The door thudded shut behind me.
Silence.
Except for the low, guttural moans echoing through the dark.
I didn't move at first. Just stood there, letting my eyes adjust. The basement stretched out like a serpent—winding maintenance tunnels, doorways cracked open just enough to invite something feral through. Pipes lined the ceilings like exposed veins. Lights flickered erratically, some dead entirely.
This place reeked of age and decay… and death.
I slipped into the shadows near the wall, careful not to let my steps echo. My Pip-Boy's screen dimmed with a soft beep—I couldn't afford even that much light. The bat stayed loose in my grip. My left hand dipped into my coat, pulling out a handful of loose rubble—chunks of cement and pipe shards I'd stashed earlier.
A low groan.
Close.
Crouching near a rusted pipe junction, I waited. One set of footsteps. Slow. Dragging.
Perfect.
I tossed a rock down the corridor to my left.
Clink. Clack. Clatter.
The feral shrieked and charged toward the noise like a bloodhound off its leash. I let it pass within arm's reach, its glowing eyes too dumb to notice the human breath just feet away. Once it turned the corner, I moved.
Fast.
Silent.
The bat cracked its skull from behind. It fell with a wet thud, twitching before going still.
One down.
I crept forward, hugging the walls. The basement bent into sharp corners and forgotten sub-chambers. Wires dangled like vines. Steam hissed softly from a cracked valve ahead, cloaking the hallway in mist.
Voices of the dead echoed through the steam.
Not words—just the cursed moaning of something left behind by the world.
I heard at least three up ahead. Moving as a group.
Bad.
If they saw me together, I'd be dinner before the second swing.
So I split them.
Another stone. This time arcing it upward—hit the ceiling and let it drop behind them.
Two of the ghouls peeled away, limping fast toward the noise. The third lingered.
I stepped into the fog and closed the distance.
Swing. Crack. A soft growl died in its throat.
Another.
Then another.
The fog was red now.
By the time I cleared the last hallway, the bat was slick, and my arms ached.
But I was still breathing.
Still alive.
They weren't.
And I was just getting started.
The basement twisted around me like the gut of a dying animal—cramped, grimy, and reeking of mold and rust. Shadows danced like memories, and ED-E's soft whirr was the only sign I wasn't alone in this place.
That's when I saw it.
A door.
Unlike the others—reinforced with extra hinges and painted an off-white that had long since yellowed with age. The faded stencil on it read: "Emergency Staff Shelter – Restricted Access"
It wasn't locked to keep people out. It was locked to keep someone or something in.
I leaned close. No sounds. No scurrying or growling.
Still, the door was locked tight. A relic of an older world clinging to protocol.
I could've walked past it.
But there was something about it—some weight I couldn't shake. Like a stone pressed on my chest.
I stepped back, braced myself, and kicked.
The door splintered open with a crack that echoed down the corridor like a gunshot.
Dust filled the air, thick and choking.
I stepped inside, bathed in stale, dead air.
It wasn't a vault.
It wasn't a stash of weapons or tech.
It was a time capsule.
Lining the room were shelves stacked with dusty tins of old-brand coffee, boxes of canned peaches, and bottles of water yellowed in their plastic like ancient relics. A faded Nuka-Cola vending machine, cracked but intact, stood in the corner, long-dead lights flickering when I passed my Pip-Boy light over it.
In the center of the room was a low table with a board game half-played—pieces still arranged mid-match. Behind it were two skeletons slumped in lawn chairs, their hands still loosely clasped over each other's. Matching rings on their fingers.
I froze.
A name tag still clung to the collar of one skeleton's decaying uniform:
"Tammy - Hospitality Supervisor."
There was no sign of a struggle. No violence. No panic.
Just… a quiet ending.
They waited out the bombs here. Laughed, drank, played, and died.
Together.
I swallowed hard.
I took a moment. Not out of fear… but respect.
This wasn't a battlefield.
It was a tomb.
One forgotten by the world above.
I kept my hands steady as I moved through the room, brushing aside dust with the edge of my coat. Most of it was pre-War trash now—expired snacks, paper-thin blankets, busted radios. But there were still things worth taking: rations sealed tight in old MRE packaging, a few bottles of water not yet turned to poison, and a combat knife hanging by a leather strap from the wall.
I stashed the essentials into my pack—just enough to get me by, nothing that would slow me down.
Then something else caught my eye.
Tucked behind the pair of skeletons on a low shelf. Not hidden. Just… waiting.
A thick, leather-bound book. Heavy, ornate. The kind that felt like it belonged to another time.
Its cover shimmered faintly under the glow of my Pip-Boy light.
"The Holy Bible"
And beneath it, in smaller, golden letters:
Verbum Dei
The Word of God.
