FALLOUT
Tales of the Wild Wasteland
Set in a post-apocalyptic world following The Great War, a nuclear war that occurred on October 23, 2077 and lasted less than two hours but caused immense damage and destruction. Before The Great War came the Resource Wars, during which the United Nations had disbanded, a plague rendered the United States paranoid, and Canada was annexed. In a retro-futuristic world, nothing could be more backwards than it's own dystopian future among the ruins of civilization.
Fallout: Tales of the Wild Wasteland is a series of short shorts that chronicle many random events, showing the immaginative dark humor famous to the Fallout universe from a varying degree of perspectives. These stories build upon the idea that nothing is impossible in the wasteland. They also provide a platform to exercise and polish my writing skills with the ultimate objective of preparation toward writing a full Fallout novel, currently in the concept phase.
"The Wool Truth"
The desolate desert spanned beyond the horizon, sand swept hills with sporadic yucca and cacti dotted over the landscape bracketed by obtuse mountain ranges. He'd been walking through this dusty barren nothingness closing on two days now without seeing any life, besides the shrubs and desert plants of course.
"Where in th'hell…" Grant mutters to himself, reaching into one of the many capacious pockets of his overcoat, pulling out a tattered Brahmin-skin sheet with lines and images scribbled onto the surface with black ink that contrasted darkly against the tanned hide.
He scratched at his scalp, pushing up his dirty ball cap, so soiled by dirt and grim that he couldn't tell anymore what color it used to be, puzzling over the map in his hand. Grant bought the map for a 'bargain price' from an oddball traveling merchant three days ago when he stopped at a shit-hole shanty town called 'Flyton' by it's residents, built out of the ruins of an ancient pre-war town along the winding old weather-worn and cracked I-50. The town had never actually been hit by the bombs or missiles during the brief but devastating nuclear exchange however the resulting fallout in the aftermath made the original residents flee to the mountains and shelters, leaving the town empty of human life. After decades without maintenance, the town gradually crumbled into the ruins it is today by the great scouring sands, scorching sun, and teeming vermin.
Though very few inhabitants, Flyton has become a merchant hub with interstate 93 running into the 50 connecting settlements in southern Nevada and western Utah. While it's more than 500 miles from the closest major population centers, it has become an ideal route among merchants hoping to use the vast emptiness to avoid the raiders and slavers more common along the higher traffic routes between the nuke-blasted ruins of major cities. Main drawback is the long distance and treacherous terrain requiring several weeks to a month worth of provisions to safely and logistically traverse it by foot. Likewise, most merchants who utilize it also use various forms of transportation from Brahmin drawn caravans to restored fission powered vehicles, though the latter being rarer.
Following in his father's footstep, Jack Weyland, Grant makes his living as a Prospector. That's the nice way of saying he's a scavenger or salvager. In the early years, when his great grandfather started in the trade, prospecting had been much more fruitful with most old world ruins and relics untouched by human hands since the massive nuclear bombings decimated the vast majority of them and turned the country into an inescapably permanent wasteland. Now, after more than a hundred years since, many of those ruins have been picked clean – making the business much less lucrative. Unless of course you were willing to risk the invisible killer, radiation and the mutated monstrosities that prowl in hot spots like the big city ruins or major military bases from before the Great War, where all the real goods remain. Most of the fatal radiation has finally dissipated to moderate levels in areas surrounding ground zeros, Grant wasn't quite crazy (or desperate) enough to attempt an expedition like that. Yet.
He gazed over the details of the map; rudimentarily sketched with spider webbing highways, town icons and landmarks splayed across the sheet surrounding and leading to an embellished, elementary drawing of an airplane about sixty miles bearing West from Flyton – in the center of the vacant Greatbasin valley. The side note scribbled on the animal parchment by the maker of the map describes a crashed military airplane as 'mostly intact while seen from a distance'. He'd pondered why the map maker didn't explore the crash site more closely themselves and with a measure of doubt how the merchant really acquired the map in the first place. Grant still couldn't pass up the chance of prospecting the possible riches that such a pre-war military find would bestow. Even parts of the plane itself would be worth their weight in bottle caps.
While travelling the ordained path, he'd jotted down notes on the map with a charcoal pencil each time he discovered and passed by the important landmarks of mountains and rock formations inked on the map, following it through the winding mountain ranges and across barren wastes like the valley he's currently in. His eyes traced over the waypoint marks and notes from Flyton to the last waypoint of a high cliff edge that looked like a reverse "L" when viewed from the south of a mountain range at about fifty miles West from the town, his last known location. He'd left the embrace of the mountains and travelled into the flat wasteland for about two hours, walking approximately 7 miles in a North-Western direction to where it indicated on the map that there's a skinny plateau shaped rock formation. Except there was nothing out here.
