Chapter 48 "Not for sale.”

 

John woke, dressed and ate by seven. He went outside to clean his gear, not wanting to break the rule about guns at the table. He left the suppressed carbine as clean as he found it, which is to say spotless. He wasn’t going to hand back a dirty weapon.

John found himself without a long gun, an odd sensation he didn’t like. His assault rifle had been left in the truck, and he wasn’t going to take his own carbine from the armour.

John wiped down his holsters and strapped them over his clean jeans. Rosie came out in her black fatigues and clever cloak folded into a pack, taking the suppressed carbine. “Recon issue?” John asked, admiring the weapon.

“No, I made it.” Rosie said with a smile.

“Can you make me one?” John asked, impressed.

“Maybe.” Rosie nodded over his shoulder to the power armour. “Can I shoot that minigun?”

“You find enough five mil ammo sure.” John knew by her face that she understood the specific, odd calibre required, and the quantity.

“There’s something else.” Rosie seemed to choose her words carefully, something she rarely did. “I want to go back home.” John’s face dropped. “I mean my other home, and just for a day or so, and I want you to come.” John smiled at Rosie getting flustered. If he could go and see his team he would, although he never thought of the outpost as home.

“Sure.” John smiled as Rosie kissed him on the cheek. That would be worth getting yelled at by Sentinel Cross.

“I wouldn’t do that.” John warned as Rosie began to lift an old sheet that covered Wallace’s bench. The others were covered too, but Rosie went straight to Wallace’s bench first.

Louisa brought them coffee and set to fitting Rosie. John soaked up the morning sun on his face, wondering how Rosie managed to get tanned.

“John?” Rosie called over. “Can you prep the bird before we leave.”

“Rosie, we can’t fly to Shadowtown.” John almost laughed.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think I had to explain my orders.” Louisa laughed, Rosie turned to her. “I outrank him.” She tossed her wireless four pin to him, fast, but he caught it.

John took his time, enjoying the workout of wearing power armour, dragging the Vertibird into a clearing and hinging the heavy engines out and into place. He connected Rosie’s four pin and sat in the cabin for a moment, wondering why Rosie didn’t seem that interested. Maybe she’s afraid of flying, he thought, and left it at that.

He returned to find Rosie crying, Louisa hugging her tight. She handed her off to John who hugged her tighter. “My boots fit.” Rosie laughed and sobbed again. John started to well up, knowing how her feet hurt after all the long and pointless shifts.

“How’s she looking John?” Louisa called over, wiping her own eyes.

“Beautiful.” John answered without looking or thinking. She stepped back and John looked at her boots. Knee high, laced up the side, black roses carved and stained into the brown leather. Fitted blue jeans and a t shirt that must have belonged to Wallace.

“Here.” Louisa helped Rosie into a fine leather coat of her own. A sewn in waist coat hid the lighter chainmail that also ran down the sleeves. “Pull the tabs at the waist.” Rosie did, and the well fitted coat loosened enough that Rosie could slip out of it with ease. She put it back on instantly, pacing as John once did.

“Looking real good Miss Rosie.” Robco called over, leaning on his excited grandson.

“Can we try it now Pop Pop? Please?” John stood and offered Robco an arm to rest on as Wallace darted over to the covered object. He stopped, made sure he had Rosie’s attention, then drew the paint splattered sheet away.

The worn leather chair from outside the workshop had been mounted on a stripped down Protectron torso. Laid flat underneath, the servos that once drove arms and legs now drove wheels, arranged in a triangle and wrapped in steel treads.

John helped Robco into it and he pushed the screwdriver handle fitted to the armrest. The chair lurched forward. Robco laughed and started turning round in a circle.

“Nice work Junior, as always.” Robco beckoned Wallace over and pulled him onto his lap, driving the chair outside. Wallace looked a little embarrassed as he came back in. “I had to do Pop Pop’s chair, but I’m working on something for both of you, to say thank you.” Wallace looked down at his red canvas shoes. John watched with delight as Rosie crouched to make eye contact, both of them awkward.

“Do you think maybe we could work on something together?” Rosie asked with a hopeful and impressed tone.

“I’d like that.” Wallace smiled, then left to do his chores.

