» Fri May 27, 2011 2:07 am Preaching to the Natives
A Fallout Fan Fiction
by
Unity
The sun hangs high in the sky as a dirt devil blows across the arroyos. In the distance a mutated scorpion tangles with a herd of brahmin. I sit, watching the scene in the relatively peaceful shade of my cave in the side of the red cliff. I take a sip of the scotch I scavenged from a horrifying massacre from the previous week. From appearances, some raiders had ambushed twenty settlers, and left what they couldn't carry behind. -Which was a lot. I was hesitant to approach the remnants of the settler party, and visited and observed a total of 3 times over the course of days before I began my scavenge. Luckily, I had my dogs with me to watch my back. Nails, a long-haired soft furred breed I had traded some ammo to a team of traders for. And, Buzz a flat-headed vicious pup I had nursed back to health after I had shot him. He had belonged to a raider group that attacked a militia party I happened to be trading with near Drysdale.
The scene continues as it usually does: the brahmin try to flee or trample the scorpion and the scorpion singles one out, gets the advantage and stings the brahmin several times. The brahmin falls to the ground and the scorpion begins eating. This scene can take several hours. I personally have never been stung before, but I met a few travelers who have. A hole the size of a shot gun blast develops over the course of a few hours, and infection sets in as the surrounding tissues liquify, if the wound is not properly irrigated and the tainted flesh not cut away, you can die within six hours if you're lucky. Even if treated, the resulting paralysis can be a life-shortening hindrance. Then again, you may luck out and wind up tangling with one of those hermaphroditic, genetically defective scorpions whose sting has no effect at all. I've heard stories about how you can actually drink the poison, a clear viscous fluid that tastes slightly of gasoline.- I bet some jetted out raider-type was the first to try that one. In this case you only have to worry about the cuts, bruises and fractures that are a wasteland reality. This is what makes being alone so tricky. Mind you, I never willingly CHOSE to be alone. It usually just ends up that way...
I take another quick draught of the scotch, I inhale and it feels vital. Exhaling in my light headedness I look around my cave. I see the tactical maps of my desert held in place with nails on a few pieces of ply wood,(This is MY [censored] desert.) I see my gun rack with Old Shotty in his prominence amongst my newer acquisitions. To the left of that, Buzz and Nails are curled up on a tarpaulin left behind from my old homestead. Every time I see the scar on his right hind-leg I am reminded of the night I dug the bullet out. Further left of that is my desk which supports my book collection. It was a [censored] getting that up the side of the cliff, however knowledge is invaluable even if the nature books are no longer relevant -and one needs a proper place to read. Continuing on, is my bedding, an old U.S. Army sleeper with extra brahmin skin blankets, the pups are invaluable on cold evenings, and invaluable in general. After this is The Count etched into the wall to my immediate right. The lines total 120 and 57. As of this morning, I've been in 120 violent confrontations and killed 57 people, if you could call them people. Ghoul, mutant, or wastelander, anyone forever loses civil privilege if they brandish a weapon at me. Not to say I don't forgive, its just easier to say there was no other way.
One more sip of scotch and a gaze out at the scene and I'm faced with what's sitting in my lap. My To-Do list. I have my word of the day, and securing supplies and trading items for my trip up to Kirkwood in three days. Kirkwood is a long hike. It'll take about 4 days and nights to walk there. It makes me an open target and I don't like expending energy in this manner as survival is the name of the game, but having non-violent interactions with humans keeps me sane, whatever that is. Plus, the hike keeps me in shape. By my count I'm 37 years old and feel I can go toe to toe with every young raider out there. I [censored] well have already, it seems.
Last on the list is my rear patrol, this is simply the act of securing the rear approach to my cave, I go back there, and check the traps and snares I have set up, make note of what needs to be fixed or replaced I've yet to catch somebody creeping around back there, mostly just the odd scorpion or deathclaw setting off a mine. Waking up to one of my landmines going off is one the most unique feelings I have had to date. I haven't swam in years, but if I'm sleeping peacefully with no dreams, it something akin to resurfacing from water. I reach desparately for my gun and upon grasping it, it feels a part of me. As my lungs fill with air, my eyes jolt open and the wave of adrenaline washes over me. I orientate myself towards the cave opening by feeling around and listening for breezes. From peaceful slumber to combat mode in a few short seconds. I can't tell you how many cramped muscles I've gotten from this phenomena. If however, I am dreaming my usual dreams I wake up with my gun already cocked and sitting up straight, watching the entrance. Either way I usually spend the next few hours restraining the dogs and staring out my window to the world in absolute darkness. I listen for movement. Then, invariably, I fall back to sleep.
Putting the scotch aside, I move over to my desk. I pick up my dictionary -I'm into the X section now. Every word I already know has a check mark beside it. I go through adding check marks until I reach a word I don't know. "Nails! Come here!" I say. "Do you know what xenophobia is?" the dog sits dutifully sits at my feet, panting. "An unreasonable fear, distrust, or hatred of strangers, foreigners, or anything perceived as foreign or different." I chuckle a bit to myself. "I guess my predecessors were a tad xenophobic, you could say." Not to say that I'm any better. I regard any figure or figures on the horizon with lethal suspicion. Although given the circumstances, I wouldn't say my attitudes are unreasonable. The word of the day is a daily task I inherited from Martin, a traveling trader and the second man I ever called father. He was a brilliant man, and although not always the best deal maker, managed to survive into his 60s. He always taught me that communication and knowledge are important. In the 6 years I spent with him, he always scrounged up books for me us read, taught me how to survive, and what to say and most importantly when to say it. A vault-dweller, he was also the first person to give me a gun and teach me how to shoot. In hindsight, the moving, packing and bargaining services of a skinny young boy seem a paltry sum for the knowledge and traits he imbued. But that was Martin, until he died protecting me from slavers.
Since I do things based on importance and time, rather than how they appear on my list, I begin my rear patrol next. I reach into my bedding and pull out my back pack. I put it on, grab my rifle and reach for Old Shotty, my combat shotgun that Martin had left me. I don my flak jacket and hockey helmet, pocket some extra shells, and I'm ready to begin my day. I walk up and around the back of the cliff navigating the various hazards and pit falls, it takes a few leaps of faith for the dogs to keep up but they manage. They always manage. Today is a short list, no repairs are needed so I head back to the ambush site to renew my scauaging.
The twenty settler's bodies lay there bloating in the sun. The maggots have begun to eat away at the corpses and you can tell that the animals have begun to pick them apart as well. I have rummaged this area 3 times now. I have already gotten all the books, ammo, and bottle caps I could find. Come to think of it, it seems like the raiders didn't really take anything at all.