Grant held his hands to his forehead shielding his eyes from the oppressive glare of the sun and took in his surroundings. Even if he was off his bearing by a bit, it should have still been visible but nothing could be seen off in the distance other than the low silhouette of mountain ranges flanking him in the far distance and the flat wasteland of the valley going North as far as the eye could see.
He cursed under his breath. Shoulda known that bug-eyed bastard was a lying fuck, he grimly thought.
"Next time I take a map like this, I'll take it from th'asshole who dang made it!" Grant declared, his voice trailing off into the void of emptiness by the lightly gusting southern wind.
Suddenly he felt the hairs at his nape prickle. A feeling of unease washed over him like he's being watched. He quickly spins about on his heels, in the same fluid motion his free right hand dropped to the butt of his pistol holstered on his hip and drew it as his spin came to a halt, facing the opposite direction, dreading the unknown menace that lurks behind him.
There was nothing. The same open expanse of desert and the mountains he'd passed through. Ever since leaving them he couldn't shake the apprehension that something was wrong, out of place. A sigh of relief expelled from his lungs and he holstered his handgun. Looking back at the map he decided to keep going.
The skinny plateau formation should be close according the his calculations. Possibly it's in some dead ground or depression in the terrain and with the wind tossing sand about, plus the watery blurriness effect caused by the heat, it could very well explain why he hasn't seen it yet.
Grant rolled up the map and replaced it in his pocket then drew his compass from the same pocket and opened the protective lid, it's rusty hinges squeaking in protest. Holding the end of the lanyard to his chest and stretching it taut, he peered at the mirror's reflection of the compass needle and lined it up with the bearing he'd set then sighting through the aperture he made a mental note of a small copse of sagebrush a few hundred yards away. He closed up the compass and replaced it into his pocket.
He takes a quick swig from his canteen, sloshing the water around inside of it to gauge the level, then he's off at a brisk pace towards the sagebrush landmark. Going up a slight incline he makes it to the desert bushes in only a few minutes. On the other side of them he sees that there is in fact a depression in the ground, sloping into a wide expanse of cracked flat desert stretching at least a mile off into the distance. Probably was once a small lake but is now a dust bowl, a very bright dust blow as the sun reflects off the white sand making the ground appear to almost glow.
At that same time he saw what would be really hard to not see because it's the only landmark in the middle of that clearing for a mile around, the small silhouette of an odd shaped rock with a skinny base that flares out near the top and the top is absolutely flat and parallel with the ground.
That must be the 'platoe', he considers, pulling out binoculars that had seen better days from an inside pocket of his utility overcoat.
After blowing dirt and dust off the lenses he brings them up to his eyes. Adjusting the focus to as near a clarity as possible, Grant's mouth gapes open in wonder. What he saw wasn't quite what he'd expected to see. One solid thing he'd learned from his travels is that the wasteland is full of many surprises and new discoveries.
The great nuking not only malformed the landscape but also much of the wildlife. Those that survived the thunderous hellfire and deadly radioactive fallout managed to adapt to the radiation and toxins but in many cases the following generations of their offspring would bear hideous mutations. The creatures that were unbelievably still fertile would copulate and all their future descendants would inherit such aberrations, thus the creation of entirely new species. Many now commonplace and recognized by most wastelanders, the abnormality now the normality.
Alas what Grant is seeing, magnified six times through his dual ocular scopes, is wholly unfamiliar to him it may as well be from another world.
To begin with the "plateau" isn't actually that. It's simply a Joshua tree with a thick trunk and branches that strangely appear as though the top third of the tree had been shorn off by a powerful laser or a massive and extremely sharp blade. Hard to tell from this distance but it doesn't appear to be burnt at the tops and a physical blade the size required simply couldn't exist. Likewise, the tree isn't the strangest thing.
Grazing from a patch of as equally odd placed carpet of green grass, is a creature of the likes he's never witnessed before. Standing about three feet tall on four skinny legs ending in hoofs and five feet long with a breadth that's puffed out three feet in diameter, is a single-headed animal similar to the Bighorners that roam about in herds and are domesticated down south near New Vegas. Except this animal is bleach white with the fluffiest looking fur he's ever seen. Like cotton or a fallen cloud, it doesn't share any of the intimating factors of a Bighorner. Nor much resemblance with Brahmin, which is distinct by it's double heads, hairless flanks and drooping udder.
