before the snow falls. I can only hope. I started pulling metal sheets off of wrecked houses and fixing the roofs on the ones standing. This is pretty basic work, and I filled any screw or nail holes with solder after some tapping with my hammer. Glue or tar sometimes too. Something that won’t dissolve in the rain. I eventually got two houses with roofs and reinstalled doors so they could keep out critters. The msising glass is a problem I’ll have to figure out. If I can find the shard outside the windows with a sifter I can then melt them down and make puddle glass and then turn those into panes and eventually reinstall those as windows. It isn’t perfect, but what is?

Some of the toilets drained properly. They might even work. I suspect they’re going to a cesspit or septic field, and that isn’t terrible if they aren’t clogged with tree roots. The water system here seems to be originating from creeks draining into this lake, which outlets on either side of this island rather than just one or the other. That’s not typical, but it is what I’ve got to deal with. And I have to think there’s probably a way to clear out of the bugs from that vault up the hill and maybe get that into condition for pregnant women and kids for when they get those radiation storms, which the radio mentions sometimes. Most seem to be south of here, but that’s still not that far away. Thirty miles, maybe.

I found a manual for a ham radio, and a radio and microphone, and a set of recording tapes. I used one of my generators to power it up and recorded a welcome settlers message on it and got it to repeat while broadcasting. It was probably only going a few miles, but it was better than nothing, and hopefully if some hooligans show up instead of potential communist farmers who will slave away to raise my food so they can eat and sleep without getting rained on? Well, I can deal. People living here would defend it if life is good, right? Or was that how we lost the Republic in the first place? Trusting that others would defend what made their lives easy, what made them Soft, too soft to fight? This line of thought is aggravating. People arrived, asked if there was anything they could do. I assigned one to security, which he gratefully did with his personal weapon, and the other got to tending the crops, which grew dramatically with care. They harvested and we had pumpkin, something called mole rat chunks with homemade tato chutney sauce, and giant mosquito filet on squewers with melon for dessert. It was actually good tasting, and my guts seemed okay with it. What a strange world this is.

I slept in my own house that night and got a full eight hours in the bed I had setup in my son’s nursery.

“And would anyone like to speak about their memories of the dearly departed?” asked Ozpin, who looked bored but also somewhat relieved. Glynda was heavily pregnant and weeping continuously, and Peter had been forced to take over her combat class while a substitute came in to deal with his grimm studies class. The substitute, the mother of young Mister Arc, was a remarkable font of knowledge and made good use of her son’s sturdy endurance to assist in demonstrating techniques.

“I have something to say,” announced Ruby Rose. She walked slowly to the podium and stared at the crowd of students and dignitaries.

“When I first met Bob he complained about our moon. I convinced Dad to let him stay with us, even though Yang won the pool that week. He baked me cookies. But one time he did something I just cannot forgive. When I was working for him at his factory it was just him and me, alone. There I was, having assembled all the sub-machine guns for Ocelot Village, which took nearly the whole day, and he promised me cookies. And he baked them while I got cleaned up and ate my balanced meal. So I poured a tall glass of milk and out came the cookies, hot on the plate. And did you know what they were? Oatmeal raisin! And for that reason I can never forgive him.” The audience was silent at this accusation. Yang sighed.

“I’m next.” Ruby sat back down looking righteous. Yang shook her head then got to the point. “He was okay. Kinda cool, like an older brother. I kinda liked him. If he wasn’t into Glynda I’d have made a pass at him. He did this one thing for me that I can’t talk about but really helped. But he also did this other thing that I can. He fixed up my bike so the suspension is way better now. It was a lot of work, but he did it because he said Bumblebee, that’s my motorbike, deserved to be as fast as it could be and that meant fixing the suspension. So now it is tuned to me. He did that. Nobody ever did that for me, not even Dad. So I’ll miss him, whatever his name really was,” Yang said, then blew her nose loudly at the microphone before returning to her seat.

“I’ll always remember him for his supportive words,” said professor Port. “I overheard him tell a student who was dissatisfied with my class that I am not a liar, that every story I tell is completely true. It is wonderful to have met someone who understands the burden of greatness. He did have one fact wrong. I do sleep sometimes. It is how I commune with the spirits of the mountains and rivers. The rest of the time I merely Wait,” intoned Peter. Glynda stopped crying at this statement and stared at her colleague with barely restrained fury. Part of the reason she was made the combat instructor is because she could easily repair the ring using her telekinesis semblance. Peter did not possess this, preferring to align parts and press them back into place with a well executed Chi punch. Sometimes this worked. Other times it created powdered concrete or shards of steel or wood. She still had to come in to fix things, but it was far more difficult to fix the repairs.

Ozpin was lost in memory of summer days a thousand years earlier, when his wife was still human and there had been one of those rare picnic lunches, a bottle of wine, and sufficient privacy to become lost in their… well, his memory was undulled by time.