DIRT
The sun rises over the mountain ridge and dashes of light begin to hit my eyes. I squint slowly and put a flat hand over my forehead to block out the rays of the day ahead. I'm less than a mile from Sway and I beginning to hear the rural sounds of Brahmin cattle mooing softly as their owner feeds them breakfast. I'm near the right entrance of the gigantic wall that protects Sway from unwelcome visitors. I hope they don't identify me as one. I ignore the obvious prison outfit I'm wearing and hope that with the sand and grime spread across my chest, they won't know I'm a convicted criminal. I see the twin streetlights on opposite sides of the Sway entrance and can spot a man with a sniper rifle on a makeshift guard tower a few stories up.
The owner of the Brahmin cattle had been watching me for at least the last mile as I walked along the interstate that crisscrossed through the desert. My shoes are worn from the sand abrasions and intense heat and I can feel it sneaking into the inner layer. The farmer finishes putting a fresh stock of grass into the giant bucket against the wall and walks over to his trading stand a few fee away as I get closer. I look around and see two guards on opposite sides of the door along with the sniper and the farmer. For a city the size of Sway, security seems to be at a minimum.
"I've been watching you for the last mile or so. Heard an explosion a few hours ago. Have anything to do with that?" the farmer asks with a heavy foreign accent, spreading his hands across the small trading post.
"Nope. Just passing through. I was coming from the South. Pitched a tent for the night. I'm a heavy sleeper." I lie to him.
"Hm. Where's your tent?"
"Blew away when the wind started kicking up. How do you think I woke up? Took most of my bags too."
"Hm." one of the guards mutters.
I turn my head toward him as I stop a meter in front of them. The left guard seems extremely tense evidenced by his death grip on the assault rifle. The right guard eyes mine and walks a step closer, pointing to the leather-strapped weapon across my shoulder.
"Last shift heard what sounded like a warzone over them hills. Are you sure you just pitched a tent last night?" he asks me.
"Why does it matter, Don. The man's here and wants to get inside. He doesn't want any trouble. Do you, mister?" the farmer interjects.
I nod at him and give a small smile. The guard, apparently named Don, walks forward and holds his hand out, pulling down his sunglasses and looking at my satchel. I open up the buttoned section and pull out the gun long ways, the barrel pointed toward the sky. He pulls out the assorted pistol and assault rifle bullets and dumps them back inside the bag before looking at my prison outfit. I wait in patience and pray to whatever deity watches over this hellhole that he doesn't get any wiser. He pats my sides down and slides a hand across the back of my waist. I can feel the Maker's chip in my back pocket and close my eyes in hesitation.
"You a vault dweller?" the farmer asks.
"What?" I respond, stalling for time as I try to make up a story quickly.
"One of them vault people. Vault 13, I'm guessing?"
"Oh, yeah. Sorry. I think the heat's getting to me." I say.
I look at the ripped sleeve on my arm. Thank God I don't have the prison identification letters anymore. Only the yellow number '13' remains. These wasters make up their own stories quickly.
"Where's your wrist gadget at? All of you vault dwellers have those on. I've seen a few of you passing through the roads every now and again. And you fellas are always messing with that thing."
"Got broken. Along with my tent." I say, holding up my arms.
The farmer nods and walks over to the other side of his trading stand, pulling out a cigar box and smelling the tobacco before sighing in ecstasy. The guard hands the satchel back to me and looks over the hill one more time before clicking his tongue and moving quickly to the other side. The other guard crosses his arms and scans my figure before the farmer hands him one of the cigars and he strikes a match against the worn metal gauntlet that protects his forearm.
"What are you stopping in Sway for?" he asks, clipping off the bottom section of his helmet and letting the thick cloth hang down from the side.
"Meeting some people. I promised a friend that I'd tell them what happened to her." I answer.
"I see. Good luck." the smoking guard says, sticking the cigar in his mouth.
