Mulky
CASAX-5
- Joined
- Jun 28, 2019
- Messages
- 41
- Thread Author
- #1
"Your family's the only one you have left. Deciding to leave them to rot is ... A decision I have no qualms with. I only hope you won't regret it."
"They made their decision long ago."
"But ... Is the journey worth it? The path ahead is long, it might take months before we reach the coast.""I've made my decision."
The wasteland was no better than the slums. As a matter of fact, there is nothing better than living in the urban settlements that the settlers north of Washington - where the usual antiques of people trying to gather each and everyone under a unified banner of existence against the hostile environment. A fascinating act despite the numerous amount of lies they've told us when we asked regarding the incident; regarding Black Mesa. They turned a blind eye on us trying to find out about the truth. Exiled, like the rest of those that attempt to seek out a way to remove the corrupted root that started all of this -- the one who brought these vile, horrifying creatures on our homestead. All of this, because of him.
Breen.
Yet they still seek shelter and aid from him despite how he turned his back against us. Instead of using the technology they have to help our everyday lives - they refuse to look at us and give us a glance of pity. They used it for themselves, for their experiments, and - well, lo and behold what it has done to us.
Those of us that tried to find out about the truth, that attempt to open the other's eyes into a much broader spectrum, decided to throw us out into the window; all just because they want another piece of meal to stand by their side for the rest of the day. They've decided to turn against the people that they grew up with, the rest of the settlers wish to be part of a 'bigger future' united under one banner. Bullshit. We all know what they're into ... Yet here we are; the remnants of the U.S. Government still decided it is worth their time to suck the dicks of those that turned against their own species.
Here we are, running away from the rest of society. Running along the sides of raiders and slavers - and yet you'd think it would take decades for society to crumble back into slavery. It seems that the fallout of portal storm devastation wasn't enough that they decided to run amock and be an example of the lowest human morality can get. Me myself? I wouldn't blame them. They're just trying to find a way to feed themselves; trading for food and rations - only for the cost of their dignity, morals, and a slave sold to someone ... Or some group that would be interested in 'some fun'.
It'll only be a couple more decades before they start using bottlecaps as a form of currency. Then again, with how easily civilization can crumble, I wouldn't be too surprised. A job here, combined with the severity of danger out here in the American Wasteland, is enough for you to gather some food for the rest of the week. The settlers out of the East coast are wealthy enough to hire some random gunner to get a job done - possibly look for some random person and confirm if they're still alive. I can't complain, the pay is pretty great; and the job is pretty easy if you've got a perceptive eye like me. It's easy to get a job like this, especially if you're willing to risk your life on the line. Then again, I'm not afraid to lose anything -- I have nothing left, regardless.
So they hire you. Get you to run a job for them somewhere out in the western coast in the wasteland region; get this, find that, find this, grab that. All that sort of stuff.
It wasn't that long until one day, I had a job that wasn't out of the ordinary too much - until I caught wind of something that would perhaps change my perception of the new world now more than ever.
"Five kilometers east of ... The Interstate I suppose."
A small teenage beggar, don't know his name. He knows the Interstate more than I do, sure as hell that he knows more of the danger around here than I do. People rarely walk the Interstate, It's not much that you get a job involving the Interstate - everyone knows it has quite the alien activity; human traffic is low down these parts. On the other side, you won't run into some scavvers or some random raiders out here. There's not much a couple of bullets won't fix, of course, but you'd be on quite the bad luck if you're hit - especially when there are no doctors around to help you. Once you decide to cross the Interstate, you're on your own.
"Thanks, kid. I owe you two rations, that good?"
Safe to say that the kid ain't picky. He usually takes whatever I give him as payment - whether it'd be a couple of .45-70s or a couple of bandages. As long as you give him something useful, he won't deny it. People out here are desperate, and this kid ain't an exception to that fact. I don't know much about him, but all I know is that he's trying to survive with four other siblings. Cool kid, sad story, not my problem.
