Chapter 1 - Tale of the Wastleland

The minigun rippled and the raider was torn in half.  Bullets chewed the rock where another was taking cover.  He popped his upper body around the corner when the super mutant stopped shooting.  He got off a few rounds with his assault rifle when the super mutant renewed his death-dealing.  A round ricocheted off the rock near the raider and he jerked his head back, screaming.  Shrapnel, either rock or bullet, had penetrated his eye.  He stumbled back.  The super mutant continued his slow advance, minigun screaming.  The raider jerked several times and tumbled backwards, dead.  A third raider rose from cover on the opposite side with a hunting rifle and fired; her shot was rushed and barely clipped the super mutant's arm.  Another mutant that the raider hadn't seen rose behind her and roared.  She twisted in shock and tried leveling her rifle at its chest.  She was too slow.  The mutant grabbed her arm and literally ripped it off.  She tumbled away, screaming.  The mutant towering over her grabbed her leg and started dragging her away, kicking her rifle away as it moved.

I put away my binoculars as the skirmish ended and slid back down the rock outcropping I had settled in.  I kept my own hunting rifle close as I moved quietly away; that path would not do.  I shook my head, knowing what super mutants did to their captives.  She would be lucky if she bled out.  More than likely, they would patch her up enough to live a little longer; they liked their meat fresh.

I resettled my pack and set off across the wasteland.  I kept a sharp eye out for any other mutants.  Nothing interfered with my lonely journey as I picked my way across destroyed cars, abandoned buildings that would have crumbled on their occupants any minute and dozens of signs of the former world.  After several hours, I looked up at the blazing sun and gauged its distance from the horizon.  I only had a few hours left of daylight, if that, and traveling at night was comparable to suicide.

I found a sizable hill with a challenging climb and thought the spot perfect.  As I climbed, I realized the hill was better than I'd thought.  The climb was harder than it looked and anyone trying to climb it would make more than enough noise to alert anyone on top.  I reached to top, panting and looked around.  There was a small cave on the summit with a considerable view.  I cautiously approached the cave with the setting sun to my back.  The view inside wasn't pleasant, but I'd seen worse.

There were several fresh corpses.  Thankfully, it didn't look like anything other than human weapons killed these people.  As I closed in on the first corpse, a woman, I saw the blood splatter on the wall behind her that indicated someone shot her while facing her.  At her feet was a child, maybe six or seven years old.  He'd been shot as well, the bullet had completely blown away the tiny, fragile skull.  Blood, brains and skull fragments stretched towards the cave entrance.  The third and final corpse was a man slumped against the wall beside the woman.  I may have been wrong, but it seemed obvious what had happened.  I took the gun from the dead man's hand, checked it and put it in my pack.  I stepped over the child and dug through the packs against the far wall, nothing of note but a handful of rounds for the handgun.

I settled in the corner as the sun started to dip below the hill and shadows began creeping hungrily to fill the cave.  I pulled out what remained of my pitiful rations and opened the container.  Empty.  I sighed.  I didn't want to start a fire, even in the shelter of this cave, but it seemed I had no choice.  I started a small fire and used my pack to block some of the light from glaring out the cave mouth.  I stood and drew my knife.  I looked at my options and decided on the man.  He was relatively well muscled.

Thirty minutes later, I leaned back from my careful cutting and picked up the pile of meat, taking it over to the fire.  I cooked it all and salted the majority of it before stuffing it in my pack.  I stared at the meat, and sighed.  I didn't like it, but I had to eat to live.  When I ate enough to lessen the gnawing hunger in my belly, I put the rest of the meat away.  My hunger screamed at me to eat my fill, but I had no idea when I would get a chance to eat again.  I had put out the fire when I finished cooking, so now I settled in the darkest corner of the cave I could find, pulled out the handgun to be within easy reach and fell into a shallow, tentative sleep.

---

Gunfire ruptured my sleep and I jolted into a low crouch, gun pointed at the cave entrance.  The drowsiness slid off me quickly; in the wasteland alertness kept you alive.  I was relieved to note the gunfire sounded some distance off.  The sun had risen but was only just piercing the world past the cave mouth with shards of sickly yellow light.  I sighed, I didn't feel rested and my muscles still ached from the trek and rough climb the previous evening.  I gathered my things and gave one last look at the dead family.  I already had as much meat as I could carry, so I moved on.  I cautiously poked my head out the cave mouth and looked around quickly.  Nothing within sight, but the gunfire still rippled in the distance.  It echoed, but I was confident it was coming from the way I had come.  I moved to the opposite side of the hill and carefully maneuvered down the side.

