G
Guest
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Hey. It's been awhile but I finally got my ass in gear and wrote another story. Please give me some feedback as I'm really trying to improve my writing.
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The Killing Grounds
When the door of Vault 22 opened and its inhabitants spilled out into the blasted lands, a large group of them strayed from the rest headed East. They were never heard from again.
Those that stayed together travelled a short distance South, and realised that their best hope was to be near the Vault, so they stayed close to their former home, gathering as many supplies as they could, and started a village. In years to come it grew from a cluster of hastily constructed shacks to a large fortified town. They regularly sent groups back to the Vault to collect what supplies remained, but this practice eventually stopped, and they never returned to their refuge of yore.
They named the town Alberton, in honour of it’s founder, Albert Nearson, who had led the group South, but died in a failed attempt to contact those who left them in the East. Alberton’s immense walls were solid, built up from iron plates and other scavenged material, wrecked cars reinforcing key points. Trade routes with other towns were established through the work of brave scouts, wandering herds of gentle beasts were domesticated and used for labour and food. The town prospered.
Legends and rumours about what lay to the East flowed through the community. Some said it was a radiation hotspot, others thought it was some strange monster from before the war, but no one ever knew for sure. That would soon change.
Jacob Archon waited patiently in the Main Guardhouse, expecting the Lieutenant to return at any moment. He was in his mid-thirties, standing an average height with short black hair and mellow grey eyes.
Alberton had no appointed ruler, but as the Captain of the Guards, Jacob made most of the important decisions so he was generally seen as the town leader.
He was clad in very dusty leather armour, finely crafted from tanned animal hide, and in his left hand he held a pair of worn dice, constantly switching and rotating them in his hand. Rarely was he seen without these treasured items, though no one could recall, nor did anyone ask why they were so precious to him.
As Lieutenant Jarson burst through the rusted door, Jacob looked up with a look of concern and question on his face. The lieutenant’s face was grim.
"I just got word. The last scout party didn’t return last night."
Jacob cursed and hung his head, staring at the dice in his clenched fist as if they held the answer to all his troubles. At length he spoke:
"Recall all scout parties before nightfall. Tomorrow we’ll find out what’s behind this once and for all."
The lieutenant nodded and walked swiftly out of the Guardhouse, pulling a dark green radio from his belt. As he left, Jacob vaguely heard him calling in the remaining scouts until his voice was no longer audible. Without the functional radio system they had employed the previous year, the town might never have reached its present state. The military-issue radios had been acquired from a distant trading community called Batestown and had proved invaluable both in communication and scout organisation.
The next day, Jacob awoke early and stood at the door of his house. To his left, a crude red cross marked the small building which served as the town hospital, to his right lay The Alberton Inn, where the many weary travellers could have a drink and buy a room for the night. Further down was the Town Hall, where meetings were held to discuss the current problems facing the town. Behind him, far to the back of the town, were the animal pens and small crop fields, the beasts were enclosed by simple wooden fences while the food crops grew in neat rows upon the cultivated earth, they thrived in the warm weather and were a great source of trade for the town. The general store sat further down on his left, selling knives, bullets, dried food, water and other survival necessities. The rest of the buildings were simple houses and were far less well-constructed; rusted corrugated iron and scrap timber were the most common materials used to build them.
As the sun began to peer over the mountains, bathing Alberton in its dull orange glow, Jacob was reminded of his plans for the day. Stepping back into his house, he took his leather armour from where it hung on the wall and strapped it on, pocketing the dice in his hand. He then bent to open the intricately carved wooden chest which lay at the foot of his bed, taking from it his 9mm pistol which he smoothly slipped into its holster at his hip. His leather armour creaked comfortably as he stood and strode out of his home towards the main gate.
Jacob’s boots clapped bluntly on the blasted asphalt which stretched down the main avenue of the town. As he reached the main gate, he ascended the iron rung ladder to the top of the wall. It rattled uncertainly as he reached the top, and the wasteland spanned before him, splashed orange from the rising sun and never-ending in its stretch towards the distant horizon.
Jacob looked down to the hard ground below and felt giddy. Dhrima, how he hated heights.. steeling himself, he produced a pair of cracked and grimy binoculars and peered through them. Through the dirty glass he scanned the horizon to the East.. but could see nothing.
"What could it be…?" He mumbled quietly to himself as he continued to search, and continued to find nothing.