I didn't know why it stopped me cold.
Didn't know why my fingers trembled when I reached for it.
The leather was cracked but soft, as if it had been passed down, loved, and prayed over through generations.
And in that moment, I didn't feel like a scavenger in a dead man's den.
I felt like a thief in a church.
I paused. Looked down at the pages. Didn't dare open it. I didn't need to.
Instead of stashing it with the rest of the loot, I held it closer to the Pip-Boy and tapped a key sequence. With a flash and a mechanical click, the Bible digitized into storage—3.6 pounds logged.
Not junk. Not salvage.
A relic.
And with one last glance at the pair in the chairs, I whispered, "Rest easy."
Then I turned and left the dead to their silence.
The tunnels stretched ahead like the veins of some long-dead beast, winding and claustrophobic. The air grew heavier with every step — stale, metallic, and tinged with something fouler beneath: rot, ozone, and the scorched scent of radiation.
I clutched the baseball bat tighter, knuckles white. ED-E hovered behind me in near silence, its systems dimmed, sensors narrowed to avoid detection. Its soft warble every few moments kept me grounded, reminded me I wasn't alone in these dark veins of the earth.
I moved slowly — footsteps soft against the cracked tile and rusted steel, keeping low to the walls, flicking my eyes across the corners like a predator watching for other predators.
Every so often, a ghoul would lurch out from a side corridor or push itself up from the floor. Most of them were sluggish — bones snapping under the force of my swings, skulls caving with dull cracks. Their snarls and moans were less terrifying now… more familiar. Still dangerous. Still cursed. But familiar.
Then came the turn.
I rounded a junction, the tunnel widening into an old service junction, likely once used for storing backup generators or routing coolant systems. There were no lights. Just the soft green glow.
I stopped dead in my tracks.
Five of them.
Four ferals — twitching, convulsing, their heads jerking from side to side like wolves on the scent.
And at their center… something worse.
It stood taller, its skin seared and mottled with cracks that glowed with eerie, radioactive light. Like a walking furnace of decay and sickness. The Glowing One. Every breath it exhaled hissed like steam escaping a valve. I didn't need a Geiger counter to know that thing could fry a man's insides just by being near.
I ducked low behind a pipe cluster, motioning for ED-E to back up. The floating eyebot gave a soft beep in response, barely audible.
I ran the numbers in my head. Five targets. One likely capable of reanimating the others or releasing a radiation burst that'd melt my organs into jelly if I got too close.
This… won't be like the last fights.
I slid the bat back into my belt.
From my Pip-Boy, I pulled my suppressed 9mm pistol. The DIY silencer held in place with clamps and worn rubber — a rough fix, but it had worked so far. I twisted my wrist, the familiar glow of the Pip-Boy screen lighting up my forearm.
I tapped the dial. V.A.T.S. engaged.
Time stilled — not completely, but enough for me to see the twitch of movement in each ghoul, the flicker of their decayed limbs, the nervous pulses of energy radiating from them. I began tagging my shots: one… two… three targets. A headshot here, another, and one to stagger.
But then… a flicker.
The display on the Pip-Boy stuttered. Glitched.
The fourth marker registered — but not the fifth. The Glowing One, practically pulsing with sickly green light, blurred and refused to lock. My Pip-Boy buzzed with static. Error: Target Out of Phase.
What?
I slammed my palm on the casing. The V.A.T.S. interface crackled — and vanished.
BAM. BAM. PFFT.
I returned to real-time, immediately squeezing off the queued shots. Two ghouls collapsed instantly. One staggered back from the gut shot, gurgling as it hit the ground with a wet thud.
But the world snapped back to full speed — and the glow got brighter.
I turned just in time to see the Glowing One lurch forward, mouth open in a silent scream, claws raised to cleave me down.
Too slow.
I rolled sideways — the arc of its swipe narrowly missing my chest and slamming into the wall with a burst of green energy. Sparks and plaster exploded from the point of impact.
My heart thundered. If I'd been even half a second slower, I'd be dead.
I didn't think.
There was no time — only breath, instinct, and motion.
My hand moved before I realized it, drawing the combat knife with a practiced precision that surprised even me. The grip felt natural, as though I had wielded it countless times before. My feet shifted on the worn concrete, grounding me, guiding my stance.
The Glowing One advanced.
Everything narrowed — my focus, my breathing, the pulse in my ears. It felt like a dance I'd performed in another life, steps hidden deep in muscle memory. I responded to its lurch with fluid grace, stepping into the movement, turning with the momentum.
Each motion flowed into the next. My arms moved with measured precision, guided not by conscious thought but by an unspoken rhythm. Strike, pivot, retreat, guard — again and again. It was silent choreography between man and monster, but only one of us knew the tempo.
