Now I'm Learning to Love the Wasteland

It was the year 2277, in a world where the 50s' idealistic 'atomic future' had come to fruition.

But perhaps a more apt word would be 'devastation'. 200 years prior the bombs had dropped, as the war between China and the U.S. had reached its breaking point. All over the world the mushroom clouds sprouted--sickly orange blooms releasing mankind's worst fears in one fell swoop. And as the fire and smoke settled, so did a deathly silence.

White-picketed suburbs became rotted out ghost towns, neighbors blood-starved fiends and traitorous scum ready to shoot you over a bottle of water, pets and friendly wildlife were now something monsterous and deadly. Even the trees were burned shadows of their former selves--leafless, gnarled, and ungiving to anyone looking to escape from the sun.

The American Dream transformed into something warped and ugly. The world was reborn, and it was taking no prisoners.

Most people perished the moment the nukes fell. Some--those in vaults or with just plain bad luck--had the misfortune of surviving.

It was the year 2277, in a smoke-soaked bar nestled in what had once been D.C.'s prestigious history museum, two ghouls--humans turned as scarred and jaded as the earth herself, thanks to an unlucky gene and ungodly amounts of radiation exposure--talked over shitty vodka.

Charon

"127 years. What's the point?"

"Dude. Harshin' the buzz. Minus five points."

"I'm serious. I've been stuck here for 127 years. Haven't past the front steps once. At least Quinn and Charon get to go out every few weeks... Ain't that right, big guy? Gearin' up to catch some of that fresh air?"

I growled an unintelligible response. Fresh air. Right. Get out and get shot at by smoothskins and deal with all the unsavory types. I refocused on inspecting the large duffel bag of weapons Ahzrukhal had handed me that morning.

At least he knows how long he's been here, I thought. Something bitter hit the back of my throat accompanied by a pain in my head. I pushed it away.

Focus. Focus. The two ghouls had stopped staring at me, turning back to their piss poor drinks. I didn't mind. Most of the residents in Underworld either ignored or watched me carefully. I was intimidating, even by ghoul standards. Unforgivingly tall and silent, slim "with the strength of five Cuchulains", as Doc Barrows liked to joke.

I was the bar's restlessly short-leashed watchdog--and I'd only bite if Ahzrukhal told me to.

Speak of the devil. Ahzrukhal had slithered out of what seemed to be nowhere, now behind the bar, grabbing the parcel of weapons that I usually trudged out to deliver every month.

"Charon," He wheezed, "Why don't you check up on that slimy rat bastard Barrows, hm?"

If the boss wanted to check in on a slimy rat, he could find a fucking mirror.

I stayed silent, staring emotionlessly at Azhrukhal’s shifty grin as he slid the parcel of weapons back beneath the aged marble countertop.

“That’s an order, boy.”

I grumbled another wordless response, although inwardly I felt relieved. A trick you had to learn pretty early was to complain more visibly when you actually liked something. Azhrukhal was more likely to ‘ask’ those favors of you later.

As soon as I was outta eyesight I left quickly, sighing as the double doors shut weakly behind me. I brightened a little, slouching slightly as I breathed in the “fresh” air beyond the hellish establishment I was forced watched over.

The rest of Underworld wasn’t much of a change in scenery, but it was something. Winthrop, that fellow that usually made rounds and did the repairs, kept the place as tidy as it could get. The rubble was nearly all cleaned up, and the off-white marble that covered nearly everything was slowly returning to its dull shine. The light fixtures and small fires emitted their flat, threatening orange glow a little brighter each day, it seemed. Poor Winthrop was probably running low on scrap metal again, cleaning obsessively to keep himself busy since he couldn't fix damn near anything.

I spared a small wave to Carol, who was leaning over the bannister of the staircase opposite the one I was heading down. She was one of the oldest ghouls there, pre-war, and something of a mother to a lot of residents. She'd shown me nothing but kindness, but there was a strange sadness about her ever since that Gob kid left. I knew Ahzrukhal kept trying to get Carol to come by the bar, probably to get her hooked to chems.

Which is why I'd warned her a few months ago to stay away, in my typical accidentally-frightening fashion. Luckily, she'd steered clear so far.

Quickly down the long staircase and directly behind was the entrance to 'The Chop Shop', Barrows' lab. I passed the large sculpture smack dab in the middle of the wing--the most intact structure left over from the exhibit--which was really just a mass of black stone cut to show hundreds of human figures scrambling and clawing and twisting themselves to the ass-end of nowhere. I hated that damn thing. It reminded me of ferals. Or the smoothskins up top.

Of all the ghouls residing in the old Museum, Doc Barrows was the one guy who seemed the least guarded around me. Normally I didn't like doctor-types and I never was the type to have friends, but in spite of all that Barrows had been the closest thing to one since I could remember.

The Chop Shop was a reasonably sized office-type situation made crowded by several cots, a makeshift operating table, tools and meds, and a small computer where his assistant always sat peering over mountains of research. A large window opposite the entrance peered into another room. Doc was slouching in front of it, chewing a pen over his clipboard.

"Well, if it ain't my favorite lab rat." Barrows greeted without turning. He was the opposite of me--short and somewhat stocky, good humored, talked too much.

"Making progress?" I peered into the window, obscured slightly by a film of dirt, staring at the two ferals Barrows had been watching over for a while now. 'Glowing ones' everyone seemed to call them. Had so many rads pumping through them that they were mostly shambling green lightbulbs and not much else.

