Prologue:

A Foreword from the Author

There were only one hundred and twenty-two vaults commissioned to be built by Vault-Tec in the United States of America. Although that number is debated among those of us who remain, it rings true to my ears. As I wade through ankle deep snow that never melts, trying to survive one more day, one more moment, I find myself looking back again, taking in what I've seen, and realizing that whatever the decision was, to make one hundred and twenty-two arks to wade out the flood of apocalypse, was the right choice in all of this. Without a society to bring the people in, to keep them under control, adding a large population is only asking for trouble. Especially in the ankle deep snow that will never melt.

They called this place Pennsylvania before the war. One of the original states in the former United States, named after a certain man with the last name Penn, with the suffix "Sylvania" referring to the large density of trees found within the borders. It was home to a city once known as "Philadelphia", a home of liberty and freedom. As far as I know, located three hundred miles northwest of that city, nothing is left but a hole in the ground where freedom once was. The resulting detonations and firestorms bent the jetstream in a way that none had intended. Chilling air came down from the northern world over the east coast, bending back up right around the Mason-Dixon line, hooking northeast, and coming up on the western border of Massachusetts. The resulting turbulence put the entire area, formerly Pennsylvania, New York, Connecticut, Vermont, and New Hampshire under a nuclear winter unlike one ever seen. Since that year, 2077, the temperature has never made it back above twenty-eight degrees. Luckily, the vaults saved at least a small percentage of the population.

I was born in a Vault, Vault number eighty-one to be precise, which was nestled neatly in the Back Mountains of Pennsylvania. The nearest town was Tunkhannock, located fifteen miles to the north, or so we were taught. My Pip Boy, model number three thousand, tells me the year is two thousand, two hundred, and sixty-one, meaning I left my vault in fifty-seven, when I was seventeen. God, it was such an eventful year; the G.O.A.T., love in the air, and roulette, everything was shaping up well. Until, well, I got kicked out.

I suppose this is what this journal is for, although I'm not entirely sure why I'm taking this down. Hell, I'd be surprised if there were many other people besides me that could actually read whatsoever, stuck out here in the snowy abyss.

Besides the point, this is going to be where I write down all that has happened thus far, and all that will be happening in the future. A friend of mine suggested I do this way, way back, and he was right. Sitting here and collecting my thoughts is nice, despite the fact that it is cold as all hell right now. The Pip Boy says the external temperature is a whopping seven degrees, and even inside of my modest cabin, I can still feel winter's permanent chill.

I've gone by a few names out here. In the first town they called me the "Wet-Eared Vault Dweller", or "Vault Dweller" for short, although the name never really took. Then, they started calling me other things. The one I preferred most was "Snow", given to me by a bartender at a place I frequented. He claims it was because I was a natural out in the wastes, and for a time, I believed what he had to say. It wasn't until his daughter explained that it was because I got buffeted by falling snow on my way in the door that night, that I learned the true meaning. Still, the name caught, and soon the outlying areas began to talk of The Snow, and what her appearance would mean. Hell, one group of tribals even started worshipping me, but that's another story for another time.

I think I know the purpose of this journal now. It's for you, the one who will be next to exit Vault Eighty-One, just a few short months from now. I'm sure you know it by now, seeing as you have to be at least fifteen to leave, but the Vault can't keep such high populations. It was built to sustain a maximum of sixty people, and the number grows exponentially. They speak of a Great Exodus, in which a large number of radicals exited the vault at once with guns blazing, all because they were sick of living within the suffocating walls and wanted to see the real world.

Don't believe them. It's a lie. It all was.

It was then the lottery began. By kicking out exactly the right amount of people, of both genders, they were able to curb the population enough to only hold the lottery once every five years. They exclude those with the important jobs, the elderly, and the pregnant, so, usually, it comes down to us kids to leave. And the occasional janitor. For those of you my age, Felix died out in the snow, never to be seen again. It's a shame too; I would have liked to have met up with him again. He was such a cool janitor.

Back on topic. The world out here is harsh. And I'm going to be giving you my story so that you might know that you can survive, that you can prosper. This winter is never going to end, but each and every one of us has what it takes to survive out here, so long as you look at what is inside.

Underneath this journal is going to be a revolver, and twenty bullets. Take care of them. That gun will be your only friend for a while. Until you can go out and blaze your own path, you're going to get into lots and lots of fights. Everything out here wants your head on a platter, but so long as your shots are true, you can beat the wasteland.

Now that junk is over with, let's move on to introductions. My name is Katrina, last name unimportant, but for niceness, it's deTheos. I was born Katrina deTheos in the year 2240, to my father, Kevin, and my mother, Amanda.

This is my story.

War. War never changes.

Pennsylvania, a once great state forged from the fires of freedom, found itself forced mercilessly underground by the atomic hellfire of the Great War. In 2077, it was one of the first places to receive a bombardment, in the few hours before the world was turned into ash. Yet, something happened that made this place very particular.

Whether it is true or not, Pennsylvania, New York, and western New England is currently in a state of permanent winter. Tales of scientists spinning fluid filled beakers say it was the effect of a nuclear blast shaping the very atmosphere, but after two hundred years, it remains trapped under a blanket of snow, a shell of the former land of opportunity it once was.

The Enclave hold this area. They claim to wave the banner of the United States, but in all truth, they rule the mountains with an iron fist. Those who dare speak against them are silenced, villages are burned, and the name of the Enclave is forever cursed in the minds and in the shadows of the brutal Appalachian Mountains. In these shadows and thoughts, though, resistance arises, under the white and black flag of two burning eyes. The Church of Heraclitus wishes the opposite of the tyrannical Enclave, advocating in favor of complete and utter anarchy.

However, in the face of such harsh elements, the spirit of freedom lives on in the common men and women that dare to live on. Katrina deTheos is one such person, born a Vault Dweller, but shaped by the very snow outside the walls that she hated at first, but grew to accept as one of her own. This is the story of The Snow, a name that will live on in the hushed whispers and dark shadows where freedom still lives on.