They reached Shadowtown by noon. Robco’s chair kept a steady and smooth pace, pivoting to stay level, and pulling a crate of newly made assault rifles. Anne, the older woman that lived in a house filled with books, joined them. She and Robco talked most of the way. John and Rosie moved tactically, quick and quiet, switching being on point.

John had to drag Rosie away from the pristine Sentry bot that guarded the gatehouse. He would have thought her scared, but knew now she was getting ideas.

People shouted and waved to Robco, joking about his chair, some came from behind their stalls and gave him fruit. John and Rosie kept their distance from the fuss.

Anne left to see to her business and Robco powered up the steps into the police station. “Do you like this place?” Rosie asked, her voice neutral.

“Not so much at night, but yeah. Feels alive. You?” John answered honestly.

“I don’t think I could stay here more than a day or two, but yeah. I like it.” Rosie smiled and shifted a little closer to him.

“What do you think of the Rest?” John hoped she would tell him the truth, she answered too quickly to lie.

“I love it.” She smiled and looked away. “I can love two places.”

“We can leave tonight if you want, after I…” John had to visit the Vault tonight and they both knew it. “I have a letter to pick up, depending on what it says, I’d like to take you somewhere.” John changed the subject.

“Where?” Rosie asked.

“Near Farmborough. It’s a surprise. I think maybe two days there, two days back.” Rosie scoffed. “We could camp out under the stars.” John saw he said the right thing.

“Alright. Sounds fun.”

The rolling clatter down the steps and Robco’s voice drew them to the fenced off side street and buzzed through a double gate. Rosie baulked at handing over her guns, but they didn’t take her axes, or John’s holdout pistol that she'd had her eye on.

Sheriff Bob greeted Robco warmly, sending for a doctor as soon as he realised the injury. “John. Good to see you.” John shook Bob’s hand, seeing his usual hurried manner. “This is—” Rosie cut him off and stepped forward.

“Rachel, Rachel Black.” John almost believed her.

“Nothing’s been touched.” Bob led them to the underground car park that served as an evidence lock up. He yanked the stained blanket from the truck bonnet, revealing the severed Deathclaw head.

“Fuck me!” Robco half yelled. “I thought she was the scary one.” Rosie laughed and inspected the head without flinching.

The dehydration had shrunk the tough black hide, making the fanged mouth and snout more pronounced. “That is one ugly motherfucker.” Robco shook his head and rolled back from the truck. He seemed frightened by it, but the cloudy eyes no longer looked like burning embers so it held no fear for John.

“I’ve had offers for the head.” Bob said with mild amusement.

“Not for sale.” John and Rosie answered together. “Keeping the truck and armour too.” John sensed an opportunity. “If we can use your yard for an hour I’ll give you first look. I know there’s some decent carbines in there.” And blood, John thought, getting the image of the bridge and JoJo.

“Sure, come get me,” Bob held up a hand and walked closer to the ramp to answer his radio.

“Boss, it’s Coop. The whole damn database just went down again. Error six fourteen.”

“Strip the headers and recompile.” Rosie whispered, before her training took over. “I bet you lunch I can fix it.” She tried to keep it light, and ignored the knowing look from John.

“Well, that’s good of you, but I can’t let civilians,” The radio squawked again.

“You want to call over to the Ghoulhouse, get them to send someone?” The voice on the radio had a tone Rosie shared at the mention of that place.

“She’s alright Bob. Lunch has got to cost you less.” Robco vouched for her. She looked to John and saw how much that meant to him.

Rosie followed Sheriff Bob to the top floor of an actual police station, just like in books. Lacquered and well trodden stairs brought her to an open office on the top floor. Rows of desks with terminals or those clacking things Brandon liked. Some deputies sat alone working, others in small groups clustered round boards, photographs and good sketches pinned up and linked with string.

“So you solve murders?” Rosie regretted her dumb question instantly.

“That’s the general idea.” Bob smiled and opened a small office with opaque glass windows and walls that didn't reach the ceiling.

Bob sat in a wheeled chair and pushed himself aside to go through paperwork. Rosie saw his eyes on the screen and keyboard as she worked. It didn’t even slow her down as she fixed the error and started to open a back door to the police database. Rosie looked around the room for a distraction. On the shelves of books Rosie saw two she recognised.

