Chapter 4 “Get up stupid.”

Light streamed through the blood red canopy. The sun chased from the endless blue by white grey blobs John vaguely remembered from a children’s story. What were they called he thought to himself, seeking distraction from the circular questions racing round his mind. He didn’t even have the capacity to find answers to.

John kept his distance from the road sticking to the forest of gnarled branches. Far enough away to make out the gap that the trees hadn't claimed. He’d spent all day desperate for a sign of people alive in the new, old world, now he wanted to avoid them. He tried to focus on the people. Still not ready to confront the surreal secrets that must of lain dormant all these years. There were two of them. No, at least three he realised. Remembering the sound of the air itself cracking in the wake of the bullet that left the fist sized hole in solid brick.

An uninvited thought popped into his head. Seven point six two calibre. John knew somehow this referred to the gun shot at him but he couldn’t trace the origin of the information. The more he tried to place the thought, the more information he found. Range, fire rate, muzzle velocity. He understood them on some level, but it unnerved him to have access to knowledge he didn’t earn. The only gun John ever used was a rivet gun, which he’d used extensively. The same basic shape but smaller, lighter than the rifle. Triggered by pushing the spring loaded outer barrel against the wall to load a rivet of hardened steel from the belt of ten. Then squeezing the grip to release the coiled energy with enough force to drive a rivet clean through double thick dull grey steel panels, sealing them together forever. He could hear the sound now.

They were tools not weapons, not that they weren’t dangerous. He knew of at least six fatal accidents, two of which weren’t accidents. Suicides were never called that. Always accidents, or heart attacks, or strokes. Never the truth that they didn’t want any part of building a future even bleaker than their present. Thoughts of covered up deaths inevitably led him to thoughts of his father. He didn’t need that right now so he checked his map screen and quickened his pace, the only distraction he had.

John began to reach the limit of the area he’d scanned from the Red Rocket, still heading vaguely west. Although he’d started to veer away from the main road. It would be night soon, he remembered night from the children’s stories. Night was when the monsters came.

Red canopy stretched out as far as he could see. The only thing that gave any sense of direction was the negative space of the narrow road free from trees. So he began following that. Again he tried to focus on the positives, people were alive, they must have water. Although if that’s what caused the sores on one of them not even the filters in water cans would help.

There was something familiar about the smaller twitching man too. People seriously injured enough to spend weeks on the Med deck would sometimes come back on shift like that. Twitching, sweating, irritable. John noticed Rick always put them on something simple, sweeping, taking inventory. Something safe to avoid accidents.

The only time he spent on the Med deck was around the age of thirteen. Every few weeks or so John got these headaches. They would creep up his back, a clawing pain making its way to the front of his head. On bad days it would spread to his whole body. It was always the same treatment, five cc of med-x in an iv bag, and a good night’s sleep. The cause chalked up to dehydration or growing pains. He couldn’t deny that he felt better the next morning but never felt reassured by the same nurses telling his father the same things, over and over. Rosie used to get them too, and their friend Dutch, her friend Dutch. John never really liked him, mainly because he could never make Rosie laugh like Dutch could. What he’d give right now for Dutch to do one of his stupid impressions of a teacher.

They didn’t see Dutch after the age of fifteen. He went up to some far loftier purpose than breaking rocks or repairing things. Looking back now at the time the three of them spent together, in the brief respite from pain and before the drugs put them out, it felt like a precious memory. Sometimes they would pinch their iv’s to stay awake longer, just talking, joking, playing games on their jet black pipboys they all had. John stopped walking. The pipboys they all had. Were the devices causing the headaches? Is that how he could see the screen inside his eyes? Had the innocuous device implanted him, them, with something? More questions, even fewer answers.

The negative space of the road became less clear. The black, misshapen trees encroached so much they reclaimed the space permanently. The ground began to rise steeply under his heavy boots as he walked. Each step stepper than the last, until the trees abruptly stopped at a cliff edge. The grey and white blobs had ended the once endless blue, masking the sun that turned the shapes around it deep orange.

Below John could see the main road. The faded blacktop looked blacker than ever, drawing in what little light remained. He saw a crossroads ahead, burnt wooden remains on one side, a low building on the other. Three sided, enclosing a flat concrete square. He could rest there for the night, four walls and a roof seemed pretty good to him right now.

John traced a route backwards from the crossroads. The darkening blood red canopy blocked his view of nearly everything below apart from main road. He traced that back as far as he could see, delaying the vertigo sure to come when he had to look down. It wasn’t that far, yet a dense, dark red forest lay between him and the only thing he trusted as a guide.