Reaching the bottom safely, I continued on my trek with the sun in my eyes and the sound of gunfire fading in the distance.

After several hours of travel and several detours around mutated wildlife that would surely be hostile, I looked over my shoulder.  The hill had disappeared, or perhaps it had just blended with the bleak landscape.  I paused to drink sparingly from my dwindling water supply and tear off several hunks of meat.  I heaved myself up and set off again, but before I could get far, I heard voices.  I looked around quickly and ducked behind the burnt husk of a car.  I cautiously looked around it and watched as about a dozen travelers walked around the skeletal remains of a house.

From the looks of them, they didn't look like raiders.  They had two guns among them and the rest had machetes, axes, bats and all manner of improvisational weapons.  Slavers?  I waited and listened.

A blonde man was talking, "...they took him and exiled him, what I heard."  A woman behind him spoke up, "Jesus.  Did they let him go armed, at least?  Supplies?"  When the man responded in the negative she shook her head, "That's a death sentence, and the Council knows it.  So much for our benevolent leadership; they're just as cold-hearted as the slavers!"  Another man put his hand on her arm, "He knew the consequences and he still took the risk.  Like it or not, the Council keeps us safe and fed.  We only have to follow their rules."

I could see now there were a dozen of these people.  Someone from further away from him spoke up in a low rumbling baritone, "His mother is in pieces.  She hasn't stopped crying since she heard the sentence.  I've done what I can to console her, but she-"  I'd heard enough and stood up, "Greetings!"

---

Marcus spun when he heard the voice, hands immediately going for his machete, holding it at the ready, his companions did the same with their weapons.  A stranger stood, with arms held up, empty and obviously trying to to appear as non-threatening as possible.  The man looked like he had been baked by the sun and was coated with grit from the wasteland.  He wore a wrap around the majority of his head and a long, ragged coat.  He wore sunglasses, a rarity in the wasteland, and heavy boots scuffed and battered.

Marcus could only see the rifle hung behind the man's back, but he was sure the man held many more weapons.  Aware that slavers and the like have used decoys like this man before, he immediately started scanning the area for any sign of a potential ambush.  Sam stepped forward and spoke to the man, keeping her weapon leveled at his chest and her finger on the trigger,  "What do you want, stranger?"  The man didn't move, but spoke through his wrapping, "I'm traveling to the town known as Patience.  Do you come from there?"  Marcus cringed inwardly, it was obvious the man had not spoken in a great while, and his raspy growl indicated he had been out in the wastes, exposed to the harsh environment for weeks, or even months.

Sam didn't remove her eyes from the man, "We're asking the questions here.  What's your business there?"  Marcus knew Sam was relying on the others to keep a vigilant eye on the surroundings, but they all listened to how the stranger responded.  "My name is Viktor.  I'm a Wolf Guard member.  I was sent to establish contact and open trading with the town known as Patience; if it still stands.  I mean you no harm."  Marcus thought that was redundant.  Wolf Guard were known in this corner of the wasteland as soldiers against raiders, slavers and mutants; protectors of nearly everyone else.  Sam didn't lower her weapon, "We've all heard of the Wolves, stranger.  But we also know some slavers are fond of claiming just that.  What proof do we have that you are indeed what you claim?  Show us your badge."  At this, Marcus settled his weight in preparation to react quickly.

The stranger spoke again in his hoarse, strained voice, "You know as well as I that Wolves carry no such badge.  They're too easy to steal off of a corpse or fabricate in some other way for them to be a credible form of identification."  The man sounded exhausted by speaking so much.  Marcus wasn't sure how he knew, but he was certain this stranger didn't usually speak even when surrounded by people.  Regardless, he relaxed marginally.  The man had passed the first test.  It was common for towns to teach everyone in their community to ask that question.  False Wolves would attempt to explain how they lost their badge or something similar to dodge suspicion.  It was believed that the Wolves themselves told communities of trustworthy people this.  Unfortunately, it alone was not a sure way of determining legitimate members, but it was the first.

Sam still hadn't lowered her weapon, but did remove her finger from the trigger, "Good.  But I still need to see proof, and if you are a true Wolf, you know what I want to see."  The stranger nodded and slowly reached for his left glove.  They all tensed just in case he was reaching for a weapon.  He removed his glove slowly and displayed the palm of his left hand for them to see.  Sam immediately stepped back and lifted her weapon to her shoulder, the others turned to face him when they heard her gasp.

The stranger was a ghoul.

