Fallout: Aftermath

[Bebop Magnum]

Hello. My name is Zac and I'm this many *raises three hands, adding up to the number 14*
And this is my fan fiction, Fallout: Aftermath. It is the tale of a man, determined to build the perfect life for a boy whose life has been destroyed by the harsh realities of the wasteland. It is violent, and not intended for the young or faint of heart. Ironic eh? The young writing a story not intended for the young... ah. Anyway, Enjoi.


WARNING: The following story contains scenes of extreme violence, adult language, drug use, and insanity. It is not intended for children and should be read with discretion.




Fallout
Aftermath
by Zachary Calloway



Chapter One: The Capital Wasteland

Jack Harding sighed deeply as the sun began to rise in the distance, a small red disc clouded by radiated mist. The sun hadn't been yellow or even orange for a century. Since before the bombs fell, thought Jack somberly, taking a seat on a punctured, overturned barrel.
Just another day in the capital wasteland.

Jack rose from his seat, and walked towards a wooden framed house, which had served as his only shelter in this hell of a world. The house had no roof, and a gaping hole in it's side. At one point, the house had been a two-story building, but debris had blocked off the stairs, which ironically, would have led to nothing. The whole second floor had been blown off when the first of several dozen nuclear bombs hit Washington, only several miles from the house. But it was the only safe building for miles, and it would have to serve as his shelter until something better could be found.

Jack crossed through the destroyed living room, burnt objects crunching under his feet and flying away into the morning breeze. The wastelander opened up a weathered old cabinet, and searched through the worn clothes. He felt something long and heavy, and withdrew it from the cabinet. It was his .32 caliber bolt action hunting rifle. It was old, and the wood had splintered, so Jack had to wrap dirty cloth around the but of the gun. The metal parts, notably the trigger and iron sights, had rusted over time. The rifle was in very bad shape, and Jack had only managed to keep it working this long by finding suitable parts to repair it with.

He slung the weapon over his shoulder using a leather strap he had fashioned, and grabbed a red box from atop the cabinet. Looking inside, he determined there were fifteen .32 rounds remaining, not including the five that were inside his rifle already. Jack then retrieved several bottles of dirty water from a dresser he used to store equipment, and tossed them into a backpack, which he had found in a school nearby. Springvale, or something like that. The only reason Jack wasn't staying there right now, was because it was infested with giant, mutated insects.
On his way out, Jack used a piece of chalk to mark a line on a chalkboard near the door, indicating this as his thirty-ninth day since he left Springvale. Before that day, Jack had no idea how long he had been out in the wastes. A year or two, easily. He had lost track of time in the unforgivable wasteland. His only goal was survival. It was all that kept him from going insane.

And so Jack ventured out into the wastes, in search of food, supplies, and possibly an ally. But friends were hard to come by out here, at least sane ones anyway. Jack had met a few people that weren't quite straight in the head. Mostly it was because they were on some kind of drug. Buffout, Mentats, Jet, Psycho. Their use had skyrocketed since the Great War. If you didn't go nuts now days, you were likely a junkie.
A morning fog clung to the air, and Jack made sure not to walk directly through it. He had witnessed the death of several men due to radiation. Jack wasn't about to join them. The world may lay in ruins, but there was still something out there he was looking for.

Radiation in the wasteland could easily become deadly. The wastelander had almost walked straight through greenish puddles of water. Normally, he'd drink from them. Despite the fact that it could severely damage his body, radiated water was about the only kind of water around now days. But today, Jack had five full bottles of water. Hopefully he'd find food or supplies before they ran out.

Leaving the safety of his home wasn't a smart idea, but Jack hadn't eaten in at least a day. It wouldn't be difficult to hunt down a mutated mole rat or two. Their meat was tough, and also fairly radiated (who knows what those little bastards crawled through) but food was food. And Jack needed it. He also needed supplies. A tarp or cover to shield his house from acid rain. And some ammunition for his gun. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.
After traveling a few miles from his home, Jack found what he was looking for. Just down the hill he stood on, was a large super market. The logo was missing a few letters, saying "Supe D per M rt" instead of "Super Duper Mart" but it was still intact for the most part. Jack was sure he could find all he needed inside. He could possibly even make it his new shelter. It did have a roof after all.

But Jack had found many places he thought he could call home, only to discover it was infested with vicious dogs, mutants, or raiders. And so Jack didn't let his hopes go up when he entered the store. It was very dark inside, the only light coming from the many windows and glass doors. Jack found an overturned shopping cart, and inside of it, a net filled with "Dandy Boy" apples, and a box of Sugar Bombs. This place probably hasn't been running since the 50's, thought Jack, noting the word 'dandy' as he tossed the food into his backpack.

He searched the cash registers, but found only money from before the war, green bills with numbers in the corners, and pictures of presidents or historical figures. Not a single bottlecap, the currency now used by the survivors of the Great War. Not that it mattered, Jack hadn't seen a single settlement where bottlecaps could buy much. The only town nearby he knew of was Megaton, but it was across the cesspool of radiation that was the Potomac river.

After looking through all the cash registers, he checked the shelves. Nothing. Not even a single bag of chips. Probably got ransacked years ago. Suddenly, something fell and clattered in the distance, followed by a loud cursing.
Or maybe someone's still here.