He slams a button next to the heavy metal slab at least three meters tall and two meters wide. I hear chains rattle on the other side and suddenly, the slab rises and I can see the long city street that leads into the main section of the city a half mile away. I nod at the guards and the farmer. He gives me a suspicious and stern look as he waves me off and I step inside. I begin my walk down the relatively empty section of the city, passing by a few drugged-up tweakers sleeping beside a campfire while wrapped up in piss-stained blankets. My boots scatter across the asphalt as the exhaustion from the night before and the long walk in the sand finally boils to the top of my head.
I can't even yawn in my advanced state of tiredness. I get closer to the city and can now separate at least eight or ten large skyscrapers that make up the base of Sway. The tallest building used to be taller as the top section has been obviously blown apart and a large section has been ripped off. I've heard some whispers about Sway as I've grown older. But out in the Mojave, word doesn't get around fast. Thanks to the critters the size of two men and raiders who will blow your head off to grab a bite of your stale potato chips. I continue to drag my feet along the road, which is called Pike Highway according to a bent sign sticking out of the ground about halfway to Sway. The ambient noises of people talking and businesses beginning their work day that I first caught hint of at the gate become louder and more immersive as I smell the seared meat of a freshly killed Radscorpion. A few people walking on the street give me a look, staring at the 13 across my chest.
"Vault dweller." I hear someone whisper.
"Probably got kicked out. He looks like a shit." I hear another.
I shake my head and walk forward, trying to find the friendliest vendor to ask for the Jones' location. I see the clothing trader, a frail woman with wispy gray hair and a long face. I walk over to her stand and nearly fall against the counter, my upper torso being too much weight for my poor feet. She gives me a quick scan before cracking that elderly smile that is impossible to read. In my tiredness, I return with a half-smile and I see her yellow teeth sickly gleaming right in my face.
"What do you need, young man? A new coat? Or maybe a drink? It's hot out there." she says.
"No, ma'am. Thank you, though. I need to find the Jones'? They have a shop near Harley's, I believe."
"Oh yes! Nice couple. Do you see that helicopter tail over there?" she says, pointing a few hundred feet away to the edge of the street on the left.
I nod.
"Turn that corner and you'll see the sign. They own the plants and remedies. Good and fair prices. At least in my opi-."
"Thank you." I cut her off.
I slide my heavy arms off of the counter and begin walking to their shop. I make my way through the growing Sway residents, trying to be as silent and inconspicuous as possible. I look at all of these people, starting another day in Hell, trying their best to make their way. I almost envy it sometimes. I see a mother with her kids and despite the grueling weather, horrifying creatures that lurk right outside the walls, and the ever-looming threat of death... they still smile. I wish I could remember a time when I smiled as a child. But nothing comes to mind. A blank space. A gap. It's not even a white or black space. It's just a void. Like most of my childhood. Sometimes, I can almost feel pulses of memories coming back to me. Small things. Like a flower at my house or maybe a voice. Ghosts of a past that doesn't even matter.
I keep my head low as I turn the corner, glancing at the helicopter tail sticking up from the asphalt and pondering its origin before seeing the Harley's Shop sign, glowing in lime green neon. I find the pistol inside my satchel and make sure it's ready to fire. This could be messy. I never liked murdering innocent people much. When there wasn't a direct connection for my motives, it just didn't seem right. But if Mincie's family decides to go against my wishes, there won't be any other way. I open the door to the shop and see the friendly face of what must be Mincie's dad working the front counter. I give the biggest smile I can and clear my throat.
"Sore throat? I've got some mint that'll smooth that." the man says, trying to find a jar below the counter.
"Oh no. Thank you, though." I say.
The man gets up off of his knees and smacks the dust away from his pants. He scans me for a second, raising an eyebrow after seeing the 13 logo. I check his sudden change of posture and his face scrunches up for a miniscule moment of stress. But his face relaxes a moment later and he smiles again.
"Vault Dweller, huh? Where's your Pip-Boy?" he asks.
