Abandoned

[bloodbathmaster2]

His eyes, they hurt so. They had seen too much, and as they gazed out, he saw only the darkness of night. There were no stars out tonight. No moon, no light at all, there was only the enveloping darkness. The man dangled his legs over the edge of the building, watching his feet disappear. He liked to sit where it was quiet, to let his eyes rest.

His name was Herman, not that anyone ever said it. People just called him the 'Vault Dweller.' It wasn't too strange that it brought him respect. They just needed a hero. Heroes were rare in the wasteland. Yes, that's right, the wasteland. It wasn't always that way. The world used to be thriving with human life, with sciences and technology. Now, there was just the endless desert.

The last remains of technology lay in the hands of a madman. As a hero, it saddened Herman. He did not want to destroy technology; it was perhaps the only hope remaining. In spite of his own morals, he had sworn to stop the man, no matter the cost. The cost, as always, would be death. His resistance would cause the death of hundreds, yet save thousands in the end.

Reaching to his side, he gripped hold of his helmet and heaved it onto his lap. It was heavy, even with the mechanical aids built into his gauntlets. As his hands searched clumsily (as is the only way when wearing gauntlets) for something, they brushed against the headlamp, causing it to blind him as it poured light into the darkness.

T-51b. The faded marking of the helm's model number was printed on the back, next to a small flag. He blinked, noticing that he could see again. Closer inspection would reveal that the miniature flag was bobby-pinned through a vent. It bore the image of a gear and a sword. He gripped it and tore it free. 'Curse them,' he thought, 'curse them for making me do this...'

Now with the light to aid him, Herman began to search a cluttered pile of junk. His heavy hands parted the various knick-knacks with an ungraceful hastiness. It took some time to find the small electronic device. As he cupped it in his hands, the device's viewscreen sputtered online, showing the image of a cartoonish man. It spoke.

"Good evening. The time is 01:23 AM. Last maintenance diagnostic was exactly five years, sixty-nine days, one hour, three minutes, and sixteen seconds ago. Request maintenance. Proceed with maintenance?"

"Not today, Pip," muttered Herman as he typed in the actual command. It wasn't a voice-recognition model.
"Timer accessed. Time remaining is two minutes and nine seconds."
He flicked the device off again and closed his eyes. 'Soon enough,' he reassured himself. He had been doing a lot of that lately. It was hard to convince himself that doing this was the right thing. In the months since it all began, he had been forced to lie time and time again. It had been done in good intention, but he always had to reassure himself every last damned time.

A deep rumble shook the earth, and Herman suddenly froze. 'Early...' he thought, 'not that it matters.' With that said, a pillar of light screamed into the night sky, illuminating the decayed ruins of the city. It was too bright to watch, too bright even from Herman's distance. As the rumble grew louder, the edge of the building began to crumble. He felt it fall from beneath, and before he fell, Herman reached for his things. He was too slow. Without any of his gear, he cascaded below view of the atomic explosion.

The sands of time passed, and as Herman crossed the wasteland, already a week had passed since he woke on the rim of the crater. He passed the old city ruins, carrying on to the wilderness. It was his plan to travel north, to a place called the Hub. The Hub was the last surviving city, and also the last source of clean water. People from all over the region gathered there with whatever they had, just to trade for the water needed to live.

A duststorm had kicked up, and he pulled a cloak around his body, bringing it up to protect his face too. He wished that he could have recovered his helmet. It was this way, emerging suddenly in the blinding storm that he stumbled into the Hub. He looked around to find that he stood at the edge of the town's market. People were pulling hide tarps over their caravans to protect them from the dust. No one noticed him.

No one, that is, except two soldiers clad in full body armor. They approached slowly, eyeing Herman with great suspicion. One gripped a minigun in his metal-clad hands, swinging it as he lurched from side to side. The other soldier held a large flag. Even in the dust storm, he could make out the gear and sword painted on the banner.

"Aye! It's the Vault dweller!" said one, only to be interrupted by the other. "We heard sightings of an atomic blast six days south of here. Was that...?"
"Yes. Yes it was. I blew the madman sky-high on a one-way atomic roadtrip."
"You've saved us all!"
"Please," sighed Herman, "I don't want your thanks. There was too much death on both sides."
"Yeah, I know. Several towns to the south have been long empty. I only pray that their deaths were swift."
The other soldier winced at the thought, "Swift? Those unlucky enough not to be shot were horribly mangled and forced to serve the killer of their friends."
"Enough of this talk," shouted the Vault Dweller, turning his back to the soldiers. There was an uncomfortable silence, and only the sound of the storm could be heard. The clank of armor filled the air as one of the soldiers put his hand on Herman's soldier.
"Lets head back to the bunker. Everyone will want to hear the news."
"I'm afraid that I won't make that journey with you. I have my own affairs that await."
"As you wish. God's speed, Vault Dweller."