Jack cautiously crept through the aisles, occasionally looking over the tops of shelves. Finally, he spotted them. Four living, breathing, and apparently, talking, humans. One of them was burly, easily twice the size of Jack. He wore no shirt, and his bulging arms were exposed, clenched around a bloody sledgehammer. He wore a full-faced leather mask, with small holes for breathing.

The next man was very tall, and wore a suit of spiked armor, reminiscent of medieval chain mail. In his hand was a sub-machine gun, likely 10mm. The third was slightly shorter, and adorned in a long, green coat. He had a military style combat knife in his hand. The fourth and final, was certainly the strangest of them all. It was a woman, wearing what appeared to be a pre-war prostitute outfit. She had a light brown Mohawk, and on her back was a massive metal tank. A thick tube curled it's way from the tank, over her shoulder, and ending in a nozzle similar to a fireman's water hose.

They all appeared to be in a serious argument, and Jack strained to hear them.
"...but that doesn't mean that's all of them. It's possible that woman has a child. She does seem to be in a lot of grief," Jack heard the tallest one say. The big one with the sledgehammer grunted in reply.
"I say we go back to the store 'n check," said the woman in a British accent.
"Why?" asked the man in the green coat.
"We already got about two dozen of 'em. The slavers'd be more than willing to pay a few thousand bottlecaps, child or not."
"True," replied the tall man.
"But they'd pay just a few thousand for the child alone. Easy labor. At least, until they get in their teens and become stubborn, smart-mouthed punks."
"We don't even know if the woman has a child," said the man in the green coat, slightly agitated.
The man with the sledgehammer again grunted in reply, almost as if he agreed.

"Well, it's still worth checking. It will only take an hour at most to find the store again. An hour of work will be well worth the caps we'd get for the boy."
"Oh really?" said the other.
"Would an hour of work be worth the supplies if we don't find him?"
Jack finally realized what was going on. These were raiders, heartless bandits who roam the wasteland, killing who and what they like. Apparently they'd captured a group of travelers, and plan to sell them to slavers.
He watched contently as the raiders walked to the back of the market, where the tallest man, likely the leader, grabbed some supplies off a shelf.
"Whether you like it or not, we're going back to the store to search for some more slaves," he said, loading a clip into his machine gun.
Jack knew the dangers of scavenging the place while they remained here, so he prepared to leave, and return after they left. It was then that Jack spotted the boy.

He was slowly sneaking through an adjacent aisle, towards the raiders. In this hand was a large weed knife, and on his face was a look of utter fury.
This must be the boy they spoke of, thought Jack, as he watched him move past the shelves, towards the raiders. As the boy raised the knife, his face contorting into pure hatred, Jack suddenly understood something: this boy was not trying to survive, he was looking for revenge.




















Chapter Two: Raiders

The boy drew shallow breaths as he approached the raiders. He clenched the weed knife so hard his knuckles turned white, and he almost drew blood from squeezing the jagged leather so tightly.
Those heartless bastards! They took my mother!

He could still remember the last words her lips spoke before the raiders attacked: ‘Don't forget to lock the back door on your way back in Timmy.’
Damn it, it's all my fault! thought Tim bitterly. Tim raised his shaking hand, rattling the knife as he glared at the biggest raider, the one with the sledgehammer.
I'll kill you!

Tim could still vividly remember the moment that man caved in his poor dog's skull, and choked his only brother. Tim had no idea where his father was, but for the most part he didn't care. His father had always been a mean man to Tim, never letting him do anything fun, always scolding him or arguing with his mother. Tim wouldn't be surprised if he was hiding in the cellar back at the shop right now.

Out of pure anger and hatred, Tim shouted "You psycho! I'll kill you!" at the largest raider.
The four raiders spun around. A wicked grin spread across the leader's face.
"Looks like the search is over fellas! Get him!"

* * *

Jack watched helplessly as the boy shouted at the raiders, all while threateningly waving the knife. The raiders bound after the boy, who fearlessly held his ground. Jack had to act. He slipped the rifle off of his shoulder, and pulled back the bolt, which loaded a round into the chamber. He then looked down the iron sights, his eyes on the knife wielding man in the green coat, who was quickly approaching the boy. Jack grudgingly pulled the trigger, for he had never shot at a man before. The bullet zipped through the store, and lodged itself in the man's waist. He groaned and hit the ground hard, a gallon of blood quickly pouring out of the open wound.

The knife clattered to the floor, and the man scrambled over the pool of blood to reach it. Jack sighed. Even in near-death circumstances, the blood-thirsty raider wouldn't stop in his pursuit to cause harm.
"Another one!" shouted the woman, flipping a switch on her tank, and pointing to Jack.
"I only want the boy, go ahead and kill him!" shouted the leader.
Jack hid behind the shelf as SMG bullets battered the other side. Jack pulled the bolt, which ejected the smoking, empty shell from the chamber. He slid it back into place, which prepared another bullet.
"Rorik, go after the boy! Us three will take care of this fool!"
When someone made an animalistic grunt in reply, Jack was positive Rorik was the big one. And that meant the boy was in deep trouble.

"Fire in the hole!" shouted the leader, as something bounced across the floor near Jack's feet. It clattered to a stop when it hit the adjacent shelf. It was then when Jack realized what the object was. A hand grenade. Without even thinking, Jack hastily grabbed the grenade, and lobbed it over the shelf. He heard the leader scream in protest just before the grenade exploded.

