CHAPTER 1:
GRACIOUS HOSTS
“Where you off to?” He said, “The sun'll be settin' soon. You'd best settle in for the night, if'n you wanna live to see tomorrow.”
He gently rocked in his chair. His movements so slight, so tranquil. When he spoke, his points floated so effortlessly across the vocal landscape.
Apparent in his speech were the experience and knowledge one earns in such a long lifetime. His words, though passive, deserved an ear and demanded careful consideration.
He smiled at me, a naïve youth, utterly stupid to the land outside. All the while, his fingers rested along the cold steel ridges of his caravan shotgun; always ready.
“Ya know whats out there? Don'cha?” he asked, passively attempting to prove to me that I don't know what I'm doing.
I Bluffed, pretending I knew. I expressed unfounded confidence in my ability to survive real life. My true feelings were a little less definite.
Life outside was new to me, for god-sakes I still had my jumpsuit on. I was born in a bubble, in the eye of the storm. A semi-literal hole bored into scorched earth. I was foreign to the land beyond the blast door, foreign to the land above my home; but I kept that secret. Though I had a feeling he knew.
I was young, naïve, and stupid. I felt as if I could conquer any challenge, as if I were invincible. I had seen enough holodisks to delude myself into thinking I was.
“Sure Kid. Take care of yourself.” he said half-heartedly, but who was he to tell me otherwise? Who was he to stop me?
“Thanks.” I said, stepping out of their home and into the red dying sun. I didn't make it ten feet before I stopped and began to think.
“Maybe he's right. The sun's setting, night will come soon. I would be safer if I stayed in tonight. Who am I kidding...
I'll be alive in the morning if I turned back and turned in for the night.”
I hadn't the faintest clue about what was out there. I didn't know the first thing about survival outside and, to be honest, I've only fired my shooter a few times.
“I didn't leave the security of the vault only to hide in a drafty old barn. If I wanted safety I wouldn't have left home in the first place. Besides, the Ranger wouldn't hide, he would face his problems and his fears head on.”
It was part youthful defiance, part stupidity, and a bit of the Vault 7-effect, but in all it was the innate human desire to explore, experience, and get the most out of the meaningless existence we carve out for ourselves.
The arid, desert heat was fading away with the setting sun, slowly making way for the icy chill of the nocturnal wasteland.
I checked the map in my wrist-bound Personal Information Processor. I was about fourteen miles from the old state border, nearing Nipton. I looked back up at the horizon. A strange fog began to roll in.
...Perfect
As if this wasn't going to be difficult enough.
Come to think of it, a rest in a safe place does sound quite nice.
I turned and knocked on the door.
“Changed yer mind, huh kid?” the old man said, smiling, as he opened the door for me.
It bruised me to admit, but he was right; I couldn't handle the wasteland, at least at night. Not yet.
I asked if the offer was still on the table, a stay in the barn.
“Sure is,” he said cheerfully, “an' so's supper. The wife made brahmin stew. Meat's fresh, just slaughtered that one today.”
I looked out the window at the pen outside, filled with dozens of strange, two-headed, cow-like animals. I didn't know if they were safe to eat, but I didn't really care. The thought of a hot meal enticed me, adding yet another reason for me to stay.
“I hope you've brought your appetite” said his wife, a small old lady, walking out of the kitchen holding a hot pot of stew that looked almost big enough for her to fit in.
“Take a seat” the old man said, sitting down, as his wife placed the pot on the table.
I sat at the table, admiring the stew and appreciating its sweet aroma.
“Do you want me to take your backpack, son?” the woman asked, to which I politely declined. It was something I remembered from one of the old holodisks; though I knew I was in no danger at all, she was only being a gracious host.
The delicious scent of the fresh meal was tantalizing. I felt like I was part of a real family, like the ones the kids who watched Ralphie talked about. I felt like the American kid, back when people used to dream. I could tell these two still had a bit of dream in them, though the nightmare had triumphed generations ago. It was refreshing to see that it still existed somewhere: wholesome, good-natured folk. It was rare.
“Do you get visitors often?” I asked as the old woman filled our bowls.