With a deep breath to steady his nerve, John looked down. The cliff wasn’t that high, he didn’t even feel nauseous, what’s more it looked like he could climb down it. He sent a now triple mapping pulse to confirm the height, scrolling quickly past the cartoon mascot he’d been so eager to interact with as a child.

A fraction of a second later the map displayed new information. Curved lines grouped together in increasingly tight groups. He understood immediately they showed gradient and that convinced him he could climb down. Unearned confidence filled his limbs as he slid backwards over the edge. His feet finding solid holds, even in heavy steel toecap boots. His hands gripping firmly in the cragged, light grey rock face. Then releasing without the hesitation that made the ladder in the Vault so exhausting.

Before John knew it, he’d reached the ground. Surprised, he looked up at the cliff face that only this morning would have turned him back. Maybe it wasn’t that high, maybe he was getting used to the new, old world. Maybe he’d choose to believe that, for now.

The once blood red canopy reached overhead again, growing blacker with every step deeper in. Every step through the dark forest brought the memories of the children’s stories. Nearly all about foolish children wandering through the woods at night. And them falling prey to monsters that lived outside the Vault.

When they grew up they were told the truth, their truth. That greed and infighting lead to The Great War that consumed the surface. Giving them, the sole survivors, a duty to build for the future underground. It made him feel sick. Sicker still because they’d been sort of right about the monsters out here.

Falling night mixed with dense trees left John little besides the map screen to navigate. He tried to just walk straight. Not easy in the uneven, unfamiliar, and uninviting forest. Weaving and winding made it hard to mark any kind progress. The screen showed movement in the right direction. Yet the once unquestioning trust he’d had in the pipboy for fifteen years shattered each time he looked away. Wondering if the traces of green in his vision were just an after image from looking at a bright light in the dark. Or part of whatever invasive system lay inside his eyes.

What else had it kept from him, what else had it done to him, to Rosie. Did Oversight know, had they let him get out. He felt sure, as sure as he could be about anything right now, that they wouldn’t have purposely given him a tool to expose them. They protected the lie too long. Doubled down on it by removing the door from the preinstalled map and hiding the true breadth of the stockroom. No way Oversight would intentionally put the power to destroy it into the hands of a rock breaker.

John stopped walking. Frustrated with himself for letting the questions without answers consume him. He stood in the ever darkening forest, leaning against a black tree trunk taking deep, rhythmic breaths. Pushing all other thoughts from his racing mind, apart from the simple act of counting to ten. Like Rosie taught him to do when he felt overwhelmed. By the time he got to seven he started feeling better, clearer, calmer. The flood of questions held behind a mental dam.

Sound crept into the darkening forest. Echoing through the blackened trees, muffled by blood red leaves. Hard to place, even in the deafening, ever present, silence. John froze, his newly acquired calm allowing him to focus on the noise. A rolling, clanking, sound. Like a motor, almost moving in the dark. John felt a twinge of adrenaline, before the fear this time, which only made him more alarmed. Then he realised the sound was moving, and getting closer.

Cautiously John made his way towards the invading noise. Definitely something mechanical. It reminded him of the autonomous rock carrying carts they used in the Vault. They got lost going in a straight line, literally, he couldn’t imagine one of those still going out here. The rolling clanking sound drew closer, getting louder all the time. Between the thinning trees at the edge of the forest and the road barrier he could just make out something moving. Something like the six wheeled, canvas covered truck he first seen outside the Vault. That wasn’t fit to be called scrap, how could this one moving. Maybe some long abandoned autonomous creation still carrying out a programmed routine from all those years ago. A fusion core power cell could certainly last that long. If it had a four pin socket it might contain useful data, he had to at least get a look.

John moved quickly to get ahead of the mysterious contraption. It didn’t move fast, barely above walking speed. So with one eye on the main road he overtook it easily and reached the crossroads at the edge of the forest. Crouched, still able to hear the rolling clanking sound, he saw nothing that could help him. The only structure sat too far away, no way to get close enough to oncoming truck, even if it did stay on the same route.

John darted for the only thing around, one of the abandoned cars, hiding behind it. The rolling clanking sound drew ever closer. A slight rad spike emanated from the long crashed vehicle. It caused the Geiger counter in his pipboy to display it, silently this time, he ignored it and tried to focus. Definitely a six wheeled truck he thought, but there were shapes in front of it. Stubby arms and legs moving in unison around oval shaped bodies, not human. John remembered another children’s story from the Vault, the ones Rosie didn’t like. The ones about robots.