Half of the market was veiled in smoke, which gave Jack time to go after Rorik and the boy. But groans of pain told him the raiders were still very much alive. He didn't have time to waste. Jack rushed towards the back half of the market, and found Rorik circling the pharmacy, a curved counter lined with cabinets.

"Come out little one, and maybe I won't have to hurt you like the poor lil' puppy," said the giant, his enormous head shaking with laughter.
"You son of a bitch!"
The boy revealed himself by hopping over the counter, knife still in hand. He closed the ten foot space in between the counter and the raider in seconds. But before he could swing the knife, the massive sledgehammer whirled through the air, and caught him in the wrist. With a sickening crunch, the boy was flung through the air, landing unconsciously next to the counter.

The raider roared in anger.
"Now why'd you 'afta go an do that sonny? Boss man told me not to 'urt you! Oh well, guess I gotta kill ya now, seein as ya' can't work with a broken wrist an' all..."
"Think again," said Jack, aiming at the man's forehead.
"Aw shi-"

The .32 bullet shot through the air, unfortunately hitting the bandit's shoulder plate. It made it half way through the spiked metal, and at the very most, only left a small bruise on the raider's shoulder.
"Wot a lucky day for me, I get ta' kill both of ya'."
Jack nervously ejected the shell and pulled the bolt back into place, but the giant was already upon him. Jack raised the old, wooden rifle up in defense, but it wasn't necessary. The boy had returned to consciousness, and drove the weed knife into the raider's giant neck. Blood shot out like a fireman's hose, but the giant remained still, a smile slowly forming on his face.

"Boss man said them implants would save meh life some day, but I never believed 'em. Nice try little 'un, but I got three-inch metal plates under mah skin. You might draw blood but you won't reach mah vitals," said the behemoth, grinning.
Rorik slowly removed the knife from his neck, and batted the helpless boy aside. The giant drew closer to the boy, and raised the sledgehammer high. But this time, Jack's aim was true. A bullet streaked through the air, digging into Rorik's right eye. He roared in fury, and toppled over in pain. Jack switched the gun to his left hand, and used the right to help the boy up.

"Come on, we don't have time!"
The boy winced as Jack gripped his wrist.
"Sorry, here," said Jack, wrapping the cloth from his gun around the boy's wrist, making a homemade sling.
"Now come with me!"
The two raced off towards a door marked 'EXIT'. Jack could hear the other three raiders yell and shout: they had apparently recovered from the grenade's incapacitating blow. It seems the explosion itself didn't hit them. Jack pulled and tugged on the door knob, but it wouldn't budge. They were locked inside.

They had to find a way out! Jack led the boy down an aisle, and hid behind the shelf.
"Stay... here..." panted an exhausted Jack. The boy had a look of utter terror on his face, but he silently nodded in reply. Jack crouched low, and sped off through the aisle. He came to a counter, and slid over onto the other side. He then pulled a pair of binoculars out from his backpack, and zoomed in on the spot where the raiders were.

He could see the leader, as well as the woman, in deep conversation. Jack then looked down to see the wounded man in the green coat, pleading with them to help him. Jack saw the leader say something, smile, then point the gun at the wounded man. Jack closed his eyes and heard a grotesque 'pop' as the bullet passed through the man's skull. Opening his eyes, Jack could just see the leader and the woman run off, towards the spot Rorik had gone. They would soon find a dead Rorik, and begin looking for him and the boy.

Jack raced back to the boy, promptly grabbed his uninjured wrist, and led him off to the entrance of the store. Unfortunately, the woman had been asked to guard it, so Jack had to turn back around. He again sped off with the boy, and this time found an emergency ladder.
"Do you think you can climb that?" whispered Jack.
The boy looked as if he were about to cry, but he nodded.
"Good. Go!"
Tim began to climb up the ladder, Jack carefully holding his feet to make sure he made it up safely. The boy had already reached the hatch in the roof by the time they found Jack.
"Where's the boy?" said the leader, his gun prodding into Jack's back.
"It's too late," said Jack with a false grin.
"I'm afraid not," replied the leader.
"The roof's edges are lined with barb wire. Not to mention it's covered in mines. Chances are, the boy is already dead."
"Ulrich, he hasn't tried the entrance yet-" said the woman, appearing around the edge of an aisle.
"It's alright Jessica," said Ulrich.
"We found him."

* * *

Tim crawled over the threshold, and collapsed on his back onto the roof, panting. He had never been so scared in his life. He looked around, and finally spotted a way down. On the far edge of the roof was a long slab of concrete, which lead down to the ground. Unfortunately, the edges were lined with barbwire. Getting down would take some time. He began to walk towards the edge, when he noticed something odd.

A strange, round object lay at his feet, with a beeping orange circle in the center. Tim cautiously backed up, unaware of it's purpose. He grabbed a small, broken slab of concrete from the ground, and tossed it at the object. Immediately, the object exploded, digging a three-feet deep hole into the roof, and sending dust and debris flying fifteen feet into the air. Tim covered his eyes as the dust began to settle. Mines. Land mines.

