CHAPTER 3.
The Wheel of Fortune Kept Turning.
In a flurry of stored mental energy, consciousness swung from a view of relaxed darkness, and the comfort of entangled softness- To a growing blue light.
The source of illumination was piercing, almost, and it started to branch into differing tendrils of beam-like pillars that dappled through the sheet of black like sunlight came through a forest's roof.
He had no hands, really, to hold up for his eyes to adjust, no feet to grow weak with, and similarly no legs. But his mind saw it all, an opened book that he had already read, had already BEEN in its text for years.
It flooded back to him in the form of envisioned, long dead urban metropolis- Automated paper-dispensers that gave the common citizen their news and propaganda for the day, energy efficient automobiles that used gasoline AND backup battery storage.
Robots handled yard work, construction, security, menial labor- Everything humans detested, the metal-men and women of the new world did FOR them.
Houses looked trim and beautiful as did the families living in them, the streets were perfectly paved, lawns kept, hedges rounded and golden, the smell of barbecues ringing the air, and the distant drone of a passing National-Guard Vertibird to ensure security.
Life was perfect, and it stayed that way year-round.
It looked perfect, smelled perfect, TASTED perfect-
-Because the powers of Earth WANTED it to come off as such.
Really, suburbia, the city life, were all a bunch of hoaxes. The government of the United States knew the nukes were coming. So did the government of China. So did the government of Russia, and so did every single poor-excuse for a ruling body in the divided European Commonwealth.
This bright vision of his home, his family, and the beautiful life he lived when he was truly blind- They all clattered to dust when he was reminded of this.
CLAK
A great shockwave, a giant whip-like sound cracked the air, the sky turned red, shingles flew from roofs, glass broke and people dropped what they were doing.
The largest bloom of light anyone in the history of man had ever seen grew in the ambient backdrop.
Gravity started to lift several tons of cars, buildings, dumpsters- Even things bolted down were taken away. Than a wave of flame engulfed the world behind this shockwave. People, houses, cars, streets- Entire developments vanished.
Then, human civilization- Effectively- Vanished too.
And Sanford was reminded of all that death he had narrowly avoided through sheer luck as he slept.
Gasping, he flung off the mixed, non-matching sheets his mattress was practically mummified in, heaving heavily with a moisture-glistened body and face. Sanford sat up in his bed, heart pounding, with no sound other than the distant growl of his home's defense generators to thrum the air.
Grumbling at the nightmare, he reached up and rubbed his hands across his face repeatedly.
He hadn't exactly been TORTURED by the dusk visions in his dreams, they didn't happen often- But throughout the whole time he'd been alive after the nukes, after his waking from the cryo-pod, Sanford had the same nightmare every now and again.
He would hear that horrible, echoing clap, the CLAK sound, the very atmosphere jerking under the duress of a nuclear weapon.
The man had never been able to go back to sleep after this nightmare before, so, without even attempting to lay back down, Sanford cast off the array of scavenged bedding, and laid his feet on the cold floor of the station.
He sulked forwards briefly, sighed, and stood up with a creaking joints.
"God damn it..." He cursed. "-God, friggin', DAMN IT."
It had to be around three or four in the morning, the distant amount of blue/gray glow in the clouds was symbolizing it as he glanced outside the front-window from leaving his bedroom's doorframe.
The automated defenses outside hummed distantly, and, oddly, despite it being an array of armed weaponry- It gave him a calming effect, that drone.
Humming at lack of care for it, Sanford tugged open a small mini-fridge by the front counter, shrugging the draping, black wire that connected it to the generators outside- Off of his arm as he slung the door ajar.
He grabbed a container of water and a can of pork before slapping the entry shut.
Undeniably- He was tired out of his wits, but, he knew the drill- On the nights of night-MARES, he was now awake, and had to get ready for any activities the day might provide for him.
Honestly, said 'Activities' had grown repetitive over the years.
Scavenge here, scavenge there- Keep your gun on you at all times- Check for food here- Check the garden- Visit this trade rout- Hear about any creatures that need killing, and then KILL them- The works.
Sniffing with his stuffed nose, Sanford walked to the garage with his makeshift breakfast, and stalked over to the large steamer trunk beside all his work-stations. He gave it a good cuff with his heel on the opening pad, and the thing swung ajar with a thud.
