It was about noon, he guessed. At least he thought it was noon. It might be around twelve thirty or one, he didn't know. Or care really.
Finding shade would be nice, he thought absently as he trudged through the sand and dust, Or maybe a pool to cool off in.
Of course any water he found among the arid Nevada wastes would most likely be irradiated enough to give a Super Mutant cancer and warm enough to just add to his discomfort, but at this point he didn't care. Any relief from the hellish heat would do.
He continued to trudge on, although his pace was something a snail would have laughed at, if any still existed. He wiped some sweat off his forehead, moving locks of brown hair that had been glued to his skin. He adjusted his wide brimmed hat, which was almost the color of the ground and decided he needed a break.
Plopping down into the ground, the man winced from the heat radiating off of the sand. Still it was nice to give his tired feet a chance to rest. He slipped off his heavy gray knapsack, and gingerly ran his fingers over his shoulders. The straps had been digging fiercely into his tanned, weathered skin and he could already tell he would be getting blisters from it. He'd deal with that when the time came. Next, he slung the hunting bow off his back and gently laid it down next to him before placing the quiver next to it.
Only four arrows left, the man grimaced, I shouldn't have tried to take that Bighorner. I had to eat cold two hundred year old Pork' N' Beans that night and he got to take three of my arrows with him as souvenirs.
He'd have to make some replacements soon, although he had enough canned food to last him for about a week if he couldn't catch an animal or find a healthy plant. He turned and unzipped the middle section of his pack and rummaged around before pulling out a bottle that had once been used to hold beer but now held a precious commodity in the post-War world; clean drinking water free of radiation. He unscrewed the faded and worn cap, which still faintly read Budwieser on it, and raised the bottle to his dry and cracked lips.
Slowly a faint trickle of warm water ran down the bottle and into his waiting mouth. Although it did little to cool him off, it satisfied the dryness that had been plaguing his throat. Lowering the bottle, he inspected it and frowned at what he saw.
It was only a fourth of the way full, and it was his last bottle.
Well this is pretty disconcerting, he thought sourly. He had tried to ration his supplies as best he could, and while he had been pretty successful for his food and scarce bit of medicine, he simply couldn't stretch his water like he had his other supplies.
Scowling, he drank a little more, slowly as not to waste what little he had left, and then put the bottle back. In its place, he retrieved a pair of worn gray binoculars. In order to see better, he adjusted the goggles he wore onto his moist forehead. He blinked and then squinted at the sun's new found brightness until his eyes adjusted.
I wonder if there's an old ranch house, or something around. Might as well take a peek for some shelter, he thought before pressing the binoculars to his eyes. He scanned the area and saw nothing for miles except blue sky spotted with wisps of white and the bland brown and gold of the wasteland. Just seeing colors was something of a luxury though. His goggles left the world with a decidedly dull orange tint.
This isn't looking good, he thought with some alarm after another minute of fruitless scanning. There wasn't even a damn cactus in sight. Just bare, empty badlands devoid of any life.
Guess I'm sleeping under the stars tonight, he thought grimly, and dying of thirst tomorrow. Wait what's that?
He put the binoculars to his eyes again, to confirm what he had seen. There, on the far right, there appeared to be a large brown building, but it was simmering in the sun. He was suspicious at first, as the building could be a mirage, a cruel illusion the wastes had sent him to build his hopes up only to crush them with malicious glee.
However, he zoomed in, the haziness disappeared, and he spotted an old electrical power tower, with a couple of cables dangling back and forth gently. The cracked window and the rusted remnants of a chain link fence told him that the building was indeed real. All his previous hallucinations had been intact buildings, often with sparkling water around them.
So either this is real or my imagination is lowering its standards, he thought with a smile and a feeling of giddiness. He put his binoculars away, slipped his goggles back into place, and quickly retrieved his pack and bow. Then with his spirits lifted and his feet slightly rested, he set off in the direction, which his compass told him was southwest, of what he hoped was his salvation for the night.
Not for the first time, he wished he had come across a functioning watch in his travels. He had possibly taken an hour to get to the dilapidated looking building, but he couldn't be sure. All he knew was it seemed like forever to his tired and abused feet and his aching back.
When he finally reached what remained of the fence, he saw a sign that read "Lincoln County Power Substation 6-B". He wondered if any electricity still coursed through the wires and cables of the station, but he'd investigate that soon enough. First, he had to make sure the place was safe.
None of the windows are broken, he thought, but they're too high up to peek through. I'll have to go in. Let's just hope nothing nasty or hungry has taken up residence.
He walked to the door that had the barely readable "Entrance" sign above it and cautiously gave it a tug. It didn't move, and made the all too familiar sound of a locked door.
Breaking and entering time, the man thought as he set his pack down and opened the first compartment. Like the rest of his pack, it was more or less orderly, and he quickly found the ancient, but well maintained Phillips screwdriver that doubled as the muscle of his lockpicking duo. Reaching into a small department, he pulled out the brains of the tool partners in crime, a black bobby pin.
Let's add another unwitnessed crime to my wanted poster shall we, he smiled at the thought but then became focused in on the task at hand. He inserted the screwdriver into the right position and then Mr. Bobby Pin went in next. Slowly, he began to twist the pin around, his ears alert for the slightest sound. Just as carefully he began tuning the lock with his screwdriver, moving the pin with it to find the right spot. After a minute that seemed an eternity, he heard the immensely satisfying sound of the tumblers moving to unlock the door.
Another successful heist from you two, he smiled at his tools before placing them back into their rightful places. Then the humor vanished from his face and his whole body grew tense. Slowly he opened the door, wincing in fear from the loud creaky sound, its oil dry hinges made. The door revealed a long hallway that turned to split into both directions. It also revealed, much to his chagrin, that the whole station was pitch dark, the only light within coming from his newly opened door.
I hate places like this, he thought dismally, Time to go into the dark. Hope I come back out.
With that he set his bow and quiver by the door. He didn't want it to get caught on anything while he searched... or in case he had to make a run for it. He also got out his small, sorry looking flashlight. He checked to make sure his battery still had a charge. A test flash revealed it to be bright and steady so put his pack back on and swapped his flashlight to his left hand.
Next, he pulled out the small .38 revolver from the homemade gecko leather holster on his side. He opened the cylinder and checked to make sure he had a full chamber. All six bullets were in it, but he had to make them count if he ran into trouble. He only had five more to spare if things went to hell.
He flicked the safety off and cocked the hammer back on the weapon. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he flipped his goggles up and stepped into the station.