The next morning, the very first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a can of purified water on the table within arm's reach. It was a very welcome sight, as the vodka had given me a terrible thirst. Sipping gratefully, I turned over the events from the day before in my mind. So, I accidentally exposed an undetermined amount of my life to a couple of strangers. I am still alive, mostly sane in this fucked-up world, and the parties in question are still civil. Hell, my mercenary guard even apologized for how he had been treating me. It could be a lot worse. It seemed every day, every crisis was getting a little easier to roll with the punches, just like MacCready had said. Baby steps, baby steps.
As if my thought summoned him, the sniper opened the door to the room, agilely balancing two trays in his hand. "Good morning, Boss." The food looked the same as every other meal we'd had in Goodneighbor, lumps of unidentifiable subsistence lightly covered in a watery sauce. But it was hot and filled the belly, so what was the point in complaining? At least it stayed down... mostly. I scooted over to make room on the couch.
As we ate, we discussed my options. Getting home looked like it was turning into a long-term pursuit, much to my distress. I shared the lead that Irma gave me and he considered it. "I've heard of this Valentine fellow," he said, thoughtfully. "He's a detective. That's all I know. But he may be able to point us in the right direction. Probably worth a shot."
Leaving Goodneighbor had me a little apprehensive, but I was better prepared now. I had weapons, ammunition, and a hired mercenary to watch my back. While MacCready and I packed our gear, he told me about the dangers of the Commonwealth outside the walled communities. Raiders- humans who were little more than savage gangs, taking what they wanted from who they wanted and killing anything that got in their way. Ferals- Ghouls who were mindless killing machines, endlessly hungering, not at all like Hancock or Daisy. Super Mutants- giant green-skinned humanoids with homicidally violent tendencies and a taste for human flesh. To round it all off, there were various forms of mutated animals and random robots run amok. "I'll tell ya, Boss," MacCready had commented wryly, "it's no picnic to travel the Wasteland. You need to stay sharp and keep your weapon at the ready."
"Will do. Do you know where Diamond City is?" I stared at the map screen on my Pip-Boy. It was still distressingly blank.
"Sure," he replied confidently. "I haven't been there in a while, though. They're pretty uptight, don't like Ghouls or mercenaries." He motioned to my arm. "I can show you on your map, if you want."
"What, really?" Charlie had marked the warehouses on my map before, but I thought only another machine could do that.
"Yeah, sure. Anyone can mark a location on your Pip-Boy's map if you let them." He grinned ruefully, taking off his cap to run his hand through his hair. "I didn't bother before 'cause I thought it was part of Hancock messing with me, remember?" He took my arm, angling the screen so we could both see it, and showed me how to mark a location using the touchscreen controls. I learned that I could even tell my map to remember a specific point, leading me back to that pinned mark from anywhere. "Comes in handy if you have too much loot to carry and need to stash something."
"Thanks, MacCready. You're a wealth of useful information."
"And the best gun in the Commonwealth," he added lightly with a cocky grin.
We left Goodneighbor in the clear light of mid-morning. Diamond City was a good three hour trek across the length of ruined Boston, not counting any resistance we might face along the way. I kept the map screen selected, watching as the arrow marker made its torturous way towards our goal. There was also a compass-like bar at the top of the screen, which made reckoning by cardinal directions a breeze. We walked along the streets, our meandering path necessary to skirt impassable sections of the city.
This was the first time I had seen any of the wider post-war Boston, and I was shocked at the devastation. MacCready occasionally commented on the war and the former landmarks as we passed. "The Red Chinese Army dropped nuclear bombs all across the country," he had said. "They targeted large cities and military sites. Most people didn't stand a chance."
"And this was what, two hundred years ago?"
He nodded, "Yeah, in 2077. It's 2287 now, in case you didn't know. I'm guessing humans were pushed to the brink of extinction. It's taken this long just to reach this point of high culture, where you can actually find the rare settlement where you won't immediately be shot on sight." His voice was bitter.
"Speaking from experience?" I asked sympathetically.
He sighed. "Uh-huh." We strode along for a few minutes in silence.
As we approached one corner, MacCready quickly stepped ahead of me, guiding me to take cover behind the wall of the nearest building. We crouched down in a pile of debris, backs to the brickwork. I watched as he brought his rifle up to sight through the scope, his habitual frown deepening. Turning to me, he mouthed the words almost inaudibly. "Hear that? Listen."
I held my breath, closing my eyes to focus on catching any hint of sound above the light sighing of the wind and the rustle of leather as the sniper lifted his rifle again. Faintly, I heard primitive grunts and mutters. There were no discernible words. A clatter of debris echoed slightly between the buildings, the sounds coming from farther down the street we needed to use. "I heard it," I breathed. "What is it?"
"Ferals" came the immediate answer. "Damn things are everywhere. Take 'em out, and more pop up. But we need to go this way."
"So we clear the street," I reasoned. "If this is the main route from one city to another, people could get hurt if we leave it alone."
"'We?' You think you're up to it, Boss?" he asked, peering briefly over his shoulder at me. There was no condescension in his voice, merely a genuine concern for my welfare. "I could probably take them out on my own, if I had to."
