The branches of an overhanging tree right next to Charles' head, exploded in a burst of fire and wood as an overeager swampfolk took a potshot with a crude homemade grenade launcher. The firebomb launched outward by the handcrafted device thankfully lacked the destructive power of an actual grenade; otherwise the Lone Wanderer wouldn't have survived the near miss. Still, the splinters across his face stung like hell.

To his front, Jericho halted his rush to turn, prepped a fragmentation grenade of his own and threw it towards the mob making its way steadily towards them. The flying shrapnel killed or incapacitated several of the locals leading the charge, but still more thundered onward grinding their fallen cousins underfoot without hesitation or pity.

Charles brought the butt of his rifle to his shoulder, firing the weapon as fast as the lever would drop until the gun was empty. At least two swampfolk fell dead from the attack, but it was like trying to scoop up the ocean with a drinking glass. Reloading the weapon as he moved, Charles passed Jericho, who took up the rear of the retreating party emptying his Chinese assault rifle into the steadily advancing hoard. When his clip ran dry Daring Dashwood was there with his Bushmaster, the weapon firing in semi-automatic mode, each shot seeming to drop one of the attacking swampfolk.

Despite Dashwood's advanced age he seemed to be the best suited for the situation, hands steady, aim accurate, a slight smile on his face. "It's damn good to be alive!" He shouted jubilantly, firing the weapon and slaying another one of the attacking inbreds.

As the local collapsed in a heap, a solitary bullet in his forehead leaking blood and fluid thanks to the well placed shot, Charles saw Jericho shake his head and growl something under his breath about, "Hopped up old farts who are just showing off at this point so just shoot me now."

They'd been running for time uncounting, hoping and praying that Dogmeat was leading the band down the correct path as the swampfolk chased them, drums continuing to pound away and shake the ground. Their little band of island invaders had so far managed to keep ahead of the swampfolk thanks to their superior combat techniques and equipment but it was a losing battle. Every moment the lead swampfolk grew closer, their shots more accurate. All the while Big Clyde, his leering, twisted face remained close to the front, though smart enough to keep a few boys before him at all times.

One particularly exuberant swampfolk broke into a full on dash, likely inspired by some chem or another, sprinting towards the band with an axe waving madly above his head. He was mere steps away from Jericho when a well placed burst from Riley's Infiltrator put him down. It was close, too close, a dire warning that if things didn't change they'd not survive long enough to reach Pilgrim's Landing. Simply running wasn't enough.

Fortunately, the desperate mind can concoct plenty of ideas when life is on the line.

"Sarge!" The Vault Dweller howled to the Mr. Gutsy, waving him towards the back as Jericho threw a second grenade more out of fear than tactical advantage. "Sarge get back here I need you!" The Mr. Gutsy didn't hesitate, floating towards Charles' position as fast as his thruster could take him, firing the plasma attachment as he did. Shoving Jericho forward, Charles screamed at the bandit, "Just go! Trust me!" The ex-raider didn't hesitate, putting as much extra speed as he could into his flight, huffing and puffing as the extra breath left his frame. The swampfolk didn't slow, the swampfolk didn't hesitate, they were a force of nature, one onrushing wave, a storm.

"How much fuel is left in you flamethrower?" Charles ask RL-3, firing his rifle at the nearest inbred local as he did. The bullet struck the shirtless swampfolk in the leg, shattering the bone and dropping him to the ground.

"Plenty!" The robot soldier roared with glee, waving the mentioned attachment about, "But my scanners indicate the surrounding area is dry, and full of sulfuric gasses. Bad idea to use this kind of weapon here, I'm telling you."

"Doesn't matter," Charles pressed on, continuing to fire his lever-action rifle as quickly as he could, "I need a wall of fire between us and them to buy time, can you do that? And now?"

