Chapter 17 “One of them pro bono type deals”

“Put your hand right here.” Mr Goodnight pressed his palm onto the revered, black steel core of The Tower. John did the same, feeling the low pulsing vibrations. The faint trace of electricity in the air around it. The buildings spine serving as a beating heart.

“The core is one big AM mast radiator, lf, mf bands, ground waves, omnidirectional, kilohertz.” John looked lost, in more ways than one. He looked to Robco, near equally lost, but trusting in the robed man, knowing Lady Luck’s taste for smart men.

“Baby, English please.” She poured a round of fresh drinks. She touched John on his broad shoulder as she handed him the mug, gently leading him to sit back down.

Mr Goodnight held up the four pin, “This is vhf, uhf, FM, skywave propagation.” John missed Rosie, at least she had a chance of understanding this. He handed the four pin back to John, tapping the pipboy as he spoke, “This here, that’s old world, we’re old, old, world. Vinyl, not even holo’s. We don’t operate on the same frequency. We couldn’t transmit the signal, even if…” He rubbed his hands over his bald head, almost like he wanted to shake something loose in his mind. “Get me yesterday’s tips, please.”

Lady Luck stepped back into the glass transmission room, and retrieved a stack of notes. Mr Goodnight flicked through the twenty or so, dropping the irrelevant ones till he held one tight, smiling cautiously. “Billy.”

“What about him? Still taking jobs for the Four Corners I’d bet.” John heard a hint of the contempt Robco reserved for raiders.

“Less and Less, these days. He set up shop in the Bathhouse, been running a solid crew a few years now.” Lady Luck heard the contempt too, and sought to assuage it. “He’s alright, mostly”

“He’s called in a tip, an emergency broadcast station near a site he’s working. I bet you a bottle of the good stuff that’s FM. That could modulate the signal. Micro fusion pack to boost it, terminal to bridge the connection. Shit Lady, we could cover a lot more ground, play holo’s.” John found a glimmer of hope in the excitement of the robed man. Robco remained grounded, even on the eightieth floor.

“If this tech is so great why haven’t you put a contract on it?”

“We’re a charity Robco, we can’t all rake in the caps.” Lady Luck sounded like she struck an old, yet still raw, nerve. The older, wiser, man let it go.

“Where is it?” John had come this far, he wasn’t stopping now. Lady luck answered him, her voice weighting the words.

“The City.” Realising that meant nothing to John he looked to Robco, he held up his hand, pre-empting the question to ask his own.

“Where in the City?”

“South side, off the highway.” John looked to Robco as Mr Goodnight read the note, the older man got up and walked to the window, thinking for a moment.

“John, come over here.” If he had any hope of getting there, he would have to at least look at it. As he willed his legs to walk towards the glass wall he felt instantly rewarded by the spectacular view.

Shifting shapes and shades of grey mixed with black covered the endless blue. The newly fallen night made the sporadic patches of light jump out. The Green River winding down past Shadowtown. A cluster of simple structures built around old world industrial buildings. Linked by huge pipes. More tiny clusters of lights, clinging to the ruins of an enormous, straight, highway. Reviving it, repairing, repurposing, just like here.

“North, right there, that’s The City.” Robco directed John to a stretch of blackness. It sprawled out from a centre of twisted, broken, towers. Dark, foreboding, a void in the patchwork of life, so dark it seemed to draw light in from around it. John felt Robco watching him more than the view. Knowing what drove him, knowing he could at the very least protect himself. “You’re a free man John, ain’t no one gonna stop you.”

“What do you think I should do?” John hoped he would get the older, wiser, man’s permission, but he didn’t know if needed it. “I think we should go see Billy.”

Once John placed both feet on the ground he started to feel better. The long, quiet, elevator ride down to solid earth gave him chance to adjust. He settled back into the weighted coat and weapons he wore.

Night changed the marketplace. The activity more focused on the buildings. Fewer stalls were open, and the ones that still operated sold mostly weapons, armour, booze. And did a roaring trade in poorly hidden chems.

