Signal Oscar Zulu

I was disappointed by the lack of response to my last post, and as it is, I need inspiration for my main story. In the mean time, here's a short Fallout 3 fanfic I wrote.

  Signal Oscar Zulu

  I was delivering a package to a settlement in the north when I stumbled upon it. At the top of a hill a little to the west, was an old, scarred radio tower. How the damn thing was still standing I’ll never know: I would have figured a spindly structure like that would have been blasted apart in the War. Perhaps the tall rocks nearby had sheltered it from the blasts. Still, it’d be worth checking out, if the transformers at the base hadn’t already been picked over. I unslung the assault rifle from across my back and put the stock to my shoulder, to have it ready if there was trouble.

   After jimmying the lock on the gate with a bobby pin, I stepped inside the fenced off area at the base of the tower, ignoring the pitted KEEP OUT signs. The scraggly weeds pulled at my boots as I walked to the transformer. I was just about to pop the lock off the cover when I saw a panel on the outside, with a cracked yellow lightning bolt painted on the side. On it were 2 lights. One was glowing red. There was power! I threw the switch on the side of the panel up and down several times, but nothing happened. I leaned my rifle against the transformer and started digging through my bag.

   Once I had the screws off and the cover set aside, I took a look inside and quickly found the problem: a wire leading from the switch was corroded from moisture and had broken free. I pulled a scrap piece of wire from my bag and jumped the connection. I threw the switch and the red light went out and was replaced by a green one. At the same time, the radio on my belt beeped, announcing it had picked up a new radio signal.

   That struck me as odd: the only station still broadcasting anywhere nearby was the old Galaxy News Radio, and that signal was on around the clock, with the DJ shuffling through old jazz records interspersed with news about the goings on in the Wasteland. I grabbed my radio and spun the dial to the bottom of the range, and started scanning through the static.

   I hit the signal at about 1100 kHz, near the top of the AM band. “..ily and I have taken refuge in a drainage chamber not too far from a radio relay tower outside of D.C. My boy is very sick, needs medical assistance. Please help if you can. We're listening for your response. 3950 kilohertz. If anyone can hear this, my name is Bob Anderstein. My family and I have ta..”. It continued looping. It had probably been broadcasting endlessly until the transformer had failed, likely not long after the atomic War, two hundred years ago. Still though, that drainage chamber would be a good place to hole up for the night, and the light was fading fast - there looked to be only a half-hour left before the sun dipped below the horizon.

   I circled the tower a few times before I found the drainage tunnel; a rusty old pipe jutting out of the hill. I tugged on the grate and it pulled free with a shriek of semi-seized metal. I stepped inside and started down the tunnel, and then decided to pull the grate back on behind me. It wouldn’t do to have a critter come in during the night. I flicked on my flashlight and headed down into the tunnel.

   The end of the tunnel opened up a little, from a height where I had to duck to one that allowed me to stand up straight: light filtered through from a grate on the road above. To my right was a metal-clad door, scarred by years of rust. I pushed the door open and was greeted by a pair of skeletons. One of them - a woman, judging by the tattered remains of her clothing - had a bullet hole through her temple. The other, a man, still had a rusty .32 calibre pistol jammed in his mouth, the back of his skull blown out. Centuries old bloodstains still marked the walls. Something seemed off.

   I checked the place over for supplies. There wasn’t much; a box of ammo for the pistol, five shells missing. A small first aid kit. Some kid’s toys. That’s what was wrong - the radio message mentioned a child, but there weren’t any other remains in the room. I found that slightly disturbing, but there was nothing to be done about it: It was full dark now, and the wastes became even more dangerous at night. I closed the door and barricaded it with a steel utility shelf.  I leaned my rifle against the wall near a cot that must have belonged to the previous inhabitants and hung my jacket from the corner of the shelf. Then I curled up and fell asleep.

A calling to readers, if you guys exist

Alright folks, here's how it is. As you must notice, I update extremely infrequently. The main reason for this is a simple lack of inspiration. So, I'm asking anyone with suggestions to please email me at jeanpierre124@gmail.com or anamirian91@hotmail.com with all due haste!I only ask that suggestions are kept within the scope of plausibility: I wanna see serious suggestions. Any and all suggestions are appreciated though, at least it'll let me know there's someone out there interested in this thing :)

Chapter 6

   The air whipped past my face as I plummeted towards the ground in a dive. I struggled around, trying to find the emergency cord. I found it and yanked it, and the wings locked in their full open position. Less than 100 feet above the treetops, I stopped falling and started to glide, but I was still moving far to fast to try and land; my legs could break on impact, and since I was going to need to walk, that was unacceptable. I began to circle, both to burn off speed and to search for a suitable landing zone. I spotted, just to the West, one of the old logging roads that ran through the forest. It’d have to do, especially because my airspeed was now getting dangerously low; these wings weren’t designed for prolonged gliding. Just as I was about to touch down, the damaged wing finally came apart with a loud sound ripping canvas. I ended up pitching to the left and landing on my kneepads, and skidded to a halt. Completely exhausted, I passed out, falling flat on my face.

