Hello there. You might be wondering who the heck would write a story about Janet and Roger Rockwell. Well, I would; and I did. For some reason, going through (spoiler alert, I guess) Tranquility Lane in Vault 112 really made me feel for the people that were trapped in there. I wanted to know who they were and how they got into that very unfortunate position; since there wasn't any back story, I decided to make my own. I wrote this for a creative writing assignment in my AP Literature class, but I think it's turned into something more. Something important, unlike homework, which is lame. Anyway, I hope you like it. Please read, review, and enjoy! - Lexi JJ
I don't own Fallout 3 or any of the characters or locations mentioned in this story. Those things belong to the lovely folks at Bethesda.
Vault 112
"Roger," she calls, "will you come in here for a moment?"
I carefully place the papers on my desk and stand up. "I'll be right there, Janet," I say. I glance at them once again, thinking. Near the top of the first page, it reads "Vault-Tec Registration". My eyes jump to the bottom, where my signature is located. Mine. Roger Rockwell. Although the original forms were sent in to the folks at Vault-Tec about a year ago, I still look at my copy every day and wonder if I made the right decision. Purchasing a spot in a Vault had been Janet's idea, of course. She's always the one thinking ahead, planning. But as of yet, nothing has happened; the war seems as though it is at a standstill, and no one knows which direction it will go. I don't know if the monthly payments to Vault-Tec are worth it anymore, seeing as how they're quite expensive. But it's what Janet wants, and I want her to be happy. More importantly, I want her to be safe. I peel my eyes away from the papers on the desk and open the door.
As I walk down the hallway toward the sitting room, I hear the muffled sound of someone's voice on the television. When I enter the room, I see Janet adjusting the rabbit ears, trying to get a better signal. Frustrated, she steps back from the television and stares at the screen. "What is it?" I ask. She turns to look at me. Her eyes wide with fear, she quietly replies, "I think it's finally happening." I cross the room and put my arm around her shoulder. She rests her head against me and buries her face in her hands. Curiously, I turn my attention to the television set.
I see the President of the United States, sitting behind a steel desk with an American flag in the background. His mouth is moving, but I can't hear what's being spoken. I take a step forward, move the right antenna slightly backwards, and hear the President's voice. Returning to my wife's side, I listen. "…in the case of a nuclear event. And remember, when you hear the signal, calmly find shelter. If you have signed up for a Vault, go immediately. Do not panic. Bring only what is necessary for your survival. Science has shown that underground Vaults equipped with life saving equipment and supplies are the best choice for your family. If, by chance, you cannot go underground, stay away from radiation. Once you've found shelter, stay put, and stay near your radio until-"
The President's voice is cut off, as the television signal is severed and the screen goes all fuzzy. I do not attempt to repair it because I've heard enough. The world has finally fallen off of the edge that it has been precariously leaning over for decades. I remain in the sitting room with my wife; we are still, silent, scared. The events leading up to this moment, on this day, October 23, 2077, run through my mind: the beginning of the Resource Wars back in 2052 when I was eight years old and the collapse of the United Nations in that same year, the spread of the "New Plague", the ban on gasoline-powered automobiles in 2060, and the Chinese invasion of Alaska in '66. I guess I should have known this was inevitable from the start; how could we possibly have settled things peacefully?
The crackling sound coming from the television brings me back to the present. I look at Janet, and there are tears flowing noiselessly down her face. "We're going to be okay, you know. He never actually said we were under attack," I say, in an attempt to reassure her. "No, he didn't," she responds, "but we're going to be." I give up trying to be optimistic because I know she's right. After a moment, I ask, "Well, what do we do?" "We do exactly what we've been trained to do. They didn't put us through all of those drills for nothing," Janet answers. I was enthusiastic about the drills at first, shortly after we had reserved our safety in Vault 112. But as more and more time went by, they became very tedious, inconvenient, and seemingly pointless. Now, though, the drills appear to be the only thing that my mind can focus on.
As if we are machines rather than humans, Janet and I mechanically walk out of the sitting room and into the bedroom. Janet goes to the closet and pulls out our blue jumpsuits that we received after handing in our Vault Registration Documents, while I reach under the bed and pull out our reserve of emergency cash. We toss our items into the dusty suitcase that has been sitting behind the door for over a year. I pick up the suitcase and start carrying it outside as Janet walks into my office to retrieve our Vault 112 Identification Cards and Registration Documents. As I finish putting the suitcase into the trunk, Janet has locked the door to our house and walks down the path toward the car. I open the passenger door while Janet gets inside, close it, and then proceed to walk around and get into the driver's seat. It takes the car quite a few seconds to get started; these standard fusion-powered autos never work as well as the old gasoline-powered ones did.
