Hello,

You may remember me. Last week I posted a story for Fallout, but I've since revised it and made some drastic changes. I decided to scratch some parts and change some things around, for the purpose of making this a better story, one that's easier to read, and most important of all, hopefully easier to appreciate.

I'll just post the first chapter here, and wait for your comments. Last time, I rushed things and before I knew it, there were two mediocre chapters before you guys had even commented.

Anyway, without further ado, "A Country for Wanderers"...

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Chapter I

Capital Wasteland, 2261

In an old shack out in the Wasteland, a couple of miles removed from Canterbury Commons, Wastelander http://www.nma-fallout.com/forum/album_page.php?pic_id=1679 woke up from a long slumber. He reached for his backpack and grabbed a pack of Sugar Bombs. He could hardly remember crashing down here the night before. It was all a bit foggy.

He got out of bed and it was only then that he noticed the dead body on the floorboards next to the bed. That's what that smell was, he thought. It was the body of a young man - late twenties, caucasian, dead as a doornail. It didn't take a genius to figure out what killed him, though. The entire back of his head was gone, as if it had been chewed away or blown off by a double barrel shotgun. There was blood, but not nearly as much as you'd expect to spill from a wound like that. This man had been killed elsewhere.

Elliott Dodds started searching the man's pockets for clues. And caps. He didn't find any bottle caps but there was a note:

Notice to all Good Men and Women seeking Lawful Bounties in the Capital Wastes:

Let it be known that the murderous person known as Elliot Dodds of fair complexion and average height is offered for bounty, either dead or alive, in the sum of 1,000 caps or similar compensation of expended equipment and/or medical expense.

Elliot Dodds is considered armed and extremely dangerous. The apprehending person should exercise special caution, as the bountied personage is noted for an uncommon aptitude with short range firearms.

Offered for bounty. Extremely dangerous.

"What the Hell?!" he exclaimed. "Thought you could make a quick buck, eh? Thought you were smart?" he went kicking the body. Whoever this man was and whoever had killed him, it was good that he was dead.

He put the note in his pocket, and went to the refrigerator to get some milk. He took the bottle cap.

"Bounty hunters..." he mumbled after taking a few gulps.

Elliott Dodds was in his late thirties. He'd been a Wastelander for years, and he did everything alone. The only company he kept these days was a German Shepherd called Rico.

Arf! Arf!

"Easy buddy!" Elliott said. "Easy, now, you four-legged bastard!"

Arf! Arf!

He opened the door and went out to untie Rico, who was jumping around joyfully on the porch. He didn't particularly like the animal - he was more of a cat person, anyway - but it was common knowledge that dogs provide some protection in the Wasteland. For some reason, Super Mutants and wild animals were always a tad more reluctant to attack if their opponents were in the company of beasts. And in any case, they'd always try to kill the dog first.

"We gotta hurry up now," Elliott said to the dog. "Hope you like milk, 'cause there's nothing else, I'm afraid."

He poured Rico a bowl of milk and waited for the dog to finish it. He looked at the dead body on the floor, and tried to make sense of it. Elliott didn't remember killing him at all. He remembered killing a bunch of Raiders and some of those mole rats on the way to this deserted hut, but not this man. This wasn't a Raider or a Wastelander. This man looked more sophisticated, somehow. Aside from having no brain, of course. The poor jerk was either Enclave or a Slaver.

He checked the man's pockets again to be sure. No identification anywhere. No wallet, no license. Nothing. The man's jacket was ripped and torn, but it was clearly one of those expensive bullet proof vests that they only sell in the bigger towns. It had served its purpose, though, and it was of no use anymore. Besides, taking a dead man's clothes was not Elliott's thing.

"Should've worn a helmet, too, you freak," Elliott mumbled before covering the body with sheets from the bed. "Now go back to sleep."

Arf! Arf!

"Let's go, Rico," he said, turning to the dog. "Only a couple of more hours."

Wandering through the Wasteland was almost like an adventure. Almost, because the chances of dying in the field were infinitely greater than making it to the next safe haven. No matter if you came prepared, sometimes you just didn't stand a chance.

Elliott realized that his chances were even worse this time around. The dead guy in the hut was one of many bounty hunters scavenging the Wasteland, and looking exactly like the next putrid excuse for a human, these bounty hunters could not be told from those filthy Raiders who just wanted to kill you for the heck of it. He couldn't figure out what's worse: dying because some poor sap gets 1,000 caps for your head, or dying because the sh*thead wants to eat you.

"They ain't gonna get me," Elliott mumbled, trudging through a patch of dead grass. "They ain't gonna get me."