I
At 13:01 on October the 23rd 2077, seventeen nuclear warheads successfully hit their strategic targets in Manhattan, New York and New Jersey, demolishing the cities and causing critical damage to those nearby. There were no survivors, no vaults, no ghouls and no mutants. The land burned for seven years and the water was irradiated beyond conventional purification. Even Washington D.C. received more mercy from the Chinese than the innocent residents of New York.
The cities surrounding the massacre were shaken violently and irradiated by the inevitable fallout. However, life was resilient enough to adapt, to mutate. A vast population of survivors rose from the undergrounds of Pittsburgh, Philadelphia and others.
They regressed to the old law of anarchy. Society dissolved from the minds of the working classes and the intelligent elite fled to form societies from the rubble and dust and radiation. Many died at the hands of their own countrymen. Everyone had won and everyone had lost in one day.
Pittsburgh became a festering irradiated pit, which slowly poisoned all of the survivors to the brink of insanity and mutation. The United States Capital was smashed by the nuclear holocaust and the residents were like many across the country that resorted to slavery and strife. However, the shell of a society formed in the crater around Vault 101 and it was to be the first of many to thrive in the region.
This, however, is not a story about these survivors, or even these cities. This is a story of an Exodus across the Atlantic for hope of salvation. A journey so fraught with violence, fear and loss that it seemed there was no hope of survival.
Cole was the very definition of the phrase: "Slaving piece of shite". That was why he was dead. His jaw had been smashed from his skull and as his attacker spat in his only intact eye after the savage beating. The boy rose, he was no older than twelve years old. He dropped the blood soaked chair leg.
The child ran his hands through his scraggy blonde hair and exhaled deeply. He looked at the slaver's feet. The boots would have to make do, if he wanted never to have a cut on his foot again. They slipped off after smacking his legs a few more times. The slave dressed himself in the clothes of his captor, which were far too big for him. He grabbed the pump shotgun out of Cole's cold hand and aimed it at the corpse.
He fired once and regretted it as the firearm fell to the ground. The slave took a few more deep breaths. The bruise would be huge. But it didn't matter anymore. Cole was dead and he was free. Now he could read whenever he wanted to.
He headed towards the only standing bookcase in the library and pulled out a preserved book. On the spine was faintly stitched the word "Frankenstein".
He opened the book and read the page. There. That would be his name. Slave's didn't have names but he wasn't one of them anymore. It was a good name. Victor.
In the darkness of the tunnels no one could have seen him. Victor had learned that stealth and survival often go hand in over the two years he had been free. He had fled from the library and lived in the tube stations, stealing food, medicine and ammunition from abandoned stores and oblivious raiders. When he was old enough he would approach them and join their ranks, if they didn't torture and murder him first.
He crouched by the overturned train, maintaining his concentration on the zombies. They were feral and the shadow of their former human selves. They had been mutated by radiation during the initial bombing and had fled to the darkness of the underground network. He was doing them a favour by killing them.
Victor raised his gun and fired twice hurling two of the zombies against the wall behind them. A third came charging towards him, gargling and growling. He fired again and took the zombies leg off. Victor cursed and added his last shell to the shotgun. He fired again and the train line was silent.
There was a sharp pain as a bolt-action rifle buried itself into the back of his head. Victor dropped the shotgun and closed his eyes. He expected his life to flash before his eyes but all he saw was endless darkness.
'You need to be more careful, lad. If I were anyone else, I would have probably pulled the trigger.' said a voice. Victor opened his eyes and turned to look at him. 'You better not look at me. I'll probably scare the shit out of you.'
The voice was distinctly cockney. He spun around to see the man. The man's skin had peeled off his face years ago and a large hole was in the place of his nose. He smelt like rotten flesh. Victor screamed and jumped.
'Quiet! What is your name?'
'What are you?' he shouted again. His voice had not broken yet.
'Fucking Santa Claus… I am Roland and you are?'
'I am Vi… I am Waterloo. Are you a zombie?'
'I prefer the word zuman, get it?'
He didn't laugh.
'Look kid I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, ninety years ago. When that nuke hit the Thames estuary, I was on Tower Bridge. Face full of radiation and within a week my skin fell off. Are you happy?' Roland explained, holstering his rifle. 'I was actually just salvaging ammunition when I heard you shooting earlier. How many of those things have you killed today?'
Waterloo picked up his shotgun and holstered it. He turned around and lightly kicked the dead zombie's head. He remained silent.
'I'm taking you to Piccadilly. Follow me.'
'No.'
'You are coming with me whether you want to or not. There is food and safety there.' Roland grabbed the boy as he pointed his shotgun at him.
'Leave me alone!' he screamed.
'You're out of ammo. What are you gonna do?'