"What now?" I ask, trying to decipher what in the hell a Pip-Boy is.
He points to his wrist for a second and I rub my ears, nodding in sudden understanding. So that's what the farmer meant by wrist gadget. Pip-Boy. What a name.
"Ah. It got broken. I was in my tent out for a research run and the wind kicked up. Got knocked around too much." I reply.
"Hm. Never knew those things for getting damaged so easily."
"Well… that wind was pretty strong." I laugh.
"Hm." the man grunts.
"So, how is Vault 13, nowadays? I had a few friends who came from there. Visited a few times, myself. Trading and such. Is Michael still the Overseer? He was crazy and maniacal about twenty years ago."
"Oh… Michael? He died about… three years ago. I never really talked to him much." I lie.
The man slams the counter and gives me a wide-eyed look.
"That's a damn shame. Poor Michael."
"Yeah. Got a woman now. She's the new Overleader." I say, messing up the name.
He gives me a puzzled look, his stance suddenly becoming straight as a board.
"Overseer, I mean. Sorry!" I chuckle to myself.
"I've had a long day. It's hot out there."
"I agree. Want to take a seat?" he asks.
His tone is different. And I can sense that something isn't right.
"No, thanks. I actually wanted to ask you a few things."
"Oh." he replies.
I watch as he leaves the counter and walks around to the front of the store, locking the door shut with a latch. I flick my eyes toward him and he points to the small table beside the door, tucked away in the corner. I turn around and he can clearly see my hand on the pistol in my satchel.
"Let's have a seat for a second." he says.
"What for?"
"Just want to talk. Know more about you, that's all. Tell me some more about Vault 13. Catch me up." he says with a sharp tap of the chair he slides out for me.
What was that thing I said about murdering innocents? Well… this old man isn't innocent.
MILDRED
"Jesus Christ, Mildred. You know how early it is to be drunk already?" Jacob asks me as he hold back the bottle of whiskey.
I slam my glass against the wooden bar and sigh as loud as I can. This little shit has tried the sweet talk three times in the last hour. In about thirty seconds, I'm gonna let my revolver do the sweet talk against his waxy little ears. Jacob sits the bottle on the table and I quickly grab it, popping the cork open with my teeth and gulping down the fiery heaven. He swipes the bottle from my hand and I pull out Lucius, aiming it at his gut.
"I'll show everyone the Mole Rat you ate for breakfast if you lay another fucking hand on me. Got it? Can't a ghoul get some fucking piece around here?" I yell at him.
I lean too far back in my stool and grab the side of the counter to get my balance back. My fingers slide off the sanded wood and I collided with the dust. The two banjo players beside the bar bust out into an annoying laughter and a few bystanders get a few chuckles in. I begin to chuckle with them, wiping the rest of the whiskey off from the corners of my rough mouth and licking my hand. The banjo players laugh harder and slap their knees like a couple of old men. Like Jonas used to do after my nephew would make him laugh. I laugh over their hearty gasps and point the pistol at the fatter man's head. He jumps up from the chair he's in and drops his banjo. I keep my pistol right on his back as he runs into the streets and I close my eye, my fingertip rubbing along the trigger. Before I can fire, Jacob tackles me to the ground and punches me in the face.
"What are you doing? Get off me, you piece of shit. You know I don't like that."
I push him off and roll in the dust before shoving Lucius into his holster. Jacob is out of breath and points at my face.
"Go lay down. It's too early for you to be acting like this! I don't like it, Mil! I'm worried about you!" he yells.
"Fuck you!"
I throw him off of me and pat my chest, dust and gravel flying off. I hock the biggest loogie I can muster and toss it to the ground. Jacob crawls back over to the bar and parts his hair correctly while breathing heavily. I flip the bird to everyone watching and casually make my way back to my motel room. The housekeeper, Stan, lets me stay indefinitely for 20 caps a week. It's not a bad deal considering that I saved his life from a rogue caravan and their trigger fingers four months ago. He's nice. Even if he keeps trying to sleep with me.
