WebNovels

Chapter 11 - Chapter 11: First Contact in a New Home

Chapter 11: First Contact in a New Home

The desert at dawn was a furnace of shifting heat and blinding light. The horizon was a wavering blade of white-hot air. Vault 9X lay concealed beneath the rocky outcrop, its steel hatch flush with the earth, as if reluctant to draw attention in a world gone mad. Far above, the sky burned pale red, though on the ground the heat was already suffocating even in shadow. The air itself felt viscous, every breath tasting of hot grit. Not a bird cried or hissed; the silence was absolute. All that was visible were endless dunes rising and falling like waves on a blood-red sea. Adam guided his battered scope over the desert floor, scanning for the slightest hint of movement. Each scan caused him to blink away a bead of sweat. The horizon offered nothing but sun-baked emptiness.

Adam perched on the highest ridge of the vault's camouflaged shell, the coarse metal biting into his knees, and adjusted his salvaged scope. He kept as low a profile as possible, but even below the vault's rim he felt exposed. Sand-slick rivets and a cracked rubber eyepiece betrayed the scope's origins — parts scavenged from a half-buried watchtower long ago forgotten in the sands. It was a crude tool, pieced together from scrap and determination, but it served its purpose now. He remembered the day he found it during a storm in a ruined city: rain sluicing through a collapsed roof, this scope reflecting red warnings. Since then, it had saved their lives more times than he could count. Now, in his hands, it fixed all its imperfections on the desert. He fine-tuned the focus, locking each piece of the panoramic landscape into clarity. The distant dunes rippled like water; broken rock spires glinted in the dawn.

He pressed his cheek to the rubber eyepiece. The wasteland sprawled before him in muted grays and ochres, dunes rippling like the backs of ancient, dying beasts. Heat mirages blurred edges into surreal waves. His gauntlet's HUD overlaid schematics of the vault exterior — a reminder of the world he built underground — but none of it mattered in this moment. His attention was drawn instead to three distant dots draped in the shimmer of mirage. Breath held tight, Adam scanned. From that distance, the shapes blurred: rocky outcroppings, or perhaps vehicles? He fine-tuned the magnification, squinting through the cracked lens. Inch by inch, the hazy blobs resolved into jagged silhouettes. "Three bikes." The realization came as a thought, barely audible. He tapped the side of his gauntlet. The quiet click of the sensor confirmed his suspicion as a small display blinked: ETA 04:00. Four minutes. Four minutes until those machines were on top of them. He ran through their positions in his head. Four minutes — a lifetime or the blink of an eye.

Nia's voice crackled over the comm in a cautious whisper: "Dirt bikes?"

"Light frames — twin shock absorbers," Adam replied, eyes narrowing behind his visor. "Fast, but not built for heavy loads." His tone was flat and precise. "They're not hauling fuel tanks or generators on those racks. They came light."

Silence fell between them as they waited. Each tiny sound echoed: distant rocks tumbling, sand stirred by a small breeze. Then Nia's low voice broke the hush: "Morifiers."

The word hung heavy in the air. Morifiers — infamous scourges of the wastes, predators who marked territory with trophies of their kills. They carved twisted art from bone and armor, whittling the remains of victims into grotesque monuments. If Morifiers were here, it meant real trouble.

Adam exhaled slowly. The promise of morning did nothing to cool the fire in his lungs. He remembered every warning about them — the camps of rot and screams told over stale campfire brew. He gritted his teeth. Fear had no place here. At his side, in the foxhole shadow, he could feel Nia's arm tense; together they were poised like coiled springs.

They descended the rocky slope toward the dune-line. Each step was deliberate: boots sinking into sand, careful not to crack twigs (there were none) or clatter with loose stones. Broken quartz veins in the outcrops glinted briefly in the early light, then vanished back into dull stone. Adam kept one hand on the cool steel of the vault's hull behind him — an anchor, a reminder of shelter. He remembered how last night they had reinforced this vault: welding plates, sealing fissures. Here, at least, they had safety if only for a moment.

"Ambush," he whispered into the comm. His words were soft, resolute.

"Confirmed," Nia replied, barely moving as she primed her shotgun.

They settled into the shallow foxholes carved from the bone-white sand beneath the overhang. Adam draped a patchwork netting over himself, its mottled pattern fracturing his outline against the dune. Nia mirrored his movements to the left, coils of spare cable wrapping her form. The low hum of the vault's core thrummed beneath them, a heartbeat of its own. Above, the desert wind sighed through cracks. Otherwise there was silence.

