Farkas "Bulk" Bulkmeier's Arc

Chapter 3 of 5

Bulk had been tracking the raider for three days through the dead zones east of the warehouse. The man had stolen medical supplies from a settlement — one of the few jobs that actually felt like justice instead of babysitting. The trail led to a collapsed overpass where twisted rebar jutted from concrete like broken bones. The raider's tracks disappeared at the base of something that shouldn't exist. The old MMPR headquarters rose from the wasteland like a tombstone, its clock tower cracked but still standing. Bulk had heard rumors the place was picked clean years ago, but massive footprints circled the entrance — three-toed, deep enough to hold rainwater. He knelt beside one and measured it against his forearm. Too big for any animal he knew. Bright feathers were scattered near the doorway, colors that hurt to look at in the gray wasteland. The raider had gone inside. Bulk's hand moved to his sidearm as he followed. The interior smelled like copper and rot. Bulk's boots crunched on broken glass as he moved through what used to be the command center. The raider's pack sat abandoned near a console, medical supplies spilling across the floor. No body. No blood. Just the pack and a trail of those same massive prints leading deeper into the building. Bulk followed them down a corridor to a reinforced door hanging off its hinges. Inside, the walls were covered in claw marks — deliberate, methodical. Not random destruction. Someone had been trying to communicate. At the far end of the room, scratched into the metal with savage precision, were four letters: BULK. His breath caught. Only one person called him that before it became his hunting name. Only one person knew what it meant before the Fallout. The footprints led to a ventilation shaft torn open from the inside, too small for whatever made those tracks now but just right for a man. Bulk pulled one of the bright feathers from where it was wedged in the torn metal. His hands shook the same way they had when he'd written about Skull's death in Aisha's journal. But Skull was dead. Bulk had watched him die while still wearing the purple suit. This was something else — something that knew his name and wanted him to follow. He pocketed the feather and stepped back from the shaft. The raider was gone, the medical supplies recovered. The job was done. But the question scratching at the back of his mind wouldn't let him leave: what if he'd been wrong about who died that day?