As Herman disappeared down the street, his leather cloak flapped in the high winds. The dust drifted close to the ground and whipped around him, climbing his legs and snaking columns of grit around his entire body. He was invisible. A wraith, nothing could see him in the storm. The downside was that he couldn't see anything himself. Buildings melded into each other, every one looking identical. He was amazed that he wasn't lost.

Taking a left off of the main drag, he stumbled blindly through a side alley, finally reaching the tin siding of a shack. It was hidden from sight, tucked between two large brick buildings. Here, the fierce winds died down and Herman could see once more. With his free hand he pulled open the door and strolled inside.

The room possessed a wide variety of scents, the strongest of which was alcohol. It reminded him of the slave pens at home. He had come from a town far to the north named the Den, famous for its rampant slavery. His mother had sold his brother to the slavers. She had needed the money to buy some booze. You'd think that selling your body would be enough, but alcohol was pretty expensive.

Herman pinched his nose and glanced around for any signs of life. There a crash and the half-drunken figure of a man came to view. He looked at Herman for a few minutes before he smiled. "Vault Dweller! You have returned!" The words came with a wicked smile on his lips.
"You've been drinking, Greg."
"Who? Me?" said the other man with a laugh. He was wasted. Everything about the man showed the signs. Be it the bloodshot eyes, the impaired balance, or just the simple fact that a dirty bottle of booze was in his left hand. At one time, the bottle contained beer or whisky. Now, some entrepreneur had filled it with his own bathtub brew, fouler and more potent than anything made before the apocalypse.

"Cut the shit, Greg. I've done it. It's over."
"The drunken stupor left Greg's eyes and he suddenly looked at Herman with promise. "You mean..."
"Yes, Greg. You can go home."
A silence fell across the room. Background Greg's heavy breathing, the sounds of the sandstorm filled the air. It whipped and screamed like a wounded dog, scratching at everything and rattling the tin of the building's roof. Contrary to popular writing cliché, nothing broke the silence. Eventually even Greg's breathing died down as the storm grew only louder.

It was in the silence that Herman first took note of Greg's change. Greg had once been a kind and loving man. Those pale rosy cheeks, now scarred and brown, the carefree smile turned scowl, it scared Herman to think his friend gone and replaced by this drunkard. Even the memories seemed distant. It had been an eternity since they had last spoken.

In spite of the time spent in between, Herman could remember their parting as though it were yesterday...

"Herman, listen to me," Greg had said as the sun set behind him, "I can't go on anymore. The only thing stopping me from just collapsing here right now is this god forsaken quest that I have dragged you into. I need you to continue on without me, my friend. Save the vault."
Herman's expression was that of a dreadful fright. "But YOU are the Vault Dweller, not me!"
"The title of Vault Dweller is just that, a title. You can have it," replied Greg.
"Why? Why Greg?"
"I..."
Greg had never finished the sentence. He just handed Herman a faded blue suit and a canteen, the relics of the vault. Greg's face was dark, and only his outline was clear in the fading sunlight. A breath of wind fluttered his hair. He could see the individual rays of light passing through the hair, catching on the dust in the air. Herman had looked away, trying to accept the burden. Darkness came and he was alone.

Greg had gone home. The wasteland was safe from a madman, and yet Herman did not feel any better. He had lost a friend. No action could replace that now. Rather than whither away as Greg had, Herman decided to leave the Hub. The only thing he knew left to do was to return to his own home. He owed it to himself to save his kin, to right the wrongs of his mother before him.

So he began to walk. He walked onward, travelling blindly and letting his subconscious decide his path. It didn't take much time before he knew that his feet had taken him there. It was the smell that made him realize. It was the smell of alcohol, of poverty and death. It was the stench of the pens. It was... home.

As he leaned against a charred concrete wall, he took a look around, absorbing the familiar sights. Dominating his view was the old wooden church, rotting with age. Every day, it became a greater hazard to the youths that explore it for sport. He remembered falling through its roof when he was ten. There was no doctor in town. There never was. His leg had broke, and even now he walked with a slight limp.

Beyond the church, he could see a large brick building. A large sign had been set up outside. Written sloppily, it read 'slaves' for those who could read. The building had been expanded upon over the years, and the new rooms were poorly constructed out of scrap wood and metal. This was his destination. He sighed and stumbled forward.

With every step nearer, he felt older. The road of life seemed much shorter then. Was he fated to die here? The thought was not dismissed, but rather overlooked. He had made his decision. If he would die, then so be it. He had nothing to live for, anyway. At last, he stood before the building, staring one of the guards in the face. The guard snarled.

"I'm looking for a slave," said Herman, restraining his hand from a gun holstered at his side.
"Go inside, you armored freak."
As Herman walked past the guard to enter, the shoulder of his massive suit of armor hit the side of the doorway, shaking the wooden frame and unsettling dust long hidden in the cracks. Everyone in the room glanced at the door, looking with suspicion on the intruder. They were all playing cards. The third from the right was cheating. He slipped an ace into his hand when everyone turned their heads.