The Bathhouse turned out to be the wooden building promoted by the pretty girls by the west gate. Inside looked like the comfortable cafeteria he’d caught a brief glimpse of during his dash through level one.

Red leather bound booths lining either wall. Shiny steel tables and chairs. More pretty girls serving drinks, food, laughing at the unfunny jokes of weary traders, workers, off duty deputies. Leading some of them upstairs by the hand.

Under the staircases at the back of the room stood a polished wooden bar, stools to match. Backed by a wall of different coloured bottles placed in front of a reflective surface. It looked far clearer than the polished metal that passed for a mirror in the Vault.

Robco spoke with an attractive brunette woman in a revealing red outfit. A matching pair of shiny, viciously curved blades strapped the her bare thighs. She led them through busy bar. Robco stopped suddenly as something caught his attention. John nearly bumped into him, too focused on staring over people’s heads. Not at the women with the longest hair and shortest clothing he’d ever seen.

The din faded as they entered the rear of the building. Long wooden floors and walls. A hectic kitchen behind misted glass on one side. A row of four, square, blue, plastic tubs filled with steaming hot water on the other. The faint green glow amplified in the vapours. “Billy, you’ve got visitors.” The woman in red shouted through the steam and left, fixing her still fine hair as she left.

“Robco, good to see you.” A man alone in a tub big enough for a few people moved through the waist high water and sat on the submerged seating. John could just make him out through the steam. Short greying hair, stubble, naked and relaxed in the sweltering room. “You here for a bath? Give you good rate, even better rate on someone to scrub your back.” Billy sounded like he owned the place.

“That’s a nice Gutsy you’ve got tending bar, reckon I might have some arms you might want to see.” Robco met an offer with a counter. Bartering not for profit, but for favour. Something that required a different level of finesse.

John couldn’t follow the conversation, busy adjusting yet again. This time to heat, steam, and another luxurious practice the seemed mundane to everyone else. He wore the long leather coat, weighted with arms and armour. The donated clothes, and the vault-suit underneath, John began to sweat almost instantly. Getting hotter still as a woman in a towel tipped buckets of steaming water into the nearly full tub next to him.

He knew it probably wouldn’t help with the heat but he dipped his hand into the water. Feeling the perfect temperature on his skin imagining what it must be like to sit in for hours on end.

As he watched the steam rise he began to understand the mechanics of the cleverly built Bathhouse. The kitchen must have been using something like a long, coiled element to heat the cooking equipment. While using the excess energy to heat water tanks. Capturing the steam in simple ducting to heat the rooms above. Don’t waste nothing out here, he thought to himself.

“This is John.” Hearing Robco say his name snapped him back to the conversation. Billy nodded at him but kept his focus on the older man,

“So he wants to tag along tomorrow does he.” The naked, bathing, man looked John up and down. Seeing his bigger than average build, the fine coat, the custom pistol and tools on his belt. “Alright, sure.” John contained his excitement at being treated like everyone else. “This broadcast station, it’s on the way.” Billy had a casual tone that faded fast. “I’m guessing this is one of them pro bono type deals if Lady Luck sent you. You carry your own shit kid, we don’t get a cut, we don’t carry. Anything you find beyond the radio junk I get first pick and a cut, understood?” John didn’t but Robco spoke before he could agree.

“I’ll throw in one of my carts, the kid gets use, and first pick, but you still get a cut on anything he sells.” Robco’s keen bartering seemed to work.

“Throw in a bottle and it’s a deal.”

They were unable to refuse Billy’s offer to stay the night at the Bathhouse. No doubt to extract more caps from Robco. They sat in one of the booths waiting for something called steaks. John watched the robotic bartender to keep from staring at the waitresses.

The unearned knowledge told him words he didn’t comprehend. Mister Gutsy, infantry support. Little more than an armoured orb equipped with three prehensile limbs and optics on retractable stalks. The bartender had seen better days. The propulsion system replaced with simple rails. Allowing the orb to move left to right and grab bottles with its three limbs, mixing drinks at an impressive speed.