"Yes, thanks again, mister! Just be sure to stock up on ammunition, I've heard rumors about some squid-mouthed bipedals walking around the abandoned security checkpoint up near the 87th exit."
"Cheers kid, I owe you a couple next time I pass."
And so we part ways. One thing about being an exile is that - you get to know more of the uncharted parts than anyone near civilization. You're free to do ... Whatever. No military remnant nor security member to hold you down. No organization can trample you; as long as you don't speak to anyone close. A rule of the wasteland is that - you don't talk to anyone that you don't know unless you want to be tracked down after you decide to cross paths with a cartel. They hold ... Long grudges.
I continued my path near the broken intersecting highways up to the north. The job was simple, tasked to retrieve someone that walked away on her family. A couple of grudges here and there, nothing that isn't unusual. Figured the person was someone special to the family, they were willing to pay a handsome amount of rations - weeks worth of rations, mind you. It's not every day that you get a simple retrieval job for weeks worth of food. Anything to feed the stomach for a long time is enough for me. I'm just as desperate as the others, and a simple job for weeks worth of food isn't something that I would pass on. I already expect a lot of things to go wrong - especially with the pay and the ominous job of fetching someone's runaway daughter.
The trek would take days, maybe even a week or so. Hunting for food out in the wasteland isn't an alien concept to a lot of us exiles out here, but it's a skill that you need to learn before stepping foot outside of the civilization - or what's left of it. The more you spend outside of civilization, the more you'll be able to learn how to survive on your own without anything at all - something that you wouldn't be able to learn in your usual Boy Scout lessons. Food out here is ... Not your usual pork and beef, but those 'headcrabs' sure do taste like chicken, and there's a lot of them out here in the open. The wasteland doesn't forget your debt to it, it gives to you - but it will take something from you, eventually. After all, nothing out here is free, and even if it is - it'll come to bite you back sooner or later. You might not even notice it.
As soon as I crossed the broken highway intersection, a series of buildings lie in front of me, all ruined by portal storms and festered with alien fauna and flora. Blistering blue tail-lights and small tentacles appearing like it was rooted down on the ground. The sight was grotesque - looking like it came directly out of H.R. Giger's mind. I can't explain in detail, but something about the alien 'structures' speak ... Human. They seem to be alive, breathing, pulsating with skin plastered all over them. Sometimes, I can't believe whether or not I'm looking at life - or an abomination. The other exiles sometimes say that the blobs might even whisper in your ear when you come close to them - of course. Stories all over the wasteland about these abominations are abundant, and you'll never run out of them. Sometimes they'll turn your body hairs up, or sometimes you'll be left awake at night just thinking of how horrible these things are.
Nevertheless, I just turn around and leave them. God knows what might happen if you disturb one of those blobs on the wall - a tentacle might just pull you in and eat you alive. I throw these thoughts out when I travel, it's common to just think of something else as not to be eerily disturbed by whatever you're stepping on. See, it would be easy to forget about the thoughts if those blobs didn't overgrow out into open - sooner or later you're bound to step on one.
Leaving the blob-infested streets was one thing, but entering the inner wasteland is another. See, the Interstate is one long road reaching out into the western wasteland, but the further you go - the more you enter the inner zone. It just happens that the Interstate crosses through the inner zone. No one has ever entered the inner zone before, or at least - none that I know of. There are stories of people entering the inner zone and not coming back - but that's easy to say as long as you have a dangerous location festered with nothing but hostilities and portal storms. A lot of anomalies that can kill you is enough disturbing thoughts to linger in your mind - to actually be killed by something you can't even explain or see is ... Another.
As the highway stretched further into the wasteland, I spotted a small cabin around a hundred meters away. The fog slowly cleared out as time passed by - and I've been walking for five hours straight from the closest settlement, Horose. The cabin was ... Small, and obviously looking like it's been through hell. I figured it's abandoned - but looking at it closer, it seemed like a couple of clothes are hung down a small string of aluminum cable thinly strewn over a small wooden pole from the terrace of the cabin. It seemed abandoned from far away - but now that I'm slowly inching closer and the sky is starting to turn a bit grey, I decided to perhaps talk to the natives around here. I've never run to someone living in the wasteland, nor do I know anyone that would other than those filthy scavvers and slavers.
