Frank

"We had a deal, Trudy!" An angry man in a homespun leather jacket yelled in the direction of the old Drumlin Diner. In his hand, he waved an ugly-ass revolver. Beside him was a woman, added muscle most likely.

"I ain't giving you poison-shilling chem pushers anything," The voice of a woman replied from inside, she wasn't even trying to supress the underlying contempt in her tone. "Do you have any idea what that junk does to my boy?"

"He bought them fair and square, Trudy. Not our fault that he's strung out. Don't make me come in and shoot up that little trading post of yours."

They had made it a mile east of Concord where the Cambridge Turnpike met Highway 2, before they found other souls in this forsaken land. The first people they had run into were having an argument about a chem deal.

"Whoa there," the man in the leather jacket turned in their direction and trained his gun on Frank who had taken point since James went ape shit. "This doesn't involve you people."

Frank sighed. In a way, it was all the same. The sleazy little fuck looked like your typical "unlicensed pharmacist," and unapologetic low life. In another time he was an officer of the Boston Police Department looking for opportunities, anything even if it was trumped up jaywalking charge to ensure that these types would be locked away.

"Aw, fuck this. The world can bite my ass."

"Hey, we all got problems. I'm just trying to collect what's owed to me. I don't suppose any of you would like to help. Maybe talk some sense into Trudy here," he suggested, giving his weapon a slight jolt in the diner's direction. "Or if that fails, we could use some extra guns on our side."

"Trudy?" asked Frank.

"Runs the old truck stop an' diner, made it into a small shop."

Before everything had happened, Highway Two was one of the most heavily trafficked roads in and out of Boston seconded only be the Interstates that linked the lower half of New England. It was a fairly rough place by local standards and was known to many as "The Wicked Shipping Club," for its popularity with truckers of that company.

"I sell her chems," the enterprising dealer continued. "She give me caps and other goods. When her son Patrick had his eighteenth birthday, I may have sold him some jet, then more, than a lot more. Now he's in debt."

He could feel his own lips curl in disgust while the pusher made his case, and found himself wondering if anybody would give a shit about his badge or anything it represented. Probably not, after all this time.

"I'm sorry," growled Wally. He sounded a little different, having to mostly breathe through his mouth as his nose recovered. "Are we supposed to feel bad about some poor cheated chem shark?"

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard it before old man. Thing is, he wanted a product and I sold him a product. A product I expect to be paid for. Now, any of you interested in making some quick caps?"

"Look," interjected Frank, "I've had enough killing for one day, how about I try to talk things over with her?"

"I appreciate it," the thug took the bait. "Talk to her and we'll back you up if things go sideways."

He gestured for James and Wally to stay put. He'd managed to keep the two from coming to blows this long. The light sedative compound he had brought with his first aid pack was only short term and had kept James from attacking Wally for less than an hour's time.

Now it was nearly worn off and he seemed capable enough of walking without using Codsworth as a guide.

The only thing that had kept Codsworth from intervention was Frank's badge which all consumer class robots had been programed to recognize.

He felt like a real dick for doing it and dreading having to explain himself to James. That was not to say he regretted it, though.

Wally had uttered "fish head," in earshot of James, unaware that it was his wife who had been murdered. The old jarhead had deserved it, he didn't dispute that. Still, James had become a danger to himself, and all others in the group.

He approached the diner where he could see her outline on the other end of a window side booth. One look at her face was enough to know that the world had not been kind to her.

"I heard you talking to that poison seller. He ain't getting his money, period."

"Ma'am, I'd like to help. What's the problem here?"

"Wolfgang and his deadbeat friends made an addict out of my boy. I don't know what he offered your people, but I'll pay 100 caps to put that scumbag in the ground."

"World could always do with one less scumbag," he admitted.

"Thanks stranger, I'll back you up."