---

I was expecting the response, so I didn't move an inch.  I kept my hand up to their view.  The sun was bright now, so there was no hiding my savaged and hideous looking hand.  "Do you expect us to believe the Wolves would take a ghoul into their ranks?!"  The woman hissed.  I held myself still as I responded, despite the pain of talking mounting in my throat, "See for yourself.  If you've had previous dealings with the Wolves, then you know only a guard can be tattooed with the Wolf's Head."  I knew my damaged flesh would not obstruct or flaw the tattoo.  I'd received it after I was mutilated and we made sure it was clearly visible.  Painfully certain.

I knew I had their attention when they all focused on me, instead of looking for an ambush.  Ghouls were hunted by raiders, rejected by mutants and killed on sight by slavers.  I would be lucky if I survived talking to these smoothskins.  I remained frozen in place, expecting to be gunned down any second.  I was mildly surprised when the woman eased forward cautiously and squinted at my palm.  "Very well.  I believe you, but don't think for a second I trust you.  Make even one move that I don't like, and I'll leave your ugly corpse to feed the Yaogui, get me?"  I nodded and replaced my glove, careful not to show them the runes carved into the back of my hand and disappeared up my sleeve.  Besides, I didn't trust them either.

"We are from Patience,"  The woman continued, "We'll take you back to town and you can speak with the Council."  I bowed my head slightly in thanks and, following their directions towards Patience, started off with several people flanking me and knowing full well all weapons were still drawn and focused on me.  It wasn't ideal, but I knew I had few other choices.  I was surprised they were willing to take me there in the first place, much less allowed me to keep my weapons.

As we walked, a younger man sidled up to me while the others murmured among themselves.  "So what do the Wolves actually do?  I mean, I've heard about you guys, but I've never seen you in action.  Are you trying to rebuild society, or do you just want to learn about our past, like the Brotherhood of Steel?"

I didn't look at the young man, and spoke quietly, "We prefer people don't compare us to them.  Our goal is to help humanity rebuild.  I respect the Brotherhood because their knowledge will help us prevent our past mistakes, but their focus is entirely on knowledge.  Our main goal is to protect people."

He thought for a moment then asked, "You're a ghoul, so why do you want to protect people?  Most people don't trust you, everyone else would rather see you dead."  I finally looked at him.  I was almost a two feet taller than he was.  He looked dirty, but didn't look malnourished.  I thought about the meat in my pack and said nothing, returning my eyes to the path ahead.

He walked in silence for a few minutes before finally blurting, "You're not doing a great job of proving we can trust you."  He slowed down and slid in step with his comrades.

After several hours of silent travel, we paused for a rest.  I sat separate from the others and ate in silence.  The others talked among each other with the exception of their leader.  The woman who questioned me was watching me, hands on her rifle.  She wore an expression that said: I'm watching you and I want you to know it.

Suddenly we heard a skittering in the rocks to one side.  I was on my feet and moving before anyone knew we were in danger.  The woman with the rifle was up as well, but her focus was on me and she was watching me, confused.  I  ripped out my combat knife and lunged towards the rocks.  I knew what was coming.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her raise her rifle.  I desperately hoped she wouldn't shoot me, not if we all wanted to survive this.

The giant rad scorpion appeared from behind the rocks, its black chitinous plates gleaming in the sun.  It hadn't noticed us yet, or its tail would have been poised above its body.  This was the best chance I had.  I leapt to the side and on some of the rocks above it.  It saw the others and raised its tail menacingly and advanced, snapping its claws.  The others finally saw it and started moving, but their leader had a head start.  Her first round flew wild, maybe directed at where I was, maybe not.

She cycled the spent cartridge and fired again, the round skipped harmlessly of the creature's natural armour.  I realized I was the only chance we had to survive, they had only a few guns and they were all of small calibers, those with melee weapons would be slaughtered when they got close enough to strike.  Thankfully, the beast didn't seem to see me.  It moved rapidly, for its size; as it passed where I was, the others started yelling at each other and drawing their weapons.

How had these people survived in the wasteland?

Then, I did one of the stupidest things I've ever done in years.  I leapt down, hoping they would stop shooting.  I landed on the scorpion and I felt it instantly respond, the tail flashed towards me, venom dripping from the tip.  I knew that if I was struck once, even if I wasn't impaled outright, the venom would make quick work of me.  I reached out and did the craziest things I've done in years.

