Wasteland Ramblings

TO: 3348875

FROM: USER11

RE: Investigation, Part 1

I must apologize for my absence. I’ve been kept busy around the outpost, by both Patricia and numerous deliveries to Jack Rabbit Springs. Patricia’s task in particular has consumed my time, and honestly, I had no idea where to begin. 

It all began a week ago. Patricia and I had agreed to meet as little as possible, to decrease suspicion of our bizarre alliance. I had most of Monday free to investigate, so I rose early and sauntered over to the main offices. Despite the sweltering heat of the Mojave, this morning was unusually chilly. My old leather gloves were missing most of their fingers, and I resolved to buy warmer clothing before the weather turned too cold. 

The low-level officer at reception seemed thoroughly apathetic about his job, and glanced up at me with indifference as I entered. I put on my best smile. 

“I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a mix-up,” I said nonchalantly, resting an arm on the desk. “I was supposed to talk to someone about a job with Crimson Caravan, but nobody ever gave me a name. Do you happen to have a list of employees?”

I could tell the officer wasn’t buying it. He eyed me, and I could see the cogs turning in his mind. After a long pause, he sighed. 

“I’m not paid enough to give a shit,” he muttered, “just keep me out of it.”

After shuffling through a few folders, he scribbled a name down on a scrap of paper and slid it to me, 

“That’s the current representative of Crimson Caravan. Get out before I remember I saw you.”

With a small sense of accomplishment, I trudged back to the barracks, and ordered myself a drink. After a bit of obligatory smalltalk with Lacey, I retreated to a back table with my notebook, and uncrumpled the small scrap of paper. “Dominic Water,” was scribbled there in nearly illegible penmanship. 

J.S.

TO: 3348875

FROM: USER11

RE: Patricia

The past few days have been dull, but comfortable. My time has been split between delivering soldiers’ messages between the Mojave Outpost and Jack Rabbit Springs, playing hands of caravan in the barracks, and helping with general maintenance around the base. It’s nice to have something to do, and have people to talk to again. 

This morning was unusually cold. As I stood to dress, a sharp pain shot from my temples into either sides of my cranium. I winced and sat back down at the foot of my bunk. That’s right; I drank last night. Shots of something, what was it?

Must have been whiskey. Yes, that was it. Lacey kept them coming between games of caravan.

I dressed, and made my way to the common area for some breakfast.  It was sausage today, or possibly bacon, it was hard to tell.

As I pushed the greasy meat around my plate, a young woman pulled up a seat across from me. I recognized her from the night before, and had lost a few caps to her. She was some kind of communications officer, that much I remembered. She was fairly attractive, even with her dark brown hair done up in an a bun, in the typical androgynous NCR fashion. Deep bags circled her eyes. 

“Sleep well?” she asked. I racked my brain trying to remember her name.

“I’ve slept better.” 

“I don’t suppose you remember me, do you?” She grinned. “You were pretty far gone when we met. My name’s Patricia.”

“That’s quite a pretty name.” I suddenly realized how long it’s been since I’d had a casual conversation.

“It was my grandmothers.” She shrugged nonchalantly. “Word is, you need a job, is that right?”

I nodded. 

“Well, this is a very sensitive situation. I know you haven’t been here very long, which is why I think I can trust you.”

She glanced around her warily. “A few weeks ago, a friend of mine disappeared. Lynette Bernard. She was one of the traders that used to come through here, worked for the Crimson Caravan Company. Nice girl, used to give me a discount on medical supplies. Before her, two others disappeared out of the blue.”

I hesitated for a moment. “This kind of thing isn’t in my repertoire,” I said. “Maybe this is something best left to the MP?”

For a moment, Patrica had a look of panic in her eyes, but quickly composed herself. “I’ve brought it to the attention of the higher-ups, but they refuse to look into it. It’s clear they know something they’re not telling me. That’s why I need you; you have no connection to either the NCR or Crimson Caravans.” 

We settled on a price, and I reassured her that I’d look into it. I still haven’t completely wrapped my head around the situation. Maybe by writing it down will help. 

I’ll start making inquiries tonight. I like the idea of work, but this was the last thing I was expecting.

J.S.

TO: 3348875

FROM: USER11

RE: A Warm Welcome

The morning sunlight shone though the boarded-up front windows of the patrol station. I woke slowly, still cradling May’s copy of “The Road Back.” I was feeling better. The pain in my gut had subsided, and I was able to keep down a bit of instant coffee and a few bites of bread. Today shouldn’t be too strenuous; only a few hours to the Outpost. I just hope it’s not a waste of time. 