"Aye sir!" Sarge floated forward the equivalent of a few steps and aimed the weapon to the ground, "Emptying the tank now sir!" The gout of flame that exploded outward was, in its own way, magnificent in its destruction. The heat was immense, the rotting foliage on the ground catching fire, vines along the trees working upward like webs of flame.

The first few swampfolk couldn't slow down and barreled into the newly created wall of fire, bodies burning and blackened, clothes incinerating, screaming as their flesh melted away to nothing. "That won't buy us much time, let's go!" Charles yelled, rushing towards the rest of the band who'd already made some serious progress away from them.

For one brief moment, Charles glanced through the fire and saw Clyde, standing furious on the other side of his makeshift barrier, waiting for it to fall, waiting for the opportunity to come through and rip the interloper to shreds.

Charles fled the scene.

"Chief! They're getting away!" Ol' Joe howled, firing his hunting rifle at the newly created flame barrier as if that would somehow halt its growth across the swamp. The foolish invaders must be truly desperate if they'd go to such risky lengths as setting an uncontrolled blaze.

"We've got to catch them!" Another one of his warriors cried out in panic, fidgeting with the bolt attached to his crossbow, "If we lose them they'll get away with the book!"

"Everyone shut up!" Clyde roared, cutting off the panicking murmurings before they could spread further and infest the morale of his boys. "It doesn't matter! We know where they're going! We saw the flying machine! We saw the boat!" He turned to his second, hand still firmly gripping the handle of his chainsaw, "Joe! Taking a bunch of our strongest boys and get to the flying machine, stop the Blue One and his friends from getting there! Willie get to the boat, stop them no matter which way they go!" He glared towards the flames, as if the sheer force of his will would be enough to reduce it. "I'll wait here with the bulk of the band until the fire dies down. You slow 'em down, we'll kill 'em." He raised the chainsaw above his head, powering up the weapon and letting the teeth wail out their deadly song, "Let's gut 'em all boys! Let's show 'em why they never should have come to Point Lookout!"

The other swampfolk screamed and wailed, echoing the battle cry for all to hear. Clyde smiled, fire or no fire, the Blue One wouldn't be leaving the island alive.

Tucker had drawn a fresh cigar out of the leather carrying case on his belt, preparing to ignite it with his lighter when he heard the shooting, when he heard the drums, when he heard the foliage around him beginning to rumble. Molly's head snapped around wildly, rapidly checking the razor-wire and sandbag fortifications she'd constructed, MP-40 drawn and ready. The steady almost gentle hum of the turrets increased dramatically in volume as their targeting systems came online.

Dropping the cigar to the ground below, the Gunner reached for the 10 Millimeter pistol on his waist double-checking that the clip was locked and loaded. A visual scanning of the tree line revealed nothing, but the rustling continued, growing louder and bolder.

"The hell is that?" Molly growled, visible eyes showing extreme nervousness, the barrel of her submachine gun shaking in the air as she looked about.

"I have no idea…" He was grinding his teeth, eyes squinting behind his sunglasses as he glanced through the surrounding area for the unknown assailant. The mercenary's trained ears heard it, even if he didn't see the object incoming, the telltale sizzle of a blasting cord burning down. "Dynamite! Get down!" He roared, throwing himself towards the comforting metal of Vera's outer haul.

However, he wasn't the target of the explosive attack, as the nearest turret burst like an overripe melon flinging metal and sparks in all directions. Immediately the other remaining turrets began firing into the woods, spitting out bullets as fast as their chambers would allow. Molly got to her feet, bandana and helmet eschew, firing her MP-40 towards the trees in unison.

"Who the hell's attacking us?" Tucker roared, stumbling to his feet and making his way over to his corporal, "Molly do you have a visual?" Bullets began whizzing past him or striking the nearby sandbags. As another turret exploded in a burst of smoke and flying circuitry the Gunner sent a few bullets towards the treeline trying desperately to hit something but unsure of his success. A few Molotov cocktails exploded around the parameter of their defenses thrown by whoever was attacking their position.

