» Fri May 27, 2011 12:13 pm 
Chapter Thingy 1:
Thomas Polk sat back in his makeshift chair wearily. It had been a rough day in the wasteland. He lit a homemade cigarette; just like a normal cigarette but without tobacco or any other plant inside. In truth, smoking paper was incredibly pointless, and he often ended up with burnt lips, but he thought it gave him an edge. Absentmindedly, he took a few potshots at some small critter outside the window, but his heart wasn't really in it. It did give him a certain pleasure, though, to see the creature devoured by a mole rat. Rather bloodily, too. He grinned. He was just about to lay down for the night when his radio crackled to life. Between the static, he could make out a voice, quite clearly a male and probably a wasteland survivor.
"Once again, to any survivors out in the wasteland in need of aid, there will be a caravan of brahmin heading North from 'Tope. The caravan will be containing water, stimpacks and Rad-X. Be warned; the caravan will be protected by several armed gunmen, and any act of hostility will not be tolerated. Survival through co-operation, brothers. Jefferson out."?
Thomas smiled again. He kept smiling even as he choked down some dead mole rat and washed it down with some toilet water from the derelict building's bathrooms. And, as he switched off his basic light, he kept smiling. Because now, after so much aimless wandering through the dead earth, so many nights filled with suicidal contemplations, he finally had a purpose to his life.
He was going to steal that caravan.
As Thomas woke up the next morning, inexplicably on the second floor as opposed to the one he fell asleep on, he quickly remembered his mission and was suddenly hit with a wave of regret. He cursed himself for having chosen such a foolhardy goal. The words still rung in his ears: "Any act of hostility will not be tolerated."? The meaning was pretty clear, so he could hardly talk his way out if things went belly-up. With this in mind, he decided he would have to fight fire with fire and seek out some stronger weaponry. He had a rifle; and although it had gotten him out of trouble before, its reliability ranged from ?€?"poor?€? to ?€?"non-existent?€?. Ideas ran through his mind at a faster pace than normal. After all, he only had a couple of days before the caravan showed up near his house, or rather ?€?"Jones' Accounting Firm?€?, as it had formally been known. Being an accounting firm, the building had very little in the way of weaponry, and the only tools that would be considered useful was the large computer system used as a calculator. Probably would have been more useful if he knew how to work the damn thing. Out of newfound curiosity, he attempted to access some of its information by using a password. He failed miserably, and the computer shut itself down temporarily. No help there, then. He decided not to bother with useless machines, and instead set out into the wasteland to scrounge up some weaponry.
Thomas couldn't believe his luck. Here he was, a part-time criminal who'd never had anything good in his pitiful life before. Now standing in front of what used to be a gun shop. His right eye twitched in anticipation, and he had to take a few deep breaths to stop himself simply dashing in. He tried to calm down. No doubt the place would be full of scum; either ghouls, mole rats, raiders or some bizarre combination of all three. Now that could be a problem. Rifle ready to fire, he slowly edged his way into the Get-A-Gun-Mart. Inside, it was a massive complex, and Thomas' instinct tingled as he thought of all the weapons he could scrounge up. Suddenly, his leg tingled for a noticeably different reason. Namely, a small (only 2 feet) fly was attempting to nibble on his leg. He kicked it, not willing to put up with some insect's crap. In a rare stroke of inspiration, he took the pleasure on stomping on it, too, and it went squelch underneath his boot with a wonderfully sickening sound. Riding on pride, he brazenly walked forward into the rest of the Mart, daring the forces of nature to stop him. A bullet whizzed past his ear. In retrospect, it had probably been a bad idea to brazenly walk forward. He took cover behind a shelf, and in between bursts of gunfire ducked his head out to see what he was up against. Just normal, run-of-the-mill raiders, as far as he could tell. That made things a lot easier, then. He stuck his rifle over the top of the shelf and blindly fired a few shots. Apparently, one of them hit, and a raider screamed his last agonizing. Another raider went down with a lucky-placed bullet. Now it seemed the fire was only coming from one gun, and a pistol at that. Thomas cautiously poked his head over the shelf, now riddled with bulletholes. Almost immediately, a bullet flew above his head, and Thomas could at last see the almost-master marksman. Well, markswoman.