John feared getting spotted by one of these oval shaped automatons. Secretly scared the children stories may be right and they were fuelled by human blood. John took the multi-tool from the fashioned holder across his chest. As quietly as possible he started to work the car door handle. Eager to hide behind it. Slowly he tightened multi-tool wrench on the door release latch. Hidden in the tarnished chrome handle, squeaking and scratching until it finally gave way with a clunk.

Suddenly the door flung open. Propelled from the inside with enough force to rip the multi-tool from his grasp. Sending him falling onto his back and into the road. Shocked, he looked back at the rear of the car to see a stinking, meat wrapped skeleton clawing its way out. Solid black eyes peering out from sunken sockets. Remnants of rotten skin peeling off as it rubbed against the car door. Screaming in pain without the ability to make a sound beyond a rasping hiss. John couldn’t make sense of what he saw. This had clearly been a person once but now would be a pitiful creature. If wasn’t attacking him.

Panicking he went for his multi-tool, still attached to the car door handle and out of reach. Pushing on his heels John started to put distance between himself and the barely alive wretch advancing on him. He willed his legs to stand, to run. To do anything remotely useful aside from push him back inch by inch from the horror poured from the rear of the long forgotten car. Now standing above him. The creature stood staring down at John with vengeful, angry, dead eyes. Burned black in nuclear fire. Still on his back trying desperately to will his legs from panic into action, the creature lunged rapidly. Bony fingers extended, ready to exact retribution for being disturbed, when its skull exploded from the jaw up with bang. “Get up stupid.” A voice from behind him spoke. John got to his feet, slowly, and with his arms raised.

“What in the hell you doin boy?! Running around out here disturbing ghouls! An’ you ain’t even got no gun do you, stupid.” John stood unsteady, looking at the older man admonishing him. Sat on a bench mounted atop the cab of the stationary six wheeled truck, smoking shotgun in hand.

“I, I…didn’t know.” John stuttered, the panic moving from his legs to his mouth. Before him the source of the rolling, clanking sound. A derelict truck being pulled by four oval shaped, stubby armed machines. Leather straps securing them, cables running from their backs commanding them. Even in a day of bizarre firsts, this felt difficult to process.

“Put your arms down, I ain’t gonna shoot you for being stupid.” The man on the truck as he stowed his shotgun. John lowered his arms, panic gradually relinquishing control of his limbs. As he moved his arm the jet black sheen of the pipboy glinted in the light from the truck cab, drawing the attention of the man on the truck. “Say, that’s one of them personal terminals ain’t it. And that blue suit, you’re one of those bunker babies ain’t ya, living in one of those holes in the ground...a Vault right?” The panic surged again, how did he know about the Vault.

“Y,y…yeah.” John answered, it seemed pointless to deceive the man, he obviously knew.

"How long you been out here boy?” He asked with an almost concerned tone.

“About eight hours.” The man on the truck laughed, not so much at John, but with a hint of recognition.

“Nearly ate by a ghoul on your first day.” The man lent forward in his seat, staring at the pale skinned, blue suited, scared figure before him. John felt like he was being assessed. After a long pause the man spoke, his tone softer. “You better come with us, we’re about to make camp, and even I wouldn’t run around out here at night without a gun.” The man banged on the roof twice with his boot. A hinge creaked and a small face appeared inside the truck, lit in terminal green. “We’re going to the old motel ahead.” The man on the truck gestured to the low building John already decided to spend the night in. “Junior, let’s move. You try and keep up now.” The boy in the cab typed on the terminal and the oval shaped machines began to walk, in step with each other.

The rolling clanking sound starting again. John went to the car door to retrieve his multi-tool, ignoring the pitiful creature missing most of its once human head. He stowed it across his chest and kept pace with the truck as it rolled and clanked along.

In a matter of minutes they reached the low flat building. The worn, but still legible, sign by the front entrance read ‘The not so Grand Motel’ in plastic letters. With the 'not so' written like it had been put in after. John found it funny, but the others paid it little attention as they manoeuvred their salvaged truck into the concrete courtyard.

John took a moment to take in the ingenuity put into making a rusted lump of scrap move. The twin rear wheels on either side were all but replaced with linked treads. Like the rock carts from the Vault, driven by a motorised wheel at one end. The oval bodied walking machines at the front were secured to the chassis. As well as each other, with neatly trimmed, gnarled branches. All supported by braided leather straps. A thick black cable connected each one, running to the striped down terminal mounted in the cab, operated by a boy of no more than eight. The boy told them when to go, the older man above told them where to go. It wasn’t fast, but certainly effective.