The lid creaked a finality- He bent down, putting the can of pork and his water by his left foot, and shoved the bodies of safety-pinned weapons out of the way until he found a scabbard.
Taking the sleeve of leather out- He grabbed the handle jutting from it- Tugged out a combat blade.
One of his MANY finds.
There certainly were benefits to just being a scavenger.
As with all other professions nowadays, he figured.
Unceremoniously, Sanford picked up his can, and stabbed the top cap with the blade once- Earning a puncturing sound from the rim.
He twisted the blade and yanked down on the handle until the cap started to peal from the knife's entry.
He repeated the process on all sides until the aluminum cap clattered onto the floor, and the smell of preserved, processed meat and beans filled his nostrils, which, now, were starting to clear up under the strong odor.
Hitting the side of the can to loosen its contents, he stuck the knife back in its scabbard, threw it back in the trunk, reached up and slapped the lid shut with a clunk.
He drank some of the water as he stood up, swallowed, and then tipped the can over his open mouth, letting some of the slop inside slide out and into his gullet where he retracted and chewed.
This late in the night, even the wind outside was always dulled- It was one of the minor reasons why people refused to travel at night, out of many greater reasons.
The silence was unnerving, moreso than the DAYTIME silence was.
The bigger problem presented, though, was that aside from the creepiness factor, the Super Mutants and the Raiders liked to stalk around at these hours, AND, the nastier monsters that detested sunlight crawled out to hunt.
The monster issue was not a problem for his neck of the woods, as, molerats and giant bugs became quite common for his guns' victim counts. However, the farther south you went, into the dead lands filled with nothing but fields of ruins- THAT, was where the nasty stuff lived.
The largest radscorpions in the Commonwealth crawled through the rubble there, packs of molerats far larger than the small families here traversed that hell too- And, most notably, the fearsome, near-fabled beasts called Deathclaws roamed there.
Sanford rolled his jaw at that consideration.
The few merchants that had EVER seen a Deathclaw and lived, told him the last instance of one walking around these parts was decades ago when people were still pushing them into their boundaries today.
Sanford always imagined, to make himself work harder- That any encounter in the future might be with something like that, and he had to be ready.
Yet, stupid things like these nightmares made it harder to think so powerfully.
"What am I going to do if I keep myself up like this, huh?" He muttered to himself, strolling towards the front window again to view outside at the court.
Leaning on the table ringing beneath the window's ledge, he dipped the can into his mouth again, and stood there chewing with lidded eyes.
He had to remember his saying.
He'll figure it out...
"Yep... Yep... YEP..." He chuckled lowly. "-I'll get it."
"AH! Pork'N'Beans! The least nutritious, most fattening reserve of ground-up, processed swine carcass and plant-based seed-matter to grace the marketplace! Every G.I.'s frontline friend, eh?"
Most other people would have jumped out of their skin from the outburst, but Sanford just stopped mid-chew, turned slowly to view over his left shoulder at the floating robot hovering there at his flank.
Hancock ridged his lenses at the man, and Sanford swallowed quickly, turned back to the window, and drank the rest of his water.
"Well, good-morning to you too, Han'."
"This isn't just ANY good morning, sir! This is, OUR good morning! LIBERTY! HA-HA!"
"You've been saying that for years."
"When have I been wrong? Sir?"
"You WANT me to answer that?"
"Nnnnnegative!"
"Uh-huh."
"So, what's got you up THIS time, Sir?"
"Nothin'."
Hancock's claw reached around to the storage compartment at his back chassis, clambering around for some unseen object as Sanford checked his can of food.
Closing one eye, he peaked inside the apparently drained can, shook it for good measure, and sighed before putting it on the table he leant too next to his empty water.
"Aha!" Hancock said, coming back with a fresh container of water. "-Now, Sir,"
Sanford laughed lowly while he took the container and uncorked the cap.
"-What can doctor-Hancock do for ya'?"
"'Doctor' huh?"
"-I've blown people up! I've seen the insides! Don't all medical professionals see dead-stuff like that?"
"Kind of."
"See that! I should get into surgery!"
"You'd be fired after the first butchering."
"I may have a saw-blade, but I'm precise with it!"
"Oohhhh yeaaahhhhh... You're precise alright..."
"-The problem, sir? OUT WITH IT, MAN!"
"Hancock, shut up."
"On the double!"