    I awoke what must not have been long after; though the sun had gone down, the moon was not yet high in the sky. I pushed myself up and rolled into a sitting position, groaning with the effort - everything hurt. My muscles felt raw, my joints ached a dull, grinding pain. My left knee felt swollen, and though a quick test told me I wouldn’t be running anytime soon, I could still walk. I pulled off my kneepad and immediately felt my knee push out, freed from it’s restraint. Definitely swollen. I dug through my personal satchel and pulled out a small paper packet, tore it open, and poured the contents on my tongue. The stuff was supposed to be some kind of pain relief, but after ten minutes, it really only took the edge off. I considered using another packet, but decided it would be best to save it. I managed to slowly get to my feet, holding in a scream; my knee hurt terribly to bend. I knew I needed to get moving before the swelling locked up my leg completely, and seeing how well the moon lit the road ahead of me, I started limping North.

    I checked my compass; I’d come to a fork in the road. I knew the aerodrome to be Northwest of my position, so I took the left road. I was unsure of how far I had come and how far I had to go; The mountain loomed in the not-quite distance, but it was impossible to tell it’s proximity. It might have been a mile, it might have been ten. I was hoping for the former, because I didn’t feel my knee could take much more abuse. I had used another packet just before I came to the fork, but even that didn’t help much. I would need to stop and rest soon if I didn’t make it to my destination, but that wouldn’t do either. I had to get back as soon as possible, or risk getting left behind.

    A few minutes later I was at gunpoint.

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

   Once the wings had throttled up to speed, all the operator had to do was control their flight by moving their body. I loved flying, and under normal circumstances, this flight would be no exception. However, I had no time to enjoy the flight; I had to get back to the ship, hidden in a valley about 40 miles to the north-west. I would have barely enough steam to make the flight. I twisted the grips to gain altitude.


   I pushed the wings to their limit; The faster I got clear of the city, the less chance there would be of getting pursued. Below were the streets, with the invaders going about their lives. And then, I began to pass over the slums, where my people, the Arcadians, lived. It broke my heart, every time I saw them, the once proud people reduced to slaves for the invading Estovakians. We helped them in any way we could; sneaking in food and clothes. But it was never enough, the conditions kept getting worse.

   I shook my head. Now was not the time. I needed to escape. I looked around to get my bearings. Below and to my left, the river Don surged on, grey and choppy. I put the river to my back and flew west. I had been flying for several minutes when I thought I heard an engine behind me. I immediately pitched forward into a steep dive, just as a burst of automatic-rifle fire cut through the air where I had just been. A diesel powered plane passed by seconds later. It was one of the new biplanes, mounting a pair of automatic rifles in the nose. A quick glance behind me revealed his wingman, in an identical plane, now trying to draw bead on me. I snapped and rolled left to avoid the burst of fire, turning over on my back and letting myself fall a short distance before righting myself. I knew I couldn’t keep avoiding their fire, because eventually they would manage to tag me, no matter how much I manoeuvred. Thinking hard, I began to formulate a plan.

   Seconds later, they were on me again. This time, instead of rolling away from the lead plane, I rolled into it, and caught the landing gear as I passed underneath of it, slamming my body against the underside of the plane. I quickly shut down my wings to keep from getting pulled off. The leader’s wingman caught my sudden movement and fired a burst after me reflexively. Unfortunately for the lead pilot, his wingman’s bullets tore through the right side wings of his plane, causing it to roll out of control. I held on for dear life, knowing I had to stay with the plane as long as possible for this plan to work. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the pilot bail out, his white parachute billowing out behind him.

   I looked at the pressure gauge on my wings. It showed roughly ten percent full. Doing a quick calculation in my head, I realized I had about one minute flight time, after I got the wings started. My heart sank. I wouldn’t even be able to stay aloft long enough to get my bearings. I didn’t even know how far I was from the airship. Seeing how close I was to the ground, I put those thoughts out of my head. Pushing away from the plummeting aircraft with my legs, I pulled the starter cord on the wings, and they immediately roared to life. The wings started to pitch left, and I knew at once something was wrong. The left wing was moving erratically, not at all in the smooth pattern it was supposed to maintain. I looked around to attempt and find out where I was; It was clear I was going to be stuck walking. I looked around frantically and spotted the landmark I was looking for: the tall, lonely peak, in the middle of the White Forest. Near the base of the peak was the abandoned aerodrome where the airship was hidden. Then, with a final cough, the engine died and I was in freefall.