Tim began the long, cautious journey across the mine-laden roof, towards the edge of the building. He made sure not to come within a foot of each mine.
Suddenly, near the edge of the building, a second hatch opened. Out climbed Rorik. He smiled wickedly, the sledgehammer gleaming in the evening sun. His eye ball was dangling by the optic nerve, and a massive, bloody gash was in his neck, but the man remained alive.
"Play time," he said, ripping the eye from it's socket as he approached the boy.

* * *



"Take us to the boy."
"He's on the roof."
"Fine. Lead the way," said the leader, pushing the gun barrel into Jack's spine. Jack began the long climb up the ladder, the two raiders following behind.

* * *

The boy backed up, checking for mines along the way, as the giant of a man got closer and closer.
"Ow'd you like to die, sonny? Slowly? More slowly? As painfully as possible? I try to make death as enjoyable as possible... for me, that is."
"Go fuck yourself," said the boy, remembering the atrocious acts this man committed earlier that day.
"Not wise at all, little one."
The boy's eyes narrowed.
"You killed my brother. You slaughtered my dog. You destroyed our only shelter. And you and your bastard friends took my mother!"
"Life's a bitch, huh sonny?"
The boy stopped backing up, and clenched his fists.
"Get it over with," he said, a tear streaking down his face. Death was not an easy adversary to confront. The hulking man sped up, raising the sledgehammer. Just before he could finish the boy, the young man decided it was not yet his time. He ducked to the side, narrowly avoiding the sledgehammer. Luckily for him, a mine was only inches behind the boy, and the sledgehammer landed directly on it.

In a fiery explosion, the behemoth was destroyed once and for all. The metal head of his sledgehammer fell from the sky, and sunk into the concrete next to Tim's feet.
When the smoke cleared, all that was left of the raider was a few burnt limbs, and a pile of blood and guts.

"Well well well!"
Tim turned around to see the leader of the raiders, and the woman with the Mohawk behind him. The man who had saved Tim was in front of them, hands behind his back.
"You actually managed to kill Rorik. I figured that was impossible with the implants, but you proved me wrong. It's too bad we have to kill you," said the leader, pointing towards the hand in the sling.

Ulrich walked towards Tim, loading a new clip into his machine gun as he did. He pointed the weapon at Tim, and smiled like he did before he killed his ally. Jack slowly walked backwards, out of the sight of Jessica. He used the sharp points of the ladder to cut the restraints on his wrist. Jack then took his rifle, and pointed it to Jessica's head. She gasped, and Ulrich turned around.
"Spare the boy or your friend bites the dust."
"You wouldn't."
"Don't fucking tempt me!"
Ulrich laughed. Jack suddenly remembered that Ulrich had heartlessly slaughtered his fellow team mate.
"You cold hearted bastard..."
"Once the boy is dead, you're next," said Ulrich, turning around and walking towards the boy again. Jack decided now was time. He slammed the but of the gun into Jessica's head, splintering the wood into a hundred pieces. Then, before Ulrich could turn around and fire in retaliation, Jack aimed the hunting rifle at him and fired. Ulrich’s shoulder exploded into a thousand bloody pieces, exposing his shoulder blade and the tendons of muscle attached to it. He screamed in agony, falling over as he did.

Machine gun bullets zipped towards the heavens as Ulrich instinctively pulled the trigger. A molten hot shell hit the concrete, and another replaced in in the chamber. Jack immediately fired again. This time the bullet struck his leg, blasting off his knee cap. The third and final shot ripped clean through his chain mail-covered chest, silencing him for good.
Jack tossed the now worthless rifle to the ground, and approached the boy.
"It's time to go."
The boy looked at Jack silently, his mind whirring. His tears finally caught up with him. Tim raced towards Jack, embracing him. Jack couldn't even begin to imagine the horrors he had witnessed in the past few days. A metallic click reverberated through the air, causing Jack to turn around.
"I-if I-I-I'm g-going t-to die h-here t-t-today, I'm t-taking you t-two with m-me..." said Ulrich, pointing the sub machine gun towards Jack and Tim.
"Go to hell," replied Jack, noticing what Ulrich was crawling towards. Before Ulrich even knew what had happened, the mine exploded, and he thought no more. Jack and Tim stood there, together, for several minutes. Tim sobbed silently in Jack's arms.
"Time to go," said Jack.





















Chapter Three: Shepherd of the wastes


Jack led the boy through the rubble and wreckage of a destroyed and deserted town. Night was closing in, and the sky had become a dull purple. A cool wind whipped against Jack’s face as he turned a corner, onto a street filled with overturned garbage cans and burnt, unrecognizable objects. Tim struggled to keep up, often tripping awkwardly over things. Jack could sympathize. Tim had probably gotten no sleep in the past three days, and the fact that they had been traveling for hours since they left the market hadn’t helped. Jack decided to stop for the night somewhere, hopefully a place with decent shelter from the cold and rain, and a place that could conceal them.

It would probably be better than the destroyed house Jack had stayed in for several months, because they needed extra room for the boy. They soon found the perfect place, a run-down gas station on the outskirts of the town. The open wasteland could be seen on the horizon beyond, where the sun was setting below the hills. Jack opened the broken glass doors and let the boy inside, who promptly rolled up in the corner and laid down. Jack tossed a ragged blanket from his backpack over the boy, who immediately curled up to sleep. Jack did the same, finding a spot on a wide window seal that had been covered up by bricks.