Adam buried himself deeper in the sand until only the glass sensor on his gauntlet was visible. Every grain sifted into his gear, crunching under the slightest movement. His heart hammered in his ears. Ahead, the engine roars grew louder — a great beast coming to feast. He could smell it even before he saw it: the tang of spent fuel, grit on metal air. The fine scent of ozone hung in his nose, residue of the kill-box charge pulsing beneath the ground. The trap lay set and awaiting a trigger.

Then the first bike burst over the dune. It ripped through stillness with its rasping roar, a predator unleashed. The rider hunched over the handlebars, dust smeared on leather and goggles. His machine was a skeleton of steel, adorned with crude red markings. The second bike followed in tight formation. Its rider, also clad in welded scrap and spikes, leaned forward, fierce eyes scanning the horizon for threats. A third bike lingered behind, its rider scanning nervously with a pistol in one hand. Together they formed a hunting party: three roaming carrion-hunters drawn to a scent.

They converged on the hatch. Gravel sprayed beneath their spinning wheels as they encircled the vault entrance. Engines barked. For a second the scene froze — engines idling, dust settling — the desert around them waiting.

Then Adam sprang into action. He pressed the trigger on his gauntlet.

A bluish corona of electricity leapt from the hidden coil trap beneath the sand. The second rider's bike arced with sparks and smoke. Its engine gave a wheezing cough and died with a pop. The man flung himself forward, face-down in the sand. Blue-white lightning surged through his spine. For an instant he convulsed as if struck by hellfire. Then he lay completely still.

The remaining two men roared in fury. The lead rider spun his bike upright and gunned it, carving into the dune toward Adam's position. The rear rider grabbed a shotgun from his back. In unison, they aimed at the vault's mouth, forming a firing triangle around the hatch.

Adam wasted no time. He leapt out of cover, netting flying. The lead raider barreled into him head-on. Adam managed to roll aside, but the momentum still slammed him sideways into the bike's fender. Metal screamed under impact. The lead raider screamed back. Sand exploded under foot.

Adam's elbow shattered the raider's mask. The facemask crumpled like tin, and dark blood gushed from the wound. The man screamed into the air, blind and dazed.

Adam seized his chance. With a savage kick upward, he drove his knee into the raider's abdomen. He felt and heard the ribs crack beneath his strike. The raider's howl became a strangled wheeze. He bent over the fender, clutching his midsection, eyes bugging from agony.

Now Nia struck. She rolled out of her foxhole to a crouching stance, shotgun level. Sand kicked up around her boots as she fired two short bursts into the third raider's chest. The pellets tore through leather and muscle. The man's eyes went wide; bone shards ricocheted in the kill-zone haze. He flung the shotgun aside, clutched at himself in spasms — and then his legs went out from under him. He collapsed back onto the hot sand in a wet, gurgling thud. One rattled breath, then he lay still.

Only Adam and the lead raider remained. The big Morifier crumpled to one knee, coughing up thick blood. His breath rattled in his chest like distant gunfire. Yet even half-dead, he stared daggers at Adam. Rage and defiance flared in those eyes. The man dug the tip of his curved blade into the dirt and pushed himself up. His lips peeled back in a feral grin.

Adam met him. The raider rushed, slashing the blade toward Adam's neck. Adam pivoted just in time; the metal whip of the sword bit into his reinforced gauntlet with a screech. Sparks flew as alloy ground on steel. The raider's cry of effort crackled and strained. Adam planted his foot and pivoted, wrenching the man's arm to the side.

The Morifier only snarled, pushing forward. Adam grabbed his leg and yanked. The man's axe-kick lost balance, foot grazing sand. In a flash, Adam clamped the crude metal pipe in his other hand. He drove it upward into the raider's forearm. With a miserable crack of snapping bone, the raider screamed a wordless shriek. He flung the broken arm away, useless.

Adam lunged. He wrapped fingers around the raider's helmet strap and yanked the man's head downward. With his other hand, he locked onto the back of the raider's neck. The man's scream was pitiful as Adam applied force. A sickening snap echoed. It was the last cry of the Morifier — then silence.

Four bodies lay scattered around the hatch now. Sand stained black and red where they died, bubbling in the heat. The desert reclaimed its stillness. Only the hum of the vault's generator remained.

Adam's chest heaved, lungs burning. He spat a glob of blood-tinged saliva into the sand. He wiped sweat from his eyes, peering around to double-check the perimeter. Nothing stirred. The Morifiers were all down.

Nia approached, lowering her shotgun. She patted dust from her knees. She looked at Adam — tired, dirty, but alive — and gave him a grim half-smile.