Robco had been quizzing John for about twenty minutes. What to do if it rained. What to do if he got separated and had to camp overnight. Making sure he could read the detailed diagram and notes Mr Goodnight gave him. John answered each one to the older, wiser, man’s satisfaction. Every correct response filling his confidence bit by bit, then the food arrived.

John had no problem ignoring the busty waitress in a tight shirt as she leant over farther than she needed to. She placed a ceramic plate, topped with thick, charred meat. Thin cut, fried tatos, steaming red and yellow corn.

He attacked the brown meat, spearing it with the two pronged fork. Quickly discarding the dull knife that came with it for his much sharper, cord wrapped throwing knife, amusing Robco. He didn’t care.

The knife sliced through effortlessly, releasing succulent juices, revealing the tender texture within. It tasted incredible. Far simpler than the roast pork he enjoyed the day before, but it allowed him to tear through it faster. Mixing in the corn, the crispy tatos. Washing it all down with something served in oversized, wooden mugs, something called beer.

He drank two of them, cleared his plate, and let out a deep, belching burp. Right as a song ended, drawing table banging and laughter from the raucous patrons nearby. Aside from maybe being a little taller, a little paler, and generally bigger than most of the people around him, John fit right in. Camouflaged, hiding in plain sight, living the concept that he needed explained to him yesterday.

John sat content. Amused even, at the rowdy surroundings while Robco finished his meal at a far more civilised pace. Punctuating his eating with questions about rabid dogs and feral ghouls to keep John grounded.

The woman in red all but ignored John, saving her charms for Robco. She pointed them out the side door and round the back to what she called the cheap seats.

Six containers, like the ones from the broke down truck trailers on the road. Stacked in twos forming an three sided square. Simple scaffolding and reclaimed, recut, iron stairs providing access to the upper level. It reminded John of the Not So Grand Motel they stopped at when he met Wallace and Robco.

Each container was split into two rooms, smaller than his residence, his cell, back in the Vault. He hated how comforting he found the tinny, metal box. A single bed, a chair and table for one, hooks on the wall. The only thing that could be counted as a luxury, a radio bolted to the wall, more to block noise out than anything else.

Robco’s flat, even tone returned as he laid out the days haul on the bed. More cord. A plastic blue cylinder he told John to give to the waitress in the morning to fill with coffee. Thin bags for wet clothes. Medkit with anti rads, plus an emergency stimpak. An extendable ratchet driver with various attachments. John packed them into his duffle bag as instructed, medkit on the outside.

John tried on the black gloves, index finger and thumb missing, knuckles shielded in dark polymer. A little tight but the rubberised strips along the palm for extra grip more than made up for that. Robco left the combat knife and pistol grip sawn off, with the handful of shells, on the bed. Trusting John with those.

The older man bolted the simple door, drew the thin curtain over the small sole window, and turned up the radio. “We had a pretty good day.” Robco produced pouch after pouch of caps from the hidden pockets that lined his equally fine leather coat. They clattered on the small table, some bursting open.

Trying to look at least slightly useful John stood by the door as the older man counted every cap. Sliding them over four at time, dividing them into different sized pouches. Secreting them back into hidden pockets. A small pile remained as Robco sat back and opened the last jar of Private Reserve, taking a celebratory sip and offering it to John. “Three thousand, four hundred and nineteen.”

“Is that good?” John asked, taking the tiniest sip of the older man’s last jar.

“Very.” Robco took the jar back, taking another sip while making sure he had John’s attention. “Now assistants get ten per cent.” He expertly judged the pile of caps left and slipped some across the table. “You’re a lousy assistant.” John laughed at the truth in the joke, he’d been slow and distracted all day, every sense overloaded. “But you look scary enough, and we both know you can handle yourself.” Robco stopped joking. “So security gets twenty, twenty five if there’s trouble, remember that.” His flat, even tone still teaching him the ways of this world, even now.

“Six hundred and forty four caps.” John felt keen to show at least some understanding of money. “Listen, I don’t need all that.”