"Then there’s only one thing for it…" He said finally.
Then he heard a voice from below him.
"Jake! Jake! Can ya see anythin’?"
Jacob looked down to see Lieutenant Jack Jarson staring up at him, shielding his eyes from the glaring sun. Jacob shook his head despairingly.
"Jack, call the guards to the main guardhouse. We’re gonna find out what’s behind this."
Jack gave him a nod and disappeared to find the guards. As Jacob started down the stairs, he took one last glance Eastward before it become obscured by the wall.
One hour later, half of Alberton’s guards had gathered in the main guardhouse along with five of the best scouts. With sixteen men in all, the room was crowded, and thick with cigarette smoke from several of the guards. Jacob stood up and spoke.
"As you all know, some of our men have been disappearing lately. Any scouts who have gone East, have not returned. Today, I will lead a group of six, four guards and two scouts, Eastward to discover the cause of our missing patrols."
He was interrupted as one guard spoke loudly,
"Our scouts didn’t return, what makes you think you will?"
Quiet murmurs and words of agreement arose from the men. Jacob spoke again.
"Our scouts weren’t expecting anything. We will be ready."
No one could argue to that. The guard stepped back and leaned against the far wall, waiting for Jacob to continue.
"I’m leaving my good friend Lieutenant Jarson here to manage the town until we come back. In the event that we do not return, he will take my place as Captain of the guards."
Jacob paused and looked over at Jack, who stared at the floor and nodded slowly, obviously uncomfortable at the thought.
Jacob went on.
"Now we decide who comes with me. Ramirez and Aaron, you’re our best scouts, I want you two to come with us." The two scouts nodded silently.
"And as for the guards, I want Smith, Wallace, Randal and Leon." The guards confirmed in sequence as their names were called.
"We leave in three hours."
Three hours later the six men stood in front of the huge iron gates to the city. Jacob had taken his standard 9mm pistol, as did most of the others, except for Leon, being the most skilled marksman, he carried a Colt Rangemaster with an attached scope. At Jacob’s signal, the towering gates slowly swung open with a coarse grinding sound, and the six men trudged out into the desert. Jacob heard the gates slowly closing behind them…
To be continued...
-Smaug
"I am become death. The destroyer of worlds."
-----
The Killing Grounds
When the door of Vault 22 opened and its inhabitants spilled out into the blasted lands, a large group of them strayed from the rest headed East. They were never heard from again.
Those that stayed together travelled a short distance South, and realised that their best hope was to be near the Vault, so they stayed close to their former home, gathering as many supplies as they could, and started a village. In years to come it grew from a cluster of hastily constructed shacks to a large fortified town. They regularly sent groups back to the Vault to collect what supplies remained, but this practice eventually stopped, and they never returned to their refuge of yore.
They named the town Alberton, in honour of it’s founder, Albert Nearson, who had led the group South, but died in a failed attempt to contact those who left them in the East. Alberton’s immense walls were solid, built up from iron plates and other scavenged material, wrecked cars reinforcing key points. Trade routes with other towns were established through the work of brave scouts, wandering herds of gentle beasts were domesticated and used for labour and food. The town prospered.
Legends and rumours about what lay to the East flowed through the community. Some said it was a radiation hotspot, others thought it was some strange monster from before the war, but no one ever knew for sure. That would soon change.
Jacob Archon waited patiently in the Main Guardhouse, expecting the Lieutenant to return at any moment. He was in his mid-thirties, standing an average height with short black hair and mellow grey eyes.
Alberton had no appointed ruler, but as the Captain of the Guards, Jacob made most of the important decisions so he was generally seen as the town leader.
He was clad in very dusty leather armour, finely crafted from tanned animal hide, and in his left hand he held a pair of worn dice, constantly switching and rotating them in his hand. Rarely was he seen without these treasured items, though no one could recall, nor did anyone ask why they were so precious to him.
As Lieutenant Jarson burst through the rusted door, Jacob looked up with a look of concern and question on his face. The lieutenant’s face was grim.
"I just got word. The last scout party didn’t return last night."
Jacob cursed and hung his head, staring at the dice in his clenched fist as if they held the answer to all his troubles. At length he spoke:
"Recall all scout parties before nightfall. Tomorrow we’ll find out what’s behind this once and for all."