I wipe my nose and relish in satisfaction, all of Sway afraid of me. Just the way I like it. I stumble my way into the lobby of the motel and Stan gives me a shake of his head. I don't have the energy to bark at him right now. I fiddle around in my musty pockets, pulling out my keyring and find the one with a thin line of Wonderglue holding the long end together after that fight with two idiot wannabe-raiders last month. So many hardasses drag their feet into this city, spitting out some fake stories about their travels and exploits. I've heard it all. Done it all. After 238 years on this Hell some call Earth, I've come to see through people in the first half second I meet them. It's always in their eyes and the way their mouth forms the first impressionable sentence. Every fucking little eye movement and twitch of the hands can reveal every single thing about this world of strangers.
I open the door and throw my keys on the table holding my second and third pistols. I walk over to the couch and decide to take a nap, plopping down, boots and all. I sigh and hear the noises of the city coming back to life. Sway. It's funny to think that I'm older than this city by 80 years. Sway started out as a small settlement outside the huge city full of skyscrapers inside. Too much land to cover and sweep for just a few farmers. But eventually, they found their way deeper into the city, formally known as Sway. Back before the War, I had always heard about Sway. It was a stopping point between Las Vegas and Los Angeles. New Vegas. What a joke. A few years ago, some mailman came along and took out most of opposing forces in the Mojave. The mailman (I'm not even so sure it was a man, now. Damn memory.) took New Vegas for themselves from Mr. House, the self-appointed king of the Strip. There are several rumors about what happened to House. Some say the mailman killed him and threw him to the Raiders. Some say the mailman ate his body to gain his power. Personally? I don't give a shit. New Vegas is 40 miles away and I never saw any change in the Wasteland. It doesn't matter who tries to take charge for a year or two. Nothing changes unless the Wasteland decides to. President Kimball of the NCR? Give me a break. The bat-shit-crazy Brotherhood of Steel? Fuck those computer humpers. Garbage in. Garbage out. That's my motto.
DIRT
"You don't look right for a vault-dweller, son. How long did you say you've been on the move?"
"Awhile." I say, quickly gulping down a glass of water.
"Hm. You've got a nasty scar. I can see it under your suit. Get into a fight in the vault? They were always pretty docile as far as I knew." he says, trailing a finger down his chest and mirroring my scalpel scar.
"What is with the interrogation, Mr. Jones? What is your problem with me, huh?" I ask.
Jones stands up and knocks the glass out of my hand when I try to avoid him throwing a punch. It connects right across the bottom of my cheek. My reflexes are extremely slowed from exposure to the desert. Damn. Jones kicks me in the stomach and picks me up with surprising strength. He slams my back into our table and I can't help but let out a gasp of air. Jones pulls a knife from the back of his shirt and lays the blade across my neck. When I swallow, the sharp edge cuts a thin layer of my skin. I feel the intense papercut-like wound and sit in silence and surrender. Whatever this man wants, I need to give him my full attention.
"I know you're not from Vault 13, you scum."
"Proof?" I'm able to shout out.
"The dwellers in Vault 13 moved on a hundred years ago! There's nothing but deathclaws and dead bodies there now!"
"Shit."
I knee him in the crotch and gain a split-second to grab the side of his head and shove himself off of me. He hits the floor and I grab the knife before he can stand back up. I knock him to the ground again and pull him against the counter.
"Enough small talk. It's time to tell you the truth."
"What are you talking about?"
"Mincie. Your daughter."
Jones' eyes widen and I feel his body tense up. He lunges for me with a growl but I slam him back into the side of the counter.
"What did you do to her?" he asks me.
"I saved her life. Did you know she was a criminal?" I ask him.
"A criminal? Mincie wouldn't even talk to Pastor Dorian when he came for Sunday visits. She could never talk to a stranger, why would she hurt somebody? She never did a thing wrong!"