A couple minutes of walking ensued, and I finally reached the cabin. I figured I'd keep my rifle closer to me, the natives might not be too friendly. The outer 'garage' of them seems to hold quite a vintage car - yet the roof of the garage was gone and the walls were replaced with metallic plates that were simply hung over by a nail or two. Broken tires served as a planter border, and were used as 'border guards' that surrounded the whole cabin. There were large wooden poles that held a small vineyard - or used to from the looks of it. One of the poles had a burnt American flag flaying out in the wind. It isn't usual to percept these cabins as abandoned due to the nature of how houses were left during the initial cascade. People didn't have enough time before they were either killed - or simply died due to unforeseen consequences before the portal storms arrived and destroyed most of society. This one wasn't particularly too unusual to fit that category - then again, that small clothes hanger brought the entire speculation down on the ground with a loud bang.
It took me by surprise, someone decided to shoot at me! It was probably the people living inside the house, thinking I'm a raider moving in to pillage their home. I can't blame them, but the heat of the moment got the best of me. It hit a meter in front of me, the last thing I could think of was jump backwards and take cover - but my instincts got the best of me and; well, I shot back accidentally - hitting the ground with a faulty discharge.
I immediately took a leap forward, not part of the plan. I ducked near a small tire barrier, bad idea considering that they weren't bulletproof - and that the person I shot at might just shoot back at me.
Considering the current situation, I decided to place my hands up in the air as a sign of ... Amiability.
"Cease fire! Cease fuckin' fire! I ain't a raider!"
"Make sure to keep those hands up! Place them down, boy, and you'll get a pack of lead up in that pitiful skull of yours!"
An old lady's voice? She pumped her shotgun once more, and I can instinctively feel the barrel pointed right at me. I lowered my head down, praying to God that I get out of this situation unharmed - and so I decided to slowly rise up from the barrier with my lever-action hanging down by my front. I finally caught glimpse of the woman through my mask's greenish-tinted visor. She had an angsty expression on her face - and truly I can understand her situation. I just hoped that I wouldn't be eating lead for dinner. I slowly walked forward, keeping my hands up. I distanced myself barely five meters away from the woman, made sure she can see my firearm.
"You don't look like a raider - and a scavver. You ain't from these parts, are you? What are you doing here, exile?"
She knew I was an exile? I can't blame her, if you're not traveling nor ravaging - you're either an exile or a wanderer.
"I'm looking for someone. Someone that passed down by the intersection and traveled to the 87th exit. She might've taken this path."
"She?"
The lady lowered her shotgun. Thank God. I looked down at my rifle and decided to keep it slung for now - have no use for it in this situation anyways. I took a couple of steps forward - but then she rose her shotgun up to my face again. My hands threw up to the air as fast as a person could blink.
"Stand back, Exile! I'm not lettin' you in unless you tell me what you need from the girl."
Girl? I guess the person I'm tracking might be a bit younger than what I expected.
"Yes. Of course. I'm trying to find her - I need to give her something important that was her's."
Lying doesn't always get you anywhere, but at this point - I'd give less fucks than the current world budget amount. As an exile, you'll basically realize that you'll need to lie, steal, and do whatever it is that you need in order to get out of a sticky situation. This one isn't an exception for that. Plus, I got a job to do - and I'm not in the mood to take deals from someone that might be deranged due to the amount of radiation and portal storms that might be lingering around the area. A quick job is all I want to finish by the end of the week, optimistic about it being just as long as a week's notice of course.
"Giddy up then. As long as you're not a raider or a scav, you're welcome here. Now, I got a potful of headcrab stew out in the back and I'm willing to share -- as long as you keep polite."