"I'm looking for a slave," repeated Herman, annoyed at the monotony of it all.
The largest one stood up from the table and looked Herman over. Tearing a charcoal drawing from the wall, he looked from the sketch to Herman again and again. It was when he put the drawing on the table that Herman caught glimpse of his own face beside the word 'WANTED.'
"You... you're the Vault Dweller."
Herman took a step back. He didn't think that the wanted posters would have been distributed this far north.
"Mr. Vault Dweller, might I ask why I shouldn't turn you in for the bounty right now?"
"Yeah, I'll tell you why. 'Cause I'll kick the shit out of you and your stupid friends."
"I'm not afraid of child killers."

Herman's face twisted when he heard it. There were so many thoughts that flooded his mind. Mostly, they were just memories of that day. He hadn't wanted to kill the boy, but the kid had run into a street full of crossfire. It was too late to question fate. The kid's parents had placed a bounty on his head. Poor kid, he was just another casualty of war.
"Listen, slaver, I don't really want to kill you. I just want to make a business deal, that's all."
The sarcasm on the slaver's face stretched from ear to ear. "Business deal, huh? And what exactly is the deal? You're outnumbered and in NO position to make demands."
"I'm giving you one last chance..."
"You know, a bounty hunter came by two days ago and told us you'd come by this way."
"Why didn't this bounty hunter stick around to catch me himself?"
"Who ever said he left?"
Herman reached for his gun too late, feeling the butt of a pistol hit the back of his skull with a crack. The only thought that escaped his mind was 'fucking helmet... where did it go?'

Faintly, he could hear voices. With a start he realized that he hadn't been knocked unconscious. Still, the blow to the head had left his mind in a mess. When finally he remembered what was happening, he cracked one of his eyes open, trying to put faces to the people talking. In addition to the leather-garbed slavers, a large man in a kevlar suit stood nearby. He must be the bounty hunter.

"The plan worked perfectly," said the bounty hunter, "Here, take your share of the profits."
The large slaver took a small sack from the bounty hunter's hand. As the slaver put it on the table, Herman could hear the click of money as it shuffled in the cloth. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you... Chris is it?"
"Yeah," Chris said, pointing to a button pinned to his armor. Herman could barely make it out from the floor. 'I'm Christopher and you're meat.' At least, that's what he thought it said. He couldn't be sure.
"Take his gun and tie him up. I'll go get the brahmen."

Brahmen, called such by the people in the area, were the livestock of the post-apocalyptic world. No one called them cows anymore; after all, they had mutated a second head! From what Herman could piece together, this Chris guy was going to take him back to the Hub as luggage. It would be an unpleasant experience, that is, if Chris wasn't going to kill him first.

Chris reached down, taking Herman's shotgun from its holster. It wasn't even a semi-automatic model; it was the only gun that he had been able to find when he woke up on the crater rim. He heard the gun's first hammer cock. The second one clicked into place soon after. Herman closed his eye and waited for death.

"Stop!" The voice was so familiar that Herman opened his eyes in surprise. It was the last voice he had expected to hear. What ensued was chaos...

Gunshots rang as the slavers took aim at the intruder. The blasts became a deafening roar as the bullets hit brick and wood. Chris looked up and Herman reached for the shotgun. Sweat dripped from his hands as they gripped the cold steel of the gun's barrel, wrenching it free from the bounty hunter's hand.

Time slowed. Actually, it was almost like it had stopped. Its funny the faces we all make we encounter the unexpected. Chris was the perfect example. His eyebrows knotted and his mouth half open, he stared back down at the end of Herman's gun. Herman himself clenched his teeth and tensed as his fingers closed on one of the two triggers. There was a flash, then time resumed as though it had never halted.

The marred remains of Chris' face hit the floorboards with a thud. Herman leaped to his feet and pointed the gun at one of the slavers. They stopped shooting. One of them, the one with the gun to his chest, dropped his own pistol. A trickle of urine leaked down his leg.

"You win!" yelled the large slaver, putting his hands into the air. "I don't want to get shot, and I'm sure as hell confidant that you don't either."
"Tell me who you sold my brother to and I'll leave."
"Your brother? How am I supposed to know which slave he was???"
"Drunk whore sold her first son to you for a quick fix some eight years ago. THINK!" He pressed the gun's barrel against the slaver's neck.
"A whore's son? You mean that dumbass, Ingo? Yeah, he's in the back. We kept him because he was a decent cook. HEY INGO! GET OUT HERE!"
A rather tanned young man stepped cautiously out of the back room. He was only wearing a pair of tattered pants. As the two brothers locked eyes, Herman smiled. Ingo laughed and ran outside. Herman slowly backed out too, careful not to take his aim from the slaver.

As he reached the doorframe, Herman stepped lightly over Greg's corpse, riddled with a dozen or so bullets. Such ended the tale of Greg, the Vault Dweller.

[Blacken]

VERY nice. Exceptionally written, except for a couple small grammar issues, but an excellent story.

[DJ Slamák]

Wow. I should read more often.