The Good Life
Chapter 1: Welcome to Trespa
From beneath his sodden hood, Albert Cole looked up at the sign over the gate. "TRESPA," it read, the words painted in yellow onto a plank of ancient, burned wood. A wagon rolled past where he stood along the muddy trail into the town, drawn by a pair of naked coatless horses, one of them with a patch of glowing green along his side. The glowing one nickered in the early afternoon rain as the driver gently shook the reins, urging him onwards into the town.
Trespa reminded Albert of countless other small towns he'd seen and visited in his journeys, a motley collection of scrap metal shacks and wooden log houses, nestled here amongst the burnt and mutated trees of the Oregon wilderness. A fence of barbed wire surrounded the perimeter of the town, and a broken down tractor lay beside the path as he walked on in.
Albert heard a whine from beside him. He glanced down at the black dog following him, who looked back up at him with curious brown eyes.
"Not much further, Max," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
Max plodded ahead, sniffing at the muddy road and wagging his tail as Albert trailed behind. His legs ached from walking, and he sighed as he remembered the days of his youth, when a journey ten times this length through scorching desert and treacherous mountains was a comparative breeze.
Where had the time gone, he wondered? When did it stop being easy?
He trudged along the muddy street, past the row of wooden buildings to his right, where some townsfolk sheltered from the rain in their porches or under the overhangs outside the shops. Many of them looked his way as he passed. A bearded old man with a bald spot glared at him from a bench. A trio of young men with plaid shirts and cigarettes standing around a barrel briefly glanced his way. Further ahead, the wagon driver from earlier looked back over his shoulder at him, before unloading a wooden crate and hurriedly carrying it across the street to what looked like the local general store.
Albert stopped in the road as he came to the middle of the row of buildings, staring up at the only two-storey structure on the entire street. Unlike the wooden huts and scrap metal shacks that made up the rest of Trespa, this was a restored pre-war ruin, brick and mortar, but patched up in places with planks of wood or sheet metal. The door was open, and Albert could hear the faint strains of some pre-war crooner inside. A sign over the doorway read "SADIE'S." Nearby, a sleeping drunk with a faded fedora lay slumped against the wall.
Stepping under the overhang and out of the rain, Albert wiped his boots against the wooden floor and whistled for Max, who barked and bounded over. The dog stopped on the porch as well and shook vigorously to get the water out of his coat, splashing and waking the drunk.
"Hnngrrr!"
The man on the ground flailed about uselessly before falling on his side, hat rolling off and landing at Albert's feet. Normally he would've bent down to pick it up for the man, but his knees weren't so good these days, so he just kicked it back over.
The drunk looked up at Albert, bleary-eyed and confused.
"Huhh...?"
He was a dishevelled, middle-aged Asian man with messy, long black hair, pallid skin, and a sad, scraggly beard and goatee, obviously grown by neglect rather than choice. A bruise on the right side of his face and an old scar along his left cheek suggested a long, ongoing history of violence. He grabbed his fedora and put it back on his head, slumping back against the wall.
"Don't know you," he slurred.
"Pray you never do," Albert grunted.
The drunk slumped back down and said nothing else, so Albert left him and stepped into the electric light of the saloon, following the sounds of music and conversation within.
It wasn't big inside, despite the open upper floor, but it wasn't too crowded either. There were some more youths laughing around one table, a few old men at another, and some kid chatting up a pretty girl near the bar. The bartender watched the young couple with a subtle smile as she cleaned a glass with a dishrag. The crooning Albert heard from outside came from a jukebox in the corner, though now that he was inside, he could also hear the chugging of a generator somewhere in the back, keeping this whole place going. Even for all his years, his ears were still sharp.
Lowering his hood and running a gloved hand over his bald head and salt-and-pepper beard, he approached the bar, Max following at his heels.
"Heya, stranger," said the bartender, a rotund older woman with curly blonde hair and a gap-toothed smile. "What can I getcha?"
"Whiskey if ya have it. Beer if ya don't."
"Coming right up."