"Calm down! I'm just here for some guns, that's all! Just let me take some and you can get back to your day!"? Thomas yelled furiously. He then had to dodge back down behind the shelf to avoid a new hail of bullets, this time fired from a shotgun. As far as he could tell, this woman was mental. At last the maelstrom stopped, and although he could hear the woman reloading, the violence seemed to be over. There was a deathly silence throughout the store. Thomas kept his back up against the shelf, waiting for a grenade to be lobbed his way, so at least then it'd all be over. At last, there was something to break the silence.
"Who are you?"? The woman yelled. Thomas figured this to be a good question. He wasn't so sure himself, somedays. All manner of snarky answers ran through his head, but because the woman had a loaded shotgun and no doubt other countless weapons, he decided to go truthful.
"Polk,"? he yelled back, "Thomas Polk. Now, who the hell are you?"? Suddenly, a new hail of bullets flew over the shelf. Apparently, his answer was somehow offensive.
"I'm asking the questions here, Polk. Now, why do you need guns?"? Thomas considered the options. He could lie, but that could potentially get him shot. He could tell this woman the truth, but then she might shoot him and steal the caravan herself. He could run away, but no doubt the woman would shoot him for trespass.
"Grax,"? Thomas hissed to himself. It was a swear word he had made up himself, so as to avoid his father's beatings when he was younger. Nevertheless, his father had continued to beat him for other reasons, and Thomas had no choice to shoot him. Now, though, its usage came more out of a fear of being shot. "Grax,"? he hissed again. No way to run, so he might as well tell the truth for once.
"Okay, here goes. If you had a radio, you'd know this by now, but there's a caravan loaded with supplies heading north from 'Tope. Water, Rad-X, Stimpacks, you name it. Apparently the damn thing's heavily guarded, hence a sap like me's gonna need some firepower. Screw it, though; take the thing for yourself and eat me, if you're one of those types." Silence followed for a few minutes. During this time Thomas was tempted to simply leap out from behind the shelf, blast this woman to shreds then take everything she had. Still, the woman must have anticipated this, and occasionally made a point of firing off a few rounds. Eventually though, there was another eerie silence. Thomas poked his head over the shelf, and was terrified to see the woman's face right behind it. He nearly screamed, but at the last second managed to keep his composure. The woman regarded him with mild victory.
"Here's what's going to happen, Polk. I'm going to give you some weapons and firepower. We split the caravan. You try to stab me in the back and I'll blast your eyes out. Then I'll drop you to the tribals and they can do what they want with you. Clear?"
Thomas smiled. It was good to finally have a partner in crime.
"Crystal."
It was a good time to be Thomas Polk. That is, if he wasn't afraid of this woman. He had found out her name was Natasha, and she was scarier than he first thought. After showing her back to his shelter, apparently better equipped and not filled with bodies of dead raiders, ghouls and mole rats, she claimed the mattress he had been sleeping on since he had dragged it back to this place. When he protested, she shot him a nasty look. When he suggested maybe they could share it, she punched him in the gut. Hard. So, whilst nursing his wounds in his chair, Thomas spent the night planning. He would take down the caravan with the aid of Natasha, then shoot her as soon as everyone else was dead. He noted to make sure to shoot her several times, as if she survived she would no doubt live up to her threat. Once again, he attempted to unlock the secrets of the accounting firms' computer system. It took him several hours, but at last, at about the same time the sun began its dismal rising of the day, he finally used the right password. At last, he was able to figure out what information the computer had to hold. Unfortunately, it was just accounting equations. Every area that looked as if it could have held some sort of world-changing information was simply a record of one Mr Franks' income tax. Out of frustration, Thomas decided to blow off some steam by shooting the damn thing to hell.
