when things explode

5:38 PM. A small figure darts furtively across the landscape. He keeps to the shadows, but keeps the nearby hills in sight, watching for movement.

He slips into the ruins of a townhouse, emerging a few moments later with a disappointed look on his face. The next two homes are more successful, his pockets laden with more pre-war cash (not legal tender, but still worth trading in the cities) and ammunition for his pistol. He pauses by an old-fashioned letterbox long enough to fish out a bottle of water, and drop the little red flag.

He stops and turns at the edge of town, opens the bottle, pockets the cap, slowly takes in the destruction of a village that once thrived with shops and laughter and babies and skilled labour. A feeling of loneliness and desolation washes over him, and he has to sit and rest, his legs suddenly out of energy.

The water burns in his throat. He spots the uneven crater that used to be the town centre, notes the telltale signs, pours the rest of the radioactive water down the back of his neck to evaporate and cool his skin in the evening heat.

A willy-willy catches his attention, and he notes the remains of three people, now little more than skeletons, scattered on the ground near the burned-out husk of an intercity bus. It is a bad omen, and it makes sense to leave – it would serve no purpose to stay, and it was possible that the same terrible creature was even now lurking nearby, hoping for a fourth victim.

He sighs and heads up the hill, towards a nearby train depot. The underground rail network was the safest and quickest way of moving around nowadays, and plenty of wasteland communities had settled beneath the scarred earth.

Some he allied with, and traded pre-war relics for food and arms. Some he destroyed, killing the weak and taking what he needed anyway. Some had information, and information was the most precious commodity of them all; the anti-radiation medicine and stimpacks gave him more time, but couldn’t tell him where his family had gone.

He had followed his father from the fallout shelter he was born in, through the capital wastelands, through to places far from anything resembling civilisation. He would consider his father already dead if not for recent news, and had tracked down this community for help.

Maybe they could tell him where his father had gone. Where he was going. He started down the tunnel, the silenced pistol feeling cold and strong in his hand.

–

Fallout 3. It’s good.

This entry was posted on Friday, November 28th, 2008 at 22:10 and is filed under blog, review. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.