Stories Of A Wastelander, Part 1

This is a brand new story that I’m beginning about a man in the Fallout Universe. A man named Thomas. I hope you enjoy his stories. This may or may not be coming out daily. Depending on how much time I have to work on it. As you can tell, I really haven’t had a lot of time to write over the past month or two. So, I think it’s time to get back into it. ~DD


“I’ve started thinking, I’m getting older now. I’m not going to survive in this Hell I call my home, the wasteland. I want to write down my stories, so that the future of the wasteland, our successors, who will make this terrible place we live in a better place, will know the hardships we had to go through, and the terrible things we had to do for their benefit. Oh, I guess you’ll wanna know my name. It’s Thomas. Remember that, cuz I won’t be telling you again.

I began my life in the Capital Wasteland, more specifically, Megaton. The small settlement was made up of a mostly wrecked pre-war plane, and other scrap metal found around the site of the dud atomic bomb that those damned Children of Atom fanatics insisted that my ancestors build the town around. In early age, I worked for a measly 2 caps an hour at a place called “Moriarty’s Saloon”. Moriarty, the owner, was a complete asshole. And he had an accent I could never really understand, but I usually got the gist of what he was saying. I worked there, 12 hours a day, every day. Only to go home to my parents, also quite terrible people, and do their work and chores for them. A month after I hit 15 years old, my father came into the pub on an especially maddening day, he’d just lost his dog, Cherry, who he cherished and loved more than he would ever love my Mother and I. He went home after getting me to serve him 9 Gwinnett Stout beers, I still had 4 hours left of work. I walked home with my 24 caps and dropped them in a little sack we had to collect all my caps each day beside the entrance in the house, which was a sheet of metal you’d assume to be the size of a door with a vertical rectangle cut down the middle to allow some light into the house. I walked into the house, which wasn’t that big, and found my parents’ bedroom door open, but absolutely no noise coming from inside. Usually, my parents were fighting or making “love” in their room. And I heard neither. My family had no friends in the town and had no desire to travel or be together to any extent unless they had the rare desire for a pleasure they could only give each other. So they had not gone out of the house. I walked over to the door to their room and opened it up. I saw the 44. Caliber Pistol in my father’s dead and bloodied hand, the missing part of the top of his head, and the three gunshots in my Mother, and I left the house. I went back to the pub and sat on a stool for the rest of the night. Terrified and scarred by what I’d seen. Eventually, Moriarty’s selfish ass noticed me and asked me what was wrong. I gave him my answer. And he tried to be sympathetic. But the best thing he could do to make me feel better was give me a bottle of whiskey. He went to bed, and I sat up all night drinking the bottle away. My first drink. Would’ve liked it to have been under better circumstances, like my father giving me my first gun, but it is what it is. I went back to my home the next morning with a headache to remember, and I grabbed what I thought I needed. The sack of caps I’d filled halfway, a stimpak I found in my Father’s bedside ammo storage container, and the gun, which I pried from his cold dead hand, trying not to look at his blown-out face. I never really understood why he killed my Mother and himself. He was sad because his dog died, get the fuck over it. I’ve endured worse losses in my lifetime. I left the town that day, and tested my luck out in the wasteland, with only enough bullets to fill the cylinder of my gun. I’m gonna stop the writing now. Get some sleep at the Hotel Rexford. I’ll write more tomorrow.”

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