"I've got no idea!" Molly shouted back holding down the trigger on her MP-40 until the clip went dry, "Local hospitality sucks on this island!" She was in the process of reloading when a bullet took her right in the shoulder. With a squeal of pain the Gunner corporal fell, bandana eschew weapon falling from her hands, "Goddamnit! Those sons of bitches got me!"

Tucker hurled a plasma grenade towards the trees as yet another one of his defense turrets exploded. "Get on the 'Bird! Now!" Molly scrambled to her feet, dragging the submachine gun behind her, squeezing her shoulder while desperately attempting to halt the spurting flow of blood. As the woman scrambled onto the metal vehicle the Gunner sergeant saw the treeline burst aside and watched in abject horror as a swarm of misshapen men dressed in plaids and overalls came charging towards him firing and screaming.

The sole surviving turret opened fire, spitting bullets towards the mob as fast as it could. Yet even as a few of the swampfolk fell their brothers directed all their fire towards that last turret, shattering it and leaving Tucker alone. The Gunner fired his 10 millimeter towards the mob, actually dropping one of the attackers in a tangle of limbs and fallen weapons. However, the mob continued to rush onward as if the deaths of several friends were a moderate inconvenience. Rather than reload the pistol, Tucker drew the combat rifle from his back, set it to semi-automatic and began firing into the mob of swampfolk, backing slowly up towards Vera as he did.

Bullets whizzed past his head, one actually passing by his face close enough to draw blood. Leaping up onto the Vertibird clutching his combat rifle as he did so, Tucker made his way towards the pilot's seat, "Molly, get on the gun! You need to slow these buggers down while I get us in the air!"

I know what I promised, but I can't get Dashwood off this island if I'm goddamn dead now can I?

Even so, it felt in his gut like failure.

Somehow, one of the swampfolk managed to clamber around the blaze and find a good spot in a tree. The inbred hick was armed with an ancient flintlock musket, which proved fortunate for Donavan. The tree-based sniper fired the primitive weapon with pinpoint accuracy striking the tech dead center in the chest. Though the lead musket ball didn't manage to penetrate the combat armor he wore it still knocked the man to the ground, bruising his body and driving the wind from his lungs.

Charles responded to the attack by raising his double-barrel shotgun and pulling both triggers. The swampfolk squealed as it fell from its perch, chest exploded outward in a shower of gore.

Riley dashed over to her fallen XO. "Donavan? Are you alright?" She howled, falling to her knees beside her friend. Charles and Jericho took up the rear, scanning vigilantly for any swampfolk making their way up the path around the fire, which was still blazing away judging from the belching cloud of thick, black smoke making its way through the tangled jungle overgrowth. A few bullets rang out, fired wildly towards the fleeing party by the few swampfolk who'd managed to move around the wildfire.

Jericho returned fire with enthusiasm, though little effect. The dark smoke was billowing about and the tangle of trees made visual perception difficult. If any of the 5.56 rounds connected with the locals the ex-raider had no idea.

Charles, for his part, satisfied himself by firing a double barreled volley from Marguerite's shotgun into the darkness and hoping the echoing sound discouraged following them too closely. Almost in response, Charon's shotgun boomed from towards the front of the band, a retort to whatever swampfolk had managed his way that far up.

Donavan tapped the four-leaf clover painted on his helmet, gasping air into his battered lungs, "I'm okay!" He managed to pant out, scrambling to his feet without grace, "I'm okay! Just winded me!" He scrambled to his feet, desperately attempting to find some air while attempting to jimmy the lead ball buried in his chest plate out.

"Alright then!" Riley yelled, loudly enough to be heard over the bursting guns and the crackling flames of the rolling wildfire, "Let's get moving! We've got a long way to go yet!" The woman began shuffling upward through the swamps again, trying to catch Dashwood who'd made his way further ahead of the group, sweeping the path for any lingering swampfolk. The locals had proven incredibly adept at worming their way where they weren't wanted.