He had no blanket or sheet to cover up with, and soon the cold winds managed to seep their way through the broken doors. They attempted to block it with a drink cooler, but it remained chilly inside. However, Jack found a dirty tarp in the back room, which he used to wrap up in. Before he could fall asleep, the boy spoke.
“Thank you for saving me,� he said quietly, barely audible over the ash storm that was blowing through the town outside.
“Don’t worry about it,� replied Jack. “Anyone would have done it.�
Tim was silent for several moments, but finally spoke.
“Anyone would have saved a useless boy from a group of dangerous bandits?� said Tim apathetically.
“You aren’t useless,� said Jack with a sympathetic tone.
“Father thought so. That’s why he never talked to me.�
“Well, your father was wrong. And I promise you, we will get your mother back,� said Jack, sitting up.
“Promise?� asked the boy, getting out from his blanket and facing Jack.
“Promise.� replied Jack, walked over to the boy, and grabbing his shoulder.
The boy shrugged his hand away, and returned to his makeshift bed.
“But we don’t even know where they took her,� said Tim gloomily.
Jack paced the room, thinking hard.
“You said your family was originally staying in a store, correct?�
“A convenience store that we found, yes. We also had another family with us, the Pell’s.�
“All right, then let’s go there,� said Jack.
“What? But they took everyone from the store! I saw them take my mother too!�
“Look, it’s our only lead. If we go there we may find a clue as to where your family is. There could be someone who wasn’t taken, I don’t know. It’s worth a try.�
The boy remained silent, unmoving.
“Fine. But what if nobody’s there?�
“Then we keep looking. I hear the town of Megaton is across the Potomac. They get all kinds of visitors. Maybe they’ve heard of your Mother’s whereabouts.�
Tim crossed his arms, his eyes getting watery.
“You really think we can find Mom?�
Jack again placed his hand on Tim’s shoulder.
“Yes. I do,� said Jack, his voice not wavering whatsoever.

Tim smiled, his hopes rising. The young man crossed the room and curled up in his blankets once again. After several minutes, Tim spoke again.
“Mr. Harding?� he said.
“Yes?�
“Can you make sure the monsters don’t come back?�
Jack remained silent, unsure of what the boy meant. This was certainly not a time for joking.
“Monsters? Aren’t you a little old for that?�
“I’m thirteen,� replied the boy. “But I don’t mean under-the-bed monsters or the ones in your closet. I mean…�
Jack finally understood.
“You mean radiated creatures? Like a mole rat?�
“Mole rat? No… me and my family survived off of mole rats mostly… I meant…�
Tim swallowed hard, suddenly aware that ‘they’ could be within the town.
“The Death Claws,� he said, frightened beyond repair.
“Death Claws? What’s a ‘Death Claw’?� asked Jack, still thinking the boy was pulling his leg.
“That’s what our group called them. They prowled outside our store at night… they would run their claws along the windows and the glass doors, leaving huge scratch marks. My father saw one a month ago. He was never the same… and John Pell, he actually got up close to one. He said it was huge, easily nine feet tall. He said it had massive claws on it’s fingers, and horns on it’s head. He had a gun, though. Managed to hold it off until he could escape back into the store. But he told us the thing ran at him like a cheetah, maybe faster. It leapt at the door and left a massive dent in it. For some reason though, it didn’t break in, despite the fact it could. When the Raiders set up camp a mile from our store, they seemed to have migrated. I almost wished they had stayed.�

The boy finished his story, and began to take a gulp from his water bottle.
Jack sat down, unsure if he wanted to know this. Death Claws? Massive creatures that move like cheetahs? Jack had encountered a lot of things in his time in the wastes. Mutated things. Strange plants that had evolved into poison spitting death traps. Pits of muck that could suck a man to his death. And of course, Raiders. But not once had he heard of Death Claws, or anything similar. He was certainly not as frightened as the boy, but it definitely wasn’t good news.
“I’ll be right back,� said Jack, who walked into the aisles of the gas station. He gathered some food: several bags of chips, three bags of apples, a dozen bottles of water, and some candy, and tossed them into his backpack. He then searched behind the counter. He found a worn baseball bat, probably for protection. It was covered in dust and spider webs; the thing had probably been there for years.

Jack also found a box full of ammunition under the counter. It was .32 caliber, the same kind of round his old hunting rifle had used. He emptied the box into a pouch on his waist, where the rest of his rifle’s ammunition was. It could be useful, after all. He was about to find out. Jack looked around, and quickly found what he was looking for. Across the way was a small gun safe, nestled between some dusty boxes of books. Jack tried to open it, but it was still locked as if the place had been running yesterday.

He kicked it repeatedly, and slammed it against the wall, but it didn’t budge. Two hundred years have passed since the Great War, yet a damn gun safe is still in perfect condition! thought Jack, giving it a final kick. He then remembered the baseball bat he had found only minutes ago. With several whacks, the safe’s cover broke off, revealing the contents inside: six rounds of .32 caliber ammunition, and a silver revolver, gleaming in moonlight, which shone through several holes in the ceiling.

Jack examined the weapon, determining it to be in useable shape. He loaded all six rounds into it, and stowed the gun in his pocket. After making sure the safety on it was set, he opened a door marked ‘storage’ both in English and some other language, probably Arabic. Inside he found mostly boxes, but did see a pile of 2x4 wooden boards. He grabbed them all and dumped them into a box. He grabbed a tool case, and returned to the entrance of the store.
“What are you doing?� asked the boy.
“Just a few changes, don’t worry about it,� said Jack, grabbing a hammer and making for the broken glass doors. He smashed them apart, spreading the glass out into the streets with his feet.