Frank drew his gun and spun around, in one elegant motion. He hit Wolfgang's associate with a shot below the ribs before her own pistol cleared the leather. Hearing the report of a short burst, she staggered backwards, collapsing by the roadside guardrail.

Wolfgang brought up his revolver but was put down by Wally's hunting shotgun before he could even so much as pull back the hammer.

The incident was over nearly as quick as it had begun. Two new corpses were sprawled out by the wayside amongst rotting piles of trash.

James had his assault rifle unslung and at the ready, having missed the affair. His reflexes slow, mental state groggy.

A pang of guilt sunk in. Frank had initiated a gunfight within spitting distance to someone he had sedated without considering that he might get caught in the crossfire. That was a fucking stupid move on his part.

The trader laughed from behind her store and tossed a sack of caps at his feet. "I can't wait to see the crows feed on those scum. Thanks for your help, for you folks my store's always open."

Scooping up the sack, Frank handed it back to her. "This is blood money, I'm not sure I like this."

Trudy's expression twisted, looking at him as if he lost his mind. "But... you earned this."

Frank flicked his gaze from Wally, to James, then Codsworth. "Tell you what, we're heading for Diamond City. We could use some provisions."

"That's more than fair. Oh hell, it's about lunchtime now. How about I fix you guys a proper meal?"

Her face, which had been lined with rage before, was now alight with joy. The sudden shift in emotions after killing someone made Frank feel unnerved. It brought to mind a few of his darker hours in uniform.

"We won't object to the hospitality." His eyes landed on a teenager who seemed to be infected with some kind of fever. "You folks going to be fine?" he asked, concerned.

Trudy sighed. "It's going to take a while to get the junk out of his system, but we'll pull through. We always have."

There was something in that statement that made him stop and take a second look at her. There was a certain amount of courage in that statement, that he could not help but respect.

Soon, the three of them were seated in a booth. He had arranged for James and Wally to sit diagonally from one another so that James would be less tempted to lash out.

For a short while, they waited in silence. While Trudy put together a meal. She'd given them a few options, based on around headcount. In the end, they had opted for Blamco Mac N' Cheese. James offered up Codsworth's assistance, which the woman took.

It wasn't long before they each got a tin of what looked like an attempt at American Chop Suey.

"Thanks for lending the Handy," Trudy nodded at James. "I didn't know they could purify water. You'll have to let me borrow him when you're around."

"You're welcome." James stifled a yawn as the words came out.

Trudy took the open space at the booth. Instead of promptly digging in, she tented her arms and prayed aloud. They followed as she said grace.

"Thank you God, for this meal and for the company. May you watch over them on the road to Diamond City. Amen." The prayer was quick, and informal. When it ended, they tried the dish.

For something that came out of a two-hundred-year old box (he still wanted to call bullshit when Sturges told him), it was surprisingly good. Mixed in with the noodles and the cheese sauce, was a diced vegetable that looked kind of like a tomato. There were also bits of meat in the stew. He decided not to ask what the mysterious ingredients were.

"So what brings you in the direction of Diamond City?" Trudy asked.

"Looking for a man, who can find my son's kidnapper. It's almost like they vanished in thin air."

"That's a tough break," grunted the trader. "Usually, though, raiders around here are pretty straightforward in owning up to that. Hard to get a ransom otherwise."

Frank cleared his throat.

"From everything we've seen and heard, these aren't your run of the mill raiders. I have a hunch they didn't do it for a ransom."

"I see," replied Trudy. "That does sound like the kind of thing someone would go to Nick Valentine for."

"Nick Valentine?" asked Frank.

"He runs a detective agency in Diamond City. Never met him myself, but he's pretty good at what he does I'm told."

He wondered if the man bore any relation to the Nick Valentine he remembered.

Captain Widmark had brought in a detective of that name from Chicago PD, in a vain effort to bring down Eddie Winter. The case had ended in humiliation and Valentine last he had heard, threatened to turn in his badge out of disgust for the Department of Justice and their handling of the Mob Boss.