Charles and Jericho fell back, the bandit reloading his Chinese assault rifle as he went while the Lone Wanderer sent another burst of shotgun fire ineffectively down towards the strangling swampfolk who'd made their way through or around the flames, noting despondently that there appeared a few more than the last time he'd seen them.

He turned back up the path, moving as quickly as he dared towards Pilgrim's Landing while still keeping his gaze on the path to avoid tripping. A tree branch above his head exploded as a lucky bullet struck it, splitters raining down unpleasantly along the brim of his cap and down his neck.

That was close.

Thanking his lucky stars that his head was still attached to his shoulders and in one piece, Charles hustled on. A screaming, feral howling drew his attention towards the left of the path as a thin, pale swampfolk came stumbling out of the darkness, rusty cleaver in hand. As soon as the local's eyes fell upon the man he rushed towards him, murder obvious in his intent. Yet the swampfolk never had the chance at damage as a burst of plasma fire from Sarge, the Mr. Gutsy not even bothering to aim as he went by, burned through the local's chest and dropped him back into the bog.

For a moment, Charles was sure he was home free. They were nearing the edge of the boggy, forested region, close to the coastline. They'd reach Pilgrim's Landing without problem, and then they'd escape Point Lookout in the same way his friends had come.

But then he heard Dogmeat howling from the front of the group. The faithful mutt had been leading the little band, his nose more than capable of smelling out the way towards home. Yet that bloodcurdling howl terrified Charles, spurring the Lone Wanderer to rush to the front of the group, passing by Jericho, Charon and even Riley in his desperate attempt to find the dog.

Bursting through the tree line towards the open field that overlooked Pilgrim's Landing Charles saw a horrifying sight. The space that had normally been empty was a mess of smoldering tall grass, broken machine parts, overturned sandbags and mulling bands of armed, angry, swampfolk. Dogmeat was cowering in the grass by the tree line, hiding his muzzle beneath his paws while whimpering pathetically in fear.

Kneeling beside the dog, Bushman in hand, Dashwood was chewing his beard nervously, eyes darting from side to side. "Damn it!" He hissed underneath his breath, looking down the barrel of his assault rifle towards the field as if the mere act of willpower would bring back whatever he was missing. "That bastard!" He shook his head.

Thankfully, the decently sized mob in the field hadn't noticed the crouching duo near the trees, currently the only positive thing about the entire situation. More and more swampfolk would be working their way up the paths around the wildfire and soon Charles and company would be crushed between the two forces.

"There was supposed to be a vertibird here!" Dashing cursed, looking towards Charles in an attempt to explain his bout of frustration and fear. "That damn Gunner must have jumped ship!"

"Or judging from the size of that raiding party and all the mechanical damage," Charles gestured towards the smoldering remains of what had appeared to once have been turrets and the shattered razor wire line, "They could have been forced out. There doesn't seem to be any limit to these swampfolk."

"Our ride's gone?" Riley asked, her tone suggesting disbelief and horror while trying to bury that obvious fear from the others. "How the hell are we getting out of here?"

As the remainder of the party arrived, Charles took over, mind racing like a computer, "If we can make our way down to Pilgrim's Landing, we can take the boat." He patted the key resting against his chest, thankfully still in his possession, "But we need to get around this group, and fast, because that fire isn't going to hold them for long."

"It's not going to hold them at all," Jericho cut in, incredibly unhelpfully and unfortunately, "Before we ran up here I saw more and more of the buggers coming through. Either the fire died down on its own or it was beaten back by the locals because they're streaming up this way. I figure we've got a handful of minutes before they're on top of us." The ex-raider visibly shuddered, "It's this damn island! It's fighting us!"

The band was spooked, desperate, waiting between a rock and a hard place. Charles knelt in the grass, brain turning in an attempt to find the escape, find the few minutes of security it would take to make their way down to the shattered remains of their sanctuary town and the sweet escape of the Duchess Gambit, but for the life of him, Charles had no idea what he could do to make that time happen.