Then he kicked off the weathered, old door frame, and tossed it out as well. Jack began to nail the boards onto the doorway. After a good dozen had been nailed, he placed two drink coolers from the aisle In front of it. Finally pleased with his work, Jack sat down in front of the fortified doorway.
“What have you done?� asked the boy, returning from the aisles with a Nuka-Cola and some chips.
Jack gripped his revolver tightly, as the boy dropped his drink.
“You saw them!�
“No, nothing like that,� said Jack in a reassuring voice.
“Go to sleep. We have a long walk tomorrow.�
Tim did as he was told, and wrapped back up in his blanket.
“You’ll keep the monsters away, right Mr. Harding?�
Jack pulled out the revolver, and swung open the chamber.
“Yes. I’ll keep the monsters away, Tim.�

* * *

The next day, after having a breakfast of moldy bread, chips, and water, Jack and Tim left their gas station behind. They had to break through a high-up window in the storage room, but managed to get out safely without endangering their safe haven. Jack and Tim headed north from the wrecked town, off into the wastes. Tim had only said that their store was directly north of the town, because they had visited it once before for food and supplies.
“I think an ash storm is coming,� said Jack, gazing into the sky as they walked.
“How do you know?�
“Well… I’ve seen a lot of things in my years, Tim. I’ve learned to watch the skies. Usually they get dark before it rains. Most people know that, unless you grew up in a Vault like me. But I’ve often seen the skies become yellow like that. It usually means there is a lot of sulfur or some form of chemical building up in the Atmosphere. This means an ash storm will soon occur. I’m not too advanced when it comes to Science, or the Atmosphere, I don’t go by the books. Just by memory and experience, and I’m sure an ash storm is coming.�
“Well what do we do?� asked Tim, watching the skies intently.

Jack looked around the desert, searching for something, anything to cover them.
“In an open place like this? I’m not sure. I’m usually not out this far into the
wasteland. I only leave my dwelling for a few miles, and I’ve managed to survive for easily half a decade like that. But this… this is not good. We’ve got to find some shelter, and fast. Ash storms can be deadly, and quick. It blinds you, and if you inhale too much you’ll pass out, and eventually die. We’ve got to go, now!� Jack motioned Tim to follow, and they sped off north.

As thunder rumbled above, and wind began to blow the dust back and forth, the two reached a cliff, overlooking a wide valley filled with dead trees. In the middle of the valley was a large convenience store.
“Is that the place?� asked a hopeful Jack.
“I think so!�
The two sped off down the hill, towards the building, while the dust began to whip around violently, partially blinding them.
“Faster! It’s gonna get a lot worse, and we don’t wanna be left out here!� shouted Jack over the rumbling storm. The sky had turned a bright yellow, that contrasted the dark thunder clouds scattered across it. Lightning, transformed by the radiated atmosphere, cascaded across the heavens.

Jack and the boy reached the store as ash began to fall from the sky.
“What’s happened?� said an astounded Tim, as he saw the glass doors, which were shattered and bent inwards.
“That didn’t happen when the Raiders attacked?� asked Jack, walking into the dimly lit store. Several candles fluttered on the tops of counters.
“No… no, the Raiders walked right on in, the doors weren’t even locked that day!� said Tim, following Jack.
“Stay here,� said Jack, cautious of what remained in Tim’s makeshift home.

He walked into the store, through the aisles. The place was an utter wreck: shelves knocked over, spilling their contents, piles of broken glass and china, blood smeared on the walls. Jack was awfully glad Tim escaped before the Raiders did all this. He would have to ask for the details later.

Jack found a storage room at the back, similar to the one in their gas station. But when Jack opened the door, he immediately heard an odd fidgeting sound, followed by spastic stuttering, almost human sounding. Almost. Jack walked ten feet into the room, when a figure shot up from behind an overturned desk. Jack gripped his pistol, but immediately loosened his grip when he saw the man. His torn shirt was covered in blood, and a bloody weed knife was in his right hand. The man’s other hand was covered behind the desk.
“T-t-they L-left M-me. L-like I was n-nobody. W-why? Was I not g-good enough for them?� said the man in a crazed stutter.
“Who left you?� said Jack, cautiously stepping back from the man.
“T-the R-raiders… t-they took everyone b-but me and the P-Pells…�
“You mean… you’re from the group that stayed in this building?� asked Jack, astounded that this was a remnant from Tim’s group, or possibly his family.
“Oh yes, yes yes yes… but u-unlike the rest, I survived! The R-raiders didn’t open the storage door, and t-they d-didn’t find me or the P-Pells!�

Suddenly, the man dropped the weed knife, and drew something from his pockets. Jack almost aimed the gun at him, but the man’s hand soon returned holding a strange, syringe-like object. He injected it into his wrist, and sighed in pleasure. Jack knew it was probably Psycho or Jet, one of the more popular illegal drugs before the Great War. Despite the war, they were still made by shady organizations. The crazed man then grabbed a jar from the floor, and popped a few pills in his mouth. It was probably Buffout, a kind of “super steroid�. Whoever this man was, he had gone completely insane, either from being alone for so long, or from the drugs. Either way, he was very unstable, and thus, dangerous.