That particular stretch of I-15 was uneventful, so I was able to keep a relaxed pace. My only company were a few young cazadores, whom I was able to take out at a distance with the hunting rifle. 

The final stretch of road to the outpost required a sharp uphill climb. I had heard rumors that the Mojave Outpost was the last populated area along I-15. Anything south is too irradiated, or picked clean by the wildlife. Nobody really knew what lay south, only that anyone stupid enough to venture too far down the Long 15 never came back. 

I took a swig of whiskey and began the climb. Cars littered the road, a myriad of rusted vehicles choking the path like forgotten children’s toys. Before the War, this must have been a way of escape, though clearly unsuccessful. Now it was nothing more than a choke point for useless old world technology. 

Above me, the famous NCR statues loomed. Back home in Blair, an old NCR officer used to tell me stories about his glory days over a round of drinks. The statue, he used to say, symbolized the union between the New California Republic and the Desert Rangers of Nevada. The Rangers became part of the NCR, and the Mojave Outpost was built, more than a decade ago. 

As I stared at the metal monstrosity above me, a sharp voice barked, snapping me out of the daze. 

“State your business!”

A female trooper was perched on a rooftop, not 10 yards from where I stood, an unnecessary large sniper rifle trained on me. She had the look of someone who made a living blowing stranger’s heads off. I raised my hands and smiled nervously.

“Just a civilian.”

She looked up from the sight, but kept the rifle fixed on me.

“I asked your business.”

I smiled again, realized I looked ridiculous, and stopped.

“Just looking for a drink. And work, if you have it.”

“Are you armed?”

“Just a rifle and a sidearm.”

She lowered the rifle a bit. “Then keep them to yourself. Your caps are good at the bar. Try anything stupid, then be prepared to dig yourself a grave.”

“Yes ma’am.” I gave my best salute, to which she cracked a smile, and carried on toward the barracks.

Inside was a much more relaxed atmosphere than I had anticipated. A radio played from behind the bar, as soldiers and civilians drank and laughed. A few troopers played a hand of Caravan in one corner, and I thought briefly of joining later. I approached the bartender, an attractive brunette, and introduced myself. 

“Most of the civies here are with the caravans,” she mentioned as she poured my drink. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”

“I’m just looking for work, maybe a place to stay the night.”

She set down a glass of beer in front of me. I handed her a few caps in return.

“I can set you up with a bunk for a few nights, for a fee, of course,” she said. “As for work, I would ask around the base. The soldiers often need letters delivered. That sort of thing.”

I thanked her, paid, and took my beer over to the Caravan game. From the looks of it, a fresh-faced trooper had made the mistake of challenging his lieutenant, and was paying dearly for it. A neat pile of caps was slowly growing in front of the officer, and the unfortunate trooper’s friends were laughing uncontrollably. 

I chuckled. It was a good feeling. I’ll stay a few nights, inquire about a job. Maybe get some food in me, and sleep in a real bed tonight. 

J.S.

TO: 3348875

FROM: 677432a

I didn’t get as far as I’d hoped. 

Halfway from Primm to the Mojave Outpost, I doubled over by the side of the road and coughed up my breakfast. Maybe the beans were bad? No, there’s a bit of blood there, too. Goddammit, I’m bleeding again.

Never mind the raiders, or the Legion, or even the fucking Cazadors, it’s probably going to be a ruptured stomach lining that kills me. I remember May used to joke about that. Told me I did more bleeding on the inside than on the outside. 

Broke into an old ranger station by the side of the highway, it’ll do for the night. Someone has been here before me, maybe raiders. 

After gathering my bearings, I did a bit of exploring. Found a terminal in decent condition, though missing a few keys. Still don’t know why I’m still sending these, but I suppose I’m committed now.

I think I’ll read “The Road Back” tonight. It’s the only thing I kept that belonged to May. She never had the patience to read it herself, and she liked me reading to her. It was difficult to understand, but that didn’t matter to us. Sometimes I read it out loud to myself, and pretend she’s listening with closed eyes, and a sleepy smile on her lips. I miss May something awful.  

I’ll reach the Outpost tomorrow. If I can’t find work, I don’t know what I’ll do.

J.S.