Fortunately for the Lone Wanderer it seemed someone else was willing to provide it for him.

Screaming into the air above the field was Vera, flopping haphazardly in the air as the pilot tried his best to keep the vertibird steady for the gunner, said gunner was leaning heavily against the side-mounted machine gun, spitting forth death and destruction as the gun thundered. The mob of swampfolk fell back, as several were cut to ribbons by the sheer volley of bullets from the flying machine. Even so, the leader, an ancient looking local in overalls, directed his boys to return fire, which they did with limited success, the varying small arms fire peppering along the vertibird with little effect.

"MOVE!" Charles roared, sensing this was the only chance they would get to reach the boat before the other swampfolk fell upon them. For their parts, everyone else seemed to agree.

He rose in one action, breaking into a mad dash for the standing buildings of Pilgrim's Landing. Taking aim with the double-barrel shotgun as he ran, Charles shot the nearest swampfolk in the back. The close range and wide volley easily mitigated the shaking of his weapon from the movement and the inbred fell forward, back blown open, dying as he hit the grass.

In the chaos of the moment the rest of the war party didn't seem to notice.

He was running now, full tilt, the others right behind him, Dogmeat to the front bounding on all fours, the world around him seeming to slow to a crawl. For one shining glorious moment he thought they might actually make it, they might actually escape.

Then the bullet struck Dashwood in the knee.

The old man screamed as he went down, tangled in his sweater and rifle, bleeding profusely from the wound. Jericho bent down to grab him and move forward, but his progress was painfully slowed. Even as Donavan took the elder adventurer by the other arm and the two men began walking him it was too slow. The shot had rung out from the treeline, the other band was here.

The vertibird continued to swerve as best it could, but the small arms was intensifying and the machine-gunner was loosing vigor, trying her hardest to maintain the same output of death but loosing to much blood to continue at that pace.

Charles never did learn where the leader of that particular party managed to get his hands on an actual grenade launcher but as the weapon was raised and fired, the grenade soaring towards the vertibird, he knew the situation was dire. Whoever had piloted the craft was exceptional because, despite the closeness of the shot and limited reaction time he managed to move the 'bird away from the worst of the blast. But the shrapnel still pattered against the fuselage and rotary blades, forcing the craft away from the warband. The gunner in the back tried her hardest to kill the swampfolk before another grenade but she was disoriented and thrown off her aim by the sudden movements the pilot had to make, both in response to the first grenade, and the inevitable follow up.

The 'bird dropped from the sky, falling back in an attempt to avoid the real risk of being shot down, leaving the badly battered, but still very threatening band of swampfolk who stood between the ragtag band, who now included wounded, and escape. Yet it was the threat from behind that would prove the ultimate danger.

Striding out of the forest, bold as brass, with the rest of the swampfolk behind him, was the warboss. His cape flapping in the breeze, the skin mask a horrifying mockery of life, the whirring of his chainsaw louder than the vertibird had been, and he was moving towards Dashwood and his helpers with menacing intent. The rest of the swampfolk seemed frozen as if cowed by the awesome presence of their leader. It seemed the glory of the first kill belonged to Big Clyde alone.

Charles didn't think, didn't hesitate. He saw the trio of men hobbling away from the chainsaw wielding swampfolk as fast as they could, even Jericho refusing to let Daring fall. The Vault Dweller dashed back towards Clyde, running past his injured friends, firing the shotgun as he did. Clyde raised one massive deformed arm as a shield, absorbing the impact from both 12 gauge shells like another would dust. The shells impacted against the arm, throwing aside some blood and popping a few boils but otherwise seeming ineffective. The double-barrel fell from Charles' hands, drawing the sawed-off while continuing his mad rush towards Clyde, screaming out a rebel yell empowered by the ghosts of the Confederacy whose symbol he wore on his brim he fired a burst from the sawed off with similar effect, the big swampfolk shrugging it off like rain, but it got his attention.