"We were ready," Adam said softly, echoing the thought in his mind.

Nia exhaled. "Yeah, we were."

They took a moment. The kill box had done its work; no raiders remained. Adam retrieved the sensor node and slid it into his pack. "Loot," he said quietly. "Then lockdown." Nia nodded, relief in her eyes, and stepped back.

Together, they moved among the wreckage. They hauled each body back into the vault. Each corpse thudded on the grated floor. Adam knelt first. The lead raider's shattered mask lay nearby. He cut away the layers of scrap-armor. Under the torn leather he discovered five lengths of reinforced paracord and a half-full canteen of clean water. He bagged every wire and strap he could carry.

Nia stripped the second body with equal care. Dark tattoos now marred skin once human; none of their meaning mattered. In the man's belt she found a curved kukri and a small flint tool set. She also recovered two more homemade grenades strapped across his chest — unstable, but lethal. She tucked them away in a safe corner.

Now to the bikes. Adam and Nia lifted each wrecked motorcycle apart with brute strength. The first bike's fuel tank was only dented; a drip of diesel still pooled inside. Adam poured it into a can. The copper coils inside the engine block were intact. Adam pried them out one by one, stowing them carefully. Those coils could revitalize a generator for days.

The second bike yielded more: a handful of gears and a twisted chain. Adam smiled grimly. The irony of using their ride as a spare-parts treasure trove wasn't lost on him. "Looks like we'll stay powered for a while," he told Nia. She gave a single laugh, dragging a brake rotor into their haul.

When they finished, the table before them was a jumble of scavenged treasure: stacks of copper wire, two dented fuel barrels, five jagged knives, a dozen coils of cable, three makeshift grenades, and two sealed packets of nutrient paste. It wasn't firearms and ammunition — but in this world, it was enough. Everything had a use.

Nia hefted a wheel with a twisted rim. "They never expected resistance," she said softly, wiping sweat from her temple. "Thought we were sitting ducks." She met Adam's eyes. "We proved them wrong."

Adam nodded and loaded the last coil of wire into his satchel. He stood and hit the command on the console. The vault's inner hatch shuddered as it slid into place. The hydraulics groaned; three bolts rammed into metal. Sparks flickered along the seams.

The final bolt clanged shut. Adam released his breath in a sharp hiss. "Vault is sealed," he announced, voice echoing slightly. "No one's getting through that."

Nia allowed herself a tired grin. "Unless someone has a nuke," she quipped, tapping the door with a gloved fist.

Adam rolled his eyes. "Let's not invite that scenario," he replied, fishing a clean rag from his pack and wiping the console.

They leaned back against the wall, letting the adrenaline drain from their veins. The vault's lights switched to a steady amber. The air cooled slightly. Adam could feel his pounding heart settle to a normal rhythm.

A moment later, he and Nia swapped looks — equal parts disbelief and grim pride in each other. "We did it," Nia finally said quietly. It was a statement and a question at once.

Adam turned his head to look at her. The sunrise filtered in orange through vents, painting her face gold and pink. She was alive. He was alive. He managed a weak smile. "Yeah," he replied softly. "We did."

Outside, the morning wind blew gently across the dunes. But inside Vault 9X, the world was finally at peace.

Morning returned in earnest. Pale light filtered through the dusty viewports, bathing the workshop bay in a soft yellow glow. Adam stood amidst the aftermath of battle: benches piled with scrap, grease stains on the floor, the fresh odor of heated metal in the air. The diesel fuel they recovered in a jug exhaled its pungent smell. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling grit between his fingers.

Nia was already at the workbench in the corner. The sawed-off shotgun they had retrieved leaned against the wall, empty shells and pieces of bloodied gear scattered beneath it. She was methodically sorting knives, wires, and gears into metal bins. The rumble of the distant generator was the only sound beyond their labored breathing.

Adam pulled a spare shirt over his battle-sweat-soaked one and sat at the bench. He cracked open a ration pack. The gelatinous paste inside was bland and slightly sweet — better than nothing. He ate slowly, eyes on his friend. "You gonna be okay?" he asked quietly.

Nia looked up and gave a small smile, despite her fatigue. Her hand had just finished coiling paracord. "Yeah," she said between bites, which were mostly just to give herself something to do. "Honestly, first time all day I feel… normal." She wiped her hands and waited for him to respond.

Adam closed his ration in its foil and leaned back. "We made it," he said. It felt surreal to say out loud.