"It was the nightmare again, Han'. The explosion? The nuke? Remember?" Sanford shrugged his shoulders with ridged brows. "-C'mon, you know this."
Hancock was silent for a second, reached down to pick at the saw blade he mentioned before with his claw.
The robot considered it.
"Sir, perhaps... LIBERTY, might not be our answer..."
"What does that mean?"
"We decided to go against all injustice when we started living out here on our own, sir."
"-You mean, being independent?"
"Whatever you civvies' call it!"
"Yeah. And?"
"Being around other monkeys might solve the problem, sir."
"... You mean, like move into a settlement? Like Diamond?"
"Aye. I don't like it either, but if it fixes ya' , sir... I'd be willin' to do it."
"I... N-No, no way. They'd throw you out."
"Yes, but as a... BUDDY, I'd want for you to be successful in our crusade for the end of tyranny!"
"So, you'd get left in the streets to see me get better emotionally?"
"Ugh... The Commies can wait for their deaths if needed..."
"...For a flying trash-can, you're a pretty good friend."
"Don't tempt me, chimp-man!"
"Han', it's alright, I'll get it over it eventually. It's only been a few years, and the nightmares are going away faster than they used to..."
"You sure?"
"Uh-huh."
Hancock levitated solemnly, made a garbled sigh.
"Alright, sir."
"Han',"
"Yyyepp?"
"Thanks, brother."
"Aye-aye, sir."
"We should go looking..."
"Ohhhh-YES! Mission time!"
"-What do you think about the Green Estates today?"
"The one with all them' zombie freaks?"
"Yep."
"-HOO-RAH!"
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Gradually parting the grayed sky, a bright, yet at the same time- Dull white- Sun emerged from the polluted, radiation-poisoned atmosphere above to beam down some measure of heat to the cold, cold world below.
Weather in old-Boston was a strange, and, sometimes unexplainable thing.
There was still a sun, and, even though it generated vitamin-C for animals basking in its rays, and yes, even though it provided light and allowed the mutated plant-life to survive, the sun didn't give off... AS MUCH, heat, as it used too.
It wasn't to the point where warmth did not cascade from its center at all, far from it- It was just LESSER, like someone would turn down a heating dial on a electronic fireplace.
The air- Now clogged with radioactive microscopic debris, muffled the sun's power to such an extent, that mornings and nights were much colder than they would have been in say, a pre-War Summer or Spring.
Though, no one really knew for sure which season, if any, the Earth was 'Locked' in, if the theory was even correct.
It was a mix between the ending of Summer, and the beginning of Spring from Winter- If that made sense.
Temperature, and weather, were of course nowhere near as dangerous as the wildlife that lived under it all, and, most assuredly, nowhere near as dangerous in comparison to the NOT-so natural patterns spawned by the nukes.
Radiation Storms, literally giant green smog-clouds that covered the entire land, blasting down bolts of yellowed-lightning, and echoing droning blares of static across the continent in absence of thunder.
They were harmless to pretty much everything in the wastes EXCEPT, humans.
The Super Mutants, obviously, didn't feel a thing. Molerats and roaches couldn't be bothered. The larger stuff- Bears, big bugs, high-end predators- Again, weren't in danger.
People though, if caught outside, were vulnerable to fatal radiation poisoning.
Sanford had almost been stuck outside in a handful of these storms, and they were on trips far away from his little fortress-home. Each time though, he'd found a building, or a ruin, or some underground shelter to shield him.
That was why, as he trekked, the green hue in the distant storm clouds unnerved him.
After all, all the buildings here were totally open.
"That's not good..." He muttered lowly, arms absently coming to stills at his sides as he walked.
On foot, garbed in blocky, scavenged combat-armor, Sanford reached around to the weapons' sling over his shoulders, and shoved the leather aside. A burlap canvas sack, compressed flatly over his back- Was flipped open at its top pouch, and he craned his elbow awkwardly to reach.
Finding the apparel slung over in the flank, outside the internal pocket beneath the pin-flap, Sanford came back with a gas-mask, a military-grade issue that was armored with flak plating like the combat helm he wore.
He yanked back the straps, dipped his head so his helmet fell off with a tiny clatter onto the dusty ground at his feet.
He always came prepared for possibilities like this on trips for salvage- And, since sleep had not come this night- Sanford was pretty ready to go by the time the sun came out for a walk to the Green Estates trailers.
