Donovan O'Niel's Arc

Chapter 2 of 11

The garage doors had barely closed when Donovan hoped for one quiet night. He wanted to check his radio node in the morning, nothing more. Instead the base station crackled at dusk. Zelda Verada's voice came through, flat and clear. "You've got trouble," she said. Zelda was the Red Hills Traders medic on the vault team, the one who'd approved his supply base only if he kept it stocked. Now she was telling him the stock was the problem. "Raiders. Five, maybe more. They pried open the Vault-Tec entrance up the ridge. They're stripping it for scrap." Donovan pulled up the map on his battleboard, the tablet glowing inside its rugged case. He tapped the vault marker. The blast-scarred garage front sat right at the entrance he needed. "They don't know what's in there," he said. "Not yet," Zelda said. "But they'll dig. And if they find the labs before your team does, your G.E.C.K. walks off on someone else's back. So don't wait." He didn't. He clicked off and moved to the crates. Solo wasn't an option for this. He keyed his handset and raised the sharpest Ranger sergeant he trusted, a black-and-grey tuxedo cat who answered on the first call. Sergeant Greymire arrived in ten minutes with her own radio pack and glasses fogged from the cold, already asking numbers before she was through the door. "How many, and how loud do you want this?" Greymire said. She didn't sit. She checked the door seals the way a soldier counts exits. "Five confirmed at the vault mouth," Donovan said. "Loud enough to move them off it. Quiet enough not to bury the entrance." Greymire nodded once. That was all he needed from her. They worked fast. Donovan cracked a military ammo crate and counted magazines onto the bench. Greymire loaded two compact automatic rifles and set spare rounds in belt pouches. He measured out breaching charges, small ones, enough to clear a doorway without dropping a roof. "Charges go on the flanks," Greymire said. "Not the frame. We push them out, we don't seal ourselves in." "Agreed." He liked that she'd said it before he had to. He packed cutting tools, rope, and spare batteries into two ready bags. His shielded relay stayed on the shelf. Near the vault, radios died within ten meters. Tonight they'd work close and by hand. By full dark the gear stood ready by the doors. Two rifles, loaded. Charges wired and safed. Ammo counted twice. Donovan slung his battleboard across his chest and looked at Greymire. "We hold the entrance," he said. "Whatever's below waits for us, not them." Greymire slid the last magazine home. "Then let's go take our door back." The quiet night was gone. Donovan had traded it for a fight at the vault mouth, and a partner to fight it with. The gear was packed. The raiders didn't know he was coming yet.