Nia set the bar wrapper aside. "We did. Unbelievably, we did." She shrugged out of her helmet and brushed dust off her short black hair. "Should we — I don't know — see if anyone's been calling us? My gear says there's no signal, but…"

Adam shook his head. He stood and pressed the helmet back on Nia's head. "The comms are dead. All we got is each other." He went to the viewport and peeked out. The dunes were empty. "Besides," he added, "who'd be dumb enough to come back after that massacre?"

Nia chuckled softly and joined him, standing just behind his shoulder. They gazed out together at the shifting sands.

Adam broke the silence, head still turned away. "We should rebuild the door. Reinforce it. Just in case."

"Already done," Nia answered. "I welded a second hatch behind this one last night after we settled. There's no way through now."

Adam allowed himself a genuine grin. Nia had thought of everything too. "Good," he said, clapping her shoulder.

She returned the grin. They stood side by side in the quiet workshop bay, both looking forward and back at the same time: forward to the day's tasks, back on what had just occurred. For the first time in a while, Vault 9X truly felt like home.

Adam took a deep breath. "Alright," he said, breaking the moment. "We build."

Over the next hours, they transformed the day's spoils into new tools of survival. Adam worked methodically, repurposing bike parts into weapons and gear. A broken throttle cable became sturdy tension wire. Bent springs were resurrected as part of a trap mechanism. By mid-morning, he had assembled a crude but functional crossbow. Its stock was made of welded bike frame and wood scraps; its limbs came from coiled steel springs; the string was a braided copper wire.

He loaded a sharpened metal arrow and handed it to Nia. "Your turn," he said with a half-smile.

Nia took it warily. She shouldered the crossbow, closed one eye, and aimed at an empty tin drum across the bay. With a sharp twang, the arrow flew true, punching cleanly into the drum's center. It rung hollowly.

Impressed, Adam gave a slow clap. "Not bad," he said. "You're getting the hang of it."

She smirked, blood still on her cheekbones. "Just don't get cocky," she replied as she handed it back, already looking for another target to line up.

Adam set that aside and moved to his next project. He laid out bits of scrap on the worktable. A medium-sized coil spring, some steel spikes from the crashed bikes, and several nuts and bolts sat before him. "Spike trap," he muttered to himself. He attached the spikes to a thick plate of scrap and rigged it with the spring so it could flip upright if something tripped a tripwire.

Beside that, he stripped the metal casing off an empty flare canister and attached a nozzle and hose. He soldered fuel lines to a small valve he found — an emergency wrist torch was taking shape. This torch would spew a blue jet of flame to light dark corners or repel a foe. Next to it he hammered out nails on the end of a long rod and tethered it to a spool of cable: a crude grappling dart designed to punch through wood or thin walls and then reel whoever or whatever it impaled toward him.

Each creation was rough-hewn, functional, and he tested each carefully. The trap snapped as intended, the torch flared as it should, and the dart whistled into the wall. They were good enough.

Nia watched all this from nearby, arms folded. When Adam finally straightened, wiping his hands on a rag, she shook her head with amazement. "You really think we'll need all that?" she asked, flicking her pistol between her fingers.

Adam didn't look up right away. He nodded slowly as if agreeing with her unspoken skepticism. "I do," he said after a moment, voice matter-of-fact. He slid off a final component and secured it. "Not paranoid," he added. "Prepared. If the day comes that we think we don't need every one of these, we'll be in trouble. The worst isn't over."

Nia folded her arms, a faint smile on her lips. "Then we keep building," she said firmly.

He gave a satisfied smile. They understood each other — no more words were needed.

By late afternoon they were both wearied but content. Adam tested one last trap on the dirt floor; it snapped shut like a bear trap. Nia disassembled the second shotgun barrel into parts. The vault was now bristling with hidden weapons and defenses. Outside, afternoon sunlight glowed golden through the vents. Vault 9X — now silent, sealed, and still largely unknown — waited on the horizon, as untouched as the world beyond was dangerous.

Adam slung the pack heavy with copper wire and coil onto his shoulder. He and Nia stepped outside the hatch into the cooling breeze. The day's work behind them, they looked back at the vault with a new kind of pride.

Nia let out a slow breath. "We earned that," she said softly, gazing at the miles of sand around them. "We get to stay now."

Adam looked at her, eyes warm. "Yeah," he said. "We do."

For now, at least, it was true. Vault 9X was home again.

They moved to stand by the doorway and watched the dunes shift in the calm afternoon wind. The world was large and still wild out there, but for one more night, they had won their battle. Inside, their fortress stood at peace, ready for whatever would come next.

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