That perhaps is the closest to honest hospitality nowadays as you can get out here in the wasteland. I'm not one to be picky, but a stew and a bed for the night is all I'm asking for.
And so we continued inwards. The cabin was small, yet it was full of relics from World War II, pictures of an old American Hero was stamped all across the walls; a pure patriot. It left me wondering, how many patriots are still out there? America is dead, there's no reason to be a patriot to an old, dying country.
"Your husband?"
"Mm. '83, died 75. Too early, but I'm happy with all the time we've spent together with Amalia."
"Sorry for your loss, then."
I lowered my head down, looking at the relics of the past that were left to rot inside display cases. Candles littered one part of the wall to the left of the entrance, followed by an empty kitchen with nothing but tin cans opened; some may even have some cockroaches on them. So much for ... Cleanliness, I suppose.
"You said you had a daughter?"
"Implied. She was long gone, never seen her again after she left due to the thunderstorms appearing out of nowhere - Go! Take a seat. The stew will be ready in a few minutes."
The comfy feeling of sitting in front of a dinner table is ... Rather spectacular, now that you have nowhere to go after everything that happened. Being an exile leaves you with nothing but yourself, and finding company after quite a few years is ... Hard. It takes a part of you, creates a new you.
The sun was setting down slowly, and the skies are almost pitch black by the time the stew was ready. Only the smoking lantern in front of the dinner table and the candles lit up inside the living room are left to light up the house. I thought maybe the lack of light was due to the lack of electricity - but even that was abolished by the fact that there is no sign of electronics around. No lightbulbs, nothing. They have been - or she has been living like this for quite a long time now. The lady slowly moved forward to the end of the table, both of us looking at each other as the stew slowly starts being cold after a lack of attention. It was awkward, especially being deprived of any social interaction for quite a long time.
"I'm sorry, I've never had anyone visit nor eat with me for quite a long time. See, the ... 'Guests' aren't usually as polite as you."
I then dipped in, tasting the stew - and goddamned it was the best that I've tasted for a long time. The condescending warmth filled my tongue, and it felt ... Wholesome.
"Not everyone walks the Interstate."
She nodded in agreement, it seemed almost as if a minute had passed and she had already eaten all of her stew. I on the other hand was just getting the hang of the heat -- Yet that didn't stop her from questioning me.
"You're an exile, that means you do work for some people out here."
She inched forward into the edge of the dinner table. She leaned, almost as if inviting me to do some of her dirty work. I'm not one to take illegitimate business - especially after I've just agreed on one task recently. I tend to immediately finish the first one first before agreeing on everything. The amount of effort required to finish this current task, however ... It leads me no choice but to decline the offer fully.
"Hands are full. I'm not taking business for now."
"But you do take jobs yes? Outside of the east borders? Outside of the walls? You're someone that I need right now, and I'm not just talking about a simple job with simple pay either."
"I'm already hired, I don't usually take business before I'm finished with the first one."
"I'll make it worth your while. I'm not poor, I got enough rations to spit out!"
"I'm not for hire. My hands are already full - and doing another job inside the inner zone takes too much resources."
Her eyes looked at me almost as if I'm unwelcome. During the course of the conversation, it would seem that her expressions can only be described with one word: Desperate. It's a common expression you'll see around here, one that I'm not too fond of - but too familiar and guilty of. I can't blame her, everyone's lost and need something back these days. I only shook my head, and her expression came down to a disappointed, and mildly angry one.
"Just because you're an exile, I'm letting you sleep here. There's an unused room upstairs on the right, if you're not here to help then I expect you to be gone tomorrow."
And as such, she left. Without any further words, she left and walked up the stairs. I immediately lost my appetite, I'm not one to make other people mad, but it somehow eerily gets into my head after a few. Might be my inner conscience, but not helping someone just isn't right. Then again, I'm a hypocrite with my words most of the time, so who am I kidding?
I'm left with a choice, and I've got a few hours to think it over. I just hope I won't regret the choice that I'll pick.
Long Way Home - Chapter I | Inspired by the Fallout series.
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