The Final Chapter
Tristram coughed, standing up on a ridge and watching the sun set. His body was bruised and broken from years of suffering and fighting for survival. It was rare for someone in the wastes to live as long as him, and he would soon be at his end. He knew it. Thinking of Dr. Strangelove, along with everyone else he met on his journey from a young soul to an old one, he was at peace with it.
But the world did not care. It turned on all the same. The oceans of the Earth ebbed and flowed and many natural things survived. Perhaps there was even a jungle left somewhere, so full of life. Above, the stars turned, the cosmos indifferent to Earth and Tristram, and whether either of them would survive and what would happen when they died.
He wished he could see the stars. He never took the time to look at and appreciate them. He once read in a book that all we ever see of stars are their old photographs. Something to do with the speed of light. He wondered if some of those stars were long dead. Tonight, he would be sure to look up in awe at the moon and contemplate it like a piece of art.
A clump of dirt in his right hand slipped through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. Soon it would be time for him to leave the airfield.
A hand grasped his shoulder. He turned to see Gough. "Hello, Tristram." Gough was medium-sized and medium built. He had been lifting crude weights lately, giving more definition to his muscles. When Tristram, no stranger to the gym in his younger days, asked why, Gough told him that it was mainly to attract lady Boomers. He laughed at that – similar to his own reasons when he was younger, and chalked it up to survival in any way you looked at it.
"Hello Gough. What are you doing out here?"
"I like to walk the grounds of the airfield. See what's up. We're finished, Tristram."
"Finished?"
"The bomber is completed," Gough said. A wide smile spread across his face. He looked like a Megaton kid on Christmas.
"Does this mean I can go into the hangar now? I haven't seen it in so long," Tristram said. Since the bomber from the lake had been hauled in, only a select few people were allowed in to the hangar. A shame, because Tristram would be unable to sabotage it. Sweet, sweet duplicity. But one night a year ago he lay in bed, unable to sleep, and began to think about it. There was no point, he realised. The Boomers were harmless, even with a weapon like a fighter bomber, because it had no pilot. Only as dangerous as a gun with no trigger man. A tool but not a weapon.
"Not yet. But you can see soon. Very soon."
Tristram's face remained still, unconcerned. He looked over at the horizon and the setting sun. They stood just inside the borders of Boomtown. The fence ran nearby. "We have tests to run. I need to get on the radio. Goodbye Tristram." Gough turned and left.
"Bye."
"And Tristram," he said, not looking back at him. Tristram still focused his eyes on the dusk. "We're strong now, thanks to you. The 42 is our flag. Our symbol. A sign that we'll survive by branching out one day and spreading the message. Pearl understood that. I know you will too. Thank you for the books. The ones about aerodynamics and engineering you say came from Vault Tec were particularly useful." Tristram had forgotten. Vault Tec. Still, it would be inconsequential. The idea was dismissed. What could they really do with those books? Not enough to fully operate a full-sized plane. Ridiculous.
A puppy from nowhere trotted up to him and sat as his feet. His name was Captain, born just after Tristram's trip to the lake. Pearl had taken a liking to dogs, as there were none in vault 42. Captain was a German Shepard. Tristram had always liked those. He liked all dogs. So simple to understand and such good companions. They sat there, a man and a dog, and just looked at everything, in that moment living a simple existence.
A deep humming came from somewhere behind him. He turned, but Boomtown was far, and he was unable to see. Captain took off running, back towards Boomtown. Towards home. One minute later, the plane was airborne, deafening, flying over his head. And with that the world had begun again.
Perhaps all the suffering would be gone. The generations of nothing and the nothing that they eventually amounted to. All the effort of human history, whatever it was for, had birthed the wasteland. And the return of the ability to wipe out all life. There it was, flying over the horizon, a great big '42' crudely painted near the cockpit, a pilot with hours of virtual reality training, and a warped vision of what the number meant to someone else long ago. Tristram sat down and crossed his legs. He covered his face with his old hands, and cried.