“OK Junior that’ll do.” Said the older man, as the clanking machines pulled in near the motel entrance. “Get ‘em unhooked and set a watch on the corners, I’m gonna talk to the man.” John stood back while the older man climbed down. He wore red overalls, patched and sewn up. A long, dark leather coat and a large pistol on his hip he made sure john couldn’t miss. “Alright, you and me are gonna take a look around. If I see something I don’t like, say more fellas in shiny blue suits looking to relieve me of what’s mine, you’re gonna see my bad side.” John understood the older man’s caution. He’d seen enough to know the new, old world wasn’t a place to trust strangers on the road.

The not so Grand lived up to its name. A dozen rooms all in various state of rot. With the old man at his back John moved quietly from room to rotten room. Instinctively approaching broken doors, dirty cracked windows, with the minimum exposure to any potential attack. He wasn’t sure how he knew to do this. He thought maybe it came from sneaking around after lights out to meet Rosie, and left it at that. Ignoring questions he couldn’t answer.

After the last rotten room had been checked the older man visibly relaxed as he walked back to the truck. Keeping ahead of John so he could tie the canvas cover securely over the back of the truck. John didn’t care, their truck, their business. Besides if they wanted to hurt him they’d had plenty of chances by now, not to mention at least two guns close at hand.

Private cargo secured, the older man walked up to John smiling. His hand out stretched “William Robertson, but most folk call me Robco on account of my trade.” The older man shook John’s hand firmly while gesturing to the clanking machines. Each one systematically disconnecting its neighbour from the wooden frame and cables, then walking to the corners.

“My name’s John, it’s nice to meet you.”

“John, glad to know you.” The older man banged on the truck twice. “Junior, its ok, come on out and practice meeting folk.” The rusted green door swung open, quickly followed by the boy who all but jumped out.

“Hi I’m Wallace, it’s nice to meet you.” The boy held his small arm outstretched to shake hands. John hadn’t met anyone new in a decade, it was good practice for them both.

“John. It’s nice to meet you too Wallace.”

“Dammit boy that ain’t what we practised. What do we do when we meet folk?” Robco interjected, trying to teach Wallace a lesson that John didn’t think was entirely for the boy’s benefit.

“First we look.” Said Wallace. “He’s not twitching, not sick, not wounded, and doesn’t have a gun.” John tried to smile and seem friendly as the boy looked him up and down

“Good, although maybe he stashed his gun to get later.” Suggested Robco, prompting the boy to think for a moment.

“No, if he was smart enough to stash a gun, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to near get his face eaten by a ghoul. Meaning no offence Mister.” John smiled, the boy wasn’t wrong.

“Next we listen. This man says he lives in a bunker underground, closed off to the world, do we think that’s true?” Robco prompted the boy again, prompting them both, to assess the situation.

“Well his skin is pale, paler than usual. His shiny blue suit is pretty clean so he’s not been out here long. He’s got big muscles so he’s a hard worker, and I’ve never seen that thing on his arm before.”

“It’s a pipboy, it’s like your terminal in the truck only smaller.” John stretched out his arm clicking the button so Wallace could see the screen.

“That’s neat!” The boy’s excitement reminded John of his own the day he first wore the sleek, jet black, device. Robco put his hand on John’s shoulder to gently stop him talking.

“One last question Junior. Should we help him?”

”Yes.” The boy responded instantly.

“Why?”

“Because we’re the good guys and there’s not enough good in this world, so we’ve gotta do good when we can.” Robco beamed with pride at the clarity and conviction in the boy’s voice.

“My man, up top.” He stretched out his hand, palm vertical, as the boy gleefully slapped it with his small hand.

“Up top John!” The excited boy smiled, welcoming the newcomer with a simple gesture. John felt a weight lift from him he didn’t know had been so heavy. People, real people, good people, out here in the new, old world.

Robco and Wallace slid folding chairs from the underside of the truck. Setting them up alongside so they couldn’t be seen from the road. John sat, loosening his boots to provide relief to his tired feet. John retrieved a can of fresh can of water, a full protein bar, and the half wrapped one from his improvised backpack. He threw the full protein bar to Wallace while he ate the half left over from breakfast. Rationing be damned, he thought, he wasn’t going to see the boy go hungry. Robco nodded at the boy, giving him permission to eat the opaque, gelatinous, block in his hand. The boy took a minute bite from the corner, chewed it once, then rapidly spat it out. “Tastes like shit!” His small face contorted in disgust.