“Well,” said the old man slurping a spoonful of soup. “What with all the ruckus stirrin' between the legion and the NCR, most folk see it fit to keep wanderin' to a minimum. Even though its a ways away, most people don't want to be within a million miles when they butt heads again.”
He sipped another spoonful.
“And now that the Mojave Outpost's all but sealed up, almost all traffic on through's stopped; aside from trade caravans, ranger battalions and the occasional random traveler, such as yourself.” He continued to eat his stew.
“What's the legion?” I asked. They both stopped eating and looked at me.
“The legion?” he said, hoping I knew. “Caesar's Legion? C'mon son, don't tell me you never heard of 'em.”
I shook my head.
“Whats the deal with them?” I looked at both of them like young child asking stupid questions.
“Boy, where have you been? In a vault?”
I looked down at my Vault jumpsuit, so did he.
“Oh, right.” he said chuckling warmly. “Well, They're some of the most vile, despicable, sons-o-bitches you'll ever have the misfortune of coming across.”
The soup was delicious. To my surprise, the weird cows were actually tasty.
“Slavers, raiders, and savages, all at the beckon of caesar; the most vile of 'em all.” said the old woman.
I looked at them both.
“And Caesar's their leader?” I asked.
“Now you're getting' it.” said the old man.
“So whats the NCR?” I asked again, feeling stupid.
The old woman smiled and the old man chuckled once more.
“Boy, You've got a lot of catchin' up to do.” he said.
There was a brief moment of relative silence, aside from the slurping sound of sipping stew and the clink of spoons and bowls.
“How're you liking your meal” said the old woman.
“It's delicious. Thank you, mam.” I said drinking down the last of it. The old woman looked outside the window, into the black. She rose to her feet, taking my empty bowl away.
“Come now,” she said “it's getting late. Lets get you settled in.” She receded into another room, emerging with a lantern and a blanket.
“This way.” she said as she walked past me.
I turned to follow her, picking up my back pack and thanking the old man. He nodded back.
“No problem-o, son. You just have a good night. And sleep in the loft, the radroaches cant reach you there.”
“Radroaches?”
Outside The desert winds swept across the landscape. Ash, sand and bits of debris clouded the vision and clogged the lungs of anyone crossing through unprotected and unprepared.
The old woman wore goggles and wrapped weathered linens around her head. As I covered my face and shielded my eyes, she looked back at me.
“Oh dear!” she exclaimed, “You can't be out in this storm without a mask.” She began to unwrap the linen. I objected, peeking through my fingers.
“No! Keep it. I'll be fine.” I said. In one breath, I inhaled what felt like a pound of sand. I choked and hacked as the dust filled my mouth.
I gasped for clean air to no avail. I frantically grasped at my waist, fumbling to find my canteen; vault issued. My bumbling hands soon stumbled upon it.
I clasped my hands around it, bringing it to my face. The dust had encrusted itself along my throat, in my nostrils, in my eyes. The water was warm, yet still refreshing. Still blinded, I felt frail fingers grab at my sleeve.
“Don't get lost, dear.” she said, barely audible over the howling winds, pulling me out of my fit and into the barn.
I rubbed the dust out of my eyes, tightly squinting in attempts to see. Through the thick, swirling clouds, I made out the shape. As we neared even closer, I got a better look. The barn was in rough, but still working order. The large wooden door creaked and squeaked loudly as it swung open. We stepped inside, safe from the storm. The old woman lowered the wraps from her face.
“Here you go.” she said, handing me the blanket folded in her arms.
“Take care not to go outside. These are wild lands.”
She brought the linen wraps back over her nose, turning to return home.
“Are you going to beok getting back?” I called out to her through the thick clouds.
She looked back at me through her tinted goggles.
“I've lived in these lands a long time, dear.” She said. “Ill be fine.” She turned and continued onward.
“Sleep tight, don't go out at night.” she called out to me through the storm. Her silhouette slowly fade away.
I closed the door, turning to look at my nights resting place. It smelled musty and of rotting wood. Dark, dingy, and derelict; but safe.
The ladder bent and bowed as I climbed to the upper loft. I spread my blankets over sparse bits of decomposing hay.
As I lie my head down to rest, I had thoughts of why I was out here, why I left. What I was trying to prove and to whom.
Those thoughts quickly ceased. My eyes closed.