"Whatever it be," he muttered. "It don't look like much of a threat."
Replacing the binoculars into his inside pocket, Grant makes his way down the slope eager to investigate this oddity. He knows well enough not to plunge head first into anything unknown but in this case he's pretty certain he should be decently safe. If anything came at him he'd have a warning of their attack well in advance. Plus there's no where to hide so he could rule out an ambush being a threat. Only real conceivable threat would come from the fluffy quadruped standing in it's personal oasis. Remembering a few campfire tales by travellers about encounters they had with ordinary looking animals in the wasteland that had deceptive hidden mutations discovered after the first impression, often vicious mutations.
Like the story about the wild chicken out west that a burly fellow named Ross Kanter had such a freakish encounter. He'd been out hunting and spotted it, determining it to be a prime find, considering the rarity of such birds. The chicken looked like the poultry kind he'd read about in a pre-war book so he could hardly pass up such a lucky chance. After easily shooting it dead he strolled up to the carcass to collect his prize meal and reached down to pick it up. Just as his hand was about to touch the dead chicken, feathers parted between it's breast and neck revealing a human-like eye in the center of it's collar. Ross hesitated, mind not quite grasping what he saw, then the creature's chest split open at the sternum into a gaping maw complete with several rows of razor sharp incisors and a foul bluish tongue. Before he could withdraw his hand fast enough, the mutant beast's vertical mouth snapped at him. That was the story Ross described in how he'd lost the ring and little finger on his hand. He was actually rather fortunate, if you'd considered the many other stories that had ended in fatalities.
Grant was determined not to make that mistake. There was nothing "ordinary" or "non-threatening" in the wasteland and for that very reason he placed his trust in his old battered combat shotgun slung across his back. The "Winchester City-Killer" 12 gauge has proven to be an excellent weapon for the wastes with the benefit of a fancy environmental sealant that provides better reliability while operating in deserts like this, even after more than a century.
The bullpup shotgun is capable of fire selection between semi and fully automatic rates of fire, allowing the user to adjust firepower when it is really needed. He'd claimed the weapon years back after exploring the ruins of a rural town outside of Flagstaff, finding it in a police station under a tumbled desk. The place had been ravaged by looters over the numerous decades and there was little of value except the looters had missed this one gun that had been stowed secretly under a desk with quick-release straps. Fortunate for him, he was a meticulous scavenger.
Unslinging the shotgun, Grant griped the formidable close quarter weapon in both hands and flipped the fire selector from safe to single shot with his thumb while continuing cautiously onward to the bizarre site and creature.
When he got to about 10 yards away from the downy beast and odd tree he stopped, shotgun at his hip, surveying the scene ahead of him. While munching away at the out-of-place lush green grass that covered an area of about five square yards like it'd been quickly transplanted, the docile creature was emitting a soft bleating 'baa' sound. It still hadn't made any sign that it had noticed him, busying itself with fervent eating and hadn't even bothered to even lift it's head once while he approached.
Grant frowned, creasing his brow as he pondered over his next actions. He'd temporarily forgotten about his quest while allowing curiosity to consume him. On closer inspection, the animal didn't actually appear to be a mutant. Nothing on it's body seemed terribly malformed and it had the normal symmetry that would be expected from healthy genes. The creature's apparent indifference to his presence also made him consider that it could have been domesticated and was used to humans but despite all leaning facts the very notion just seemed absurd. Unless it'd gotten lose, a domestic animal wouldn't be out here in the middle of nowhere.
On the other hand, what would explain the grass?
Immediately after that thought, Grant began to feel a slight tremor through the ground that increased in magnitude by the second along with a faint humming sound that amplified to an irritating frequency that joined the tremors.
"Baaaaaa!" the creature mewed in alarm at the sudden disturbance, it's bushy white head and dark snout fully upright and sniffing at the air.
Grant looked around trying to locate the source of the awkward ambient noise and vibration. The air all around him, which had gone completely still when this had began, now turned into a reverse torrent of air funnelled up into the sky like a subtle vacuum effect. A circle of light appeared only a few paces away from him, making the sand glow like white hot embers. He took a couple cautious steps backward as his gaze followed the beam of light up into the sky, where it' was being emitted from a disc-shaped object hovering high above his and the creature's heads. He could feel the heat coming from it and saw the top branches of the tree begin smoking at the tips.