Chapter 4

  I ran down the aisle of crates, legs pumping. Trying to remember where I had seen the hole, I turned right, and saw it. As I was running up the aisle, I could hear the boots behind me, quickly getting louder, and the crunch of glass as those boots stepped through the window I broke. Just as I reached the base of the crates, a soldier stepped around the corner, and opened fire. Blasts of electricity slammed into crates near me, exploding them like balloons. A scent of ozone and burnt wood filled the air. I turned around, pulled the lever on my carbine, and put a round through his chest. Us messengers don’t bother with the fancy electric rifles; gunpowder works better for what we usually need firearms for. The slug tore through his uniform easily. I turned back and started to scramble up the crates, throwing caution to the wind and just heading for my exit. I had planned on starting the wings up inside, and flying through the hole, but there clearly wasn’t time for that now. I’d have to jump for it.

   I could see old exposed water pipes, electrical wiring, and a track way for an overhead crane system. But they were all rusty, no good for handholds. I finally spotted what I needed; an old brass handrail, from a collapsed catwalk, a few feet below the hole in the roof. Quickly formulating a plan, I started sprinting across the tops of the crates. The catwalk had run perpendicular to the row of crates I was running on, and I could see that it had taken out the crates directly underneath of it when it fell, leaving a gap of several feel between the handrail and the edge of the crates. This was gonna hurt.

   I could hear the soldiers clambering up the crates behind me, so I started running faster. I dropped my carbine back in it’s holster, and jumped for it. I caught the bar in both hands, feeling the impact jar my shoulders. I let my momentum carry me around the bar, and pumped my arms to increase my speed. I rotated around the bar 3 times, and, just as I was almost at the top of my orbit, let go of the bar.

   I shot through the hole, and cleared it by nearly 3 feet. I landed hard on my side, and nearly had my wind knocked out. Fighting down nausea, I got to my feet. I reached over my shoulder, and hit the activation switch on the wings. Immediately, two sets of wings popped out, one on either side of the pack. The wings were of our invention, powered by a steam cell good for 30 minutes flight time. But they still needed a good pull to get them started. I pulled the cord down sharply, and heard the wings fire up behind me. I let them run up to speed, then ran and leapt off the side of the warehouse.

Chapter 3

   I ran through the sewer, ignoring the smell and doing my best to avoid splashing. I just knew my boots were ruined: I had never planned on mucking about under the streets of Cambridge. I pulled out my torch, flicked it on, and dug through my pocket for my map.
   Remembering that the pickup had only been a few blocks from the harbour, I planned to make my way there, as the sea harbour had been mostly abandoned as shipping on the sea had become obsolete with the invention of the airship, with only a few factories and shipping companies still operating, as the Estovakians still preferred sending heavy freight over sea. I figured I could find an abandoned warehouse or something and get out of the sewer. I took out my compass, noted my heading, and started through the sewer toward the harbour.
   I made it less than a hundred yards, and around a couple of bends, when I heard the telltale bang of a sewer grate opening. I quickly stowed the map and compass in the satchel, and, throwing caution and stealth to the wind, began to run for it. I heard shouts and splashes from behind me: they were coming. I started taking side tunnels and offshoots, always sure to keep heading south, to the harbour.
My lungs were burning from the exertion, and my heart threatening to burst from my chest when I turned a corner and saw bright daylight streaming from a hole in the ceiling, where the street above had collapsed from lack of maintenance. I must be in the harbour by now, judging from the obvious damage in front of me. Unlike the Aeroport in the center of the city, the old seaport was filled with factories and warehouses. It was through one of these that I planned to make my escape.
   I scrambled up the rubble and out onto the street, with the soldiers right behind me. I figured I had about five seconds to get out of sight. Cursing, I pulled my goggles down over my eyes so the tint would allow me to see in the sudden bright sunlight. I turned, and saw my exit: a steel door to a warehouse, partially ajar. I ran for it, and carefully shut the door behind me. I finally stopped and allowed myself a few moments to breathe.
   As soon as the adrenaline wore off, I could feel myself wanting to cry. Sigur had been a good friend of mine. I allowed myself a few minutes of rest, to try and force the tears back, before I began to move through the warehouse. I needed to find a way to the roof.
   I pulled out my crowbar and forced open the first door I came to. An office. Damn. I kept on down the hall, checking all the doors for a stairwell. Through the row of dusty windows on my right, I could see light filtering into the warehouse from up high. I wiped away the dust, and looked around. I could see a hole in the roof, with a stack of crates stacked nearby. That could work. Covering my eyes, I smashed the window with my bar, cleaned the glass out of the frame, and leaped through. Just as I heard the door to the warehouse from outside bang open. I began to run.