I drifted to sleep.
GRACIOUS HOSTS
“Where you off to?” He said, “The sun'll be settin' soon. You'd best settle in for the night, if'n you wanna live to see tomorrow.”
He gently rocked in his chair. His movements so slight, so tranquil. When he spoke, his points floated so effortlessly across the vocal landscape.
Apparent in his speech were the experience and knowledge one earns in such a long lifetime. His words, though passive, deserved an ear and demanded careful consideration.
He smiled at me, a naïve youth, utterly stupid to the land outside. All the while, his fingers rested along the cold steel ridges of his caravan shotgun; always ready.
“Ya know whats out there? Don'cha?” he asked, passively attempting to prove to me that I don't know what I'm doing.
I Bluffed, pretending I knew. I expressed unfounded confidence in my ability to survive real life. My true feelings were a little less definite.
Life outside was new to me, for god-sakes I still had my jumpsuit on. I was born in a bubble, in the eye of the storm. A semi-literal hole bored into scorched earth. I was foreign to the land beyond the blast door, foreign to the land above my home; but I kept that secret. Though I had a feeling he knew.
I was young, naïve, and stupid. I felt as if I could conquer any challenge, as if I were invincible. I had seen enough holodisks to delude myself into thinking I was.
“Sure Kid. Take care of yourself.” he said half-heartedly, but who was he to tell me otherwise? Who was he to stop me?
“Thanks.” I said, stepping out of their home and into the red dying sun. I didn't make it ten feet before I stopped and began to think.
“Maybe he's right. The sun's setting, night will come soon. I would be safer if I stayed in tonight. Who am I kidding...
I'll be alive in the morning if I turned back and turned in for the night.”
I hadn't the faintest clue about what was out there. I didn't know the first thing about survival outside and, to be honest, I've only fired my shooter a few times.
“I didn't leave the security of the vault only to hide in a drafty old barn. If I wanted safety I wouldn't have left home in the first place. Besides, the Ranger wouldn't hide, he would face his problems and his fears head on.”
It was part youthful defiance, part stupidity, and a bit of the Vault 7-effect, but in all it was the innate human desire to explore, experience, and get the most out of the meaningless existence we carve out for ourselves.
The arid, desert heat was fading away with the setting sun, slowly making way for the icy chill of the nocturnal wasteland.
I checked the map in my wrist-bound Personal Information Processor. I was about fourteen miles from the old state border, nearing Nipton. I looked back up at the horizon. A strange fog began to roll in.
...Perfect
As if this wasn't going to be difficult enough.
Come to think of it, a rest in a safe place does sound quite nice.
I turned and knocked on the door.
“Changed yer mind, huh kid?” the old man said, smiling, as he opened the door for me.
It bruised me to admit, but he was right; I couldn't handle the wasteland, at least at night. Not yet.
I asked if the offer was still on the table, a stay in the barn.
“Sure is,” he said cheerfully, “an' so's supper. The wife made brahmin stew. Meat's fresh, just slaughtered that one today.”
I looked out the window at the pen outside, filled with dozens of strange, two-headed, cow-like animals. I didn't know if they were safe to eat, but I didn't really care. The thought of a hot meal enticed me, adding yet another reason for me to stay.
“I hope you've brought your appetite” said his wife, a small old lady, walking out of the kitchen holding a hot pot of stew that looked almost big enough for her to fit in.
“Take a seat” the old man said, sitting down, as his wife placed the pot on the table.
I sat at the table, admiring the stew and appreciating its sweet aroma.
“Do you want me to take your backpack, son?” the woman asked, to which I politely declined. It was something I remembered from one of the old holodisks; though I knew I was in no danger at all, she was only being a gracious host.
The delicious scent of the fresh meal was tantalizing. I felt like I was part of a real family, like the ones the kids who watched Ralphie talked about. I felt like the American kid, back when people used to dream. I could tell these two still had a bit of dream in them, though the nightmare had triumphed generations ago. It was refreshing to see that it still existed somewhere: wholesome, good-natured folk. It was rare.
“Do you get visitors often?” I asked as the old woman filled our bowls.
“Well,” said the old man slurping a spoonful of soup. “What with all the ruckus stirrin' between the legion and the NCR, most folk see it fit to keep wanderin' to a minimum. Even though its a ways away, most people don't want to be within a million miles when they butt heads again.”