The woman went to grab a bottle from beneath the bar, while Albert looked around at some of the decorations on the bar's walls, stuffed and mounted heads of radstags, bears, and something that looked vaguely like a heavily mutated bison or buffalo. Or at least that's what he thought they were; he had only ever seen pictures of them in old pre-war textbooks. The song on the jukebox changed to a woman's voice over a slow and downbeat piano tune. Albert couldn't help but grumble to himself; he had always hated Vera Keyes.
"You accept caps here?" he asked, rummaging in his pockets as the woman put his bottle of whiskey and a glass on the counter. "Dunno what you folks trade with in these parts."
It wasn't always obvious which places accepted caps. When he'd first travelled the wasteland, they had been the currency of choice, but back then they were backed by the price of water in the Hub. Nowadays, the Hub backed the NCR Dollar instead, but this far north, it was a toss-up what they'd use.
"Caps'll do," the woman said with a smile. "Whereabouts ya from, stranger?"
"South," Albert grunted.
He counted out what he thought was a reasonable amount of caps, and laid them down as she poured his drink into the glass. The bartender seemed happy with it, and brushed them off into her hand.
Albert took the glass and sipped his whiskey, relishing the burning in his throat. "D'ya know where I can find a place to stay here?"
"We have rooms upstairs, if you're interested," said the bartender, dropping the caps into an old pre-war cash register behind her. "Alternatively, y'can try the flophouse. It's the old barn across the way, at the edge of the fence."
The word "flophouse" conjured a memory of an ugly, square-jawed face, lurching back as a bullet entered its forehead.
"Here should be fine." Albert counted out another handful of caps. "Got a bite to eat?"
After paying for his room and meal, Albert picked an empty table next to the bar and finally sat down after his long journey, groaning in satisfaction.
Max sat down on the floor next to him, staring at him while fidgeting in place. With a half-smile, Albert unbuttoned his worn and tattered travel coat, and removed a lump of brown paper from his inner pocket. Max's tongue lolled out of his mouth as he watched him unwrap the raw molerat leg, which he then dropped on the floor. The dog immediately bolted for it and began tearing chunks off, while Albert shook his head and chuckled to himself.
A short while later, the cheerful bartender arrived at his table with a steaming bowl of squirrel stew. He thanked her, and sat eating quietly for the next several minutes, contemplating the journey here.
Twelve years he had been doing this. Twelve years since he'd left home to wander the wastes again. He honestly hadn't expected to make it this long. He'd been seventy-four years old when he left Arroyo in his daughter's hands. He'd gone out into the wastes to die, content to meet his fate in one final adventure. Better that than forcing his friends and family to watch him waste away in bed.
But at the end of that adventure, he'd found another. And then another. And as he once had in his youth, he fell back into old habits, travelling across America, meeting new people, seeing new sights, helping out if he could. He'd even indulged a few old vices here and there. He wasn't as spry as he used to be, and didn't get into quite so many gunfights anymore, thank God. But somehow he still lingered on.
Sometimes he wondered if it was all that FEV or radiation exposure in his youth. Maybe underneath that wrinkled skin and those broken blood vessels he was part ghoul or super mutant, and that was what still kept him so hale and hearty all this time later. He didn't like the thought, the idea that his experiences might have made him into something inhuman. Rather, he preferred to think that it was simply his own constitution and good living which gave him the last laugh on the Master in the end. All that talk of mutant superiority, and he was dead and buried beneath the ruins of his wretched cathedral, while Albert was still here and kicking fifty-nine years later, without so much as an extra toe.
As he finished his stew, an older man with a moustache in a grey coat and Stetson hat stepped into the saloon, eyes scanning the room before they settled on Albert. He immediately made for his table, setting Max on edge, who stopped gnawing at the remains of his dinner and sat up to give the man a low warning growl.
He stopped and held up his hands, backing away slightly.
"Woah there. Just comin' to say hello. Nice to meetcha, friend. I'm Tedd. Tedd Hackett. I'm the sheriff around here. Wanted to come meet the new fella in town."