"Face me!" Charles howled, popping open the sawed-off to reload both chambers, "Face me alone! Unless the chosen of Ug-Qualtoth is unworthy of the title?" The Lone Wander had no idea what he was saying, no idea if this massive chief was that chosen or even if he was using Ug-Qualtoth's name properly, but this big fellow seemed like the kind for duels and if he could keep the other swampfolk at bay that would be a plus.

Whatever or whoever Ug-Qualtoth was, invoking his name seemed to get the desired reaction because Clyde turned to face his war party, "All of you boys stay outta this! The Blue One is mine to kill! For the glory of the ever-changing one!" Raising the chainsaw above his head and buzzing the weapon fearsomely the vaguely human shaped mountain moved towards him.

Without really expecting success, Charles fired the sawed-off. The shells grazed the massive shield arm, some shrapnel splattering against the underbelly in a way that caused visible pain to the beast, without slowing him however.

Clyde swung the weapon downward deceptively fast, the blades angled sharply diagonally so that Charles only just rolled out of the way, losing his sawed-off as he went. The teeth sheered through the wood and steel stock and barrel without slowing, breaking the weapon beyond repair. Still, better it than his head.

Drawing Wild Bill's sidearm as he rose, Charles tried to snap off a quick shot towards the lumped, misshapen head resting atop the mountain of torso but once again the creature proved deceptively fast, snapping out the empty hand with palm open. The impact against his own hand was almost equivalent of a power fist and it took every ounce of willpower to maintain his grip on the pistol as the chief struck him. The first shot from the revolver flew off into the crowd, striking one of the watching swampfolk, yet none of his brethren seemed to care.

Clyde stabbed outward with the chainsaw, trying to punch the whirring teeth clean through Charles' chest but the Lone Wanderer managed to wiggle to the side, hearing the teeth far too close for his comfort. Only instinct saved his nose, as he scuffled back further, just avoiding the savage upswing launched by the mutated beast.

Firing his pistol as he moved, Charles managed to score a hit with his second bullet, the .32 round sinking into the chief's sagging paunch. A burst of blood and a howl of pain was his meager reward as the bullet disappeared into the fat and Clyde came at him again, swinging the weapon in both hands from overhead. The chainsaw cut a deep gouge in the earth, once again narrowly missing the man who understood one misstep was the end of his mortal life. He'd not get another chance, if Clyde so much as clipped him it would do more than enough damage to end the fight.

Charles fired again, backpedaling and drawing his trench knife with the free hand. This bullet was launch with too much haste, missing the target despite its bulk. Clyde swung the chainsaw again, again Charles dodged but this time he jabbed out with his knife, sinking it deep into the exposed, and much smaller, arm. The carbon-steel blade sunk into Clyde's flesh, grating against bone. The chief hissed, instinctively pulling his arm back with a power and force Charles didn't expect.

He lost his grip on the knife, watching helplessly as it protruded from the swampfolk chieftain like a macabre trophy. Once again, the Vault Dweller nearly lost his head from a chainsaw blow as Clyde lashed out, yet the swing left him vulnerable, a vulnerability Charles was happy to exploit. He fired Wild Bill's sidearm twice, emptying the chamber, both bullets striking the big creature in his right knee. Clyde howled, clearly feeling the impact along the joint.

Charles tried reloading his pistol but even crippled the chief moved too quickly dashing forward and jabbing out with the chainsaw. In his panicked retreat Charles dropped the revolver, hands scrambling to find another weapon. What he drew forward wasn't, unfortunately, his lever-action rifle, but rather the simple bat he'd been given what felt like an eternity past from his father. The object was battered, stained, but just as deadly, yet the solid hunk of hickory was no match for the monstrous chainsaw the beast wielded one handed. If he paused in an attempt to switch weapons he'd never survive the next assault. There was one chance, one slim measly chance, but it was all he had.