At last, it faltered.
I held still, chest rising slowly, eyes locked on the fallen form before me. My stance eased, but my mind didn't. Not yet.
The air in the tunnel was thick — with dust, decay, and questions.
I stared down at my hands. Steady. Controlled. Not trembling like they should be. I didn't know how I did what I just did. But clearly… I could.
Behind me, ED-E hovered closer, its electronic hum a quiet reminder that I wasn't alone. I gave the machine a glance, then looked deeper into the maze of pipes and corridors that still stretched ahead.
I'm not done yet.
I went in to strike.
Each strike was precise and quick. My hands drove the blade in and out of the Glowing One's body.
Wounds now littered its body.
My hands kept slashing and driving the knife into the Glowing One.
By the time I stopped, the Glowing One fell to the ground and was heaving its breath. It looked pitiful from where I stood.
It oozed its green blood, having become green after decades or even centuries of being exposed to radiation. Its blood was still on my knife, still dripping to the ground.
The dripping blood reminded me of the same dream or memories I had right before I woke up after being at death's doors.
Those dreams. I was screaming for someone to stop bleeding. Who was that person? And why were they bleeding?
I'll get more answers once I come across the man who shot me but right now I need to finish what I've started here in Primm, in the Bison.
I went to stand over the Glowing One, I took out my 9mm and aimed it at the Glowing One's head.
"I'm sorry you've lived this long as a mindless monster. Your time for rest is now."
As the words left my mouth, I delivered the bullet into its head and gave it the rest it deserved.
I leaned my back against the nearest pipe, letting out a slow breath as the tension in my shoulders eased — if only slightly. The last few minutes still echoed in my body like a hum in my bones, but my senses were slowly adjusting. The worst was over. For now.
ED-E hovered close, its frame whirring quietly as it floated a few feet away from the last felled ghoul. A flicker of static crackled through its audio output — and then, without warning, a gentle hum of music began to play.
It wasn't loud, but in the stillness of the maintenance halls, it felt like a sudden spotlight in a dark theater.
A slow, jazzy melody floated out, something old-world… smooth brass and distant vinyl crackle.
My brows furrowed.
"Playing the radio to attract any stragglers that were left behind?" I asked aloud, still catching my breath.
The eyebot gave a series of quick electronic beeps — short, clipped, and oddly cheerful.
I stared at it for a second, then shook my head with a tired smile. "I'll take that as a yes."
The tune continued, echoing softly through the tunnel, giving an almost absurd calm to the aftermath of what we'd just gone through. I holstered the knife and adjusted the pack on my shoulder.
"Let's wrap this up," I murmured, stepping forward once more. "I'd like to leave this basement before the next thing crawling in here glows."
ED-E gave another chirp — like a beep of agreement — and followed close behind, the music trailing through the halls like a memory.
The music from ED-E's speaker hummed softly behind me as we moved, my boots crunching over scattered debris and the occasional spent casing. The stench of rot and ozone clung to the walls — the aftermath of decay and radiation, stirred by our passage.
But no new sounds rose. No shambling feet. No hissing breath. No guttural howls echoing from the tunnels behind.
It was quiet.
Peacefully, unnervingly quiet.
I tightened my grip on the baseball bat in one hand, the other resting near my holster — just in case. But step after step, corner after corner, revealed nothing. Just more empty maintenance halls and storage rooms long since abandoned.
By the time I reached the rusted stairwell leading back up to the ground floor, I paused, looking behind one last time. Still nothing.
"All clear," I muttered under my breath. "That's it."
ED-E gave a soft confirmation beep, as if it too recognized our job here was done.
The music faded into a gentle instrumental as we climbed, the sound of my boots echoing up the steps. The light from above grew stronger with each step, and by the time I pushed the door open at the top, I was bathed in the dusty glow of the Bison's flickering lamps.
I didn't get far before the two guards from earlier stepped into view, their expressions marked by lazy boredom that quickly sharpened when they saw me.
One of them, a grizzled man with pockmarked cheeks and a scar over his brow, straightened up. "Well, well... Look who's still breathin'."
The other snorted. "Thought you'd be torn apart in the first five minutes. Basement's got things no sane man deals with."
I rolled my shoulders, hiding the still present adrenaline in my bones beneath a casual smirk. "Guess I'm not sane, then."
They both laughed at that, the tension in their shoulders easing. The first man pointed with the butt of his rifle toward the upper floors.
"Boss'll want to hear how you did. I'd go see him, unless you feel like diggin' through more tunnels."
"Already had my fill of tight spaces and bad smells," I replied dryly.