“Wallace, don’t be rude.” Robco said sternly.

“Sorry Pop Pop, sorry John.”

“Give it here boy, I’m sure it’s not that bad.” Robco took a huge bite as if to compensate for any offence the boy had given. He chewed it once and spat it out.

“See! See!” Exclaimed the boy between giggles.

“Damn, you really eat this stuff?” Robco asked, trying to keep the look of disgust from his face.

“Every day.” replied John, still chewing the gelatinous block that didn’t really taste of anything to him.

“But you get other stuff too right?” Inquired the boy, oddly concerned.

“Oh yeah, we get grilled mushrooms and boiled rhubarb. I had an apple once, half an apple.” The pair looked at John with confused pity, then at each other with a smile.

“Well not any more, you’re in the real world now, and in the real world we eat real food.” said Robco. “Normally I wouldn’t light a fire this close to the road, but you ain’t eating that while you ride with us John. Junior get the cooking equipment.” The boy scurried off to the other side of the truck. Returning with a box of gnarled branches cut to various lengths, three long, thin, metal rods, and a heavy looking canvas sack. John started to get up to help the boy but Robco stopped him, “Boy’s gotta learn, he’ll manage.”

Wallace knelt on the ground and started to unpack the equipment. First arranging a double layer of red bricks in a circle, balancing the rods into a tripod. Then stacking the smaller wood pieces into a triangle shape. He took a small knife from his boot that looked far too big for him, like the worn blue jeans and thick jumper he wore. The boy took a thin stick from the box and started to run the sharp knife down it. Peeling away the blackened bark, forcing the lighter wood into thin curves.

“Pop Pop, I think I got the voice commands locked in, can I try them?” Robco nodded. “Hey Buddy come over here.” Wallace shouted to the nearest clanking machine.

“Sure...thing…buddy.” The machine spoke in a synthesized voice as it started to walk towards them. John had never seen anything like this. It looked like a refrigerator sprouted arms and legs. A glass panel at the top held twirling gears, flashing lights. All manner of complex secrets that were beyond anything he understood. The five foot clanking robot made its way to the boy knelt on the ground, towering over him. John tensed, remembering the children in the stories of badly behaved boys harvested by evil automatons built by lazy masters. Robco must have noticed his unease.

“You don’t have bots in the Vault huh, don’t worry they’re safe, we reprogrammed them. This one here we pulled out of a diner, that one an old warehouse, the other two out a construction site. All your basic Protectron model. Now you see one walking around out here you watch out, some of ‘em are real nasty, but these are safe. Robco guaranteed.”

“Hey Buddy got a light?” Wallace raised the stick he’d been carving. The robot extended its stubby arm, stretching its three pronged hand out. The orb like hand rotated selecting a different claw like finger and projected a small flame. The boy touched the carved stick to it, engulfing the thin wooden strips in fire, allowing the boy to light the stacked wood in the brick circle. Wallace blew into the fire, gently fanning the burgeoning flames. While adding increasingly bigger bits of wood. It wasn’t a cold night, yet the flames brought welcome warmth.

John became fascinated by the fire. An ever present fear in the Vault, but out here it chased back the night that’d fallen on everything around him. The endless blue now shifting greys overtaken by the blobs he still couldn’t remember the name of. The fire illuminated Wallace’s gap toothed grin as he leant forward in his folding chair. “Hey Pop Pop, are you thirsty?” Asked the boy, almost begging his grandfather to say yes.

“Well I guess.” Before the older man could finish the eager boy issued another voice command.

“Hey Buddy, how ‘bout a cold one for my friends.”

“Sure…thing…buddy.” The rectangle bodied bot took a step towards John. It used one arm to open its own chest, reached in with the other, and presented him with a cold, glass bottle, filled with a dark liquid. John took it, the robot claw flicked the cap clean off, then repeated the process for the other two. The boy sat on the edge of his seat brimming with glee. Rightfully proud of his work, awaiting his grandfather’s approval.

“Not bad Junior, not bad at all.” They clinked bottles and drank, John did the same. The strange, cool, liquid filled his mouth, fizzing and popping like nothing he’d ever drank before. Leaving a sweet aftertaste combined with a slight tingling sensation.

“What is this stuff?” John asked, the boy looked at him strangely.

“You’ve never had a Nuka Cola before?!” John shook his head. “Damn, it’s a good job we found you.” The boy sounded older than his years. His joy for sharing the simple pleasure apparent. Robco laughed, impolitely, he tried to stifle the laugh but that only made it worse. Then the boy began laughing, then John. All three laughing in the fallen night.