Laying face down in the sand was beyond uncomfortable. I was going to die, nothing could change that fact, but I could at least die in comfort. At the bare minimum I could die without sand in my face. So I turned my head. The sun loomed to my right, so I looked left. And that's when I saw it: a lone speck in the distance no larger than my thumbnail. A lone building in the wastes.

Something sparked to life deep down inside of me, the part of my being that wished for continued existence. It surged forward with a renewed strength flowing through me from head to foot. It was then that I realized that I did not truly wish to die. I saw death as inevitable, but that did not mean I had to accept it. I wanted to live. I wanted to see my tomorrow.

I did not want to die.

Not yet.

Strength I had thought long gone found its way to my limbs and I pushed myself up from the dusty ground, ignoring the searing pain that flared in my muscles as I stood. Unbalanced but standing. I forced my leg up and placed one foot in front of the other, and that foot in front of the first. I concentrated on this one act, thinking of nothing else.

One foot in front of the other.

With each passing step the building grew larger.

Then the sand was gone and I stood among the ruins of an abandoned shack. A ruin lost to the vast desert. The walls had long ago collapsed in on themselves and the carpet felt frayed and brittle underneath my worn sneakers. Sunlight filtered through where the roof had collapsed. Junk and debris littered the ground inside and out, accumulating in piles and stacks like artificial dunes of trash. Time had been harsh to what once had been a home, but the past was the past. My survival depended on the here and now, the present, not forgotten memories of a world long gone.

A collection of rusted tin cans caught my eye. They sat near a threadbare suitcase just feet from where I stood. I stumbled towards them and began searching, finding an inch or so of rancid water inside of one. I didn't hesitate. I downed the contents of the can in one gulp, ignoring the urge to vomit as the horrid water slid down my throat. The water – or so I hoped it was – was foul and disgusting but it was also a godsend. My body was grateful for the liquid it so desperately ached for. I felt revived. Death no longer seemed to loom over me, but I knew it was only a temporary fix. I would need to find more if I wanted to survive.

The suitcase seemed likely to hold something of value so I began my search with it. The numbered lock had rusted away to almost nothing and broke apart with a small tug. Inside were several articles of clothing and a Programmer's Digest magazine. I flipped through several pages before tossing the magazine aside for later. Next I turned my attention to a nearby heap of metal boxes resting atop a wooden pallet. The pallet was propped up on one end by a damaged footlocker, creating a small crawlspace where several empty boxes of Cram lay scattered. The footlocker interested me but the weight of the pallet kept its lid firmly shut, so I ignored it and climbed atop to look through the myriad of boxes.

I was a vulture picking through each and every box, though I came away empty handed. Most were either empty or filled to the brim with trash. One contained the small skeleton of a rat whose misfortune was to become trapped inside like a... well... rat. This morbid discovery prompted me to question just how far I would go to survive. We had always had a steady supply of vegetables at home that grew with enough effort on our part, but my father would often hunt the wildlife that roamed the desert around where we lived. More often that not it was giant mole rats. They tasted terrible and smelled just as bad, but we made do. One couldn't always have bighorner steak for dinner.

My stomach growled at the thought of food. I decided then and there that I was hungry enough to eat almost anything at this point, rat or otherwise.

My luck remained in the negative as I continued to scrounge through the mountain of boxes. I was ready to forgo them and investigate an old refrigerator I had spied in a nearby room and was about to leave when I spied a padlocked box nestled in among the others. Too tempting to pass up I tugged at the damaged lock. It popped off with a snap and the lid burst open. I was excited as I dug my hands into the box, hoping to find food or water or anything useful, but my excitement quickly died away.

It was just a random assortment of odds and ends.

Damn.

I decided to be thorough and look through the box anyway. First thing to come out was a faded blue jumpsuit with the number 40 etched on the back in bold print. The previous owner had been cruel to the fabric, riddling the jumpsuit with holes and tears. I threw it aside. It was worthless to me. Next was a broken radio, then some old photographs too faded to understand, a toy car, a paint gun, several bobby pins, spent shotgun shells, and socks. Lots and lots of socks. Too many socks. A number of socks that made the number of pairs I had owned look deplorable. In a pseudo rage I flung the socks as far away from me as possible. I was reaching for more to throw when me hand hit something hard.

There was something hidden beneath the socks.

It was a computer, only smaller and attached to an oversized rubber bracelet with metal casings. The screen was dark, as were the three lights beneath it. A small gauge occupied the left hand corner; a round dial sat a little lower. I lifted the device into the light so I could better examine it.

Written in faded lettering were the words Pip-Boy Model 3000.

My eyes drifted to the dark screen where eyes as grey as stone stared back at me in a strong, if weary, gaze. My own eyes. I was not one to gaze mindlessly at my own reflection for hours on end – I wasn't vain, or at least didn't think I was – but it had been quite some time since I had last looked myself over in the mirror.