Albert nodded and gestured to the other seat at the table, which Tedd took and sat down in. With a whistle towards the bar and a tilt of his head, he ordered something for himself. The lady at the bar smiled back, poured a scotch, and brought it over to their table, while Max slumped back down and returned to gnawing on his molerat leg, already stripped to the bone.
"Thank ya kindly, Sadie," Tedd said, taking the drink with a smile and a nod.
As Sadie returned to the bar, he looked back to Albert, meeting his eyes.
"So, what's your name, stranger?"
"Albert." He finished his stew and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "I'm from down south."
"California way?"
"Yeah. Out near NCR, originally."
"Well, welcome to Trespa. I hope you find us to your liking."
The sheriff gave him an easy smile, and for a moment, Albert couldn't help but see another face before him.
"Welcome to Junktown, stranger. What can I help you with?"
"Hmph." He grabbed his whiskey. "You come check on all your new arrivals?"
"I just like to know who's passin' through. Don't want no trouble here, so if someone looks like they're gonna be trouble, I like to keep an eye on 'em. I'm not too worried 'bout you, though."
Albert snorted.
"That a vote of confidence or a crack about my age?" he said, drinking again.
"Ha!" The sheriff grinned. "Ain't like that. I just got a good feeling about you. You seem like you got a good head on your shoulders."
"Not sure what makes you say that, but thanks, I guess," Albert said, shrugging.
"Hmm." Tedd took a drink of his scotch. "How long are ya gonna be in town for?"
"Dunno. Long as I feel like, I guess. If there's work needs doing, I might stick around a bit. Otherwise I'll move on. That ain't gonna be a problem, is it?"
"Not at all. What kinda work you lookin' for?"
"Nothing long-term. Odd jobs. Whatever you need. I can do repairs, technical work, locksmithing, medical stuff... or if you need an extra gun for anything, I'm still pretty handy with a pistol."
Tedd smiled and nodded approvingly. "Quite a skillset. But I s'pose you need that out in the wasteland."
Albert only nodded.
"Well," Tedd continued, "I don't know of anything quite like that goin' here, but Kenneth over at the general store is always looking for folks for supply runs. Keeping the town fed and in caps, y'know? I'd talk to him."
"You mostly a scav town, then?" said Albert.
"Mostly. Lumber around here's not much good, but a few folk make a living as hunters or mushroom farmers. We raise horses, too."
Albert folded his arms and leaned back.
"What about the caravan routes?"
"Ahhh... yeah, we get the caravans come through on the way up to Portland sometimes. We ain't a major stoppin' point, though, so we only get them once every couple weeks."
Albert shrugged and took another swig of whiskey.
"Alright. I'll talk to Kenneth, give scavving a try. Won't be the first time."
"Sorry there ain't nothing better suited for ya. Just ain't much call for technical work in Trespa. And doctoring's respectable, but it ain't exactly in high demand here; we already got a doctor, and the most she ever does is treat the occasional concussion after the drunks get rowdy."
"What, like him outside?" said Albert, gesturing towards the door with his glass.
Tedd scoffed. "Yeah, like Shitboot."
Albert raised an eyebrow.
"Shitboot?"
"That's what everyone calls him." Tedd shrugged. "Don't know his real name. He's a drifter, like you. Passes through occasionally, does whatever odd jobs are going. Scavvin', mercenary work, bounty hunting, stuff like that. He did a few delivery jobs for us, too."
Albert blinked.
"That guy's a bounty hunter?" he said, pointing at the door again.
"Well, I never said he was a good one," Tedd laughed. "There ain't much call for bounty hunting in these parts, but he comes through here on jobs sometimes. Used to work with this other guy, Malcolm Harlow. Malcolm actually knew what he was doing, but the two of them had a falling out a while back. Now he just kind of drunkenly flounders around on his own."
Albert frowned down at his empty bowl, folding his arms on the table.
"That's just sad," he said.
Max whined beside the table, nudging his nose into the Vault Dweller's lap. Albert gave another half-smile as he petted the dog's head.
