June 7, 2161
Lady Luck can be a real bitch at times. Vault 13's water chip malfunctioned, and I was the lucky bastard that drew the short straw and got thrown out to go find a replacement. I find myself wondering why they thought sending me out was the best of plans, short straw be damned. I'm a doctor, my job is to treat the sick and injured. I don't know the first thing about how to traverse a radioactive desert, yet they still gave me a half-assed crash course on outdoorsman skills, handed me an equipment belt and a lousy pistol, and tossed me out on my ass. Having a small time frame to work in doesn't make me feel better. I've got roughly one hundred fifty days before the stored water supplies are deplenished, and as of this writing four days have already passed.
I didn't know how to react to any of that at the time, it was so damn sudden and out of the blue. I still don't know what to make of all this. When I first stepped out of the vault and into the cave - my friend Ed, he was slouched up against the wall, eaten alive by the large cave rats in there. When had he even been sent out? I remember having a drink with him that morning, before all the bullshit with the water chip started. I felt awful stripping his corpse of anything useful, like I was adding to his humiliation. Worst of it is that his wife probably doesn't even know what happened.
First few days of travel were pretty brutal. I'm not in the best of shape and the terrain is very rocky and rough out there; did a real punishment on my back and feet. That scorching bastard in the sky heating things up to boiling point didn't do much to help the situation; fucked the back of my neck right up. Can't even turn my head without the blistered skin flaring up. Nighttime out here is something else. The cold winds'll bring you to your knees and - if you don't have a scarf or something to cover your face with - blow the wasteland dust right into your lungs. Every breath you take feels agonizing, as if somebody is repeatedly scrubbing the inside of your chest with a piece of sandpaper.
On my third day out on the field I met my first signs of life: a small trader caravan, a group of three people. They told me about a small farming community about forty miles to the east, Shady Sands they called it. They were kind enough to let me tag along with them but - as was expected - dumped me as soon as we came to the town entrance the next evening.
The town - if you want to call it that - was small and boxed in, with all the huts built close together and a wall - probably about ten feet high - served as a poor defense against possible invaders. It made me think about just how damned hostile the outside world is. If the weather and terrain don't bring you down, some filthy piece of shit running around the desert sure as hell will.
A leathery skinned man called Seth called me over and gave me a quick rundown on the rules here: what's tolerated and what's not, who's who and where to find them, where to crash for the night and where to trade; the usual shit, stuff he's probably said hundreds of times by now. Judging from his broad physique and the old rifle resting on his shoulder, I'm guessing he's the one in charge of defending the place.
I came upon a small garden on my way towards the hostel. It was a sad old thing, with withering crops hanging over and being choked by the rock-solid earth. The malnourished farmer overseeing the crops had told me to beat it, scared that I might trample on one by accident, I suppose. I asked why he wasn't utilizing crop rotation, to preserve both their crops and the nutrients in the earth as well as to improve the quality of the soil. Poor bastard was too ignorant to even know what I was talking about and I had to explain it multiple times before he finally got the gist of it. He gave me a handful of dirty bottle caps - apparently the currency out here in the wasteland - and then got back to work. Hope it works out for him but if society has become so broken that it cannot even remember the basics of farming, I worry that any risen community won't last for the long-term.
The small hostel I'm staying at is - quite frankly - of very poor quality. For instance, the very room I'm writing this in has a hole the size of a baseball in the corner of the roof, letting the winds from outside rush in and freeze me to death. At least it feels soothing against the blisters on my neck and feet. The bed is ancient, creaking loudly whenever I adjust my position and the rusty springs are gouging into my backside. Still, I guess I shouldn't complain too much. Miserable as this little cubby is, it's like sleeping in a luxurious bedroom fit for a king after having spent the past few nights resting - or trying to rest - out on the cold hard ground with the dust clogging my throat.
Tomorrow I plan to make my way further eastwards. Before tossing me out on my ass those fools at the vault had informed me of another shelter - Vault 15 - far to the east and that it may possibly have a spare water chip. It's the only lead I have to go on for the time being. I just hope I can survive long enough to get there. Life outside the vault has been more of a hell than I'd imagined.
I no longer have the energy to continue writing for the day. I need sleep. Albert Cole signing off.