Howdy everyone, I’ve been meaning to writing some Dirty Bomb fanfiction for awhile now, and only recently was inspired to create something Halloween themed.
This story is currently a work in progress- I’ll be posting sections regularly through the course of the day and possibly tomorrow, depending on how long it ends up being. Let me know in the comments what you think of it, and have a Happy Halloween! 
-A Nightmare on London’s Streets- A Dirty Bomb fanfiction by Mischievous Mac.
It was a dark, stormy night outside of a certain, long closed railway station in abandoned, radioactive London.
The rain fell in torrents, splattering off of the decrepit buildings that remained, their shutters bent and broken, doorways torn off hinges from a combination of the dirty blasts and gunfire that had erupted barely a year ago city wide.
And in one of these buildings, a good twenty or so mercenaries…
… were celebrating Halloween.
“Oi, Sporks!” Nader said jokingly, cradling an enormous jug of whiskey in one arm while balancing two large mugs of frothy mead in the other. The tall German woman’s white hair, normally held back by a bandana, was streaked in a chaotic mess of red and black, matching her tank top. Her face had been amateurly painted into something resembling a skeleton, or perhaps Frankenstein’s monster. “Save the paper pushing for another day, frau Sparks, join us!”
Sparks scowled, quickly hiding away a number of illegitimate ID cards of a Californian highway patrol officer named Jeff, and carefully organizing a number of verbose looking medical transcriptions. “The weather is crap and I am doing important work, no time for drinking,” she replied in a slavic accent, “And what in Lenin’s beard is on your face?”
“Come on mate, don’t git yer panties in a twist,” piped Proxy, her small frame materializing from around a corner. To Sparks’ horror, she too had undergone a transformation, swapping her hat and welder’s mask for an enormous witch’s hat. “It’s Halloween innit? And a roight spooky night for costuming and Skyhammer’s chicken stew!”
“No,” Sparks said firmly, turning back to her work dismissively.
“We have kompot!” Proxy sang; she ducked Sparks’ glare as if it were a medpack, returning to the throng of mercs on the other side of the building.
Nader grinned, watching as Sparks put away her documents and, instead of getting up, snuggled into her sleeping bag. She took one of the mugs and downed its contents in a single gulp, and set down the other. “Ve vill be up all night if you change your mind, comrade. Lighten up a bit… it is a spooky night, no?”
As if on cue, a flash of lightning shone through the boarded up doors, followed by the rumble of thunder as something nearby was destroyed. Around the corner, in a terrible Russian accent, someone yelled “I BANG YOU ALL!” followed by a flurry of slurred, mispronounced Russian.
Sparks sighed, entombing herself within the sleeping bag in a vain attempt to drown out the noise of happily drunken mercenaries. After a few minutes of tossing and turning, she pulled the tall mug of mead toward her, sniffed it experimentally, and gulped it down. The affect was immediate, and without further ado, she finally dozed off.
–
The storm had slowed to an annoying mist, the skies over the Terminal still a terrible overcast as the mercenaries woke up for morning patrol and routine. Bellies grumbled- Skyhammer was, once again on breakfast duty and, once again, oversleeping in a drunken stupor.
Proxy yawned, rubbing her eyes and casually checking her nails, trying to ignore her hangover in lieu of coffee. She had awoken at around six that morning, and was looking forward to Aura relieving her so she could rustle up some grub. The medic was now an hour and a half overdue.
“Bloody yankees, not holding their liquor…” Proxy said to herself, frustratingly kicking a wall. “She better not be keeled over a toilet again…” She slung her shotgun over her shoulder and left her post, moving away from the boarded up office building that was their base toward the terminal courtyard. The ground was still slick from rain, some areas pooling water from blast craters and other rubbish. She went toward the Bromley Bells, an until recently boarded up tavern that Skyhammer and Fragger broke into yesterday in search of the good stuff, when she discovered a foul smell.
Just inside the doorway to the ransacked tavern was a pile of vomit. Proxy cringed and held her nose.
“Christ Aura, are you in here? Don’t you have vitamin tablets for this sort of thing? Or maybe a mop?” Proxy called out into the darkened tavern. No response. She moved further into the building, searching with her free hand for a light switch. Her foot caught on something round and heavy, sending her tumbling onto a wooden table that had not been destroyed, cursing as she did so. She felt around blindly for whatever the object was; picking it up and dropping it on the table, she recognized it: Aura’s healing station.
The medic was obsessively protective of the device, keeping it strapped to her belt at all times. Aura mentioned that someone stole her research at one point. Now, the young merc was nowhere to be seen.
A chill went down Proxy’s spine. She fumbled with the device, trying to find an on switch, and gave up after a few minutes. She brought her trusty shotgun to bear, cocking it.
“Aura?” she called out into the darkness. She really wish she had a torch. “If you were a real proxy-mate, you’d come out of hiding. Halloween was last night, love.”
No one answered Proxy’s hails in the darkness. She turned, the light from the overcast sky barely illuminating much of anything inside the boarded up tavern, considering leaving to find a torch or asking one of the other mercs where Aura had gone off to.
She heard a creak. It came from behind the bartable, somewhere in the kitchen.
Without hesitation, Proxy turned and moved toward the sound, slowly. The traditionally wooden flooring did little to mask her steps, despite her tiptoeing. The walls seemed to close around her, the darkness enveloping her small frame as she eased around the bar table. “God, of all the times to leave the cricket bat…” she said to herself, with a grin. She knocked on the door to the kitchen, easing it open with her shotgun, and went inside.