Tedd shrugged, his previous joviality replaced by sombre agreement.
"Yeah, I s'pose. Ain't nothing to do about it, though. People make their own fates, I say. Shitboot could probably make something of himself, but not if he ain't willin' to make a change. Instead, he just keeps drinkin' and stumblin' from job to job. Y'know he's supposed to be chasin' a mark right now?"
"He is?" Albert sat up, suddenly interested. "Here?"
Tedd nodded.
"Black Toe Joe. Raider from up north. Rapist. Killer. Bad news. His last gang thought he wasn't worth the trouble and tried to turn him in, so he fled down our way. Now, thing is, Shitboot's the only bounty hunter here so far, so if Black Toe Joe's still in the area, he could be out gettin' him right now, if he cared to. But instead of searchin', here he is, getting shitfaced in my town. Another day or two, some other bounty hunter who actually has two brain cells to rub together is gonna come through here, and then that'll be it for him. Opportunity missed. Now tell me, where's the sense in that?"
Albert sighed.
"You're right," he said, shaking his head and raising his drink to his lips again. "No sense at all..."
His room at the saloon was a small, cramped thing towards the back end of the upper floor, probably converted from a closet. Still, it had enough space for a bed and a nightstand, and he could set his satchel and his coat down here with room to walk still. That was enough for his needs. He was long past his days of hauling around enough firepower to put down a mutant army, or bringing twelve pounds of rope with him everywhere in case he ever had a pressing need to scale down into some hellish dark chasm. He couldn't do those things anymore even if he wanted to. So nowadays he made it a point to travel light instead, and to spare his poor aching back.
The only weapon he even still carried was his trusty .223 pistol, modified from an old revolving rifle, and given to him by a grateful farmer in the Hub so many years ago now. Albert looked over at it, sitting on the nightstand beside him. It was one of only two souvenirs from the old days he still had anymore. His vault suit he'd left behind in Arroyo, his Pip-Boy he'd taken off, his power armour he'd scrapped long ago, but that gun he'd kept; it had saved his life too many times to count, and he doubted he would have made it this far without it.
Max curled up beside the bed, and Albert lay back, the mattress springs squeaking beneath him as he turned over in bed. An oil lantern on the nightstand cast the room in a dim glow, and Albert stared into the shadows of the ceiling, ignoring the sounds of late night revelry below.
Never should have left home.
It wasn't the first time he'd had the thought, and he doubted it would be the last. It wasn't supposed to be this way. He'd never expected to live long enough after leaving to regret it. Now here he was, twelve years later, still on the trail.
Drowning in memories.
Albert gradually became aware of a growing din downstairs, snapping him from his reverie. Where before all he'd heard was the muffled sounds of the evening crowd chatting over the jukebox's tunes, now he heard distant shouts and cries and shuffling chairs, the sounds of commotion and discord. Max was already alert, head raised, ears pricked, and staring intently towards the door as Albert sat up in bed.
Well, it wasn't like he was doing anything else interesting at the moment. He certainly wasn't going to get any sleep like this, so why the hell not?
Grumbling, he dragged himself to his feet. Max sat up, tail wagging in anticipation as Albert fitted his holster back onto his belt, threw on his coat, and picked up that gun from the nightstand. After checking the chamber and loading some rounds, he holstered his pistol and opened the door, stepping out into the upper floor of the saloon.
Albert's room was nestled in the corner of the building, at the end of a short corridor, near a ceiling hatch presumably leading to the roof. Sadie's wasn't a big place, so he only passed two other doors before emerging from the corridor onto the L-shaped balcony overlooking the saloon floor. To his right, the balcony and the line of guest rooms continued to the far wall, while the balcony to his left ran above the bar counter and led towards a set of winding stairs, allowing him to descend.
As he made his way down, Albert had a good view of the rowdy patrons in the saloon, who were clustering near the front doors as they shouted and hollered at something outside. A few women were looking through the windows, including Sadie, but most of the men were trying to shove past each other to actually get out into the action.