The lieutenant nodded and walked swiftly out of the Guardhouse, pulling a dark green radio from his belt. As he left, Jacob vaguely heard him calling in the remaining scouts until his voice was no longer audible. Without the functional radio system they had employed the previous year, the town might never have reached its present state. The military-issue radios had been acquired from a distant trading community called Batestown and had proved invaluable both in communication and scout organisation.
The next day, Jacob awoke early and stood at the door of his house. To his left, a crude red cross marked the small building which served as the town hospital, to his right lay The Alberton Inn, where the many weary travellers could have a drink and buy a room for the night. Further down was the Town Hall, where meetings were held to discuss the current problems facing the town. Behind him, far to the back of the town, were the animal pens and small crop fields, the beasts were enclosed by simple wooden fences while the food crops grew in neat rows upon the cultivated earth, they thrived in the warm weather and were a great source of trade for the town. The general store sat further down on his left, selling knives, bullets, dried food, water and other survival necessities. The rest of the buildings were simple houses and were far less well-constructed; rusted corrugated iron and scrap timber were the most common materials used to build them.
As the sun began to peer over the mountains, bathing Alberton in its dull orange glow, Jacob was reminded of his plans for the day. Stepping back into his house, he took his leather armour from where it hung on the wall and strapped it on, pocketing the dice in his hand. He then bent to open the intricately carved wooden chest which lay at the foot of his bed, taking from it his 9mm pistol which he smoothly slipped into its holster at his hip. His leather armour creaked comfortably as he stood and strode out of his home towards the main gate.
Jacob’s boots clapped bluntly on the blasted asphalt which stretched down the main avenue of the town. As he reached the main gate, he ascended the iron rung ladder to the top of the wall. It rattled uncertainly as he reached the top, and the wasteland spanned before him, splashed orange from the rising sun and never-ending in its stretch towards the distant horizon.
Jacob looked down to the hard ground below and felt giddy. Dhrima, how he hated heights.. steeling himself, he produced a pair of cracked and grimy binoculars and peered through them. Through the dirty glass he scanned the horizon to the East.. but could see nothing.
"What could it be…?" He mumbled quietly to himself as he continued to search, and continued to find nothing.
"Then there’s only one thing for it…" He said finally.
Then he heard a voice from below him.
"Jake! Jake! Can ya see anythin’?"
Jacob looked down to see Lieutenant Jack Jarson staring up at him, shielding his eyes from the glaring sun. Jacob shook his head despairingly.
"Jack, call the guards to the main guardhouse. We’re gonna find out what’s behind this."
Jack gave him a nod and disappeared to find the guards. As Jacob started down the stairs, he took one last glance Eastward before it become obscured by the wall.
One hour later, half of Alberton’s guards had gathered in the main guardhouse along with five of the best scouts. With sixteen men in all, the room was crowded, and thick with cigarette smoke from several of the guards. Jacob stood up and spoke.
"As you all know, some of our men have been disappearing lately. Any scouts who have gone East, have not returned. Today, I will lead a group of six, four guards and two scouts, Eastward to discover the cause of our missing patrols."
He was interrupted as one guard spoke loudly,
"Our scouts didn’t return, what makes you think you will?"
Quiet murmurs and words of agreement arose from the men. Jacob spoke again.
"Our scouts weren’t expecting anything. We will be ready."
No one could argue to that. The guard stepped back and leaned against the far wall, waiting for Jacob to continue.
"I’m leaving my good friend Lieutenant Jarson here to manage the town until we come back. In the event that we do not return, he will take my place as Captain of the guards."
Jacob paused and looked over at Jack, who stared at the floor and nodded slowly, obviously uncomfortable at the thought.
Jacob went on.
"Now we decide who comes with me. Ramirez and Aaron, you’re our best scouts, I want you two to come with us." The two scouts nodded silently.
"And as for the guards, I want Smith, Wallace, Randal and Leon." The guards confirmed in sequence as their names were called.
"We leave in three hours."
Three hours later the six men stood in front of the huge iron gates to the city. Jacob had taken his standard 9mm pistol, as did most of the others, except for Leon, being the most skilled marksman, he carried a Colt Rangemaster with an attached scope. At Jacob’s signal, the towering gates slowly swung open with a coarse grinding sound, and the six men trudged out into the desert. Jacob heard the gates slowly closing behind them…
To be continued...
-Smaug
"I am become death. The destroyer of worlds."