"Well, she did something bad enough in the eyes of the NCR. She was locked up with me at Tibbets. We were being transferred when the Enclave blew the train apart. Me and Mincie escaped. She saved my life as we tried to make our way to Sway. She died on the way here. She got shot. I am sorry. But I need a friend in this town. I need to get to New Vegas."
"New Vegas? The Enclave? Are you insane? The Enclave have been gone for over a decade, son." Mr. Jones said in disbelief.
"I saw their armor. And the Vertibirds. They were looking a few prisoners on the train."
"And how would you know that?" he asked me.
"Because I was one of them."
I toss him into a half-broken chair and slowly pull out the Maker's chip from my satchel. He looks at the gleam from the sun shining through the dusty window behind us and leans toward it. I pull my hand back and hold it near the top of my face.
"You know what this is?"
"A Maker's chip. It can be used for giving power to any generator. Like the generator at Hoover Dam."
"So, you know my plan?" I ask him.
"Mojave's been dry for years. You sell that thing to the NCR or whoever controls the Dam and then, running water can be used across the whole Wasteland. That chip can change everything."
"You seem to know a lot for a settler. Where'd you come from? Originally?"
"My father and I were raised in a vault. He learned about those things. Extremely rare. That's how I knew you weren't a vault dweller. You're not the type."
"Smart. Mincie said you would help me if you knew I was one of her friends."
"Friend? You let her die." Mr. Jones says, shooting up from the seat and smacking my hand away.
I relax, realizing his energy is no longer focused on harming me, watching him walk over to the counter and grab a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Or half-full. Don't get me started on that shit. He doesn't even waste time searching for a glass, gulping from the bottle and not stopping until there is a sharp knock on the door. He slams the cap back on and with lightning speed, tells me to back up. The knocking gets louder and more frantic, a man clearing his throat outside.
"Rick! Open up! There's another vault dweller in the city! She's bleeding pretty badly! She says she's from Vault 8?"
Mr. Jones quickly walks over to the door and unlocks it. The settler busts inside the door, out of breath and a rifle in his hand.
"If it's just a girl, then what's with the gun, Moll?" Mr. Jones asks.
"She's chained to a super mutant and he's taken out two of the front guards!"
"A mutant?" I ask, peeking around from the corner of the room.
The settler nods, giving me a frown as he stares at my outfit.
"What?" I ask.
"You a dweller? You need to settle these two down. The mutant is about to eat the whole city!"
Mr. Jones stares at me and pulls me forward.
"Listen, man, I'm not really a-." I begin to say before Mr. Jones pokes me in the side.
"Equipped to deal with this right now, Moll." Mr. Jones interrupts.
"What the hell are-?" I say before he jabs me again, pulling me in front of him.
"Huh?" Moll says with a frown.
"He's been in the elements. He's dehydrated. He can't confront a mutant right now. Where's Pike and his son?" Mr. Jones asks.
Moll shakes his head.
"Pike is drunker than Hell right now. He won't wake up. Come on, vault dweller! Settle this before that girl and that damn thing cause a war." Moll says before running off into the street.
I turn around and face Mr. Jones, about to get the pistol out from my satchel.
"What in the hell are you trying to do? You trying to get me killed?"
"I'm savin your ass, son."
"How?" I squeal as I hear the roar of the mutant down the street and the screams of a few citizens.
"In Sway, it's illegal to lie. Punishable by death."
"Oh, you have to be shitting me."
"Listen... you want to live and find a way to Vegas? Help me deal with this shit out here. You ain't got no other choice." Mr. Jones tells me.
I sigh deeply and contemplate shooting this fucker in the face and making my own way out of the city. But then, I look around at all the witnesses. All of the armed witnesses. And I realize... I have no other choice. So, I push Mr. Jones off of me and pull out my pistol, looking down the dusty streets and spotting three guards with their weapons raised and a ten-foot tall super mutant roaring in anger and the small figure attached to his side by a single chain. If I had any luck at all, that number has dropped down to zero.