“You earned it John, and then some. You ask for what you’re owed, fair pay for honest work.” Robco sounded as serious as he ever had before. “Besides, we ain’t done settling up. Let’s see, there’s the room, ten caps, the food and drink, thirty caps,” As he spoke his deft hands whittled away at John’s pile. “The trip to Virgil’s, two fifty. Suzie’s, another hundred. The bottle someone lifted from the cart when you were staring at that fool with the tents, forty caps.” John felt bad, his pile had been reduced by more than two thirds, but not quite as bad as he felt for not even being able to watch the cart.

“I’m sorry, the guy started shouting to me.”

“Don’t worry about it, breakage we call it, cost of doing business. You picking up what I’m saying, this is important John.”

“Everything costs money, I need money, I can work for it, security, twenty per cent, twenty five if there’s trouble.” John tried to keep the uncertainty mixed with the impending goodbye from his voice.

“And who do you ask for work?”

“Sheriff Bob, Suzie, Lady Luck, nothing to the south without checking with you first.”

“How do you reach me?”

“Get a note to Lady Luck, nothing specific, then either you or Louisa will meet me here the next day.” John felt like he did on that first night. Being the focus of the eight year old Wallace and his rapid fire questions, sat in a strange place, with good people. John almost held his breath as he thought he answered the last of the questions.

“You’re ready.” Robco smiled and pushed the pile of caps together again, unwilling to even entertain the idea of John refusing. The older man left him the last bottle of whiskey, happy with his Private Reserve. Happier still with the progress of the clueless man he owed his life to. “That ought to keep you steak and beer a while longer.”

Robco got up to leave, hurrying almost, John knew enough to know why. The idea of venturing off into old world on a quest appealed to the man. It had been written all over his face for the last few hours. “I’m gonna spend the night upstairs, I take it you’ve got an alarm clock on that thing?”

“I do.”

“Good, six am, out front. Don’t keep them waiting, they’ve got their own thing going on. You’re tagging along…but Billy,” John got another sense of history between the two men. “Push comes to shove, he’ll treat you right.”

Robco took one last look at John, for now at least, and smiled warmly. “One last question, what do you do if you’ve got no leads, no caps, and you’re alone?” Robco answered before John could. “You come home son, back to the Rest, we’ll be waiting.” Before John could thank the older, wiser, good man one more time, he left, quickly. Better for both their sakes.

“Home.” John said the word out loud, it felt warmer on his lips than the whiskey.

John stood alone in a tiny metal room, disappointed in himself for how secure he felt as opposed to the top of The Tower. He stripped off the heavy coat and the weapon belt. Took off the donated clothes, and finally undid the zip on the vault-suit. Breathing a deep sigh as he stretched, free from the weight of chainmail, guns, and tools.

He sat on the simple plastic chair determined to drive the similarities of the Vault away. He started with a glug of whiskey. Even after the miles he’d covered on foot, the sensory overload of Shadowtown, not to mention The Tower, he didn’t feel tired enough to sleep. Normally after a twelve hour shift he could do little else.

A thought crept into his mind. John realised that he didn’t have to stay in the small metal room. Not anymore, not ever again. He could explore the market, he could try the strange food on sticks, he could take a bath.

John stopped himself just before he stood up to leave. The thought of the heavy coat, plus the absence of a knowledgeable companion, seemed enough to make him feel tired. He decided he would take a bath tomorrow, reward for a successful trip into The City.

Instead he busied himself. First using the unearned knowledge to strip, thoroughly clean, and reassemble the very much earned pistol grip sawn off. The weapon Sheriff Bob gave him had been repurposed from scrap, like nearly everything else. Pipes cut short, arc welded back together. An old spring, and some pressed steel.

John found the process of cleaning it dull. So dull that, if only to spite the Vault, he started to read the book from Ed. He didn’t make it past the first page. Too many words that he couldn’t even begin to understand. The comic book he understood just fine,

A muscle bound hero descending into the dark depths. Fighting ancient warriors brought back from the dead by evil forces. One sequence took up a whole page. Depicting an undead warrior in a horned helmet, shouting so loud the dungeon walls shook. Causing the hero to seemingly drop his trusty axe to cover his ears. The creature lunged to attack as the hero spun round, revealing the axe was attached to his wrist with a glowing ‘enchanted’ rope. The hero swung his arm, spinning the axe, sending the horned helmet flying off. Rotting head still inside it.