The way had cleared by the time he reached the saloon doors himself, so Albert quietly stepped out onto the porch behind the other men, hugging his arms to his chest to brace himself against the chill. Electric lamps illuminated the cold Oregon night outside, and the jeering men gathered in their light, some forming a circle in the road, while others leaned on the porch railings under the cover of the overhang. In the middle of the circle in the road, he finally saw the source of the commotion – two men engaged in a fistfight.
One of the fighters was Shitboot, the scruffy drunken bounty hunter he'd nearly tripped over on his way in, though it took Albert a moment to recognise him. He was bleeding from the nose and mouth, and stumbling like he was still drunk even now. His fists were raised to defend his face as he squared off against a six-foot tall white man with a bald head, black beard, and the physique of a super mutant. The bigger man came swinging at Shitboot, who covered his face and swayed backwards, seemingly trying to both block and dodge him at once, only for the bigger man to then knock his legs out from under him with a sweeping kick, leaving Shitboot on his ass in the mud. The crowd laughed as the big man circled his fallen opponent with his arms held wide.
Scanning the street, Albert was surprised to see Tedd Hackett there, standing slightly apart from the crowd with both hands on his belt, watching the fight dispassionately like a casino boss monitoring the floor. It wasn't what he would've expected of the sheriff.
Curious, he made his approach, making sure to give the fight itself and the closer spectators a wide berth. Tedd noticed him as he stepped over, giving Albert a simple nod of acknowledgement.
"What's going on here, sheriff?" Albert asked without preamble.
"Barfight spilled outside," said Tedd, eyes remaining on the fight. "Johnny Crocker was mouthin' off again, and Shitboot had something to say about it. You know how it goes."
Shitboot was staggering onto his feet now, breathing heavily as he turned to his opponent and raised his fists again. Johnny Crocker let out a short, humourless laugh, before driving a fist into Shitboot's gut, sending him reeling. He collapsed to his knees, clutching his stomach, but Johnny didn't let up, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck with one hand and forming a fist with his other. He smashed it into Shitboot's face, the blow echoing through the town's streets, and knocked him down into the mud again. The observers winced and groaned in apparent sympathy.
"Are you not gonna do anything about this?" said Albert.
Tedd shrugged.
"What's the point? Not worth gettin' in the middle of these two when they're like this, and they ain't hurtin' nobody but themselves. So long as they're keepin' it between the two of them and don't damage nobody's property, I'm happy to just let them wear themselves out. Doc Sampson can take care of the loser in the morning."
Albert frowned, giving Tedd a sideways glance, but the sheriff didn't seem to notice his disapproval. Instead, he remained focused on the fight, where a younger black man with short hair had slipped into the circle and was now helping Shitboot to his feet, one arm around his back as he hauled him up. The newcomer whispered something into Shitboot's ear as he helped him. Shitboot turned to stare him in the eye, and nodded vigorously to whatever he'd said.
"Who's that?" asked Albert.
"Paul Dunham," said Tedd, a note of distaste in his answer. "Local chem dealer."
Albert probably needn't have asked, because as soon as Tedd explained, Paul drew a familiar syringe from his pocket and passed it to Shitboot, before running off back to the edge of the circle. Glaring at his opponent, Shitboot roughly stabbed the Psycho into his own chest, straight through the fabric of his shirt, and carelessly tossed it away. He growled, wiped the blood from his mouth, and then let out a furious scream before charging straight at Johnny Crocker.
Johnny was laughing at first, obviously not expecting much as he blocked Shitboot's first punch to his chest, but the speed of the second one to his stomach caught him off-guard and made him grunt in pain, as did the third to his face, and the sudden knee to his crotch. The crowd's excited shouting reached a fever pitch as Johnny staggered back, and Shitboot pressed his advantage with a relentless flurry of blows, hitting him in the face and stomach again and again with no time to recover.
It was over shockingly quickly after that. Bloody-faced and staggering, Johnny swung blindly, until one of Shitboot's strikes knocked the bigger man down into the mud. The crowd cheered as he lay in the street on his back, writhing, groaning, and clutching his stomach. In minutes, he'd gone from the clear victor to flat on his ass in the mud with Shitboot standing over him, a full reversal in positions.
