Life wasn't easy out in the wasteland. No one would ever argue that. But things made it bearable. Made it worth struggling for. But that's what it would always be. A struggle. A fight. The battle of willpower and hardwork against the wicked minds and monstrous creatures of the wasteland. To attempt to ignore it was to invite it to your doorstep. Fred Armistead knew this. In the wasteland, ignorance isn't bliss. It's death. But he didn't need to dwell on that. He knew how to shoot, and he had taught his wife to. They had land, and more importantly, solace.

No one bothered them, because no one finds them. They had eventually had two beautiful children, Lyle and Carol, who were almost old enough to help him with farming and his wife, Diane, with chores. A father's worst fear, however. Soon, they'd be old enough to need to be taught how to shoot. Firearms and children. No matter how dire or demanding the situation, a father can never truly be satisfied with the combination. If he could, he'd never teach them how to shoot, and he'd guard them forever. His little joys. But he had to face reality. People die, and he was no exception. These kids needed to know how to defend themselves if, God forbid, the need arises. It was settled, in two weeks time, he'd open up the safe he kept beside his bed, take out his pistols, and teach his children how to operate tools made for killing.

This wasteland was a place created by the machinations of old men, but it is the children who now must suffer it.

A week later, Lyle had finally started working with him in the fields, and their work was going along fairly easily.

Sweat poured from their bodies in rivulets. The flora of the wasteland may have reached a state of nonexistence, but the sun was just as active now as it was two hundred years ago. They paused for a moment, walked over to their rest spot; two lawn chairs squeezed into the small spot of shade created by a fair-sized withered, old tree. Both collapsed into their chairs with a collective sigh of relief.

Not far in the distance, Diane and Carol were walking towards them with glasses of water. It wasn't great, but at least they had a small purifier that could produce a half-gallon of water at a time without radiation. The purity mixed with the hours of manual labor continued to make it taste like the freshest elixir man had ever known. They gulped at the water thirstily, each practically gasping a 'thank you' for the water. Carol soon proposed her latest curiosity.

"Papa?"
"Yes, honey?"
"How come I don't work out here with you and Lyle?"
"Well, you're a bit young for it, dear. At least till your next birthday."
"How come I can help Mama, though?"
"Well, housework doesn't take as much strain, sweetheart. Just more effort."
"You can bank on that, by God." said Diane, with a knowing smile directed at her husband.

"But, Mama is way older than Jason, and she works in the house.
"Honey, Mama chose to."
"Why'd she choose to?"
"Because your Papa happens to be about as good at housework as radroaches are at dancing."

Both of the children giggled at the mental image, while Fred chuckled heartily. He loved his wife. She was the only woman for him. Some say that two spouses are eachother's better halves. Fred could never agree with that. She was his better half, but he could never see himself as the better half of his beloved Diane. She was intelligent, wise and beautiful, and not even the wasteland could rob him of her. Lyle piped up, obviously waiting for the right moment to ask.

"Dad?"
"What is it, son?"
"Could you tell the story of Great, Great Grandpa Arkansas Armistead?"
"Could you, Dad? Pleeeeease?"
"Pleeeasee?"

They looked at him with those full, watery, puppy-dog eyes. Those kids were as cunning as their mother. Though still not devoid of their youthful naivete. Had he needed persuasion to tell them their favorite story, however, he would have been awarded it in spades.

"Well, a long, long time ago. Before the wasteland even existed, your great, great grandpa, Arkansas Armistead, lived in this region, as a true American patriot. He loved his country almost as much as he loved his family. But America had come under attack by the Chinese Communists. So, ol' Arkansas joined the US Army. He had a sharp eye, and steady aim. They say he could take out a Red from miles away. Well, when the Chinese invaded Anchorage, Alaska, he was part of the battalion that was sent to repel them. For God knows how long, he crawled through the harsh Alaskan snow, to get a vantage point over the Chinese base. As commandos disabled the defenses for the base, the shock troopers in their power armor charged the fields of Anchorage for the base. But the Chinese were ready for them, posting troops all over the walls, with big rocket launchers and laser weapons."

The children's eyes grew wide as they were gripped with anticipation and fear for the American troops. They still got excited when they heard this story? Children; what miracles they were so ignorantly performing by simply being themselves. Fred exitted the recesses of his mind and continued with the story.

"Well, Arkansas wasn't about to let Red Charlie shoot American troops down, so he took out his rifle, and he lined up his shots. Ktchak! Ktchak! His sniper rifle cracked off shots, and Chinese soldiers fell from the walls, and the American troops broke down the army walls and defeated the chinese army and saved Anchorage Alaska from the communist threat."
"All because of our Great, Great Grandpa!"

The children cheered. Diane and Fred smiled gentle, knowing smiles to eachother as their children were basking in the joy of a happy ending.

"Alright Carol, time for you to help me back at the house. Papa needs Lyle out in the fields."
"C'mon son, few more hours and we'll call it a day.'

So the family returned to their respective duties. Carol and Diane worked diligently back at the home, while Lyle and Fred worked to produce food for the family. Suddenly, however, Lyle dropped to his knees and cried out.

"Auugh! Ow, Dad! Ouch!"

Fred's eyes grew wide with the primal, instinctive fear that is burned into a parent's mind as a natural reaction to their offspring in trouble. He ran to his son to help him, drawing the 10mm pistol he kept with him out of instinct. It turned out he had merely overexerted himself and hurt his arm. As the adrenaline drained from Fred's body, that mixture of relief and tiredness filled him.