“H-have you c-come to free me?�
“Free you?� asked Jack. “You were locked in here?�
“Oh y-yes. A-A-Anthony P-Pell left, and locked me inside. B-but you’re going to free me, right?�
“Why did Anthony Pell leave?� asked Jack, trying to see behind the overturned desk.
“O-oh, t-this Is p-probably w-why,� said the insane man, raising something from behind the desk. That was the last thing it took to break Jack’s gag reflex. He vomited right there, onto the floor. He wiped his mouth, and faced the twisted man, who was holding a dismembered head.
“I h-had to k-kill his f-father… because he t-tried to leave m-me.�
“Stay back!� said Jack, pointing the revolver at the man.
The insane man recoiled, disappearing behind the overturned desk. Jack slowly walked around, to see a horrifying site. The rest of John Pell, headless and all, lay slumped over in a pool of blood.

Jack grimaced, and watched as the man fell further back into the room. Before he disappeared from sight, Tim walked through the doorway.
“It’s dad! Don’t shoot Jack!�
“Tim, go back to where I told you. Now!�
“But-� it was then that Tim noticed the blood on his father’s shirt, the dead body, and the various drugs scattered across the floor.
“Oh my god…�
“Tim, please, I need you to leave,� pleaded Jack, cocking the hammer back on the revolver.
Tim’s eyes were already becoming red with tears, but he grudgingly left the room. Jack closed the door, and approached the crazed man, who lay slumped over in the corner.
“A-Are y-you going t-to save me?�
I suspect Tim’s father was a junkie all along. He probably got jacked up on so many drugs, his already dim reasoning fell through the floor. It only took one slight thought to murder the life of John Pell, and destroy what was left of Tim’s. This man is a danger to anyone else around him, including me and Tim. He can’t be reasoned with. He can’t be dealt with or persuaded. He’s best left dead. He never cared for Tim, or his mother. I’ve heard Tim’s story. I have to act.

With one good swing with the baseball bat, Tim’s father hit the floor, unconscious. But Jack didn’t stop. He closed his eyes, and swung again, and again. He didn’t stop until the face beneath him was unrecognizable, more so than it already was. Jack walked away, leaving the bloody bat behind. He found Tim waiting at the entrance. The ash storm outside had subsided. The two walked far away from the store, Tim didn’t ask a single question, he merely sobbed silently. Though Jack didn’t have the heart to tell him what had occurred, Tim already knew.

[S4ur0n27]

lol

[Bebop Magnum]

Uh... what's so funny?

[SenisterDenister]

You really don't know whats funny? Have you even looked through this forum?


This forum is no place for the likes of you.

[Blargh]

I feel I should congratulate you, Zach. That was the most painful thing I've read in almost thirteen days.

[Dogmeatlives]

its pretty good for your age. To br critical, names need changing. Descriptions need to sit in the oven a bit longer.

instaedof "He searched the cash registers, but found only money from before the war, green bills with numbers in the corners, and pictures of presidents or historical figures. Not a single bottlecap, the currency now used by the survivors of the Great War."

Maybe- The register drawers opened with a "ka-ching" that made Jack jump back each time, and inside the drawers was only stale and decomposing paper money, currency of the old world from before the Great WAr. He grabbed a stack of this paper, and thumbed through it out of curiousity. On the paper were the faces of forgotten men , each with his own corresponding number, and as Jack continued his fruitless search for caps, the currency of this new world, or anything else that could be of use, he pondered , as he had done many times before, the relationship between the men and the numbers, and after some time, came to the conclusion that the answer wold probably never be known."

Got a little carried away there. Anyway, try focussing more on seeing the world from the character's eyes. Post-apoc as a setting is rife with unique new opportunities for looking at common things or "the old world". The story needs some omissions as well as additions, but it works well so far as a sort of map that you can build from. the above was just an example of how you can build on the story and see it from other angles if you are willing to take the time and really get into your characters.

also the dialogue comes off as less than natural. Try saying the lines out loud. You are sometimes making the FO3 mistake of having dialogue that doesn't fit characters. Consider character age/background/education when finding dialogue that would match.

Also some dialogue descriptions are unnecessary, and take away from pace-
“No, nothing like that,� said Jack in a reassuring voice.

“Yes. I do,� said Jack, his voice not wavering whatsoever.

You can put those inflections right in the dialogue-
"It's nothing like that at all."- The "no" at the beginning of yours is just a restatement, and notice how "at all" seems more reassuring, and perhaps more convincing to other character.

Also- "Yes I do" could be "I most certainly do." It sounds more confident, and again more reassuring. It's hard to think up good dialogue often , but the best advice is to read as much as you can. Over time you will begin to approach dialogue more confidently and really be able to manipulate it to add descriptions you won't need to add afterwards.

[Bebop Magnum]

You really don't know whats funny? Have you even looked through this forum?


This forum is no place for the likes of you.

Er... okaaaay... I guess I'll leave then...thanks for the advice...


To Dogmeatlives, thank you for the advice, I'll make use of it in my next story.

[Redeye]

You really don't know whats funny? Have you even looked through this forum?


This forum is no place for the likes of you.

Er... okaaaay... I guess I'll leave then...thanks for the advice...