There wasn't much left to take from that place, but the amount of ghouls discouraged most who WOULD loot the place from even showing up, and it just so happened that Sanford and his buddy were ALWAYS equipped for minor scuffles.
Ghouls were pushovers if you played your tactics right and watched your back.
If you screwed up... It was safe to assume you were dead, and the irradiated freaks wouldn't go about it slowly.
Wincing, Sanford shoved his head under the straps, and lowered the mask into place over his face.
He reached to the side of cylindrical filter, unpinned the vents, and sighed when fresh air wheezed inside the head-piece. Sanford coughed from the plastic-smelling tint, bent down and picked his combat helmet back up, neatly placing it atop his cranium and the fore of the mask.
"-Han'! Get over here!"
The robot wandered all the time, yet, he was never far behind.
"On my way, Cappy-Ton!" Came a few feet from behind him, Sanford watching over his shoulder the Mr. Gutsy model kicking up a small trail of airborne dust as he floated over the weed-laden dry expanses.
The robot gained closer, and eventually levitated by the man's side, holding a lump of shiny, crushed metal cans in his claw's grip.
Sanford was about to point to the growing green-hue in the dark cast ahead when he nodded at the bundle of cans.
"Aluminum! Good find, eh?"
"Ah! Perfect!"
Hancock reached back and shoved the aluminum food-containers in his storage compartment.
Now all they needed was some circuitry wires and optics-samples... He could start fixing more broken weapons they found again.
"I think a Storm is on the way, Han'." Sanford pointed up at the sky. "-It looks like a Rad' one."
Like a great, looming deity of evil, the storm gathered in a gigantic, sickly-tinted gray behind the looping arches of the ruined highways gridding Boston's wastes- the actual city itself- Barely seeable over the rolling expanses and ruined farm houses- was enshrouded under the storm's belly.
The skyscrapers peaking over the hills looked black from the shade, and Sanford started to gather that standing here- Was probably not very smart.
"Perhaps... We should move?" He chuckled, voice garbled from the communication bead on the mask.
"WOULD miss it for the world! ONWARDS!" Hancock cried, jabbing the nozzle of his flamer to the east of where they stood- To the direction of a shadowy, warehouse-looking structure nestled in the cragged earth.
"Isn't that Mobley's Garage?"
"Yessir! And it sure as hell looks better than out here!"
"There's Ghouls in there too..."
"Well, then we get ta' fight 'em early!" Hancock proclaimed, already starting to whizz off in the directly, his metal hide becoming darker from the shadowy storm. "-I LOVE me some fried zombie!"
"Wait up, you tin-bucket!"
NOW, on top of the all the other antics.
Their travels were getting hindered.
Lovely.
"Slow down, bolt-head! We gotta' cover each other!"
Hancock's two rear-mounted eyes glared angrily, and the dare-devil airborne sprint the robotic menace had mounted in the direction for the workshop ceased for a bored, plain bob in place for the human to catch up.
Sometimes his simian legs annoyed the Mr. Gutsy profusely.
Sanford reached over his back and pulled out a compact, yet elongated projectile weapon outfitted with a clip-fed action.
It was a submachine gun, an SMG of the world now dead- A nasty little popper with the ability to spit out thirty rounds from the little clips it had outfitted. Sanford, however, did not WANT just thirty rounds for an occasion that might involve Ghouls.
He grabbed the bolt on the top of the gun and yanked it all the way down the receiver's roof slot- Pressing the clamp-releases for the clip to be ejected from its hold on the gun's belly, he shoved the ammo-holder in the side pouch of his canvas bag.
It rattled there- Beside a set of duplicate clips for the same weapon, and carefully, Sanford patted by his backside to hear a delightful clacking of plastics.
He tugged on a set of three disk-like, thick objects, tearing one loose from the breakable knot he had bound each individually with to the bottom of his canvas bag. It was a one-hundred round drum- A slow reloading feed for the gun that gave the user more bite before having to refill.
He slid the ajar, indented section of the drum into the clip-feed, shoved until it clicked into position, checked the bolt atop the gun once more, and gave a thumbs up to his robot.
"Alright, I'm good!"
"Damn humans and their separate-part weapons..."
"Not all of us LIKE having a Plasma Rifle for an arm, Han'."
"Bah-humbug!"