Shitboot smiled, swaying and waving to the surrounding crowd, before unceremoniously collapsing as well, landing on his face. The crowd laughed and jeered.
"Alright, alright, break it up everyone!" said Tedd, finally stepping in. "Let's let these two sleep it off now."
He shooed the crowd away, back towards the saloon, though some were breaking off to head to their homes instead. The townsfolk seemed to take it all in stride, chatting amiably with each other or laughing as they returned to their business. Paul Dunham, grinning, quickly ran to Shitboot's side, flipped him onto his back, and said something to him. Whatever words were exchanged, it ended with Shitboot giving a weak thumbs up, and Paul casually patting his shoulder before getting up and leaving with the others.
Meanwhile, a dark haired woman in a tattered coat rushed to Johnny Crocker's side with a look of distress on her face.
"Damnit, you stupid man..." she muttered, placing a hand under his head to support him.
"It's alright, Daisy," said Tedd, kneeling down next to her. "I'll help you get him home."
The two of them each put an arm under Johnny and hauled him upright. He groaned as they lifted him, head rolling to the side to lean on Daisy's shoulder. Albert stood and watched as she and Tedd dragged him away, heading down the darkened street together for one of the homes near the south side of town.
A cold wind blew through, ruffling Albert's coat as he stared at Shitboot, now lying alone in the mud.
He sighed. It was none of his business, really. But then again, when was anything?
He stepped over to the fallen man's side and reached a hand down to him. It took Shitboot a moment to realise that someone was there and open his eyes. With an aching slowness, he reached up to grasp his offered hand. Albert pulled him up into a sitting position, and then properly onto his feet, putting an arm around his shoulder to keep him steady.
"You're a fucking mess, you know," said Albert. "You're pissing your life away like this. Look at you. How long can you keep this going?"
Shitboot's bloody face screwed up in anguish. He bowed his head, muddy strands of long black hair tumbling down to obscure his expression, and Albert thought he heard a sniffling sob from him.
"You can't keep doing this, son," he continued, whispering softly now. "I don't know what the hell happened to you to screw you up like this, but you've gotta stop and starting taking care of yourself, or you're gonna fucking die. Is that what you want?"
Shitboot looked up at him again, glaring at Albert through teary eyes. He grit his teeth and shoved him away, stumbling back while trying to keep his balance.
"Fuck you, old man," he spat.
Albert blinked.
And with that, Shitboot turned away and wandered off into the night, leaving him standing there in the street with only the wind for company.
Author's notes:
Chapter theme:
Johnny Cash - Wayfaring Stranger
The Good Life is available on [THIS SITE], Archive of Our Own, and in Google docs format. The story is already complete (more or less), and will update concurrently on all platforms once every fortnight until finished (unless anything goes catastrophically wrong along the way). The [THIS SITE] version unfortunately does not support direct links or images, and so may be missing some content, particularly the song links which end each chapter. I highly recommend reading The Good Life through either AO3 or Google docs. If you are currently reading the [THIS SITE] version, and thus cannot follow the links provided, you can find them by searching for The Good Life on my AO3 or FimFiction profiles, both under the name "DannyJ."
This story is part of the Diaryverse, which technically makes this a direct sequel to my other stories, Vault Dweller's Log and The Doctor and the Master, as this is the same version of the Vault Dweller who appears in those stories, only many decades later. Reading the prior stories is not necessary to understand this one, but you should do it anyway, because I'm needy and I want attention.
The Vault Dweller's characterisation in my series draws primarily from the Vault Dweller's memoirs from the Fallout 2 manual, but also draws inspiration from his non-canonical depiction in Fallout: Brotherhood of Steel, which is why I have also tagged this as a BoS story on AO3. However, this story makes no direct reference to the characters or events of BoS, and takes place in an entirely different setting, so I leave it up to the reader's discretion whether or not they choose to interpret this story as following Brotherhood of Steel's continuity.