It gave him an idea, actually two. The first, a clear image of what would happen to the next feral ghoul that attacked him. The second much more practical.

The water cans had been bothering him for a few hours so he secured them in the hanging coat, one on each side for balance. Using the free anchor points in the belt to attach the combat knife instead. Black steel, a serrated section preceding a curved, wide, blade at the front and a square spine. As he ran his thumb down the cold groove in the steel and a new word in his head told him the purpose it served, bloodletting.

John secured the sheath horizontally, using the new black cord and the tip of a small screwdriver from the cleaning kit. Combined with a knot Wallace taught him. The grip ready for his left hand, the rose carved pistol ready at his right.

Remembering another useful knot, using the bed post, and even more cord, he tied a series of tight lanyards. laborious, fiddly work, the boy made it look easy. Although imagining the kick Wallace would get seeing John copy the comic book hero brought a smile to his face.

He made two, one for the combat knife, and a better one for his multi-tool. They cinched tight around the wrist, letting the tools dangle. Thoughts of losing the trusted tool, like he nearly did climbing that ladder, did not sit well. And not just for practical reasons.

Despite it taking more than half the remaining cord, and the cramp in his hands that were too big for this kind of work, he made two more. Taking the now surplus buckle from the knife sheath, tying it tight to the rear pistol grip of the shotgun. Then attaching that to the strap on the duffle bag.

The more he worked the more the ingenuity of Louisa’s design became apparent, not made to do one thing but many.

The last new item lay flat on the bed. The ghoul’s gift for cracking an old safe with nothing in it. Simple, pale, machine woven and allegedly bulletproof. John ran his disbelieving hands over the material, feeling flat square pockets on each side. Wondering if he’d misunderstood. Or if the ghoul rewarded him almost nothing in return. A bulletproof vest, missing the bulletproof parts.

Despite his misgivings about the ghoul, he put the vest on. Dressing completely again in the t shirt and jeans. The armoured coat now holding the majority of his caps in a clever pocket that forced them flat, and more importantly, silent.

The adjustable strap on the duffle bag now held the shotgun overtly across his chest. He tried drawing it, pumping it, checking to see if the addition of the time consuming lanyard had been worth it. It had.

Not only did the hand tied cord prevent the weapon from falling to the ground, it made it easier to aim. Serving almost like a stock when pulled tight. He took the four shells, holding them up against the single round bulb suspended from the ceiling. Slug rounds, solid chunks of lead, short range and devastating.

An image of a man’s head exploding upwards in a cone of viscera filled John’s mind again. Staying long enough for him to lose trust in the trigger safety on the rebuilt shotgun. Fearing a horrifying accident he opted to leave the chamber empty and load only two shells. The other pair tucked securely into the clever strap next to it.

He recognised the yellow shade of the shells as slugs, he hoped others may too. Giving them pause and sparing him from the nightmare, dreamlike state.

The last lanyard had taken nearly all the remaining freshly bought cord and enough time to read the comic book again. He saved

it for the rose carved pistol. John remembered Robco’s words, his absence felt despite being in the next building. Likely occupied with the woman in red, ‘gotta have a custom sidearm if you’re gonna wander the wastes’.

With the knurled suppressor, precise compensator, and glowing sights this certainly qualified. He’d thought the older man might have been humouring him. Wanting to play down the efforts he put into the gun to stop the half-drunk, blubbering idiot from thanking him endlessly. In the Vault, nothing belonged to you, every tool turned back in at shift end. People here customised and personalised their tools, the things they owned.

That thought made the things he owned lighter. Their weight one of purpose not burden, resolve not guilt. Even when fully dressed, fully armed, fully loaded, he could move freely, draw his weapons, his tools. Without the risk dropping them, especially the rose carved pistol.

John stripped back down the vault-suit. Disappointedly relieved to have it to sleep in instead of the coarse, yet clean, sheets. He positioned his pistol within reach and set his alarm for five thirty. Before his last thoughts could drift to Rosie, he fell sound asleep.