"Never be surprised by the way that people act. We might have freewill, but our minds can trap us."
The sun stretched out low across the mountainous horizon. As the wind blew it kicked up small swirls of dust and dirt. Buzzards circled distant areas, presumably over a corpse.
You get used to that kind of thing out in the wasteland. My name is Josh Redel, and I'm a survivor of the worst war this world has ever seen. Living off that lands and making daily decisions harder than most people will ever encounter in their life time. I live a daily life of challenges that never fail to test my strength and endurance. The people I meet live the same life, yet they seem to live it differently.
What I mean by that is everybody deals with this constant pain differently. Some people embrace it, others are embraced by it. Some people still haven't figured out what end of the spectrum they fall on. In today's world, you can only choose so many paths.
There is the average traveler, who like me, roams mindlessly from town to town without any purpose. We usually travel until we die. Who cares anyway, right? Nobody gives a damn about the travelers, and in fact, most people don't like them at all. The only thing they do is take supplies from the towns they visit. It's a hard life choice, but I find that it keeps me busy. Otherwise I'd just end up killing myself like the other burn-outs.
Aside from travelers are raiders. They tend to travel around the outskirts of the towns (I assume this is because it's out of firing range of the city walls). They're a bunch of mean bastards who believe they are tough shit. Truth is, once they've got a few holes in them, they run like the cowards they are. They tend to pray on the travelers and the occasional, weary passerby. Oh, I forgot to mention their sick ways of entertainment. They enjoy dressing up in fresh killed animal skins (and in some cases, human skins) and torturing each other by tearing limbs off.
The last type of survivor out here would be the ones who sit in the towns and rot. Literally, they serve no purpose to this world. They just sit out in the sun and take up whatever oxygen is left. I guess the only purpose they do have is giving you a place to sleep, food to eat, and stuff to barter. But other than that, I can honestly say I'd rather they all die. They believe that their little towns have rules and laws I'm suppose to follow.
The wasteland holds no rules or laws these days. After the bombs dropped the military tried to maintain whatever order remained amongst the ash and rubble. That military was referred to as the Brotherhood of Steel. Basically they're just testosterone filled jack-asses with time on their hands and expensive rifles on their backs. After they dropped hard, the NCR formed and came to power. Now they have control around bigger cities such as Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Miami, and those sorts. Fortunately, out here in the hills of West Virginia, they don't pop up much. I guess you could consider us lucky for that reason, and the fact that only about one nuke actually hit this state.
About me, I have a story, a long one at that. But when people ask me, I just shrug it off. I don't talk much, it could lead to friendship. I've seen too many friendships ended by betrayal and bullets. I just go into town, get what I need, and get out. Which is exactly what I was doing that night when I met Jason Cununk.
I trudged up to the gate; my backpack weighed down with a freshly killed deer. Big yellow, neon letters spelled out, "Red-Rock". They were surprisingly clean, as were the walls that stood around it. It was all wood and not the scrappy sheet-metal that usually surrounded towns.
A man stood up high on the wall holding a rifle in both hands. He wore a beat up old white hat that displayed a distinct American flag. He chambered a round and shouted in a raspy voice "Let me see your hands and state you business!"
I lifted my right hand and reached back pretending to scratch my side. I was really keeping my hand close to my .357 holster. I looked back up at him and squinted at the light, "Just looking for a place to stay."
He didn't lower his weapon, "What if we're full?"
I sighed and lowered my hand, "I've got plenty of deer in my bag, more than I could eat before it spoils."
After a few moments of trying to maintain his tough appearance, he stood back and the gates slowly opened.
I stepped forward through them, and into a whole new world. The first thing I noticed was that the town was wrongly clean. It seemed as if nothing had touched it at all. The streets were black with asphalt, and the streetlights shined bright overhead. The buildings looked freshly painted, and the grass seemed….cut.
I set my sights on the line up of people sitting around a big building farther down the street. It had an old Western sign with the name "Moe's Bed and Rest," painted in big red letters above it. It looked more like an old timer bar than the normal ones around towns. You know, they're the kinds that are famous for their shootouts and bar fights.
I started walking towards it eagerly, but was stopped abruptly as I collided with a woman carrying two whicker buckets. I stepped backwards as hundreds of blueberries spilled all across the ground, and on my boots.
My gaze drifted back up to a girl who could've been a model before the war. She had long dark curls that played around her cheeks and chin. A small nose sat between two beautiful, dark brown eyes covered slightly by long eyelashes. And her body, like I said, she could be a model. She wore a tight gray shirt and blue jeans that fit her perfectly. Unfortunately I couldn't see her smile at the moment because her mouth was parted and she was staring down at the mess.
"I'm…sorry," she said in a soft, shy voice.
I bent down to the berry pile and sighed, "A 'lil dirt never hurt nobody." I looked back up to her eyes which were staring back into mine, "I apologize, I didn't see you coming."
She knelt down beside me and began stuffing the berries back into the basket.
I reached out to help, but she grabbed my hand. I looked at her confused.
"No, you're…" she said slowly.
I took my hand back and slowly stood up, "Dirty right?"
She didn't answer; she just stared at my boots.
I nodded, tipped my hat, and started walking away.
"Wait!" she called.
I turned quickly and tossed a few bottle caps her way, "Here!"
I walked into the bar and scanned around the area. I quickly thought, these people are all fools. I literally couldn't see anybody packing. Not a single firearm in the area. They better hope that the Mr. Rodgers sitting on the wall at the gate can keep the bad guys in line. There were a few men towards the back of the bar playing cards, two guys at the bar, and couple eating at a table in the middle.
I sat down at the bar and the bartender walked over cleaning a glass like a stereotypical bartender should.
He had a black, bushy mustache and a bald head. "What can I get ya'?"
I coughed and checked the wall behind him. I spotted the Jack Daniel bottle No. 7 sitting atop a shelf. "Jack Daniel, on the rocks. You got rooms?"
He grabbed the bottle from the shelf, "Yeah, 100 caps and it's yours three days, two nights."
"What about one night?" I asked as he poured the drink in front of me.
"25 caps, why are you in such a hurry to get out of town?" he asked raising a brow.
I grabbed the drink and took a long, much needed drink. Wiping my mouth I replied, "I don't know, you tell me."
He shrugged and walked back to the other side of the bar. Then the two men to my right got into a heated argument over something. I decided to try and listen in without making it obvious.
"You backstabbing bastard! You were supposed to bring him back!" one of them shouted. He was a skinny guy, like a ghoul. A raggedy beard covered his face and long, black hair covered the rest of his head.
"I tried," the other man said deeply, "but I told you there were too many of them!"
He had a bit better physique about him with broad shoulders and bigger muscles. He had short brown hair and a clean shaven face.
The second guy went to sit down, and accidentally knocked over his drink and spilled it all over the bar. It dripped off the edge onto my jeans.
I downed the rest of my drink and looked back up at him. He stared back at me with anger in his eyes.
"You got a problem?" he asked in a fake voice.
I laughed, "Well considering you spilled your drink on me, you might want to apologize."
"Piss off!" he said before turning around.
I bit my lip and stared daggers into his back. "What?"
He turned back around, "I said PISS OFF!"
I stood up and my stool tipped backwards. His eyes let me know that he just realized my size was a lot bigger than he had thought. "Yeah, that's what I thought you said..."
He popped open a knife and backed up, "Look, I don't need this shit right now," his voice getting flimsier.
I walked towards him, "Boy, you come at me with a knife, you better be ready to use it."
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- Legkicker