"Well I'll be hogtied, quartered and drawn!" he exclaims in bewilderment at the sudden appearance of the strange circular aircraft.
The saucer vehicle looked to be made out of a shiny but dull grey metal with a notched alcove section that may be the front end of the craft that is approximately 50 yards in diameter. There's a barely noticeable wobble as it hovered in place but otherwise it' quite motionless. The beam of light came from a small circular aperture directly center of the bottom of the vessel.
A silhouette appeared in the middle of the illuminated opening and slowly descended to the ground, revealing a scrawny small person like a child the closer it came.
Wait a minute, that ain't no kid, Grant realizes as the being floated closer and closer until it's booted feet touched down softly with a whispering thump.
The alien stared blankly at him and he stared back wide-eyed with shock. Grant had heard a few stories about little green men from outer space by superstitious brahmin ranchers but had only regarded them simply as being old wives' tales. He's seen his share of mutants but this being was definitely not a mutant.
The diminutive alien creature stood about four and half feet tall with yellowish-green skin and a large bald head out of proportion to it's slender body. It has large glossy black eyes, two open vertical nostrils as a nose and a wide slit for a mouth. It's hands have three long skinny fingers with no opposable thumbs but each digit ends in wide padded tips. It's legs are shorter and jointed differently than would be normal for humans. Only it's head and hands are exposed while the rest of it's body is covered by some kind of hazmat extravehicular suit. The suit itself is mostly white with some red lining down the center of it's torso, plus a device attached to it's chest and it's boots are completely red. Holstered on it's hip appeared to be some kind of a pistol weapon, which could be something else but that's what Grant's mind could best associate.
Then, as though the alien hadn't even registered him, it turned in the direction of the quadruped animal and sauntered toward it until it was close enough for both weird creatures to be face to face. Funnily the animal had gone back to grazing and was no longer alarmed by the arrival of the space visitor, adding the "weirdness" factor of the entire moment.
Holding up a hand in a universal greeting, the alien made a guttural sound like it was clearing it's throat then it opened it's mouth and spoke. Grant couldn't believe what he was seeing!
"Attention Earth creature. This planet is now part of the Arquillian empire. Your benevolent masters welcome you." The alien declared with incredibly fluent English in a booming male voice.
"Baaaaa." The animal bleats stutteringly and returned to it's steadfast eating.
"At this time we wish to abduct you for the purpose of scientific research," The alien continued with it's rehearsed speech. "The procedure will be protracted and invasive. Do you have any objections?"
"BAAAAAA!"
"Earth creature, I am addressing you! Respond or be vaporized!" Demanded the alien, it's voice filled with obvious contempt.
The animal let loose a billowy burst of flatulence from it's rear before a stream of excrement poured into the mat of grass at it's hoofed feet.
"Ugh," The alien scowls in disgust. "I don't have time for these primitive games."
He drew his dynamic looking blaster and fired it at the animal. A wide blue beam erupted from the muzzle and struck the unsuspecting creature, causing it to shriek in dismay as the energy enveloped it's body and in almost that same instant it completely disappears in a blinding flash and a puff of ash. All that remained of the lone enigmatic creature is a small pile of ash where it had stood.
The alien tilted the blaster up and blew on the muzzle with it's mouth like a cowboy in the old pre-war holovids, twirled it on his finger then holstered it and turned swiftly about on it's heels and stormed toward the spot light of the invisible elevator beam. Stopping firmly in the center of the circle of light, the alien ascended slowly up into it's space ship. The bottom closed up and the light faded until all he could see was the shine of the disc-shaped hull.
In a brilliant flash of light, the flying saucer streaked across the azure sky and disappeared. Still looking up, Grant stumbled his way to the patch of grass and sat down cross-legged.
"What'n fuck just happened?" He breathed. "Must be dehydrated. Sun makin' me crazy."
Placing his shotgun by his side and grasping at his head as he laid back. Time flew by while his mind worked in circles over the wacky event he'd witnessed, trying to find a rational explanation, he'd eventually fallen asleep in the shade of the Joshua tree and had awoken at dawn as the sun crested the distant mountains to the east.
Grant picked himself up, taking one last look then he carried on with his expedition. He'd eventually found the crashed airplane where the map said it'd be and returned to Flyton to sell the valuable bounty of salvage he'd found. He would tell many about his journey into the Greatbasin but he'd not once uttered a word about the true discovery on that trip. How could he expect others to believe the truth when he didn't believe it himself?