The Lone Wanderer held the bat in both hands and waited. Clyde lunged forward, chainsaw held outward, adrenaline and bloodlust powering him through his injured limb. Charles took a deep breath and rolled to the side, letting the chief stumble past him like a stampeding Brahmin. With all his might the young man struck the back of Clyde's injured knee with the baseball bat.

Wood struck flesh with a resounding crack and Clyde's forward momentum, combined with the injury, proved too much for his balance. The chief stumbled forward, chainsaw still screaming out as his twisted fingers proved unable to easily disengage themselves from the handle.

Bloated body struck against the whirring steel, bursting beneath the impact of the assault. Clyde cried out weakly as his body was shredded by his own weapon. No matter what the beast was, Charles couldn't watch him suffer the excruciating agony of being ripped apart slowly.

Placing the simple bat on the ground with something resembling reverence Charles drew his lever-action rifle. Walking over to the dying chieftain Charles put a bullet into his opponent's skull ending the life, and legacy, of Big Clyde forever. Holding the rifle above his head, Charles looked about him at the mob and screamed at the top of his lungs, "I have bested the greatest among you! Who else would challenge me?"

No one, as it turned out.

"Holy shit!" Nadine exclaimed, wrapping the roll of gauze around Daring's injured limb with a wide-eyed expression, "I can't believe you're alive! You're really alive! And you killed that thing in single combat!"

"It sounds like no big deal when you say it like that," Charles stated with fake hurt, sitting on a wooden crate aboard the Duchess Gambit, "But yeah, I did."

"Goddamn show off," Jericho rumbled, taking a long drag on his cigarette. Despite his tone the ex-raider was clearly stunned and more than a little surprised at the turn of events, unlike Charon.

"I knew you had it in you boss," the ghoul rumbled, arms crossed, leaning against the side of the tug confidently, "Never doubted you for a second."

"And they just broke and ran?" The girl asked, struggling to believe it, despite having witnessed most of the battle from the relative security of the Duchess Gambit.

"They'd seen their warchief beaten, by this shrimp of a man," Riley joked, gently punching him on the shoulder, gazing adoringly into his bearded face, "That's going to rock your world." The captain of the Rangers gestured towards Tucker, "Plus, the vertibird with the big freaking gun helped, once that returned it was over."

"I guess so…"

"Listen," Daring commented, wincing as he said it from the continuing pain of his injury, "I know we're all excited in the wake of our victory, which we should be, but I don't want to tempt fate by staying on Point Lookout any longer than necessary." He glanced about wearily, the fear in his eyes overpowering the pain of his wound, "I'm starting to believe the stories that this island really is cursed after all."

"I won't miss it, that's for damn sure," Tucker, the Gunner sergeant, commented, taking a big puff on his cigar. The vertibird had landed outside the town, Molly in tow, though the corporal had lost more than enough blood to pass out. Donavan was doing his best to stabilize her, but some things weren't as easy as pulling the trigger. "But the old man's right." He jabbed the cigar towards Daring, "We need to get him and Molly back to DC ASAP. They aren't going to survive a month on this tub in their condition." The normally feisty Herbert Dashwood didn't dignify that comment with a response.

"Take Vera back to DC, with the wounded, Dogmeat, and Donavan," the Lone Wander ordered without hesitation, "We'll see you on the other side in about a month."

"You sure you want to spend a month cooped up with Riley and Charon?" Dashwood asked slyly, gazing towards the orange-haired mercenary with a grandfatherly grin.

"Honestly? I don't think there's anything I'd rather do." Charles took a huff on the adictol Donavan had set him up with, feeling the itching along his skin fade away slowly, the dark cravings he knew he wouldn't miss vanishing in time.

Jericho stamped out his cigarette, "I'm not sticking around for that," he made a face, "I think I'll keep the old man company on the trip back, besides, I've got a hell of a tale for Jenny. Don't worry, I'll be back at the dock to greet yah when you get back."
I doubt that this story will make much difference to Jenny.