Chapter 2

   “Sorry, Sigur. Yes, we need to get moving. I.. got lost in thought.”, I said to him.
“That’s fine, Ana. But if we don’t get to the meeting spot quick, we’re toast”, said Sigur.
“Damn it. This is why I hate being in the city. There’s none of this sneaky crap when we’re airborne”, I said.
“Yeah, we just blow ‘em up and hope they didn’t get on the wireless too fast”, Sigur muttered under his breath. I barely heard him, and apparently wasn’t meant to, so I stayed silent. We started to run down the alley, and I slipped my carbine into the holster I made for it under my coat. Thankfully, the only noise we made was the swishing of our coats, as our boots had soft, leather soles. We rounded the corner, and, once we gave the doorkeeper the password, entered the cavern underneath the old laundry.

  We’d come only to pick up a package that needed to be delivered across the country. It was one of our most important jobs, being the only safe way to deliver parcels and letters free of the Estovakian government. We’re often referred to as “pirates”, as we operate in much the same way as our sea going predecessors, but we have a much more noble cause. We were the main source of communication between the different resistance celols scattered across Arcadia, from Cambridge on the South Sea, all the way to the Northern Mountains, were our base was located. We refer to ourselves as the Messengers, as that’s what we’re best known for.

  It was the usual pickup, an inconspicuous leather satchel with brass buttons. It was a little heavier than usual, I noticed when I handed it to Sigur, but then again, nothing they were asked to transport was usual. Often, it was a lot more than a satchel, and we needed to bring more of the crew with us, as long as the truck. The truck was risky, cause it took a long time to offload it from the ship, but for small pickups like this, Sigur and I were the only ones needed. We’d stashed the wings under a manhole cover a couple of blocks away from the meeting spot. We told the man who had ordered the pickup that we’d need to stay awhile, an hour, while things cooled off outside. He nodded in agreement, as this was the norm. Pickups in Cambridge were always risky because of the Estovakian government had set up shop in our old Parliament buildings and were using them to run the country.

  After the man paid us, the doorman let us out, and silently pulled the door shut behind him. Sigur and I Walked down the street, listening intently for the telltale sounds of an ambush- rifles clicking, shuffling feet, electrical buzzing, but we heard nothing.

  Which is why I was shocked when Sigur’s head exploded.

  Half a second after it happened, I heard the telltale whistle sound of a steam rifle firing. I rolled onto the ground, next to Sigur’s corpse just as the wall behind me exploded outward from the bullet smashing into the stonework. Damn, he was fast! He must have a spotter with him to work the steam valve, otherwise the rifle could not have recharged that fast. I wrenched the satchel out from underneath of the body, slung it over my shoulder, and set off at a flat out run for the sewer entrance where we stashed the wings.

  I used my crowbar to lever up the manhole cover-damn, Sigur had made it look easy- and dropped in. Sliding the cover back over the hole, I could hear soldiers overhead. They must have heard the scraping sound the cover made when I slid it off. Thinking quickly, I pulled off my belt, slid it through the handle on the bottom of the cover, around the rung of the ladder, and fastened the clasp. It was a cheap, poor quality belt, but it would hold long enough for he to find a way out of the sewer. I picked up my set of wings, strapped them on, and set off at the fastest pace I could without making a sound.

Chapter 1

   “Ana,”.
“Ana, we need to get moving. They’ll have heard the shots. We need to go. Now”.
I heard him speaking to me, but it sounded far off. We had been walking down a back alley on our way to the meeting, when we came across the two men. Before I could even think, I had brought up my carbine and shot them both in the back. I was horrified by what was once unthinkable, had become reflex. Sure, I’d done this before, but then it had been completely different; the atmosphere had been one of fright and a need to stay alive. But these men… they had just been standing there. Guarding the entrance to the adjacent alley for sure, but seven years ago…

   Ah, hell. Seven years ago I would have never been sneaking around back alleys, taking part in secret resistance meetings, wouldn’t have been participating in the war effort at all. I was a little girl back then, only in my 4^th year of school, and without a care in the world. But whatever. I don’t like to think about my past, because it’s hard enough to keep my emotions in check already. When I think back to how it was, I always end up in tears, and that doesn’t end well in the new Arcadia. In the new Arcadia you have to be ready for anything at anytime. Be ready to fight or flee.

   My name is Anamirian. And welcome to the latest Estovakian military annex: Cambridge, capitol of my homeland, Arcadia. When the Estovakians invaded in 1912, my country was prospering, finally beginning to develop our outdated industrial economy, all based on steam. As it would turn out, the Stovies had already dropped steam technology by the wayside, instead moving on to build more powerful machines of war than we could have ever imagined. When they marched across the border, there was nothing for our military to do but surrender. We Arcadians were made into slaves in our own cities, being forced to work to support the new Estovakian leadership for meager pay. We were kicked out of our homes and sent to live in prefabricated communal housing.

   I’ve never seen the inside of one of these new “homes” that they built for us. When the Stovies invaded, they killed off nearly half of our native population. Including my parents. I was ten