"Pfft. Be that way..."
Sanford hunched a little in a jog to the outskirts of the garage property, with his robot at his side, moving more slowly as well.
A flattened, wire-fence that was completely rotted away in most sections, was obscured under the rolling dusty earth and gravel, and by sheets of gnarly weeds, dead ferns. A rotting, rusty truck chassis was flipped on its side directly in front of a wide, long building.
Two garage doors tipped the building's face that they angled towards, a shack-like protrusion with slot windows had a trio of rusting, destroyed automobiles and an assortment of tossed garbage containers around it.
A rumble boomed distantly.
The scary look of the building paled in the face of a radiation storm.
Sanford swallowed, watching the building for a few seconds.
"-Ah, see that? Life signs detected..." Hancock muttered. "-Thank the Army for heat-sig scans!"
"And let's NOT thank them for your unkempt ego..."
"Sod off!"
"Let's go, come on. I'll take the garage doors, find a way in-back."
"-But I ALWAYS find a way in back! Let's just go in guns blazing!"
"I've told you that's a bad idea."
"My logic says 'Yes'! But my G.I. spirit tells you too- 'Drink antifreeze and stuff it'!"
"Follow the logic then."
"Logic can kiss my nozzle-cap!"
"Shut up and do as I ask..."
"The second I SEE a zombie... I'm blastin' its face."
"Don't doubt it..."
Hancock zipped away with a slight hum of engine usage towards the rear of the building, soon, vanishing behind the girth of the wood-slab wall back there.
Sanford leveled his gun, and hurried to the two garage doors behind the flipped-over truck, trying to keep his boots' falling through crunching weeds as hushed as possible.
Stopping to quickly step over the ankle-high crumpled remains of a section of fencing, he scanned the oil drums, wrecked shelving units and general junk that lie strewn in and around the building. Honestly, even with a glance- Everything here was worthless.
What was he going to do with tin cans? Water bottles? Cardboard-friggin' boxes? Or a shriveled-up, face-mangled, fang-bearing butt-ass-ugly dead body splayed out by the front entrances?
That stuff was all worthless.
Especially the shriveled-up, face-mangled-
"-Fang-bearing butt-ass-ugly... Dead... Body... Oh shit..."
Sanford now saw the wrinkled, thin, deformed bundle splayed on the dusty ground, near buried in a thin sheet of junk.
The hands and feet were warped, with black, brown claws and missing digits- The skin looked like someone stretched the person's entire hide to an unheard of limit, and then shoved it back and wrapped them up in it.
The head, barely seen beneath a few bottles, was angled more to the left than the right in overall shape, two beady, thin, yellow eyes slit from molded, rotting scrunches of flesh.
The thing twitched a bit as he looked at it.
THAT, was a Ghoul.
And despite appearances saying otherwise- The thing wasn't dead and/or dying.
Ferals had a habit of literally lying around in drunken-like stupors on the ground, or against walls, or in chairs- An un-understood behavior of many when it came to irradiated souls devolved into animals.
If the creature had noticed him, it did not give any kind of indication to reacting to his presence.
Sanford gulped.
If he shot it, the others- And, when it came to Ghouls, they hung out in packs, so there WERE others- would hear the gunfire and come sprinting.
With Hancock's support, they could take a good number of the Ghouls head on with confidence, but it was always a risk, and if the robot was INSIDE the structure, the last thing Sanford wanted on his head was the 'Death' of sorts, of his best friend to a bunch of zombies.
Clicking his teeth, another rumble of radioactive thunder thrummed distantly, but now somewhat louder.
They had to clear this place soon.
No time for specifics.
Grumbling, Sanford took a breath, and stood to his full height, lining up the iron sights of his SMG on the Ghoul's laid-down head.
The Ghoul noticed him when he did this, and the thing started to make an awful breathing rasp that, a foot away, and Sanford could hear it plain in his face. The arms swung upwards- Like a child trying to stand up after a fall in the snow.
The Ghoul rolled onto its stomach with a crackling of disturbed trash flittering all down its sides and off its back.
It got up to its knees when Sanford pulled the trigger, and two rounds flew out of the SMG.
CLKCLK
-Twin pops.
The Ghoul's head cocked to the right with flares of viscous, diseased crimson, and the creature made a choking gurgle as it fell in a twitching heap back onto the ground, and lay still.