I moved towards the stinger.  I'd started moving before the stinger had, so I made it.  Barely.  I wrapped one arm around the appendage as it passed me, getting behind it; then drove the knife into the tail with all my strength.  Don't miss, don't miss, don't miss!!  I was rewarded with a sickening crunch as the knife plunged past the overlapping plates and sank in the softer tissue beneath.  The scorpion gave a weird, undulating screech and its body convulsed, nearly throwing me off.  I ripped the knife out at an angle and was able to break through the already fractured plates.  I repeated the exercise again on the opposite side of the tail.

I missed the first time because the tail was thrashing around violently and the scorpion was slamming into anything and everything, trying to dislodge me.  Furthermore,  a dark green ichor was burbling from the wound, making everything slippery.  This time, I did all I could to hold on.  In all the movement, I caught a glimpse of my knife: the tip and about a third of the length was snapped off.

My stomach dropped.  I let the knife tumble to the ground.  The tail was jerking wildly when I had an idea.  I waited until it jerked forward, then used all the strength, leverage and weight I had to assist the forward movement, but I also forced it down.  The stinger sank deep into the exoskeleton and plunged into the creature.  Its thrashing weakened and and slowly sank down and twitched a few times before going completely still.  I waited to make sure it wasn't going to move again.

In the final use of the tail, with all the power I could muster behind it, the damaged tail had finally snapped off.  The stub attached to the body and flopped uselessly back, the green blood dribbling down the hill.  I stepped off the corpse and retrieved my knife.  Then my years in the wastes kicked in and I approached the front of the creature.  I worked the stinger free from the body.

I drove the broken blade of my knife into the stinger base.  I had to try several times due to the blunt edge and my own shaking from fear and adrenaline, but after several stabs, the tip of the stinger clattered to the ground.  Then I did the same and removed the venom sac, being careful not to get any on me or to spill any.

When I finally looked up, I realized everyone was watching me.  I looked down at myself.  Green ichor was splattered across my chest and I held a stinger in one hand and a venom sac in the other.  I did my best to remove the green blood from my shirt, but a green tinge remained.  I sighed, realizing I'd have to live with that.  I looked back at everyone.

"Y-you...just..."  Their leader stuttered.  I walked towards my pack, noticing as I did, they all backed away from me.  I ignored them and found a bottle I could store the venom in.  I stuffed it back in the pack and left the stinger on my pack.  I returned to the corpse.  Some venom had spilled out during the fight and rendered much of the meat from the creature inedible.  I did see several undamaged plates on the body that seemed like they could be useful.  I spent several minutes struggling with the plates.

I stopped after a few minutes, panting.  "Could you give me a hand, here?"  One of the others sheathed his machete and tentatively approached the body.  He stepped up next to me and, with his help, we managed to removed several plates.  We paused, and he gasped, "What the hell d'you want these for?"  I stretched my back as I responded, "A rad scorpion's plates can stop small calibers rounds, as you just witnessed, and blades."  I held up my broken combat knife and amended, "Most blades."

The man stared at my knife, then at me.  Suddenly, he looked down and started wheezing.  It took me a minute to realize he was laughing.  The wheeze quickly morphed into a full, hearty guffaw.  "Jesus, man!  I like you!"  His large hand smacked my back, making me stagger.  He put his hand on my shoulder and gripped it tightly as he wiped tears  from his eyes and continued to chortle, "MOST blades, he says!  Hah!  Son, you just took on a giant rad scorpion single-handedly, with a dinky little dagger!"  I watched him.

In reality, I should be calling him 'son'.  I guarantee I was far older than he.

I looked down at his heavy hand.  Large and callused.

---

I was six years old.

I was dragged by my father into the basement, the klaxons howled outside.  He pulled me into the shelter and set me on the small cot in the corner furthest from the door.  He had built the bomb shelter himself, concrete on all sides, with a heavy steel trapdoor leading into the actual basement. The basement was actually deeper than most, so it was a reasonable insulator.  He sat me down and held my face in his hands.  I looked up at him and sniffled; he wiped the tears from my face, "Don't worry, kid.  Everything'll be fine.  We've prepared for this.  I'm going to get your mother and sister and I'll be back in less than an hour, okay?"  I nodded, and hiccuped.

He smiled at me and continued, "They said when we heard the alarms, we would have a few hours, it's only been fifteen minutes.  I'll go, get them, and we'll all get back with plenty of time.  While I'm gone, you know the drill."  I nodded weakly and put my hand on his huge, callused hand.  He smiled at me and left the safety of the shelter, shutting the heavy steel door behind him.

I didn't know that was going to be the last time I was going to see or touch him again.

I waited.

An hour passed, then I heard it.

Boom.

In the distance.

