GENERAL EDWARD REDFIELD (PROLOGUE)
The Great War started and ended on Saturday, October twenty-third, 2077, when nuclear weapons were launched by all the nuclear-capable nations of the world, mainly from the United States, China and the U.S.S.R. The exchange lasted for approximately two hours, according to most survivors' accounts.
Once the last atomic bomb and nuclear warhead had fallen, the world sank into the thick darkness of a nuclear holocaust. Most of all America is now a desolate wasteland, filled with, greed, death and chaos. Where… how… or why the War started… I know. But should the truth be revealed to the unlucky survivors and you'll find war will never change.
The day is Tuesday 27th February 2281, over two hundred years after the War shifted the land into a new world of an apocalypse, which is loved by no one. A small young woman was in a cemetery nearby a thriving community called Goodsprings with her companion, a grey husky, they both were paying respects to the recently deceased.
Out of nowhere a small rip in the fabric of time and space briefly opened in the air by the woman, coming out was a young man at high velocity down the hill towards the town. The man tossed and turned heavily down the rough terrain before stopping at the very bottom; he was in critical health when he was sniffed out by the woman's dog.
The woman had brought him to the town's doctor to recover. Whoever the man was he was in his early-twenties and was wearing a blue pre-war combat armour, not like her green one. His body was tenderised and broken, his journey from who knows wasn't an easy one.
Waking up from a lumpy bed without covers, the man glared at his bare legs; it was too humid to be in boxer shorts. He was dazed and disoriented from the current arrival to take them off. The town's old doctor waited patiently for the man to awaken.
The ideal doctor noticed his patient was coming into consciousness. To help him recover faster, he helped the sick man sit up; it was a miracle he was still alive. "I should advise you to rest some more to regain more sense. Putting that into consideration, I did everything I could with what I got. How did I do?"
The man rubbed his face. "Urgh! My head is spinning," the sick man groaned.
"Let's start with your name."
"David..."
"I'm Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings."
"Never heard of it."
"Where are you from, son?" asked Mitchell, softly.
"Beverly Hills," David moaned, placing his hand over his face, and lying back down.
"Beverly Hills? Hmm, I'm not familiar."
"Doesn't matter anyway," muttered David, who at the moment retracted his hand and examined his perfect body. "Did you patch me up, Doc?"
Mitchell reached out for a small notepad and read some notes he scribbled earlier. "On your arrival here, you had: four fractured ribs, a damaged spinal cord, a broken hand and nose, your jaw was also… dislocated. Despite that-"
"Wow… that's a new record."
"Despite that… you made a complete recovery. Guess there's no reason to keep you here in bed now. Been resting for four days now, you must be good to go." Mitchell helped David off his back and out of bed.
"Thanks, dude. What do I owe you?"
"First treatment is free, son," Mitchell said, adjusting his glasses. "It's why I'm here."
"That's awesome, Doc." He's no George Hamilton, but he's got the skills to pay the bills. He shortly reflected on all the times Dr Hamilton had to patch him up after work. It was almost fun back then.
David checks out Mitchell's home is an old timely wooden single floor bungalow, 60's style fashioned with a simple but old modern era style of furniture. Doc Mitchell was an elderly bald man in his late-sixties, wearing a farmer's attire. David was still in his boxer shorts, curious to where his equipment is.
"Where's my equipment?" David politely asked.
"It's on the table here." Mitchell turned away and led David to the table to his left with no extra hassle, the one table with all his gear neatly set. "Can't help but noticing your armour, would you happen to be a mercenary for hire?"
David put on his combat armour in silence. The kevlar bottoms slid on easy and the save for the top. Armour being a separate piece was like a pair of overalls. He took a short breath after putting his weapons and munitions back into their places.
"No. I'm a member of STARS."
"STARS?" Mitchell questioned, scratching his head in confusion. "Never heard of them."
"Really?" David wasn't sure if he was insulted or just as confused as Mitchell was, as he stared at him without a single sound for a long minute. "Never heard of the L.A.P.D.'s Special Tactics And Rescue Service?" Mitchell's only response was a frown and a light shrug. "Seriously? Not even Beverly Hills?" David sighed. "Whereabouts in America are we?"