He remembered the bitterness in the air of Cambridge Station when the case was closed.

"What's the road to Diamond City like?" asked Wally.

"Dangerous," Trudy answered in a word. "Try to avoid Lexington, try to avoid Cambridge too."

"Why's that?"

"There's ferals around Lexington by the hundreds. It's probably the biggest reason you don't find many honest folk around these parts, at least not as full time residents. There's also a raider gang holed up in the old Corvega Plant."

"As for Cambridge," she continued, "the place is a hive of super mutants. Anybody who can survive over there is more likely to shoot first and ask questions later."

"I'm sorry, did you say 'super mutants'?"

She regarded him curiously and not for the first time. "You know, big green monsters. They're as violent as they are stupid. You're not from around here, are you?"

Frank shrugged. "You could say that."

Her eyes dropped to his arms as if noticing them for the first time. "You're all vault dwellers?"

"In a manner of speaking," said James.

"That explains a lot. What vault are you from?" Trudy asked before putting away a spoon full of the food.

"Vault 111."

The utensil in her mouth froze. He could see the woman tense up.

"Something wrong?" asked Frank.

It took a moment for her to answer. "They say the area around Vault 111 is haunted."

Wally scoffed, it was a guttural sound. "I would think this whole world is haunted. Just one big damn cemetery."

"Look, word is that something's up with that place. Most people in the area avoid it like it's a crater, but every now and then, some scavver crosses the river and they are never heard from again. Even the gangs in the area avoid it."

The three exchanged looks.

"Hey Codsworth!" He hollered for the robot butler to come over.

The Mr Handy wasted little time in floating over. "Greetings Officer Dipietro, what I do for you?"

"Do you remember meeting anybody in Sanctuary before we got out?"

"I'm afraid I don't have anything in the memory banks for beyond the first ten years. Will that be all, sir?"

"It will for now, Cods."

"Hang on," she piped up when Codsworth returned to the diner kitchen. "Did Vault 111 just open or something?"

"Yes," replied James. "Look us up if you're on the other side of Concord."

He could see her shudder ever so slightly.

"I've heard stories about vaults opening up now and then. Sometimes the Wasteland kills them, other times they say you could follow a trail of bodies to the vault."

Awkward silence reigned for a moment when they all found themselves staring out the window.

"Still I'd like to see your home. Be nice to see another stop along the road that isn't Nuka World."

"What's in Nuka World?"

"More raiders. It's a got a good marketplace, but they treat the traders like animals there. Problem is, it's the quickest and safest way out west. Going through the Glowing Sea is still a death wish after two centuries and Dirtyham ain't much better."

"You mean Framingham?" James asked.

"I guess so, but there's not much left of that place and there's a crater right in the middle of the town. Story is that they dropped some sort of dirty bomb on the place to cut off Boston Proper from the rest of the Commonwealth."

They ate on, finishing what remained of their lunch. When it was done, she offered them some medical supplies and ammo.

The three of them marched down the road, with Codsworth lolloping along behind. They had gone north east from the intersection passed by a drive-in theater before they turned onto Lexington Road. As he remembered, this was the other half of Minuteman National Historical Park.

Here the rusted chain link fences gave way to fences of stone that stood oblivious the ravages of time. Beyond them, dense overgrowth reclaimed many of the open fields that had been made to look as they had in Paul Revere's day.

Further down, the foliage was even thicker, surrounding the few houses within view. Leaves fallen from the trees coated the landscape and painted it varying shades of red, orange, yellow and brown.

Along the wayside, trails to the important sites occasionally branched out to places beside the road. The last of these included a parking lot. Beside it, was a visitor's center half concealed in the woodland.

The scene along the turnpike edge of the park, was pretty damned surreal. Cars and trucks were stalled along the broken asphalt. They were backed up in traffic almost as if they were frozen in time. Up ahead, he could see the railroad crossing.

