I walk down the deserted
streets, hunting rifle in hand, scanning the road ahead for scavenging
opportunities and hostiles. My eyes settle on a shop with boarded up
windows and a faded sign reading “Pawn”. Creeping closer, I notice that
the door isn’t secured; I should be able to enter with no problem.
Suddenly, my foot descends onto something squishy. I look down and see a
man staring up at me, eyes glazed over. I bend down to feel for a
pulse; as I expect, he’s dead. A quick search of his roughly sewn
pockets produces a piece of bent piping and a single bottle cap.
Pocketing the cap, I straighten, then freeze; I hear the sound of
footsteps echoing from a nearby alley. Training my rifle at the opening,
I steel myself and wait.
A tattooed face emerges, with a Mohawk dyed bright purple. The man is covered in dirt and flecks of blood, his clothes torn, and he has a Stent model assault rifle in his hands. Definitely a raider. I squeeze the trigger and send a .32 round into his frontal lobe. Cries come from inside the alley, and I rebolt my rifle. He wasn’t alone. A trio of raiders, two male, one female, dash out guns blazing. I fire, hitting one of the men in the arm and throwing off his aim. Again, the other male crumples, an oozing wound in his chest. Again, and I bite nothing but brick. Again, and the woman is on the ground bleeding, still firing her Shanxi 17 pistol at me. I try to load another round into my chamber, but end up with nothing. The rifle’s empty, and I have no backup magazines. No ammo. The rifle hits the dust, and I pull my sidearm, a 10mm N99. I plink three rounds each into the two of them, and a bullet whizzes by me from behind. I turn firing, only to see another 15 or so raiders. Too many to take on alone. I backpedal, firing blindly at the swarm. I see one toss a grenade just in time to hit the deck, or maybe too late, as I summersault from my chest to my back from the force of the blast. Getting up, I make a break for it, firing behind me with no idea what I’m hitting. Click. Eject magazine, reload. I register a turn in the road too late to make it, maybe too late to stop. I can either try to stop and face the raiders or run out of space to put my feet. I make a split-second decision to give jumping a shot; What’s the worst that could happen? I die anyway? Hitting the ground hard and stumbling, I whip around just in time to put a lucky shot into the head of one of my pursuers. Another makes the jump, and my perception of time slows down. Pause. Calculate the odds. Time enough for three shots. Chest, Chest, Leg. I fire, my entire world moving in slow motion. Bang. Miss. Bang. Hit. Bang. Miss. Doesn’t matter. He can’t chase me because he’s dead before he hits the ground. I turn and dash only to feel a searing pain in my leg. I fall, blood gushing out of the wound. I roll onto my back and unload on the raider who shot me. More are still coming behind him. I pull out my only two frag grenades, which I had hoped to save for selling. Toss. Wait. Blast. Toss the other. They know to keep their heads down this time. Putting pressure on my thigh to slow the bleeding, I crawl into the first unbarricaded door I see, careful to leave no blood trail for them to follow inside. I collapse against a battered reception desk, panting heavily and holding onto the cold metal of my 10mm for dear life, waiting for bullets or men to fly through the door. They never come. Instead, I hear the shouts and whoops of the raider gang fade into the distance. Lowering my pistol I heave a heavy sigh of relief. I take a moment to check my pip-boy to ensure it wasn’t broken by any of the explosions or falls, then pull off my shirt, cold sweat clinging to my back. Unsheathing my belt knife, I begin the process of cutting a new set of tourniquets. I wrap one around my leg and pack the others into my right-hand pocket, then carefully stand up. A bit shaky, but I should be fine as long as I find some antibiotics soon. I reload and check my gun, then limp further into the dark confines of the unmarked building that has become my salvation.
I only hope it doesn’t also become my doom.
A tattooed face emerges, with a Mohawk dyed bright purple. The man is covered in dirt and flecks of blood, his clothes torn, and he has a Stent model assault rifle in his hands. Definitely a raider. I squeeze the trigger and send a .32 round into his frontal lobe. Cries come from inside the alley, and I rebolt my rifle. He wasn’t alone. A trio of raiders, two male, one female, dash out guns blazing. I fire, hitting one of the men in the arm and throwing off his aim. Again, the other male crumples, an oozing wound in his chest. Again, and I bite nothing but brick. Again, and the woman is on the ground bleeding, still firing her Shanxi 17 pistol at me. I try to load another round into my chamber, but end up with nothing. The rifle’s empty, and I have no backup magazines. No ammo. The rifle hits the dust, and I pull my sidearm, a 10mm N99. I plink three rounds each into the two of them, and a bullet whizzes by me from behind. I turn firing, only to see another 15 or so raiders. Too many to take on alone. I backpedal, firing blindly at the swarm. I see one toss a grenade just in time to hit the deck, or maybe too late, as I summersault from my chest to my back from the force of the blast. Getting up, I make a break for it, firing behind me with no idea what I’m hitting. Click. Eject magazine, reload. I register a turn in the road too late to make it, maybe too late to stop. I can either try to stop and face the raiders or run out of space to put my feet. I make a split-second decision to give jumping a shot; What’s the worst that could happen? I die anyway? Hitting the ground hard and stumbling, I whip around just in time to put a lucky shot into the head of one of my pursuers. Another makes the jump, and my perception of time slows down. Pause. Calculate the odds. Time enough for three shots. Chest, Chest, Leg. I fire, my entire world moving in slow motion. Bang. Miss. Bang. Hit. Bang. Miss. Doesn’t matter. He can’t chase me because he’s dead before he hits the ground. I turn and dash only to feel a searing pain in my leg. I fall, blood gushing out of the wound. I roll onto my back and unload on the raider who shot me. More are still coming behind him. I pull out my only two frag grenades, which I had hoped to save for selling. Toss. Wait. Blast. Toss the other. They know to keep their heads down this time. Putting pressure on my thigh to slow the bleeding, I crawl into the first unbarricaded door I see, careful to leave no blood trail for them to follow inside. I collapse against a battered reception desk, panting heavily and holding onto the cold metal of my 10mm for dear life, waiting for bullets or men to fly through the door. They never come. Instead, I hear the shouts and whoops of the raider gang fade into the distance. Lowering my pistol I heave a heavy sigh of relief. I take a moment to check my pip-boy to ensure it wasn’t broken by any of the explosions or falls, then pull off my shirt, cold sweat clinging to my back. Unsheathing my belt knife, I begin the process of cutting a new set of tourniquets. I wrap one around my leg and pack the others into my right-hand pocket, then carefully stand up. A bit shaky, but I should be fine as long as I find some antibiotics soon. I reload and check my gun, then limp further into the dark confines of the unmarked building that has become my salvation.
I only hope it doesn’t also become my doom.
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