The rest of the day was spent in preparation. Thomas took stock of everything they'd need whilst Natasha retrieved guns, ammunition and body armor. A few times, Thomas suspected Natasha was watching him, but he never asked her or said anything. Frankly, Natasha scared him. She was clearly unstable. Yet, for the first time he was actually enjoying the company of someone, no matter how much she seemed to detest it. Given, he had shot two of her raider allies, but raiders were a dime a dozen in this part of the wasteland. Whenever he mapped out a new part of the plan, Natasha would listen quietly, occasionally nodding in approval. They figured it had a pretty good chance of working. If it failed, they agreed to run off separately and never see each other again. Though if it worked, they could be set up for quite a while, assuming they found a place worth holing up in. The accounting firm was decent, in that it was still standing, though there was at least two walls missing throughout the whole building, and massive cockroaches had a tendency to wander in at the worst of times. Not only that, but it seemed all the other raiders liked it, too, and a large part of the day was spent shooting at people attempting to take the decent weapons and supplies they had. Thomas kept the radio tuned to the same frequency the whole time, but no other announcements ever came up. According to his estimate, though, the caravan would arrive sometime the next morning, and that is when the plan would take place. Thomas' instinct tingled again. He had a feeling this was going to go well. Reasonably well, anyway. He was pretty sure one of them would survive. He liked the idea of both him and Natasha surviving together, though. At this thought, he was tempted to think he'd gotten too much radiation.
The day had arrived. Thomas and Natasha took up their points on the outside of the accounting firm. Apparently, the caravan was heading straight past it. And in the distance, they could see it approaching. Thomas pulled his goggles (which he had recently acquired from Natasha's dead ally) down over his eyes. This could get messy. He was aware he was breathing heavily again, and told himself to stop. He loaded his rifle and made sure it was ready to go. Setting it aside for the moment, he also made sure the shotgun, pistols and assorted other tools of doom were ready. At last, the tortured mooing of the brahmin let him know what was about to happen. They were here. The heavily armed guards were incredibly visible, carrying large semiautomatics rather threateningly. They were only four, though; but four large men with guns was to be considered a threat to most raiders. Most raiders, however, weren't tooled up with lots of guns and having a homicidal woman on their side. Thomas and Natasha both watched silently from the shadows of the building, waiting for the perfect moment. A brahmin mooed. Apparently, it was some sort of signal, and Natasha leapt into life, taking out one guard with a rather unnecessary sniper rifle. As if responding to the challenge, Thomas tossed a grenade at another guard, timing it to blow up just as it reached the poor sap. Unfortunately, it also took out one of the brahmin, and he could already feel Natasha's anger smashing him against a wall. Luckily, he made up for it by rushing forward and beating a guard over the head with the butt of the shotgun, then delivering a few final shots. He turned quickly to find a guard right behind him, ready to fire. Just as Thomas went to shoot back, his shotgun clicked rather uncooperatively, meaning it had run out already.
"Grax."? Thomas whispered to no-one in particular. However, it seemed someone heard his silent prayer, as the guard suddenly dropped, apparently having received a bullet to the head. As it fell backwards, though, the guard pulled his trigger in a dying twitch, and soon Thomas felt something painful head into his gut. He coughed, and blood came out. Thomas swore again, for real this time, and dropped down to his knees. Meanwhile, Natasha approached him, shaking her head. As she got within a few feet, she pulled out her hip pistol and aimed it square at Thomas' head.
"I don't want you to suffer like this,"? she said; Although Thomas couldn't help but think she actually did and just in fact wanted to kill him anyway. Just as he closed his eyes and said goodbye to all he cared about (his rifle), however, he felt Natasha pulling him back to his feet.
"Although, you managed to do half the work. Therefore, you can get half this loot. Now let's get back to the business and celebrate."
It was good to have fresh water after so long. It seemed to help the wound, too, and Natasha had already removed the bullet with some impromptu battlefield surgery. Namely, sticking some pliers into the wound and pulling out the bullet. It had been painful, but whenever Thomas winced Natasha would hit him in the face, thus making the procedure impossibly worse. Eventually, he was patched up and leaning up against the wall. Natasha was busy counting some bottlecaps on the desk across the room. As he watched her, a thought dawned on him. He could shoot her now. She wouldn't have a chance to react. Then he could finally get on with this and say goodbye to the headache that'd been bothering him for the past few days. He raised the pistol feebly, his hand shaking as he went to pull the trigger. He dropped the gun. He just couldn't do it. He needed Natasha's help from now on; a partner in crime to help with his plans. So much for being a renegade. Still, he had to think, he was now a renegade with a lot more reason to live, which was probably worth more than what he could get from his crimes.
