Chapter 6 “Threat detected.” John spent the morning sat atop the salvaged truck, rolling and clanking along. With Robco trying to impart a lifetime’s knowledge in a few hours. The older man explained money, John sort of understood. You needed it to get stuff and from what Robco said John would need a lot of stuff. He’d started a list on his pipboy. Still ignoring the cartoon mascot demanding his attention. Not wanting to ask Robco what the word soldier meant. Fearing between the older man and very bright boy, they would unearth secrets from his once trusted device he wasn’t ready to hear. Top of the list, a gun. Second on the list, a gun John wasn’t sure if Robco was joking or not, but he had two guns. The pistol on his hip and the double barrelled shotgun secured to the metal plate welded to the truck that sat just higher than their knees. Third, ammo, then a knife with a fixed blade, a first aid kit with anti rad, rad-x, a few days’ worth at least. A real backpack to hold it all, and extra socks. “Should run you about two hundred caps.” Whatever that meant, thought John. “Reckon that suit you’re using as a backpack could go for that, maybe more. Anything rare is worth something, the rarer something is, more folk’ll want it.” Robco said, slowly tapping the pipboy with his knuckle. He looked John in eye as best he could as they rolled and clanked along. “They’ll take this off you, understand, it comes down to it, you give it to em, ain’t worth your life.” John realised he hadn’t thought about taking the device off, there was never a reason too. Dirt resistant, self cleaning. The gel cushioned sleeve protected the skin, massaged the muscle to keep it healthy. Not to mention it was an instant week in organic recyc for removing it. John thought about the day he got it, how he’d raced to his quarters after the last day of school at the age of ten. He remembered his father took the afternoon off. He'd pretended there was no reason, pretending the pipboy hadn’t come, and he didn’t know anything about it. Until he burst out laughing and slid the shiny steel crate out from under his bed. And placed it on the small table they shared every meal at, every day of John’s life. He remembered the sound of the finely made crate opening, revealing his pipboy. Not the bulky, drab, olive green, model his father wore. Instead the sleek, jet black sheen John could almost see his reflection in. The buttons, directional pad, even the side wheel had a different finish. More recessed into the housing, which felt cold to the touch. His arms were so thin they didn’t even need to undo the catch to slip it over. He remembered holding both buttons to turn it on. Seeing that damn cartoon mascot he used to love. Followed by the cushion inflating, and short, sharp, pain. Different wasn’t welcome in the Vault, but his father told him that it was fine, it was a special pipboy. John wasn’t worried, he liked being different, and once he saw Rosie had one too, he liked it all the more. He liked her more. Snapping back to his new reality John looked at his muscular arm, grown into the pipboy. He fumbled for the catch on the housing, he couldn’t even see it by now. John tried to feel for the catch with his calloused finger. He traced along the seam underneath finding the small groove and worn catch. Unsure whether he wanted it to open or not, he pushed the catch down, nothing happened. “I don’t think it comes off Robco.” “Then they’ll cut your arm off.” He said in the flat, even tone he used to instruct his grandson. John felt afraid, he tried to slouch down in the spring mounted chair. Trying to hide the rare, precious item that he wasn’t sure he even wanted any more. “Let me think on it.” The older, wiser man sensed the fear John began learning about, along with everything else in the new, old world. The eight lane, faded blacktop stretched out into the distance. Dipping then climbing with the terrain, surrounded by the blood red leaves. The rolling, clanking truck, and the four bots towing it, took everything in stride. Driving away the ever deafening silence that dominated the day before. Long buildings crept into view on the horizon, edging closer with every roll and clank. “Factory district.” Robco said. “Manufacturing and such. This one, a steelworks, that was a warehouse, that long one set back on the right, bot assembly.” For every one left standing, two or three were rubble, marooned on patches of concrete. The connecting roads long reclaimed by black trees with blood red leaves. “Do you think there might be recirc parts or fan blades in there?” John asked, grateful to have someone to ask who might actually know. “Looking on a whim is a good way to get killed, plus I gotta get the boy back safe.” Robco replied, mouthing the words to the later part. “You got model numbers, schematics?” John did. He scrolled to them on his pipboy, held the side wheel in to flip the image, and the older man looked them over. “I’ve never seen anything like that out here.” Robco sighed, walking it back as he saw John’s face drop “But I ain’t looking for that. See the old world ran on computers and bots. Most fried to scrap when the bombs fell, but enough survived that you can piece things back together here and there. Say you find a depot right. Maybe you’ll find shipping labels, addresses, inventory logs. Plenty of folk around too, good people, getting by scavenging the wastes. Maybe they know something, maybe they will barter