I examined my face using the Pip-Boy's reflective screen as a makeshift mirror of sorts. I still had the same yellow hair that hung limply from under my stormchaser hat. Still had the freckles and crooked grin. The only difference I could discern was the sunburn and the excess grime. I smiled into the small computer screen and made a mental note to find a toothbrush.

I toyed with the Pip-Boy a bit longer, unsure of how to activate it. Still, it was an amazing discovery: a personal computer that one wore on their forearm! At least, that's what I assumed. The device could be something else entirely for all that I knew.

If only I could just figure out how to to turn it on...

I decided to keep the Pip-Boy. It could prove useful, or at the very least entertaining. The problem was that I had nothing to carry it in. In my rush I had forgotten to grab a bag and pack supplies, which had led to my predicament in the desert. Even if I found something of value I would be limited to what I could carry. I needed a bag or something to carry whatever I found in. The suitcase came to mind. It had wheels and I could easily rig it to close properly.

As for the Pip-Boy, it was meant to be worn...

I pulled back my shirt sleeve and squeezed my right hand through the bracelet. It was a snug fit but my hand slid through. I held up my arm to examine it. It was on, but it felt off somehow, like maybe I had put it on wrong.

Maybe it's broken?

Sunlight reflected off of the screen as I turned my arm to examine the bracelet, creating spots of rainbow colored light on the dusty floor. I turned my arm again and the miniature rainbow darted away. Another movement brought the rainbow back, more vibrant than ever.

I grinned. Even when powered down the Pip-Boy was entertaining.

For several minutes I played with the Pip-Boy and the little rainbow, its light bouncing all around the shack. I was completely enthralled with its ability to change light into color, but I knew I had to continue searching for supplies. Strangely saddened by the rainbow's disappearance, I hopped down from the pallet, landing with a soft thud on my feet.

CRASH!

The sound thundered throughout the ruined shack, sending me flailing to the floor in terror. Something had fallen and shattered nearby: something heavy and fragile judging by the sound. I crawled over to the heap of boxes, doing my best to get close without being seen by whatever had knocked over the object. I stilled my breathing, tuning my ears to detect the most minute of sounds.

The floorboards were creaking. There was the thud of heavy boots.

Someone was here.

A sense of joy I had not felt in some time washed over me like a waterfall. I felt as if I could cry from pure happiness. After days of wandering alone in the desert I had finally found another human being. I was saved!

Or was I?

My mind began to race with all the possibilities. I remembered the stories my mother had once told me: of people who committed horrible acts against their fellow man. My mind returned to that day. The day when I had lost everything dear to me. The day the raiders had found our home. They had killed my parents in cold blood without a shred of mercy. They would have killed me too, or worse.

I had been lucky, but just how far would my luck run?

Would this person help me?

Or would they hurt me?

It could be a raider or a slaver.

I might be killed and eaten! What if I'm raped?

What if it wasn't human?

They could hurt me.

They would hurt me.

Panic set in. The rational me who calmly searched for supplies was gone, instead replaced by a child who had just seen the boogeyman. Unbridled fear took over.

I did not want to die.

My first instinct was to run, but what little rationality that remained in my head prevented me from doing so. The person could have a gun. I would only be an exposed target out in the desert. No, my best bet was to hide. To disappear. Making a snap decision I slid under the pallet, crawling as far back into the shadows as I could without making a sound. And then I waited.

And I prayed.

The thud of boots marched into the room just seconds after I had hid. The person was in no rush. I watched the worn leather boots move dully to the suitcase. A gloved hand bent down to retrieve the Programmer's Digest. My Programmer's Digest. The person then ambled over to the pallet. I held my breath. A boot knocked against the footlocker with a clang. Both hands came down to grip the pallet and struggle to lift it. The pallet remained where it was, far to heavy to be moved by anyone. The person gave up.

I relaxed.

And then the man got down to his knees. I could only watch in horror as his hand reached into the crawlspace where I hid, grabbing for any treasures that had been long forgotten. His gloved hand pawed close to where I was, snagging a Cram box. The person examined it briefly before tossing it. They reached under again, coming closer to where I lay hidden, fingers just inches away from me.

Something brushed against my leg. The hand drew back, confused at what it had just felt. Fingers tentatively reached out, unsure of what lay hidden in the darkness. Then the hand lunged forward, grabbing onto me.

I screamed.

I flew out from under the pallet faster than a radroach fleeing from the kitchen light, startling the person enough to make them fall over themselves. I got on my feet and ran into the desert, feeling every pump of blood and twinge of pain with each step I took. My shoes slid in the sand but I remained upright and moving, leaping over a small furrow with all the grace of an intoxicated gazelle: an animal I had read about in my father's books.

I refused to look back.

I just kept moving.

I had to.

The gunshot came fast: a booming sound that tore through the desert air louder than anything I had ever heard. Time slowed to almost nothing. I watched as the bullet sped past my head, taking with it a strand of my yellow hair.

Drops of blood trailed after it.

A misstep and I fell.