He sipped another spoonful.
“And now that the Mojave Outpost's all but sealed up, almost all traffic on through's stopped; aside from trade caravans, ranger battalions and the occasional random traveler, such as yourself.” He continued to eat his stew.
“What's the legion?” I asked. They both stopped eating and looked at me.
“The legion?” he said, hoping I knew. “Caesar's Legion? C'mon son, don't tell me you never heard of 'em.”
I shook my head.
“Whats the deal with them?” I looked at both of them like young child asking stupid questions.
“Boy, where have you been? In a vault?”
I looked down at my Vault jumpsuit, so did he.
“Oh, right.” he said chuckling warmly. “Well, They're some of the most vile, despicable, sons-o-bitches you'll ever have the misfortune of coming across.”
The soup was delicious. To my surprise, the weird cows were actually tasty.
“Slavers, raiders, and savages, all at the beckon of caesar; the most vile of 'em all.” said the old woman.
I looked at them both.
“And Caesar's their leader?” I asked.
“Now you're getting' it.” said the old man.
“So whats the NCR?” I asked again, feeling stupid.
The old woman smiled and the old man chuckled once more.
“Boy, You've got a lot of catchin' up to do.” he said.
There was a brief moment of relative silence, aside from the slurping sound of sipping stew and the clink of spoons and bowls.
“How're you liking your meal” said the old woman.
“It's delicious. Thank you, mam.” I said drinking down the last of it. The old woman looked outside the window, into the black. She rose to her feet, taking my empty bowl away.
“Come now,” she said “it's getting late. Lets get you settled in.” She receded into another room, emerging with a lantern and a blanket.
“This way.” she said as she walked past me.
I turned to follow her, picking up my back pack and thanking the old man. He nodded back.
“No problem-o, son. You just have a good night. And sleep in the loft, the radroaches cant reach you there.”
“Radroaches?”
Outside The desert winds swept across the landscape. Ash, sand and bits of debris clouded the vision and clogged the lungs of anyone crossing through unprotected and unprepared.
The old woman wore goggles and wrapped weathered linens around her head. As I covered my face and shielded my eyes, she looked back at me.
“Oh dear!” she exclaimed, “You can't be out in this storm without a mask.” She began to unwrap the linen. I objected, peeking through my fingers.
“No! Keep it. I'll be fine.” I said. In one breath, I inhaled what felt like a pound of sand. I choked and hacked as the dust filled my mouth.
I gasped for clean air to no avail. I frantically grasped at my waist, fumbling to find my canteen; vault issued. My bumbling hands soon stumbled upon it.
I clasped my hands around it, bringing it to my face. The dust had encrusted itself along my throat, in my nostrils, in my eyes. The water was warm, yet still refreshing. Still blinded, I felt frail fingers grab at my sleeve.
“Don't get lost, dear.” she said, barely audible over the howling winds, pulling me out of my fit and into the barn.
I rubbed the dust out of my eyes, tightly squinting in attempts to see. Through the thick, swirling clouds, I made out the shape. As we neared even closer, I got a better look. The barn was in rough, but still working order. The large wooden door creaked and squeaked loudly as it swung open. We stepped inside, safe from the storm. The old woman lowered the wraps from her face.
“Here you go.” she said, handing me the blanket folded in her arms.
“Take care not to go outside. These are wild lands.”
She brought the linen wraps back over her nose, turning to return home.
“Are you going to beok getting back?” I called out to her through the thick clouds.
She looked back at me through her tinted goggles.
“I've lived in these lands a long time, dear.” She said. “Ill be fine.” She turned and continued onward.
“Sleep tight, don't go out at night.” she called out to me through the storm. Her silhouette slowly fade away.
I closed the door, turning to look at my nights resting place. It smelled musty and of rotting wood. Dark, dingy, and derelict; but safe.
The ladder bent and bowed as I climbed to the upper loft. I spread my blankets over sparse bits of decomposing hay.
As I lie my head down to rest, I had thoughts of why I was out here, why I left. What I was trying to prove and to whom.
Those thoughts quickly ceased. My eyes closed.
I drifted to sleep.