Then a massive blast exploded not far.  The dim light in the shelter went out as I covered my ears and cried in the darkness.  Foodstuffs rained from the shelves on the wall and clattered noisily to the concrete.  The noise of the blast obscured even that to nothing.  It reverberated in the room and I felt something wet slide down my agonized ears, and something else wet spread in my pants.  The temperature in the cool room began to rise.  Soon I was covered in sweat.

Finally the agony of sound ceased.  But the heat rose steadily.  That and something else.  I didn't know at the time, I just felt something nipping at me in the darkness.  I tried brushing it away, but it persisted.  Soon the nipping turned to a biting sensation, which grew over time.  I cried.

I cried from the pain.  I cried for my family.  I cried because I was alone in the dark.  I cried in terror.

I lived like that for years.  Alone in the dark: scared, alone, in agony every second.  When I finally was able to pick myself up, I immediately collapsed.  The pain saturating my body had been too intense.  After hours curled up on the floor, I somehow found it in me to drag myself to the farthest corner from the door where the heat was less intense and the biting sensation lessened somewhat.  To be honest, I don't remember that.  Nor did I remember urinating on myself again.  I must have spent hours sobbing in the corner in a fetal position, because I eventually grew hungry.

But I didn't move.  Eventually the gnawing hunger rampaged through my frail body and I groped in the darkness.  I was able to find the nearest can of beans to me.  As soon as I had it, I retreated to the corner again.  When I realized I didn't know where the can opener was, I just whimpered.

It took several days before I was able to force myself to endure the pain and stumbled blindly to find the opener.  After an hour or so, I turned up nothing.  I was about to go back to my corner when my father's voice echoed in my head from memory.  "Patterns, kiddo!  The world is made up of patterns.  Understand the patterns and you can find all the answers in the world.  Sometimes, you have to make your own patterns to find the answers."  Tears welled up in my eyes at the sound of his voice, even imaginary.  Even in my memories, he was trying to reach out to me, to help me.

I remembered something he told me about his job.  He was a construction worker, so we couldn't afford to get into one of the nearby Vault-Tec vaults.  He'd told me how him and the guys would set up a chart, like we learned about in school.  Except, they would do an imaginary chart, can you believe that?  He said on big projects they would tackle them one at a time, so they wouldn't work too hard on the whole project but still make good progress in the section they worked on.

I straightened my back and uttered the words he so frequently told me, almost a chant.  A motto.  Work smarter, not harder.

I followed his imaginary instructions and made my own pattern.  I patrolled the room on my hands and knees, starting from my corner and following the wall.  I gathered all the supplies I found and slid them towards my corner.  I found the can opener in the middle of the room.  As I picked it up and moved to get back to my corner, my hand landed on something soft.

I picked it up and explored it with my hands.  It was the teddy bear my mother and sister had made together.  I found the seam by one of the ears that my mother had kept saying she needed to stitch back up, but kept forgetting.  I hugged it close to my chest and  stumbled blindly back to my corner.

I spent the next few years like this.  I had a spot where I could relieve myself, and over time, the smell was hard to handle.  But I managed. I would often cry myself into a nightmare filled sleep, even when I no longer felt the cool tears on my cheeks. I told myself over and over, I would live through this and find my family.  No matter what, I would survive. In my corner in the dark.  My only company the bear and that incessant biting sensation.

I would survive.

When I was finally big enough to open the heavy trapdoor, I left my shelter and entered the horror that was the wasteland.  I barely lived through the first week on the surface.  I came to finally realize, I would never see my family again.  My father died to save me and my mother and my sister.  He wasn't able to succeed with them.  But he did save me, I wouldn't let his death be in vain.  I would live so they could live on in me.  I knew that was what they wanted.  We had talked about it several times before, but I never took it seriously.  I thought we would all be in that shelter when it happened.  But they stressed anyways.  When they were gone, I would have to find the strength to continue on.

For them, I would survive.  They told me too.

When I saw what remained of our house, the house I lived under and where I grew up, I fought back the pain of loss.  I would survive.  I learned later the biting sensation was the radiation leaking in.  The shelter wasn't protected entirely, so plenty saturated the ground and found its way in.  I finally noticed, why I couldn't cry anymore.  The radiation had destroyed my skin.  My flesh looked rotted and my tear ducts must have been destroyed, because no tears tickled my cheeks anymore.  But I also knew one more thing.

I had survived.

Author's Note

Based on the popular Fallout series. Essentially fan-fic, I guess. I should also say full credit to Bethesda and all that, but I'm not sure that's necessary. Considering this it not for profit, nor am I claiming it as my own.