Mitchell was honestly surprised about the fact his new patient is unknown of the current situation of this 'America' he just said. "We don't call it 'America' anymore. Welcome to the Mojave Wasteland, son."
"Mojave? What the fuck is a Mojave?" David blurted.
"Haven't you heard about the Great War?"
"What?! A war?!"
"The Great War of 2077."
David began to drift into denial and regret of the unknown; he didn't know how to react to something so horrible. "I hope you're joking… Please tell me you're joking..."
"You must've taken a blow to the head, like that courier. Come, I'll show you."
Mitchell walked David to a window to see the outside world. The wasteland was a thriving, dusty, desolate, dry land of greed and hate. The America David once knew was nothing more than a dead wasteland. Out of shock David fainted into Doc Mitchell's arms, he actually fainted; like what older people often do out of some dreadful emotions. Mitchell had to lay David on the ground to revive him. He showed some signs of being visually and emotionally scarred; trembling even, shook madly on the ground and his face ran white.
"What happened? What the fuck happened here?!" His voice calmed down. "Was it the War that did this to my country?"
"Apparently so. The Great War ended the Old World and condemned us with this new one. That's what the legends say."
"What year is it?" David calmly asked.
"March third, 2281..." Mitchell mumbled, hoping to soften the impact to David if he were to take it the wrong way.
It didn't work, David heard Mitchell bright as day; his pulse skyrocketed and fell short into denial. "WHAT?!"
This point during David's panicking, Mitchell restrained David and spoke calmly back to him, even though he was showing severe signs of trauma. "Whoa whoa whoa, easy there." He held David in place. "Please, calm down."
Buried beneath his irritation, David was in deep shock and clouded with sadness and regret. "How can you tell me that?!" He let go of Mitchell and shuffled to a table, placing his head on it without any regard. "I can't… I can't…" he sobbed.
"Let's start from the top. Is there anything you remember before you arrived here?" said Mitchell, with open arms.
With bated breath, David wiped away his tears and spoke calmly back to Mitchell. He said, "A catastrophe… a machine and a monster." He relaxed even more and stood up from the table addressed Mitchell. "My name is David; I'm a… well, I used to be a member of the L.A.P.D. STARS Alpha Team. Long story short, I'm from the year 2021." He began to hesitate but then spoke less calmly and more irritated, "I don't know how I got here… but… How is this possible?!"
"I'm just a doctor; I can't answer that."
"I'm… sorry," David sobbed.
Mitchell stood by David and comforted him. "David…" he uttered.
"I've been away for two hundred and sixty years, Doc…" he sobbed, "that's a long time to be away from your family." David wiped away his tears and spoke as normal, "Everyone in my life… is dead… what do I have left to live for?"
"Come now, don't be like that..."
"I had a family; wife, two sons… a career… all gone. I shouldn't be alive this time."
"Why?"
David gritted his teeth, reflecting on his past wasn't as easy as people would seem; his was twisted and unsavoury. A homicidal grandfather and life threatening situations were among the few. "I risked my life to save my family…" he said with slight reluctance. "My suffering was supposed to be over, to die a hero. Now a fate worse than death: alone in the distant future. When does this shit end?
"How did you die?"
"I was fighting near a machine called the Nexus… It exploded, and before you know it I'm here, with you."
"Well you're here now, and I don't think anything more can be done. If it makes you feel better, I had a family once. Kids left home to go to Vegas while my wife had fallen ill, and she was bedridden for years. It's been two months since she passed."
David took off his helmet and placed it on his chest out of respect. "My sympathies."
"She's at peace now. The point I'm getting at is that we need to live our lives to the fullest, in their names and memories. We can't dwell in the past forever; it's old history for a reason."
"Really? That sounds like a load," David said lamely.
"It's my choice, and I'm happy with it. It's not too late for you, though."
"My entire family is gone... and from that fact, there's no real reason for me to go on anymore… Based on what you said, I have to live… I owe it to all of them." David sighed, pacing around the small room, contemplating fairly hard. "I am partial to live, and the least I can do for them is to see what the wasteland has to offer me."
He took out a photo from his wallet and stared at it for some time. "My dearest Samantha…" he continued, solemnly, "I'll never forget you, but this is a new life for me." He puts away the photo back into his wallet, then the wallet back into his pocket. "Looks like David Wesker is here to stay."
