Hiding In The Green: A Fallout 4 Story

Courage Under Fire

Preston Garvey flattened himself against the wall as the bullets wheeted past, wincing as one sent a fine haze of plaster dust into his eyes. Behind him, Mama Murphy was practically chanting, "And the Handmaiden of the Vault shall come anointed with cedar and with citron to lead us into Sanctuary, where there is a verdant garden planted, a green paradise where milk and honey—."

Whatever kind of chem the old lady had picked up when he wasn't looking, it had to be strong. What she was saying made no kind of sense, unless you knew something of the Bible. It wasn't that popular these days, mainly because it was clear the events from Revelations had come and gone, and those left on Earth were not the saved. However, he'd had a decent education, which was more than a lot of people could say, and he recognized jumbled up Scripture when he heard it.

"Old woman," Marcy Long gritted out from across the room, "will you shut up already? Let us die without your damn voice babbling on and on in our ears."

"Nobody with us here now is dying today, or anytime soon," Mama Murphy assured the woman. "They're coming. I can see it. In fact," Mama smiled—he wasn't about to turn to see her face, but he could hear it in her voice. "They're here."

Preston realized that although the gunfire had not stopped inside the Museum of Freedom, the sounds from the street below had stopped. No more shooting, no more shouting.

He turned his head. There, among the rubble and the dead both recent and long past, was someone who hardly looked different from the raiders, because he or she wore road leathers and piecemeal armor. The person was creeping from cover to cover, avoiding possible lines of fire from the raiders in the museum, but then she or he was armed with a syringer rather than a real firearm.

Syringers were only good for slowing people down, not dealing real damage. However, if someone had one, it was a sure thing they made their own ammo for it. So: not a gunslinger. A chem trader? He didn't know. He didn't care. Help was help.

"Hey, you there, with the syringer! We're up here with a group of settlers and the raiders are about to reach us! Grab another gun and help us, please! There's a laser musket on the ground about ten yards ahead of you!"

The person nodded—he was about seventy-five percent sure it was a woman from the way she moved—and darted across the street in a cautious sprint. A dog followed closely at her heels, and soon they disappeared from view again.

The raiders redoubled their attack, forcing the Minuteman and the people he was so desperately trying to protect further down the hall into an office. However, he could hear when the raiders turned their attention from attacking to defending, their threats and bravado turning to paranoia and panic. He also heard the angry barks and snarls of a big dog, accompanied by howls of 'Yahhhgedditoffame!', followed by a crunch or a gurgle. Eventually, silence.

Silence inside the museum, anyway, except for someone, or more than one someone, picking their way through the building. "Hello? Anyone left alive?" a woman called out.

The uncertainty in her voice convinced Preston she was not a raider. "Here!" He nodded to Sturges to open the office door.

There she was, the one he'd seen from the window, accompanied by a dog he'd seen pictures of in books but never in life: a German Shepard.

"I don't know who you are," he said, in gratitude, "but your timing's impeccable. Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen."

"Glad to help. Raina Queen, agroecologist," the woman replied.

Marcy Long broke in, pointing to the canteens on Queen's bandolier. "Is that water?" she asked through cracked and dehydrated lips.

"Yes," the agroecologist replied.