The Wasteland Survival Guide – Introduction: “I Came, I Saw, I Kicked Ass”
More than a hero, more than a villian, I am a survivor.
Some
call me an urban legend, the last damn hope for humanity, that kid from
Vault 101. Others call me a fuckin' commie. And I'm fine with that, as
long as I don't hear them say it with their jaw attached.
But you? You're just lucky. Lucky you're still alive. Lucky you can
read. Lucky this book hasn't been turned into a carcass of mold like
all the other books in this godforsaken hellhole. Lucky I have spare
time. Lucky Moira made it worth my while to write this damn
introduction for a survival guide. And
especially lucky you haven't stepped into Megaton long enough to become Moira's little guinea pig. (And
she’s lucky for not editing this out.)
But it doesn't matter how lucky you are, does it? You've seen the
Wasteland, this man-made Apocalypse, this sorry-ass excuse of a history
lesson we all have to live with. The landscape is dead, vacant, and
rusted - a painting of paradise whose colors have faded into the murk
of browns, greys, and dusty hues. The wind blows through the windows of
the abandoned car, creeps around the corners of the broken street, and
spreads the odor of anarchy through the ruins of the Lincoln Memorial.
Absolute freedom has bred absolute chaos. Raiders, slavers, mutants,
mercs – they all want to rip your head off, and if they’re savvy
enough,
sell it
to the highest bidder. Men are expendable. Women and children conceal
weapons underneath their filthy garments. Soldiers weighed down by
their metal power suits patrol the wastes like sulking, marauding
ghosts. Human “ghouls” who have had their skin ripped off by the
radiation live in fear of the smoothskin bigots. Civilization exists in
tattered pockets in a world worn with war and natural, mindless cruelty.
Wherever
you run, there is no escape. You can run towards the ramshackle clinic
for some healing stimpaks, run past the beggar who clings to the earth
pleading for clean water, run from the Deathclaw that hungers for your
tender thighs. But you can’t run from the truth, the hollow tragedy of
the boy who slings his rifle over his small, rounded shoulders, of the
girl in the pale pink skirt who tries to remember her murdered parents
as she stares at the irradiated clouds in the sky, of two skeletons
holding hands together on a rotted queen-sized bed while a radio sends
a distress signal that continues to loop. You can hear the rhythm of
the reality - the broken record on which it plays - that humanity has
lost its optimism, for fear of hoping at all.
Radiation smothers everything life depends on. It’s in the food you
eat, in the water you drink, and it probably pricks through your skin
while you toss and turn in your sleep. Step close to a latent nuclear
missile, munch on a couple of Sugar Bombs, or take a dive into the
deceivingly clear river, and you can feel the radiation trickling up
your spine. Gradually it saps your strength and willpower until you’re
writhing on the floor and gasping for breath. Always carry some RadAway
next to your stimpaks and keep a couple of preventative Rad-X in case
you have no choice but to get your feet wet.
And that’s the crux of survival: Use common sense, accept the fact that
this world has gone to shit, and deal with it. There are already enough
worshippers of wackadoo religions, enough military kooks, enough “for
the good of mankind” experiments, enough Nuka-Cola fanatics (
one is
all we need), and enough Buffout or Jet or whatever-can-be-popped
junkies to justify why humankind is not worth saving. In other words,
please don’t add to my body count.
In times like these, only until you’ve looked out for number one can
you start looking out for number two or more. But I wouldn’t bother.
Followers might have your back, either by choice or by contract, and
they might take care of some raiders in the distance with a bit of
shotgun diplomacy, but they’re too autonomous. You can’t tell them to
use a stimpak. You can’t force them to use the better assault rifle you
just picked up. You can’t jump off some rocky cliffs and expect them to
do the same; no, they have to find a roundabout way that usually gets
them killed. Just go solo and never look back.
If
you think I’m being egotistic, then you obviously don’t understand
survival. Good or evil, savior or scourge, none of that matters if
you’re dead. I don’t show any mercy, whether it’s a gang of idiotic
ape-men, a don’t-have-time-to-name-it beast-fiend, or an insane
scalpel-wielding old-timer. Yes, even grandma knows how to aim for the
head - and so should you. Stop, concentrate, activate your V.A.T.S.
system, shoot the limbs off your enemy, and then move on to the next
fool.
And between shots, remember this well: fight, salvage, sell, repeat.
Take whatever high-value junk you can find, anything that’s worth the
weight. Ammo, stimpaks, medicinal “supplements”, frag mines, grenades,
pre-war paper money, railway spikes, oven pilot lights - all of these
can be traded in for a pile of bottle caps, the new currency of the
country of garbage. Open every metal box, every first aid kit, every
safe, every bag of mutilated organs, and if any of them are locked,
even better.
Learning new perks and skills doesn’t just mean whacking the nearest
jerk with a friendly baseball bat. Pick some locks, hack into security
terminals, disarm any mines and traps, and "convince" people to tell
you their secrets. Battles go to the well-prepared and the
well-rounded, the road warriors who have the know-how to stay
healthy and discover new places that even raiders have yet to touch.
And even if you ignore everything I’ve written so far, do yourself a
favor: listen to Galaxy News Radio. Even if you think DJ Three Dog is a
liberal heretic and think The Brotherhood of Steel are some overzealous
paladins with an itchy trigger finger, it’s the only radio station
that’s worth a damn. Go ahead and tune into the Enclave station if you
want, but for those who live in reality and not in some preachy,
patriotic, apple-pie paradise, the music alone is all you need. There’s
nothing like decapitating a couple of smack-talking Super Mutants to
the smooth voice of Billie Holiday – it’s the kind of scene cigarettes
were made for. Three Dog will even throw in some rumors for you
explorer-types and give a shout-out to your exploits. It’s called
recognition and respect. So yes, please, holla’ at your dog.
By
now, you’re probably wondering about me, about the fairy tale of a boy
who left the shelter of the Vault in search of his father. I’ll let you
grab a couch to mull over my abandonment issues, anti-isolationist
ideals, and my animus figure. But whatever you’ve heard hardly sums up
my life. No sixty-second mythic summary - no heavy introduction in a
survival guide - can compare to what I’ve seen, what I’ve heard, what
I’ve decided to live.
That’s the beauty of survival, and this world of fallout: It feeds on
adventure and breathes in freedom, yet it dreams of order and the
safety of the Vault. I can describe it, explain it, tell it in finely
chosen words, but I can never make you fully understand for as long as
you sit and listen. But even if I die, I do not worry. There will come
a time when you will seize that lever and open that metal door, and it
is then I will return. And the Wasteland will greet you, the birth of a
legend. For with you goes that kid from Vault 101 once more.