for something else they need. But I reckon your best bet is to find another Vault, see if they got what you need and what they want for it.” Another vault. John adjusted his reality again based on a casual comment. “How do you know there’s another Vault?” John asked, trying to keep more unanswerable questions at bay. The older man smiled. “Oh I have my ways. But don’t go following every fool with a story or a map to a Vault filled with loot. Nine times outta ten it’s Brahmin shit, most of em will cut your throat for your boots. I got an idea of who might know something.” The older man tapped the pipboy with his knuckle again “This got a four pin?” John nodded. “Ever do any hacking? Coding?” “Some hacking, not so much coding. That was Rosie’s thing.” Thoughts of the Vault were on his mind. “Rosie huh, I knew there’d be a girl.” The older man started laughing warmly, “No one does anything this stupid unless they’re in love. You listening Junior, love gets you, ain’t nothing you can do. She waiting back at that Vault?” John tried to force a practised smile but failed. He wanted to be honest, at least as much as he could. “Yeah, but she’s probably never going to speak to me again. I left without her…I couldn’t stand the thought that I might get her killed.” Saying it out loud for the first time felt like a relief. “She’ll forgive you.” Robco said with a knowing smile. “You did it for a good reason, she’ll forgive you.” John hoped the older, wiser, man might be right, he knew so much. Yet he didn’t know what using her code, her masterpiece, without her, would do to Rosie, John did and he did it anyway. He wasn’t sure she should forgive him, and not for the first time. Fallen factories gave way to blood red forest canopy, as the main road stretched west into the horizon. Exits from the road became fewer as the sun climbed higher into the endless blue. John pushed thoughts of other vaults, of Rosie, from his mind. Focusing instead on the scenery rolling by from the bumping, spring mounted, seat atop the truck cab. Faded blacktop, blood red leaves, endless blue, it didn’t seem as intimidating today. The sun still hurt his eyes and he still avoided looking up. Yet his confidence increased as he listened to the older man instruct him on the ways of the new, old world. Things like digging a shallow hole and covering it overnight with plastic sheeting to collect enough moisture for a cup of water in the morning. Where to find pre-war food, anything packaged or tinned would, surprisingly, be ok. How to start a fire with sticks and a bootlace. All manner of useful things that seemed second to nature to the older man and his grandson. Punctuated with rolls, clanks. Interrupted by communication between the two drivers. And Robco’s phrases that made no sense, John tried to take it all in. Robco seemed to notice John’s eyes had glazed over and laughed. “You’ll get it don’t worry, all this is routine for us, but it’s just practice and repetition.” John believed the older man, he started to believe in himself. Up ahead the faded eight lane blacktop reached a crest then gradually dipped, stretching out into the valley ahead. Two outer lanes peeling off in a pleasing curve, then two more ahead matching the same pleasing curve. The curved roads ended in burnt remains. Steel frame houses glinting in the sun. Patches of red brown grass fighting for land between spots of blood red canopy trying to reach over the negative space of once busy roads. The eight lane blacktop cut down to four leading to red brick buildings, collapsed factories and houses burned to ash. The older man nudged, John pointing at the lone spike no bigger than the tip of his finger. Invading the endless blue from the horizon ahead, he knew what it was before the older man said. “The Tower, you got a radio on that thing right, try it.” John clicked on his radio as they rolled and clanked down the gentle slope. No static just the woman’s voice, clear, as if she sat in the salvaged truck with them. “From the Tower with power every hour, Lady Luck is with you. This one is for the wanderers.” An upbeat, melodic, tune emanated from the device. Only just audible over the rolling clanking transport. Robco raised an arm in a manner that instantly made John think he was looking at a pipboy, “It’s a watch John, it’s what us regular folk use to tell time.” The boy in the cab below laughed loud enough to be heard. Robco held out his wrist showing John the metal banded clock face on his wrist. “We’re making good time, we might just make it there tonight.” The road narrowed to four lanes. Branching off into once neat squares. Now cracked, filled with rubble and more inert lumps of scrap cars. They would have made the salvaged truck seem primitive, if it weren’t for the fact it moved and they didn’t. The red brick, two storey, buildings looked completely abandoned. Caved in, rubble spilling into the street. Some completely collapsed into piles of charred red brick. It didn’t feel like easy going, or quiet, for the salvaged truck. Bots clanked and kicked rubble as they walked through it. The treads crushed brick, screeched for traction on the broken blacktop. All of it echoing off the walls, bouncing through the long dead town. With Robco concentrating on running the treads, the boy of no more than eight typing away at his terminal and John trying to be helpful the best way he could, mainly by staying quiet, no one noticed them until it was too late...