FALLOUT
LAND OF LOST SOULS
Chapter One - Oh Mexico
Oh Mexico, It sounds so simple I just want to go, the sun so hot I forgot to go home, guess Ill have to go now…
Oh Mexico It sounds so sweet with the sun sinking low, the moon so bright like a light up the night, think everything all right…
Oh down in Mexico, I've never really been so I don't really know, guess ill have to go…
Whoa Mexico, I've never really been but Id sure like to go Oh Mexico, guess Ill have to go…
The wasteland…a desolate landscape of barrenness and destruction. Even without the mutated wildlife trying to kill you, powder gangers, raiders and other sorts of scum and villainy roamed the wasteland looking for unfortunate souls to wreak pain and death on.
When god said the meek would inherit the earth, he must not have predicted a nuclear apocalypse. Because the meek had sure as hell not inherited this earth. Unless you considered the few Vaults that were scattered around the wasteland…but even those were few and far between now.
If a man that was still alive in the wasteland now it wasn't by accident. Either he had very powerful friends or he was smart. And sometimes even smart didn't compensate for deadly. You needed a certain streak of viciousness to survive. It all came down were you willing to kill to survive…your life or theirs.
In the midday heat stood two men facing each other in the middle of the desert. They stood still surveying each other, hands near the guns on their hips. The sun was high in the sky heat beating down on the desert below. Sweat poured from their faces and soaked their clothes. Each was waiting for the other to move, one would have to eventually.
Talking was out of the question, one of them would die. The desert sapped your strength and drained your body. Each had a meager supply of water, and both needed the others supply to hope to live another day. Therefore only one would walk away with his life.
The man on the left was a dark haired youth, he wore faded jeans and a torn T-shirt. A rusted pistol was tucked in his waist band and his hand twitched near it. He was post apocalypse born Mexican ,and death and suffering was all he knew. He was thirsty and tired, but he would not die, he was the fastest…the toughest wastelander he knew.
The dark haired youth snapped for his pistol, hands a blur. A shot rang out and he heard his gun clatter to the floor. It couldn't be, he was the best, he was the fastest. But he was not fast enough, for the stranger on the right was faster. Dropping to the ground he breathed his last breath, and died in the middle of the desert. He felt blissful oblivion, his pain was gone, and he was going home…his true home.
But the man on the right was left to suffer in the wasteland, till he was fortunate enough to meet his maker. He was a "gringo" a white man. He stood tall amidst the barrenness around him. The wasteland had beaten him physically, but it had not yet cowed his pride.
He wore a tattered pair of blue jeans and a dirty long sleeve work shirt. A ragged brown cowboy hat topped his head, and he wore a pair of boots held together with duct tape. A tooled leather belt served as a makeshift holster for his beat up revolver. Light brown hair was visible underneath his cowboy hat, and cold blue eyes looked upon the kid he had just killed.
He felt no pity for the young man, it could have easily been him laying in a pool of his own blood. He merely kneeled down and started going through his belongings. He picked up the gun and examined it, it was a rusting 9mm pistol. He picked it up and pulled the trigger. A loud "click" resounded and he tossed it away, broken firing pin…useless. The poor kid probably didn't know it.
The kid had a few bottles of water, and some canned food. Stowing it in his small backpack he continued on the way he had previously been walking, leaving another lone wanderer who has met his death on the endless path of lost souls.
Chapter 1.5 - A Dead Mans Gun
Your hands upon…a dead mans gun, and your looking down the sights
Your heart it worn, and the seems are torn…and they've given you a reason to fight.
His bones hurt from carrying himself across miles of destruction, his muscles ached from malnourishment and brutal use, his lungs cried out from the amount of contaminated gas and air they've been forced to breathe. His eyes were bloodshot from constant strain of looking for danger, and shelter. His skin bore marks of countless wounds and old scars that told stories he would never tell.
And your not gonna take what they've got to give.
And your not gonna let them take your will to live.
How he got to Mexico was a story that took more than a day to tell. The fact was though was that he had seen enough death and destruction in this country to last a lifetime. He had planned to travel back to America to find someplace to live out the rest of his diminished life in peace. But the journey had not gone as planned, he had left more bodies in his path to peace, than he could count.
Because they've taken enough, and you've given them all you can give…and luck wont save them tonight.
They've given you a reason to fight.
He had no name, the wasteland had stripped him of that. He was now called a killer to some, drifter to most. Once upon a time he had a name…Clayton Miller, but it had been so long since anyone had ever called him that. Now he was a drifter, wanderer, killer, wastelander, but then again so was everyone else. Times were tough, and men got tougher or they died.
And all the storms you've been chasing.
About to come down tonight.
He was vault born evidence of the Pip-Boy strapped to his wrist. The damned things were supposed to be impossible to break, but true enough the screen on his remained black and a large crack ran through the center. He left the vault when he was young, well left is a polite word, but that was another long story for a different day. He had no family, they were dead or long forgotten, much like himself.
And all the pain you've been facing, about to come into the light.
They've given you a reason to fight.
Clayton Miller, wanderer, drifter, the man with no name. He would continue his path, or die trying. If he made it, good. If he died, hopefully it would be quick, then he could leave his pain and suffering to vanish along with his body. If he did make it, he would finally tell his story…to all who would take the time and hear it.
They've given you a reason to fight…
Authors Note - I have loved playing the Fallout franchise, and this is my first time writing a story about it. I've tried to write a unique take on the Fallout story, not just another straight up Courier story pattern. I am trying to make my "man with no name" similar to Clint Eastwood's Lone Drifter as seen in the Sergio Leone movies such as A Fistful Of Dollars, ForA Few Dollars More, and The Good The Bad And The Ugly. Now I have to find a "Tuco" and "Angel Eyes", If my fellow western fans get my drift. If fellow writer/reader reviews indicate an interest in the story, I would like to write a prologue, and epilogue to The Land Of Lost Souls story, I will try to not make it strictly Fallout in the sense of weapons and plot, but help from veteran fallout writers is always welcome.
Thanks For Reading - Anticleides