A south bound NH&M freight train had stalled over the crossing when the bombs fell. They passed the parked train, and turned onto Massachusetts Avenue.

That was when they saw Lexington.

The city stood out against the surrounding wilderness much like a laser burn on otherwise reasonably healthy skin.

A gust of wind hit them from the direction of the town.

"Whew," Wally whistled. "Been a long since I smelled anything like that. Guess there's really nothing like rotting corpses in the sun."


Preston

He woke up from a nap on a couch in the living room with a start. His eyes opened and he saw a figure towering over him. Preston flashed with panic for a moment until he registered the familiar outline of Sturges.

"Morning sunshine," he drawled. "Wondered where you scurried off to."

Preston could only groan.

"Come on Preston, a settlement needs your help man."

"Where?" He suddenly felt a little more awake.

"Here, they're having a town meeting down the street and we're the guests of honor."

"Us?"

Sturges nodded. "You've been around the Commonwealth more than any of us have. At least among those who made here anyway. I've been spending most of my time surveying, so I'll brief everybody on needs if you tell us about the area."

He had wanted to spend more time out and about getting to know the neighborhood, but when exhaustion claimed everyone else in his group save Sturges, it was not long before he felt the need to crash.

Preston got up from the couch, yawning. It had been far too long since he could shut his eyes in peace, and for that he felt just a little bit grouchy.

He looked around the room again as he followed Sturges out. The house wasn't bad all things considered. Then again, a good place to settle in Preston's eyes were not held to very high standards at all.

A short walk down the street brought him to an old two-story brick building which looked to be holding up rather well. Looked very much like the Museum of Freedom though it was rather small and took up maybe half the area in comparison. In front, he could make out a sign for the North Bridge Visitors Center.

They were waiting for him in what looked like a small briefing room. The new residents of Sanctuary Hills lined the rows of benches.

"I don't know what to say, except thanks for giving my people a place to settle." Preston opened up as he paced the floor.

Ned had taken three bullet wounds. One to the head, one near his heart, and a stray one had lodged in his lower spine. He would survive but would be very lucky to be able to walk again.

He looked around the crowd. "I'm Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen. Well, at least what's left of it. Hell, if the doctor here didn't bring Ned from the back from the dead, you could say that I am the Minutemen."

Behind him, Sturges and someone else in a vault suit brought in a blackboard. The former-vault dweller placed a piece of chalk in his hand.

Preston glanced at the empty board then back at the audience. He cleared his throat and spoke with his best officer's voice - as Colonel Hollis had called it.

"I've been asked to brief you on the surrounding area to the best of my knowledge." He started by drawing a crude representation of the rivers Sudbury and Assabet where they became the Concord. Above the junction, he drew a circle to represent Sanctuary.

"This is Sanctuary Hills," he drew a square across the river and used the chalk to point. "Here is Concord. The area is fairly secluded so it should be sometime before any traders take note, or raiders for that matter."

Preston drew an X to mark Lexington, then another to mark Olivia Air Force Base. Finally, he put one down for Nuka World in the west as an afterthought.

"The roads to most settlements of note are blocked by enemies. The raiders in Lexington might return here soon after word of this morning spreads." He indicated Lexington. "Chances are, they'll be the first to find out about this place. After that, it's only a matter of time before the others show up at our door."

He made a few marks along the river. "We'll need that time to establish ourselves. That means filling sandbags along the houses and digging in by the river crossings."

He tried to remember anything else of note that he had heard over the years. That was when he remembered Blake Abernathy. He drew a circle outside of Concord to represent the homestead.

There's one settlement in the area that will be on friendly terms with us. The Abernathy family, well it's more like a clan, would be more than happy to meet some people in the area looking to make an honest living. They have the biggest farmsteads around, and we'll want them on our side."

Preston tried to scratch his brain for more information but he couldn't remember anything else worth mentioning. The Minuteman turned to Sturges and nodded. "I believe it's your turn now," he told the handyman who grinned and accepted the chalk as he took over the room.