"Wesker? That's a name an' a half…"
"Yeah… Name's David Alphonso Wesker. I'm from Beverly Hills, back when there was one." David folded his arms and stood idly, staring at his feet with a frown.
A knock came about at the front door of Mitchell's home, as usual, Mitchell went off to answer the call. He was heard talking with someone outside by the front door and soon came back to David after a single minute. He brought with him a brunette woman in green combat armour, with a grey female husky at her side. He felt she was the same age as him.
Mitchell was quick to introduce the young one in; David felt a strong connection with her. "This is Sunny Smiles and her companion, Cheyenne; she was the one who saved you."
"Thanks for saving me, ma'am," said David, "I owe you my life."
Sunny brushed her hair back and blushed lightly. "Don't worry about it handsome, just helping the needy. Doc told me all about you while I was at the door… Are you really from before the War?"
"Unfortunately."
Sunny hugged David. "You poor thing," she murmured. "I'm so sorry."
David let go of sunny in the least insensitive way he could, her body felt nice against his but had to hold back. "The past is the past. As long as I live, my family will always live through me. Either way, they're at peace, and there is nothing I can do to change that."
"Your armour." Sunny looked at David with a curious glare. "Were you a mercenary?"
Mitchell folded his arms. "I thought that too."
"If it pays I might as well be."
"Mercenary work is great pay. How about we go out for a drink at the saloon, talk about it some more?"
"Saloon? You mean a bar right?"
"We call 'em saloons," Sunny said, holding her hand out, "Wanna come with me?"
"I could use a whiskey, actually," David muttered, leaving the room, alone.
"You want a drink too, Doc?"
Mitchell politely declined, waving his hand, slowly. "I don't drink anymore. You kids just enjoy yourself."
"Don't worry; we will. Later Doc." Sunny left the room shortly after.
"They're good kids."
Once David and Sunny set foot outside David froze for a brief moment breathless and fearful to see the Wasteland in person, the country he fought for in absolute shambles. Scrap metal and junk littered the land, strangely deformed animals cattled by farmers in 70's era attire. Times were different, hoary and mere. When Sunny lead David to the saloon nearby, as she was about to enter, she noticed he was hurting inside, leaving Cheyenne to go inside.
"Are you alright, David?"
"It's just hard to see my country; the one I fought for reduced to this..."
"The Wasteland is no fairy tale; it's a harsh world that'll beat you to your knees… only the strong will survive."
"Any advice?"
"Find the time to adapt, and you'll make it in this world."
"Living in this period will be tough," he said, rubbing his forehead, dryly.
"I can teach you our ways," she said, holding David's hand with promise, "if you want."
"You'd do that for me?"
"It would be irresponsible of me to let you face the world out there on your own, wits like yours might not stack up."
"What do you propose?"
"I can teach you our way of life."
"Please… I have grade: A military training." David let go of Sunny's hand and beat his chest once with pride. "My initiative alone can adapt over this."
"Care to prove it to me over a job then?"
"I'll pass. I am a very fast learner; work better being thrown into the heat."
"Maybe next time."
"Can I trouble you for a firearm? All I have is my uh… knife."
Sunny raised her eyebrow. "Is that all you got?" she chuckled.
David unsheathed his combat knife, it was in fabulous condition with the blue S.T.A.R.S. logo still noticeable at the hilt, despite the age. With a press of a button the armour's built-in wrist blades sprung out of his right forearm, a contraption had concealed two flawless steel blades. The surprise of the bladed weapon startled Sunny.
"Oh..."
"And this."
"My, my… You're full of surprises aren't you?"
"I try…" David sheathed his wrist blades.
"Well here's a handgun," she said, handing David a 9mm handgun, "I assume you know how to use it?"
"Sure I do." He examined the handgun and holstered it at his waist. Browning HP. Powerful and accurate. Goody.
"Ready for a drink?"
"Always…" he claimed, with a smile, holding Sunny's hand.
"Cool... Cool." She nodded and handed David two more magazines for his Browning HP. "Here's some ammo just in case. Take it."
David took the ammo and followed Sunny into the small saloon; she thought it would be best to talk about survival in the Wasteland over a drink. The realisation of his immediate situation, it was an official time to hit the drinks and let the alcohol flow.