"No," I insisted. "It'll be easier with two of us. Besides, these aren't really people... not anymore." I unholstered my laser pistol for quicker aiming. Taking a bracing breath, I told him, "Let's do this," and stepped out from around the corner of the building.
Feral Ghouls were nothing like Hancock or Daisy. They were almost exactly like zombies from a horror film, all groaning and flailing limbs and gnashing of teeth as they charged from around the shell of an old car. The only difference was they were insanely fast. Almost before I could react, a group of four ferals had made it halfway towards us. MacCready had stayed in cover, and his rifle arced smoothly, taking out the first two with precise head shots. I raised my pistol, squeezing off a round and hitting the third in the thigh. It fell, then proceeded to pull itself up the street, clawing at the broken concrete to move. Sighting on the fourth feral, I invoked my V.A.T.S. assistance, concentrating on taking a head shot. The bolt hit, burning into its cheek and boiling away an eye, but not stopping its rushing charge. The second shot melted away the rest of its head and the body fell forward to lie a few feet from me. That was close! As I took a moment to dispatch the crippled feral still clawing towards me, I heard more groaning from down the street and a soft metallic clink nearby.
"Duck and cover!" MacCready yelled as he tossed a grenade, where the hell was he keeping that? onto the car and the second wave of ferals just starting to appear. I dove back behind the building, flattening against the wall next to MacCready. A resounding bang signaled the grenade's detonation, and I cautiously peered around the corner. The car was tilted up to one side, on fire, and no ferals remained, only blasted chunks of bloodstained viscera. We did it! I exulted. Ferals were not sentient, and eliminating a clear threat didn't bother my conscience in the least. I may be getting the hang of this.
MacCready gave me an approving nod, standing up to join me on the street and scrutinize the aftermath. I had only taken two steps towards the nearest feral when he suddenly tackled me bodily, roughly shoving us towards the shelter of the building. We nearly made it.
The car exploded in a deafening roar of irradiated fire. The shockwave of its blast tumbled us farther into the shelter of the brick wall, but I still heard MacCready cry out in pain. We huddled together in a twisted pile, waiting for the rain of debris to stop falling before untangling ourselves.
"Next lesson," he wheezed, face pinched in agony. "Cars and grenades don't mix." That's when I saw the spread of crimson dripping across the tumble of bricks underneath his feet. The flesh of his lower right leg was shredded, burned and bleeding darkly. "Hah," he hissed, "got a stimpak handy?"
"Ohmygod!" I frantically tore the pack from my back, digging into the side pocket for the injectors. The contents scattered about on the ground as my hands shook. MacCready had put his head down, taking slow, painful breaths. "Here," I shoved a dose of Med-X at him, not bothering to wait to see if he used it. Pawing at the scattered contents, I found one of the precious stimpaks. Whipping around, I stabbed the needle into his thigh muscle just above the bony knee, the drug administering itself with a quiet hiss. Within moments, the bleeding had stopped and my companion relaxed. His leg was almost visibly mending, the torn flesh sealing into a series of angry red scars. The sight unnerved me and I turned away to re-pack the contents of my bag that had been scattered in my frantic search. Once I was certain the eerie wound closure had finished, I dug out a couple strips of cloth.
MacCready had shifted to a sitting position, leg splayed out in front of him. When I proceeded to dab the worst of the blood off in preparation to dress his wound, he protested. "Leave it," he whined, trying to twitch out of my reach. "It's fine."
"MacCready," I replied sternly, "the skin is barely closed. Let me at least wrap it for you so you don't break it open again. It'll help keep dirt out, too." We exchanged a challenging glare, and he dropped his eyes first.
"Fine... Boss," he growled, holding his leg up to accept my ministrations.
Not wanting to test his patience, I cleaned and wrapped the wounds on his calf as quickly as I dared, feeling his eyes watching me intently. When I finished, I placed his foot on the ground gently with an encouraging pat. "There. That wasn't so bad, was it?" I turned to face him, letting him decide when the leg was healed enough to stand up. He was still gazing at me, a furrowed line to his brow. "What?" I asked, a little disconcerted by his expression.
"Why did you do that?" His voice was low, wondering.
"What? Dress your leg?" He nodded, still peering at me intently. I was confused. "Why wouldn't I?" He sat there, just looking at me. "It's barely healed. Because I didn't want it getting infected?" No reply, but his forehead furrowed more deeply. "I wanted to help you?" A blink of those deep blue eyes. I threw up my hands in sudden frustration. "I don't know what you want me to say!" I complained.
"I think you said it." His brow had smoothed, and there was the barest hint of a smile on his face. "Thanks."
"You're welcome." I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, but the momentary bewilderment had passed. "How's it feeling?"
MacCready gingerly flexed the wrapped leg, rotating his foot to test it. "It's been worse," came the diagnosis. I stood up and held my hand out to him. He paused for a long moment before grabbing it, and letting me pull him to his feet. He staggered off to retrieve his rifle. Wobbly at first, after only a few steps, he steadied himself, walking over to examine the dead ferals with only a limp. Envious of his ability to shrug off an injury, I followed.
The Ghouls didn't have much in the way of loot. MacCready explained, in the educational manner I was getting very familiar with, that ferals never carried much on them. Most of the time, the items they had were useless as well. We soon departed the area a little worse for wear, moving at a decidedly slower pace.