Just as I start pulling onto the street, the wail of the emergency siren triggers and its scream surrounds the neighborhood. The sirens were constructed all across the country after Alaska was invaded; here in the surrounding area of the nation's capital, there are sirens on almost every block. As I drive away from our home toward the highway, I see most of our neighbors also going through the routine safety drill procedures. George Neusbaum is ushering his kid, Timmy, into the back seat while his wife frantically tries to cram a suitcase into the trunk. Through their front window, I can see the Henderson's gathering various food items from their kitchen. They must not have read the "Vault Dweller's Survival Guide" that was given to every Vault resident upon registration; food was to be provided in the Vault.
I reach the end of the street, turn left onto the highway, and start driving the nine miles to Smith Casey's garage. I turn to look at Janet sitting next to me. She's terrified; I am at a loss as to how to comfort her because I'm just as scared as she is. Only I'm more successful at masking it. I take her hand and she gives me a weak smile. "Do you think it'll really work? It'll keep us safe from the bombs?" she inquires. "The Vault, you mean?" She nods. "Yes," I say, "I really do." The funny part is that I actually believe it. Only 20 minutes ago I was considering withdrawing our registration for Vault 112, and now it is my singular source of hope.
We arrive at Smith Casey's garage. I park across the road and let Janet out. As I walk to the back of the car to grab the suitcase, I notice two people from our neighborhood-Martha Simpson and old Mrs. Dithers-finish speaking with two men next to the garage entrance and go through the door. One man I recognize as the owner of the garage, Smith Casey. Vault-Tec wouldn't specifically say why they wanted to build Vault 112 there, but they did mention something about how "all of the Vaults are placed strategically to ensure the safety of American citizens", and that "the plan could not be compromised." Although he wasn't too keen on the idea, Smith agreed to let them build Vault 112 under his garage as long as he was guaranteed free entry. The other man is Dr. Stanislaus Braun. I only know who he is because I've seen his face on Vault-Tec advertisements around the city and on television; he is one of their lead scientists and has helped develop the Vault technology as well as other various government projects.
With one hand holding the suitcase and the other holding Janet's, I walk to the garage entrance. "Hello sir," Dr. Braun says in a thick German accent. "Can I get your name, please?" "I'm Roger Rockwell, and this is my wife, Janet," I tell him. He looks down at a clipboard in his hands and scans it for our names. He scribbles something on the paper and returns his piercing gaze to me. He adjusts his glasses and then extends his hand. As I turn over our Identification, he smiles and says, "I am very pleased to meet you Mr. Rockwell. I am Dr. Stanislaus Braun and I will be the Overseer of Vault 112. Please proceed inside the garage and wait there with the other inhabitants until everyone arrives." Before I walk through the door, I glance at Smith Casey. With a strange look in his eye, he gives me a slight nod; puzzled, I return the favor and enter the garage.
Almost everyone from our street and a few others that I don't recognize are waiting inside. Janet and I make our way to the back of the room, pausing every once in a while to greet a neighbor or ask a stranger's name. When we reach the back of the group, along the far wall, I can feel Janet trembling next to me. I put my arm around her shoulder again, and pull her close. We stay like this for several more minutes when, at last, Dr. Braun and Smith Casey enter the garage behind the Neusbaum's and the Henderson's. After quieting everyone down, Dr. Braun announces, "If you'll all follow me, I will lead you to the Vault."
As Braun makes his way through the crowd to an electrical box on the wall to my right, I feel a hand on my shoulder. Turning around, I see that it's Smith Casey. "Hello, Smith", I say. "What is it?" He doesn't reply, but glances around nervously before looking at me again. "Listen", he says in a hushed tone. "I won't be joining you in the Vault, Roger." He pauses, as if he isn't quite sure what to say next. "You can't tell anyone that you spoke to me", he continues hesitantly. "They might think that I know. I'm sorry that I can't do more for you, but it's too late now." "Know what, Smith? What's too late?" I inquire. "I'm sorry", he repeats. He reaches out for a handshake; as I take it, he places something in my palm. I look down and see that it's a folded up sheet of paper. Confused, I look back up only to see that he has already disappeared. I figure that since Smith was being so secretive, it probably wouldn't be best to unfold and investigate the paper right now. I place it in my pocket just as the crowd starts moving.
The sound of the sirens in the distance places an ominous aura over the group as Dr. Braun guides us through the back of the garage, down a set of stairs, and into the dark tunnel that leads to the Vault. I have a hold of Janet's hand as we walk deeper under the ground. The sirens are fading and the temperature is growing cooler. Finally, we arrive at a very large, circular steel door with a golden number 112 written on it. Dr. Braun pauses at a computer console to the right of the door, and a few seconds later a terrible, piercing, grating sound fills the air as the circular door slides open. Dr. Braun navigates us to the room inside the door, pushes a few buttons at another console and waits for the door to return to its original position. He then turns around to face us, the Vault inhabitants. There is a strange, almost unsettling gleam in his eye that I could only be imagining.
"Welcome to Vault 112," he says, "and to the beginning of the rest of your lives."