I moved past them, but paused just briefly. "And the ghouls? Taken care of."
One of them gave a slow whistle. "Huh. Maybe you really are one of us."
I didn't answer, just gave a faint nod and continued on, boots echoing once more through the broken tiles of the casino floor as I made my way toward the stairs leading up to the suite.
The performance wasn't over yet.
I went up the stairs to finally come to the floor of the boss.
The guards outside the suite didn't say a word as I approached. One gave a nod, barely more than a twitch of the chin. No guns raised this time—just recognition. Familiarity. That was good.
I knocked once, sharp as before.
From inside, the gruff voice called out, "Door's open."
I stepped in.
The suite looked the same—sour smoke in the air, an ashtray overflowing on the desk, and the dull hum of a radio set to static in the corner. The boss sat behind that battered desk, a half-empty bottle of whiskey at his elbow, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"You're back," he said, not looking up. "That mean the ghouls ain't."
"No more scratching or screaming down that hallway," I replied. "Whatever was down there is staying down."
He finally looked at me, sizing me up.
"You work quick," he said. "That, or you lie better than most."
"I do both," I said smoothly. "But this time, I'm telling the truth."
He let the silence hang for a beat. Then, he gave a sharp exhale through his nose—a laugh, maybe. A grunt of approval.
He stood up, walked around the desk, and poured a shot into two crusty glasses.
"You earned something," he said, handing me one. "Not just the drink."
We clinked them together. His had more dust floating in it than mine.
"You got guts. Style, too. I respect that. Most idiots we pick up can't walk ten steps without pissin' themselves." He took a drink. "Name's Wade Skinner. I run this crew."
He leaned back against the desk.
"You? You just got yourself a spot."
I raised a brow.
"In the crew?"
"In the building," he said. "In the crew and in the building. You've got a bed now. Not a clean one, but it's yours."
I nodded slowly, letting the weight of the moment settle. One foot in the door.
"I'll make good on it," I said.
"You already have." Skinner grinned. "Stick close, golden boy. I think we'll get along just fine."
Skinner downed the rest of his whiskey and set the glass aside with a dull clink.
He turned to one of the men leaning by the wall—tall, wiry, with a scar splitting one eyebrow.
"Show our new boy to the east wing. Room with the mattress and the red curtain."
The man didn't respond with words—just jerked his head at me and started walking.
I followed.
We stepped back into the hallway. The door to Skinner's suite shut behind us with a heavy thunk, and I heard the lock slide back into place.
The hall stretched dimly ahead, flickering wall lamps barely holding off the shadows. The man didn't speak. Just walked with purpose, boots thudding in time with mine as we passed busted vending machines, graffiti-smeared walls, and half-collapsed doorways.
"You got a name?" I asked casually.
He didn't look back. "They call me Slice."
"Let me guess. Not because you're good with bread."
He snorted. "You're a mouthy one."
We turned a corner, passed a room where two other Gangers were playing cards over an overturned crate, and reached a door with a red sheet tacked up in place of an actual curtain.
Slice pushed it open.
"Here."
The room wasn't much—four crumbling walls, a cracked ceiling, and a stained mattress on a rusted frame. There was a small dresser missing a drawer, and a crate turned upside down to serve as a nightstand. A flickering lamp stood in the corner, giving the room just enough light to remind you how depressing it was.
"Better than the floor," Slice muttered.
I stepped inside. "You have high standards."
Slice leaned on the doorway. "You're one of us now. You pull your weight, no one'll bother you. You act stupid, and someone's gonna gut you in your sleep."
"Touching," I said, tossing my pack onto the mattress. "You rehearsed that?"
"I meant it," he said, then paused. "You want in good with Skinner, you stay useful. Ask less questions. Talk less. Watch more."
He turned to leave, then stopped.
"Oh. One more thing."
I looked up.
"Don't go near the holding room."
"Why?"
He smirked. "Didn't I just say not to ask questions?"
With that, he disappeared down the hall, boots fading into the distance.
I sat down on the edge of the mattress. It creaked like it was alive, but it held.
From outside the cracked window, the Mojave sun still burned the sky orange, casting long, cruel shadows across the torn carpet. Somewhere down the hallway, someone laughed too hard. Somewhere else, a bottle shattered.
I leaned back on my hands and stared at the ceiling.
They thought they'd let me in.
They thought I was one of them now.
That was fine.
I could be anyone they wanted—until I found what I needed.
I glanced toward the hallway where Slice had vanished. The holding room.
Not where they're keeping Beagle.
But something's in there.
Something they don't want eyes on.
I smirked, my voice low, just for me.
"Well… time to wait for the day to turn to night—
—and see what that holding room's got in it."