"-Huh... Usually something explodes after that." Sanford shrugged, bouncing the chin of his gun in the palm of his hand. "Boy, you're one ugly freak..."
The man stepped closer to the corpse, cringing at the whiff of rotten meat that came off the wrinkled cadaver, he nudged its leg with the toe of his boot.
Looking up at the garage doors, he started to head to one to yank it ajar.
"-I wonder where Hancock went-"
CLAK
Oh. That was shooting.
In fact, that was the echoing report of ole' Han's Plasma gun.
CLAK
CLAK
CLAK
And the only time he used it like THAT, was when they found groups of things trying to kill them...
CLAK CLAK
CLAK
CLAK
"-HA! That's right! Undead-primate wannabes! UUNCLE-Sam's got a present for ya', bitch!"
CLAK CLAK
CLAK
"-Give it up now, babycake-! Oh-! Oh-! Hey-hey! U-Uncle Sam might need backup!"
CLAK
CLAK
CLAK
CLAK CLAK CLAK CLAK CLAK
CLAK CLAK
"-Aw, crap!"
"Han'! What's happening?!" Sanford risked calling out to the side of the building.
When no response beside more gunshots came, Sanford flinched when a raspy, choking scream came from behind him- A mix of a person gagging on a sack of gel and some fat slob breathing out his mouth while he stuffed his face.
Sanford swung around to see a flailing mess of wrinkled limbs cascading from the opposite side of the building he had called to- Two yellow, thin-eyed Ghouls running at him in unbalanced sprints.
The raggedy excuses of clothes covering them flittered in the breeze generated from their run, and Sanford stumbled back a single step to aim his gun from the waist.
"-SHIT!"
The SMG spat a cluster of rounds, dusty impacts kicked up from the Ghoul's torsos and their heads- Their now limp forms clambering onto the ground in rolling, stilled heaps.
Their cries cut off in a deep, raspy pair of- 'ACHK!' sounds, the Ghouls twitched a few times and lay still a few steps before him on the ground.
Sanford sighed, and turned to view the other side of the building again.
"-HAN'! YO!"
"WAAAGGHCCK!"
Another Ghoul's wet scream came from the same direct, Sanford reaffirmed sights, and shot the freak dead as he started to sprint towards the dead remains of his buddies.
The SMG clattered briefly, and the Ghoul's head vanished in a spurt of blackened blood, the body slipping onto its chest and gut in an instant loss of life function with a clap of dust.
"-Han'!? C'mon where are-"
"-REEETTREEAATTTT!"
Sanford's brows felt like they'd snap off for how high they arched on his face.
Hancock flew around the corner of the building with all three eyes directed BEHIND him, his Plasma gun flinging out blobs of green energy back at whatever pursued him.
The robot flew right past him and continued out into the open pasture.
Sanford's eye twitched, and he spun around to the rapid padding of several foot-falls.
Another Ghoul ringed around the corner of the garage- Pointed a clawed finger at him in a howling choke, and ran at him with swinging, ape-like arms. Sanford shot it dead with a quick burst of the submachine gun, stepping back as the corpse fell still before him.
He shot another Ghoul, and another, and ANOTHER- Before four more bodies dotted the space dividing him from the corner wall.
Then, right when it seemed the swarm had stopped- A HANDFUL of Ghouls rounded the corner, a big group of like five, or maybe six.
Behind them, a small tide of swinging arms and legs, hooting, bestial throaty cries, and tens of pairs of yellow eyes howled and hacked towards him. A crowd of the freaks.
"-HOLY MOTHER OF FUCK!"
CLKCLKCLKCLKCLKCLKCLKCLK-PIN!
The drum ran dry in his SMG- the Ghouls that jerked and died under the duress of his rounds were trampled and compressed to the ground faster by the rapid falls and swings of their comrades' knees and legs.
"HANCOCK! YOU WAIT FOR ME RIIIGGGHHTT NOOOOWWW!" Sanford screamed, turning and sprinting with all his might towards where the robot had fled.
"-I'll save you, simian-man!" Hancock called in the distance, and soon, green bolts of Plasma were flying past Sanford's right and left flanks, into the mess of Ghouls behind him.
Chased by an army of freaks with an impending rad-storm on the way...
-Oh, AND, he didn't sleep half the night.
Talk about shitty days.
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