"Charlie," the ex-raider said after a moment, clearly awaiting a response.

"Yeah?"

"Don't get lost now."

Charles just laughed.

Time passed, he was a different man now. His beard cleaned and trimmed, wounds scarred and faded, the twinkling returned to his eye. He was stronger for what the Lookout had taught him, despite all the suffering along the way. He was free of addictions, free of guilt, ready, once again, to be the man his father always knew he could be.

Even so, despite the newly rediscovered spark in his soul and the song on his lips he couldn't help but feel the heavy weight in his sack of the dark book, holding him down. Even as Theodore kept watch over the thing, Charles had made it his mission to tie up that loose end before anything else. He was overjoyed to be back in the Capital Wasteland, mutants, rubble and ruin notwithstanding, but once that last grasp of Point Lookout let go of his soul he'd walk forward a free man, unbroken, unbeaten.

Dunwich loomed in the distance, a dark shadow on the horizon, ominous, foreboding, somewhere within the depths of that hellish place he'd find the podium, he'd destroy the book and fulfill his promise to Marcella.

Thankfully he wouldn't have to do it alone.

Beside him, Riley squeezed his hand comfortingly, "What are we thinking, babe?" She asked cautiously, gazing at the blocky structure with an air of well deserved caution, even from this distance the aura of evil given off by the building was unmistakable.

"Hell," Jericho grumbled, "Let's not wait out here thinking all day," he spat out a cloud of smoke, looking grimly towards the old office building, "We'll we're young." He glanced over towards Dashwood, "Well, some of us anyway."

"Ass," was all the old man had by way of response.

"I'm not liking the vibes here," Charon rumbled, holding his fleshless hand above his eyes to reduce the glare of the sun, "But I'll follow until the end, boss."

"Let's get it over with then," Charles said, more confident than he'd felt in a long time. "I'm several months late to meet Owen Lyons about getting this project back on track."

As the rag-tag band of heroes walked slowly towards the shadow of Dunwich Charles felt a lightness in his heart, a spring in his step.

It's good to have friends.

Charles, son of James, the Lone Wanderer, was no longer alone, and he was no longer broken.

Time passed by on the island as well. Without Clyde's leadership the massive swampfolk army splintered into squabbling tribes, killing each other off in due time. Ol' Joe tried to hold them together, but he was no Big Clyde and a few bullets saw to his demise. With Willie accidendtly leading his band into a swamplurk lair the devastation to the island population was unrecoverable. The swampfolk faded away, as if they'd never been, never were, eaten alive by the swamps of Point Lookout, the island's hunger still unsatisfied.

With the tribals smashed and most smugglers swearing off the island after the last great battle Point Lookout grew deathly still, trees, roots and animals laying claim to its crooked buildings and buried secrets, secrets that would remain buried.

Yet none of this bothered the shaman, not the death of his minions, not the stealing of the book, not even the loss of the island to its savage nature. Ug-Qualtoth would not be denied, his will was working, moving, changing, and that change called the shaman elsewhere.

Pulling the hood away from his eyes and shaking his head to clear his thoughts Obadiah Blackhall sat down on a patio chair that had been discarded on the beach ages ago to wait.

He had powerful friends, friends that would come for him, take him away from the island of ghosts to whatever the many changing god held in store. Obadiah was a patient man, he could, and would, wait until the moment was right.

He'd waited this long after all, he could wait a little longer.

AN: And so this little tale comes, at long last, to an end. Thank you all so much for your support! Your reviews, your subscriptions, your favorites, each little bit kept me going forward inspired me, challenged me and awed me. This story grew, tangled and changed, like Point Lookout itself, but it remained supported by you, so you have my thanks.

A few dangling threads remain, namely on man named Blackhall, but don't worry, they won't stay buried forever, a few oneshots await before I begin work on the grand, sweeping, epic I have planned, a story I intend to call "Pickman's Muse." I'll see you all there I hope, and Ad Victorium to you all!