“So, you ever hire consultants?” Rosie used the word from the book. Bob knew it and laughed.

“Well we do, but it’s really more bounty hunting than deductive reasoning.”

“That’s a shame. I’m done. Thing’s a fucking mess.” Rosie smiled as she told him something he knew.

“Good work, I’ll have lunch sent out.” Bob began typing away and Rosie saw herself out, lingering to listen to real detectives talk.

Outside John had dragged the truck up and out into the light. A grey haired man with glasses and a brown leather bag had started checking Robco’s leg. Rosie hurried to ask her questions.

“Whoever did this saved your leg, at the very least.” The doctor stood and squeezed gel from a small bottle on his hands. Robco’s look of gratitude stopped Rosie in her tracks.

“Is the tibialis anterior torn?” Rosie asked, getting a surprised look from everyone but the doctor.

“Nicked, but I wouldn’t say torn. Are you a doctor?” He asked. Medic, Rosie thought, biting her lip not to say it.

“I like to read.” Rosie played it off.

“You come by the hospital on Wednesdays, we run classes.” The doctor gave her a nod of respect and turned back to his patient. “Stay off it and keep it clean. And drink less.” He shook Robco’s hand and left.

“I’m keeping this!” John turned from scrubbing blood from the unloaded crates as Rosie racked the pump action grenade launcher, a spent casing falling to the ground.

“Oh hell, now she’s got a grenade launcher.” Robco only half joked.

“I mean, it’s not as nice as my grenade launcher.” Rosie aimed at nothing, flipping up the sights. John shook his head, wondering if she was joking too.

“I’m keeping the fifty cal, the mg, and the launcher. The rest I’ll spilt with Carol and Roxy.” John looked to Robco who gave him a nod to say that would be fair. John got back into the truck bed, sliding out more bloodied crates. Rosie opened them, Robco inspected them, and put them into piles.

The sealed bedsheets wiped clean, around half of the gold rimmed crockery had broken, but John had an idea for that anyway. He pulled out a crate of the fine pre-war whisky, remembering what Billy had planned for it.

“He wanted you to have this.” John pried open the crate with one of Rosie’s axes and handed Robco one of the six bottles.

“The man always did have taste.” Robco looked sad for a man he’d known for a lot of years, few of them good.

“I was going to give a bottle to Bob. For his trouble.” John took one out and looked at Robco. “He helped me that night. I was glad for it.”

“Someone taught you right, didn’t they son.” Robco smiled and nodded, both knowing that he didn’t just mean himself.

Sheriff Bob brought the lunch Rosie earned. Hot sandwiches with balls of meat and sauce, wrapped in foil, and fresh coffee. John watched as Bob clicked his radio off and ate in silence, for a whole twenty minutes before someone brought him papers to sign.

“I’ll give you a fair price on the carbines and combat rifles.” Bob took one of each from the crates, working the bolts. “Plus you’ll be doing your civic duty.”

“Those combat rifles are junk.” John felt glad to get rid of them.

“Yeah, but cut them down and they have their uses. Plus the ammo’s cheap.” John sensed an opportunity.

“Would submachine guns be of use? Share ammo with sidearms, light, accurate.” Bob nodded. “Leave it with me. Here I want you to take this, for your trouble.” John handed him the bottle.

“Shit you could have left that thing here for a week.” Bob smiled and shook his hand.

“I’ll take it when I get back from the post office. So it may be a week.” John didn’t mind the long line, not last time when he didn't have Rosie with him.

“Sending or collecting?” Bob asked.

“Both.” John sighed.

“What name?” Bob didn’t seem to care, yet knew enough to ask.

“Jack Victor.” John heard 'Rachel' snigger.

“We’ll handle it.” John felt glad the letters were coded and made to look like shopping lists. “Be back with your caps, take a cart if you need one.”

An hour later Rosie found herself outside the place she’d stayed with Charlie. “Your friend, he lived here?” She asked, seeing how the hung black cloth and closed doors hurt John.