"Go on back to the house, son. I'll finish up here, Mama'll patch you up. You just get some rest."

His son nodded and began walking to the house. His father returned to his work in the field, patting the pistol once again re-holstered at his hip, as if to make sure it hadn't somehow escaped during the excitement. It was lucky, then, that he still had a few more hours hardwork left to focus his mind on, rather than dwell on all the possibilities of how it could have been something much, much worse.

The sun was nearing the horizon, and he still had to put away the tools. Now, Fred had decided, was a good time to pack it in. He'd probably make it home just as night was beginning to take hold. He'd need to check on Lyle, and then enjoy well-earned warm meal. Delicately and with great caution did he set every tool in it's place. It would be possible to replace them if they got damaged, but not without making a trip to one of the closer settlements. And making trips always ran the risk of running into the dangers of the waste. A risk that, if lost, could cost one his life. Losing your life is one concern, but far worse to Fred Armistead was the thought of leaving his family without him to protect them. No, he treated his tools with respect, and they in turn continued to do their job.

Finally, he closed the shed door and began walking home. About halfway, he could finally see the house. And... something. A sound. Some kind of... clicking? Cracking?

No.

No. No. No.

Gunfire. Fred realized what he was hearing, and began sprinting towards his house, pistol now in hand. Closer and closer, now he heard screams. That was Diane. They could be killing his wife, his best friend, his light in the dark. The screaming stopped. The silence was deafening in it's mind-shattering implications. As he approached the house, three raiders were walking out of the home, one with a .32 pistol, one with an assault rifle, and one with a nailboard. Something clouded his vision. Rage, vengeance, despair, Fred didn't know. Fred wasn't even capable of thinking right now. He just heard gunfire and screams coming from where his family was. He was running on full instinct right now.

And right now, that instinct fired six shots at the man with the assault rifle. The man took two bullets. One in the right upper shoulder, one in the lower right torso. He screamed out in surprise and pain, wheeled around to spray the direction in which the bullets came, but found he was unable to, as two more bullets caught him directly in the chest.

The other two were just now realizing what was going on, as the guy with the .32 was drawing a bead with his .32, even fired a premature shot. It didn't even register to Fred Armistead as it whizzed past his head. He fired a shot, it went wide. Instinct forced him to drop to cover as two shots rang out overhead. He rose, fired two more shots. The first connected with the raider's stomach, the second square between the eyes. It was practically out of a movie, his eyes rolled upward, as if he were trying to see it himself, and he collapsed in a heap.

Eleven shots. 10 millimeter N99. One shot left. Better make it count. He wheeled to fire on the third. Too close. He was practically face to face with the Nailboard-wielding raider. A cruel, snarling smirk was painted across the raider's face as he raised his weapon high. Amateur move. Left him open. No time to shoot. With lightning speed and military efficiency, Fred, face as impassionate as stone, used his open hand to grip the barrel of his pistol, and pistolwhipped the raider, the hilt connecting with the raider's forehead. Maybe a concussion. The man fell to the ground, temporarily stunned. Returning the pistol to it's intended grip, he then fired the final shot point blank into the man's skull.

He dropped the weapon and ran into the house. Things were tossed aside, glasses, plates and silverware littered the ground. Upstairs a faint, wisp of a moan might be heard. He ran upstairs. Carol and Diane were dead, Diane with her arms covering both her children, a bullet through her heart. Lyle, however, was shaking intensely. Blood was pooling around the three of them, and Lyle turned to see his father.

Fred's life, his world, was now staring at him as it bled over the floor. Dying. He cradled his son in his arms, whispering to him, telling him he loved him, telling him it would all be OK. His papa was here now. It'd be OK.

As Lyle passed on, Fred Armistead now felt numb. Not physically. Not emotionally. Not mentally. He was simply not feeling anything. It was gone. He had been systematically shut down by the cruel, unmeditated actions of some gang of druggies who managed to pick up a few guns.

Two days later, the bodies of his family had been buried, and with them, the man known as Fred Armistead. Taking out his supply crates from the army depot he'd found before he'd made a family, he began taking out mines. Lots of them. Along with a Sniper Rifle and .308s. He used the blood still slick on the floor of his house and used it to stamp the door of where Fred Armistead had once lived. He dragged the boxes of ammunition towards the highest point in the ruined town. He dragged a mattress and threw it haphazardly on the floor. Finally, he mined the town. Every other step was a step into the threshold of the after life. No raider would ever again enter these houses. But, if Fred Armistead was dead, who now planted mines and manned this guntower? He thought. Fred Armistead would stay with his family, but the guardian of this...graveyard? This mortuary? This... minefield. Who could watch over the resting place of the Armistead line? Who would be the Grim Reaper in a land too grim? This man would, through the scope of his rifle, decide the fate of any who trespassed here. Fred Armistead was dead. He was Arkansas.

FIN.

Thats the story. SHORT, but good.

Really, really cool way to give Arkansas a background story. Some grammatical things, like switching from past to present tense, were a little annoying, but the content of the story was awesome.

I actually felt the same dread that Fred felt as he ran up to the house. You built up the story very well.

Thanks. I do try to empathize with the characters rather than sympathize. And thank you for the criticism as well, I'll try to work on catching myself when I start slipping between tenses.

And, yes, the story is rather short, isn't it? I tried to extend it a fair bit, but I wasn't quite sure how. I thought about it, I had introduced Fred, introduced the family, introduced the legend of Arkansas, now what else was there to do but let loose the raiders? Something else I'll have to try to work on.