To Dogmeatlives, thank you for the advice, I'll make use of it in my next story.

stay and play,

also check out The Codex

[cazsim83]

Thank you, you raging bastards, for driving away a member who, for his age, is quite talented.

:facepalm:

This is why we can't have nice things.

[Wolfman Walt]

Just PM him and urge him to stay if this is your thing, geese.

[Blargh]

age

Ergo : not particularly. Quite the backhanded compliment, no ?

All aspiring word-smiths suffer missteps, the prudent ones usually realise this promptly, and thus, tend not to share their own. In essence : Do you ask, or do you seek, first ?

If, at the least, uncompromising honesty serves to discourage, even cull those wayward souls bound for the perpetually vacuous fan fiction legion, then, on this, I have no regrets.

Fostering mediocrity is why we cannot have nice things.

Comma. Comma. Comma.

[Retlaw83]

All aspiring word-smiths suffer missteps, the prudent ones usually realise this promptly, and thus, tend not to share their own.

It's very hard for an established writer, let alone a new one, to get enough perspective on their work to know whether it's of interest to anyone else or not. And missteps of established authors get published constantly.

If, at the least, uncompromising honesty serves to discourage, even cull those wayward souls bound for the perpetually vacuous fan fiction legion, then, on this, I have no regrets.

I'd submit than fan-fiction could be done well. Uncompromising honesty is needed when evaluating any writing, however; if a writer can't take handle rejection, they shouldn't be writing.

Fostering mediocrity is why we cannot have nice things.

Amen, brother.

[cazsim83]

Just PM him and urge him to stay if this is your thing, geese.

been there, done that - you fuckups do it.

@ Blargh - no, he's 14 - I don't expect most writers to have a pulitzer in them at 14 - so, for 14, it's a damn good read.

@ Retlaw - "fostering mediocrity" - with there being a few intelligent people here at DaC, one would think it would be used in other ways besides snide remarks and obvious slights.

[popscythe]

Thank you, you raging bastards, for driving away a member who, for his age, is quite talented.

:facepalm:

This is why we can't have nice things.

YOU ARE A FUCKING PEDERAST.

Edit: Kid, definitely get the fuck out of here for your own good. That fucker catman93 is after you for sure.

[entertainer]

goatse.jpg

[cazsim83]

YOU ARE A FUCKING PEDERAST.

paederast

noun
a man who has sex (usually sodomy) with a boy as the passive partner [syn: pederast]

no, not so much, actually.

but most of you are a group of giant assholes.

[Bebop Magnum]

I still come back to see the comments, people. And by now I've pretty much figured out that this place is a fallout fan site aspiring to be as fucked up as 4chan. ^_^


And uh... yeah, I've seen Goatse. You fuckers can't take anything away from me because I have no innocence to take

[Blargh]

perspective

I write of a far more immediate step. Properly employed, critical self analysis can hone perspective. The issue is peripheral. If one cannot attempt objectivity with regard to presence or absence of redeeming qualities and the intensity of the excremental factor of their work, one should reconsider writing as anything but an inevitably embarrassing and ultimately fruitless hobby.

Do you look, do you see ? Or, at the risk of cliché, do you blithely roll the turd in glitter, thinking it worthy ?

constantly

By the whims of publishers and the teeming public, who typically care not at all for the nuances of the craft - only the perceived lucre (or lack thereof) or the immediate gratification of dull, grasping minds and palates, respectively.

Yes, there are many such successes . . .

fan-fiction

Could ? Prior, painful observations leave me no recourse but to dismiss this as statistically unlikely. A pity ?

lazpin45 - Talent is not necessarily a privilege of age and its assumed companion, experience. Nor is it, inversely, a defensible window to delusion. Too late for you, though. A pity ?

Ehue.

[Retlaw83]

Catman, I said nothing about fostering mediocrity. I also thought I was fairly even-handed in my remarks. Are you Smiley's long lost son or something?

Properly employed, critical self analysis can hone perspective.

And you can't develop the skills for critical self-analysis without first learning what there is you should be critical of. It goes back to your earlier question: do you ask, or do you seek first? You gotta do both at the same time.

If one cannot attempt objectivity with regard to presence or absence of redeeming qualities and the intensity of the excremental factor of their work, one should reconsider writing as anything but an inevitably embarrassing and ultimately fruitless hobby.

There are countless fruitless hobbies that people love. Take sitting around and playing post-apocalyptic RPGs as an example.

Do you look, do you see ? Or, at the risk of cliché, do you blithely roll the turd in glitter, thinking it worthy ?

In my experience as a writer, and from talking to other writers, the method generally employed is rolling a turd in glitter then lopping off the parts that aren't pleasing to the eye. Writing is a messy, horrible affair, and the best works started as trash.

Mucking up the affair is any idiot with a word processor, the inability to string together a full sentence, and a dream can spray their shit all over the walls of the internet.

Could ? Prior, painful observations leave me no recourse but to dismiss this as statistically unlikely. A pity ?

A massive pity. There are things epic in scope - like Warhammer 40k and Fallout - that it would be entirely impossible to write something that one could make entirely their own, aside from a few basic things like weaponry and pervasive institutions. Unfortunately, that's something the Bethesda devs didn't seem to realize. I have half a mind to whip up a Fallout story and see how it works out.

[S4ur0n27]

Rolling a turd in glitter? Sounds good, Blarghe