“Yeah. Billy.” John took a deep breath as Rosie thought of the spontaneous conversation she’d struck up with the man from behind the bar.

Inside the closed Bathhouse, eight or so people sat around a long table. Rosie stayed back as they all greeted John warmly, tears in their eyes and red marks around their necks. She saw it made him uncomfortable, but he greeted them in return.

From behind the bar, Rosie saw the striking woman who wore red, still turning heads in overalls. She walked right up to John and kissed him on the lips. Rosie laughed as John jerked backwards, throwing his hands up and blushing.

“That was for killing that fat fuck Don Sal.” Rosie saw the look of served vengeance in the woman’s eyes and understood the gratitude.

“This is Rosie.” John blurted out, more panicked than he’d been with a gun to his head. “My partner.” The woman winked at Rosie.

Roxy served them drinks from behind the bar. Another woman came from the back and flung her arms around John. As he pulled away, less worried, Rosie saw the hair like hers, as did the other woman. She had tears and a marked neck too, and they all understood what John had done.

As they talked business, Rosie saw the eyes of them all drifting to a poor photograph of Billy. Taken at arms length with an instant print camera. Rosie had thought about that simple act of talking with a stranger often. It hadn’t been the first time she’d spoken with someone, but it had been memorable. She whispered to John and slipped out the side door.

Rosie knew what she needed, and as expected, didn’t find it in the market. She decreased her sense of smell, then strode into the Ghoulhouse. Daylight vanished and became hazy lamp light and overly sweet, smoking incense.

She found what she wanted nearby, and didn’t quibble at paying a hundred caps for a single piece of good paper with a decent pencil. She’d have paid double not to go in at all.

Rosie found a quiet corner in the Bathhouse, accessing her memories of Billy. It made her sad to see the warm face as if it were sat across from her. She did as Matt taught her, shadows and shapes first, then the detail. An hour or so later John came from the bar, already looking drained and with a long night ahead.

“Is this ok?” She turned the paper for him to see.

“Rosie, it's incredible.” She saw it hurt him to look at, but he couldn’t take his eyes from the portrait of Billy’s face. “You really captured his smile.” John set the paper down like it was fragile, and beckoned Roxy over. They left her grateful and crying, comforted by the woman with hair like hers.

John told Rosie to go back to the truck, hoping Robco would just think she was tired. He didn’t think Rosie, armed and surrounded by ghouls, would end well. The last time he’d heard the rasping tone that now surrounded him, he’d executed the thing making the noise. The last time he’d been here no one gave him a second, full black eyed, glance. Now some glared, like they could smell the Steel on him through their rotted off noses.

“Virgil!” Robco beamed as he rolled towards the desk on the stage in the auditorium turned armoury. John took a minute to adjust to the bright sun streaming in, and the wisps of smoke escaping from rotten cheeks.

“Robco, you filthy junk rat, what’s it going to cost me to get rid…” John thought he saw concern on the ravaged face. “Are you...what’s that junk?”

“Like it!” Robco whirred round in his motorised chair. “I’ll sell it to you in a month.”

“We can sell you this today.” John got to the point, placing the final case of pre-war whisky on the edge of the stage. Virgil hopped down to their level, seeing the carved brand name on the crate. His triple pronged prosthetic hand pulled the wood apart, but he used his real hand to take out the bottle.

“What do you want for it, caps or trade?” Virgil wanted the taste of the old world, like John knew he would.

“This too.” Even in the bright room, the blue liquid glowed inside the rocket shaped cola bottle. Virgil wanted that too, John just wanted rid of it. “And I don’t want caps or trade, I want to open a tab.”

“An account, this ain’t a bar.” Virgil titled the liquid, casting the blue light over his near skeletal face. “Six bottles at five hundred per, double that for the Quantum…”

“And a twenty percent discount.” John seized on a lull.

“Fifteen.”

“Done.” John would have settled for ten.

Virgil poured the pre-war whisky into three fine glasses, filling his own almost to the top, and finishing it in one, long, continuous sip.

John picked out a decent ten mil submachine gun and pistol. Then he rummaged through a box of holo tapes. He finished his drink and tried not to look hurried. Already planning the next few hours, and trying to find any shortcuts.