FUNNY- A Fallout Story

FUNNY- A Fallout Story
Fallout and all related trademarks belong to Bethesda Studios and Interplay Studios, as well as their respective shareholders. I only own my ideas and an empty wallet.
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I jumped a little bit at the crackle of static. The radio in front of me flared to life, giving a light, scattered growl as it fished for a signal long dead. Shaking my head, I continued to leaf through the surrounding wreckage. The torqued, burned frame of a desk sat to the left, and a quick tug on the handle proved the only remaining drawer to be locked. That was a good sign, if a frustrating one. Locked meant that no one had managed to break in for any loot it was hiding. Locked meant important.

I reached into my belt pouch, pulling out a bobby pin and my screwdriver. A second's work popped it open, revealing a few meaningless papers, some caps, and, to my surprise and joy, a box of Fancy Lad's. "Dinner," I muttered to myself as I slid it into my pouch along with the caps. Leaving the papers, I shut the drawer and got back to scavenging. A few shotgun shells lay among the rubble, and they too went into the pouch.

I was about to turn away when I saw something, poking out from behind the desk. A black rectangle, no more than six inches long. Dropping back to my knees, I pulled at it. Pinned between the wall and the desk, it gave a little resistance before suddenly slipping free, sending me sprawling. I scrambled back up quickly, muttering a quick curse as I examined my prize.

It was a switchblade, sharp and clean. I slid the blade in and out a few times, testing the action, and found it to be working well, much better than I would have expected. I liked knives, always had, so I opened my pouch, grinning at my luck. Before I could put it away, however, an echoing click sounded behind me.

"Alright, runt," came the voice from behind me. "Put the knife down and turn around slow." Deciding that obedience would be the best choice here, I did so, setting it on the ground as I turned and stood. Two men stood before me, pointing guns at my head. A third stood in the doorway covering the tunnel. The one who had been speaking looked older than the others, about thirty or so. As I turned, he lowered his pistol. The other man, who was holding a rifle, kept it firmly on me. The older man approached, one hand reaching for my bags.

"So, boy, what you got in here? Food? Chems?" he asked as he ripped one of the pouches off of my belt, rifling through it.

"No, just some ammo and caps, which, by the way, you can have." I was talking fast, hoping he wouldn't hear the fear in my voice. I'd talked my way out of things before, but I'd never tried it on...were these guys even Raiders? They were robbing me, sure, but their clothes were in better condition than the rags and scrap metal the Raiders wore. And they didn't seem to be high on the myriad substances that fueled most Raiders, either. Maybe if I could...no, I was being stupid. Raiders or not, they outnumbered me, and my gun was in the bag the older thief was currently frisking. I had my sword dangling at my hip, but what good would that do against three guns? Maybe if I just let them take what they wanted, they'd let me go.

"Can't we just shoot 'im, Lars?" said the one with the rifle, in a strained, reedy voice. "He ain't got nuffin' we want."

"Shut up, Howie," said the older man, tossing the bag aside. "He's got a lot of bags on him, and if he really ain't got nothin' then he can tell us where he's from so we can go find some real goods." He eyed my pistol, which he'd found in the bag, with a wicked smile. "And if he won't do that..." he said, checking the chamber, "then I start puttin' holes in him 'till he changes his mind."

Well, fuck. So much for appeasement. Locking eyes with the bastard as he came for my next bag, I spat into his face. "Gimme all the holes you want, scumbag. I won't tell you jack shit."

The side of my vision filled with stars as he slammed the butt of my revolver into my head. I reeled, feeling his rancid breath on my face as he screamed at me. "You little shit! When I finish with you, you're gonna wish you'd-"

He never finished the threat. Just then, the radio, forgotten in the holdup, found a station and came roaring back, a burst of music drowning him out. The music, some prewar tune, was happy, full of drums and trumpet. But I didn't have time to listen. As the music blared, the thief recoiled from me, his guard felled, at least temporarily, by the unexpected sound. I lunged, grabbing his arm and my gun, twisting until the muzzle was up against his belly. Two shots, and he was down, all in an instant.

Things got ugly quickly. I shoved his corpse aside and dove out of the way, shots ringing around me. I checked the ammo in the short time I had as I crouched behind an old and overturned desk. Four shots, and all my extra ammo was in the bag he'd taken, which lay near his body in the middle of the room. I could hear the goons stop firing, and I knew I had about two seconds to act. I looked frantically around, but there was nothing I could use, no way to stop them. Great. I was going to die, here in some broken down old subway office. I wished I could have felt the sun again, instead of these sad little lights...wait. The lights!

I had half a second, but I took it. I reared up from my cover, firing two shots. The lights shattered, and the room was plunged into darkness. The two thugs,  suddenly blind, began swearing profusely. Which was good, since all I had to go by was the sound of their voices. My sword made a light scraping noise as I pulled it from the ring at my belt. I heard the click as the nearest thug swung his rife around, searching for the source of the noise. I dropped low, sneaking across the room, getting closer and closer to him. I wished I didn't have to kill them, but they wouldn't let me leave alive.

I was less than a foot from him when it happened. The bag, still lying where the old man had dropped it, had spilled, spreading my caps across the floor. My foot hit one, sending it spinning away. The thug whirled, swinging his gun up and firing a blind shot that flew past my head. I slashed out wildly, going by instinct more than aim. I was rewarded by a scream and a large splash of wet blood, and he collapsed. Before the man in the door could get a good target, I drew my revolver and fired. He fell, the back of his head exploding outward and painting the tunnel behind him a vibrant cranial red.

As he fell, my senses returned. The music, still blaring, seemed a little incongruous. It was a catchy tune, though, and as I dug around in my bags for my flashlight, I started humming along. I found it and clicked it on, the amber cone illuminating a little section of the room. I scooped up my bag, tying it back onto the belt, and began to search the old man's corpse. A 10mm pistol, some ammo, and a syringe of Med-X. I left the syringe- nothing got you attacked faster than carrying around hard drugs. I rose, and smiled as I finally listened to the song. It was a jingle about a man butchering people with a knife. A little weird, but a lot more fitting than I'd given it credit for. I laughed as I moved to the next corpse.

As I was reaching down to his ammo pouch, a hand grabbed my arm. I recoiled as the man, who I'd assumed was long dead, tried to move closer to me. "P-pl...please," he groaned, blood spluttering from his lips. "K-k-kill me...please."

I stepped back, shaking. His belly was slashed open, his guts emptying out across the dirty floor. I puked once, then again. I'd killed before- everyone in the Wasteland had- but it was never like this. I'd never had to watch them die, to see how much it hurt. I found myself crying. This man had tried to kill me, had nearly succeeded, and here I was, crying over him. After a long moment, I drew the pistol I'd scavenged from the old man, sliding in the clip. My hand was still trembling as I pointed it at his temple. He smiled weakly. "Th-thank you...thank..."

The blast of the gun cut his sentence off, his head shattering everywhere. I dropped to my knees in his spilled entrails, my head and heart pounding. I vomited again, then rose, shivering, like a cold wind was blowing through the tunnel. I stumbled toward the exit.

I didn't scavenge the remaining corpses. It felt wrong, dirty somehow. The radio played on, another long verse about Butcher Pete. This time, I didn't laugh. Instead, I turned and put the rest of the clip into the radio, firing until the only sounds were the click of the empty chamber and the dying whine of the radio. I'd found the song clever before, but not now.

It just wasn't funny anymore.