Preston took the seat that Sturges had occupied and thought about the farm.

The Abernathy's, as he recalled, were as solid as people in the Commonwealth came. Though the Minutemen were not often active this side of Lexington, the Abernathy's and their kinfolk had served with distinction for generations.

Blake Abernathy was the head of that farmstead or "headstead," as many in the ranks referred to the leaders of such settlements.

Before that, he served as a captain in the 2nd under Major Shaw. The regiment had been the first one to crumble when General Becker died. Infighting within high command was followed by mass desertions in an already manpower starved force when the meager flow of supplies stopped coming to many of the districts.

Abernathy's company like many other units were left to fend for themselves. Despite this, he rallied the remnants of 2nd Regiment and managed to keep road to Marlboro open for another two years before Nuka World fell to an influx of raiders that outnumbered them five to one.

Marlboro, once the anchor of their western frontier, ceased its support for the order and broke all official ties. After that, support for Colonel Hollis and his command was infrequent at best and they had to live off the land more often than not.

Some called it self-funding. Preston called it theft.

Sturges got his introduction out of the way and moved onto presenting his plans for making the land livible again. Preston felt himself drift off now and then even though he knew he needed to hear this.

He spoke of a plan for getting purified water pumped out of Vault 111 and connecting it to the neighborhood water pipes which he had heard were partially functional.

For electricity, he hoped to configure a power grid that would draw from the vault reactors through a connection above ground.

On food, he spoke of putting down fall crops that were preferable inside a greenhouse.

Preston Garvey did not fail to notice the looks on the faces of the prewar dwellers. Some listened intently, as if ready to pick up the shovel. Others though, just sat as if they weren't really there. For many, they may as well have been from another planet.


Let's talk about life outside the beaten paths of the Fallout universe.

I could act like there is no intelligent life within the NE corridor between Boston and DC. I could say that the distance of more than 400 miles between point A and point B is a glowing sea, where anything that isn't flagged as essential or least protected dies on the road. Except that would be lazy as fuck on my part to act like that stretch of land is merely vertibird flyover country. I also lose out on a good many opportunities to depict an expansive and somewhat believable world.

As much as I loved Fallout 4 (this wouldn't be a story if I didn't), the game has an unfortunate tendency to somehow bring out the pet peeves in virtually every kind of gamer. While some things made a decent amount of sense, one I can neither justify nor understand, is the lack of insight Fallout 4 had to offer on the rest of New England.

Fallout 3 was a game that had plenty of reminders that life existed outside of territory covered by the game or DLC. Remember when all the characters from "The Replicated Man" came from somewhere off the reservation?

Thats before I get started on New Vegas, where you can feel the importance of the battle for the Mojave. In that game, the significance of events goes far beyond the reaches of southern Nevada.

That's why I'm charting my own territory. I want a story where characters can tell you where the caravans go, what runs the local economies, and how events in the familiar space will affect the surrounding countryside.

I've been drawing up a map of North America with the help Alexeij. If you're familiar with his work, then chances are you've already gotten a sneak peak at what the payoff entails. At some point I might review the couple hundred locations that have already been put down, and offer a redacted and generally spoiler free link to the map.

And now for this chapter's geography notes (damn this is getting long)...

Minuteman National Historical Park is actually two regions. One section is north of Concord, the other is directly east and goes all the way to Lexington.

On Nuka World, I looked around Google Maps a bit and concluded that the park would most logically be north of Framingham which I believe puts it about three hours of walking west of Sanctuary.

Olivia Air Force Base, is an amalgam of Olivia station ingame and Hanscom AFB.

Marlboro is Marlborough, Massachusetts with the last three letters shaved off the sign. You might say its a place where people in cowboy hats go to die.

Are you still reading this essay? If so, let me know what aspect of local color you would like to see in expressed in a Fallout 4 story by review or pm.