"Eh. Meat's been chewing his arm, like usual. The other day though, I swear Ethyl was trying to communicate with me. Mostly just groans. I oughtta send you in, you two could have a great conversation."

"Very funny." I snorted.

Doc waved dismissively at a nearby cot, "Sit down, sit down, let's have a look atcha."

Barrows set to work--checking my ears and nose (what was left of them, anyway), shining a tiny light into my eyes, asking to follow his finger as it traveled steadily through the air. Inspecting teeth, heartbeat, reflexes. Standard fare. Each time he worked intently, nodding and painstakingly writing stuff on his trusty clipboard. The Doc took his time on all ghoul patients--especially with the 'wanderers'--the ones who went out into the wastes regularly. Like Quinn or Willow or myself. I didn't mind, since I knew this kind of thing was going towards the research. Barrows wanted to know what made us all tick, and even hoped to reverse our condition someday.

I didn't think it would ever happen. If there was a cure for ghouls, it wouldn't be taking so damn long.

"You finding any answers, Doc?" I attempted to ask conversationally. Barrows had gone over to a little cabinet near the door, looking for something to take a blood sample with.

"Only more questions, it seems," Barrows answered, cursing for a moment under his breath about needing Quinn to get him some more clean needles, "Like: why do some of us keep a full head a' hair? Or: Do we all talk like old chain-smokin' hollywood mobsters because it's become social norm, or is there a physiological cause? ...I swear to God I had a clean needle just the other day... "

I chuckled, rubbing my face tiredly for just a moment. Even after countless years living as a ghoul, the feel of my own skin would still startle me at times. Leathery, coarse.

"You still ain't sleepin', huh?" Barrows asked.

I answered robotically, "Every second I'm sleeping I'm--"

(dreaming)

"--Not doin' your job, yeah, yeah." Barrows sighed. He was the only ghoul in Underworld (other than Azhrukhal, of course) who knew of my little 'condition'--that's what he called it, anyways. He'd been trying to figure that out, too--as stubborn as he was dark humored--but to no avail.

"Aha! Found one... Hold your arm out for me, yeah? Thanks.

First the rubber band...

now the sting..."

I spaced out for a moment, lost in the strange, red disfigurement of my own hands. The small sections of 'normal' looking skin interrupting like a bad joke. With the exception of my face and arms, most of my skin looked fairly human. Doc once said that I was lucky--aside from the large expanse of exposed muscle on my shoulder and right calf and a few spots on my ribcage, I had held up pretty well.

The largest part of the mutation exposing my shoulder--the one that ached arbitrarily and all too often--I didn't like thinking about that one too much. Hurt my head and seemed to make all thoughts short.

My head had taken the worst of it. ("Your days on the silverscreen are over, but cheer up. There's always radio!") was Doc's attempt at making light of it all. Then again, I never met another ghoul that had managed to keep their nose, either. Hair, maybe. I had barely any of that left to call my own. Just a few patches of dark red against skin that appeared burnt to hell and frozen over.

I stared into the small vial now housing some of my blood. Frowned. Same red as any old smoothskin's. Speaking of smoothskins, I noticed the cot empty cot off in the corner then, empty except for the small halo of warm yellow light created by the wall fixture above.

"What happened to that girl that was recovering over there, Doc?"

Barrows got up, sealing the blood sample and rummaging around for his clipboard.

"Hm? Oh, uh, the Riley gal? She woke up."

"Always knew you were a miracle worker."

"Don't make me laugh. It was that Vault Dweller everyone's heard so much about. It was last month, while you were ... running errands... for your boss again."

I grumbled wordlessly again, looking away as Barrows eyed me slyly. Everybody wanted to know where I went during 'errands', but I wouldn't breathe a word. And it wasn't Ahzrukhal's threats shutting me up, either.

"Anyhow..." Barrows quickly moved on when he realized today was not the day for spilling secrets, "You heard about her. Three Dog can hardly contain himself over a hero type like that. Radio's gone half-static with his excitement. She came in here, asking if I needed help--"

I chuckled. A smoothskin samaritan. That was rich.

"Actually talked shop for awhile. Nice to meet someone who knows as much about medicine... scientific method and all that mess... got a bit touchy when I asked for a kidney, though."

"Barrows," I rubbed the pain from where he'd just drawn blood impatiently, "you're ramblin' again."

"Oh... right. Anyway, woke that knocked out smoothskin right up when I had my back turned. That peeved me a little--I don't like people taking over for me, ya know? But like I said, Vault Gal's a bleeding heart."

I shrugged and got up, deciding it was time to get back to my post. I could practically hear the gears in Barrows' green egg-shaped head turning on my way out. I rolled my eyes and sighed the moment he heard him speak up:

"That reminds me... remember what we talked about a while back? 'Bout seeking new employment?"

"I told you, it ain't that simple. I can't just ask--"

"Bleeding. Heart. Tell her a sob story about your situation and I garun-fuckin-tee ya she'll buy the contract from Ahz. I swear on Meat 'n Ethyl."

I'd reached for the double doors and was halfway to the plaza's statue by the time Barrows was done jabbering.

Barrows called after me, "At least consider it, huh?!"

consider it

Yeah. Right.

----

There was a painting right outside the doors to The Ninth Circle. It'd always felt familiar to Charon--and even though it was ruined to the point of being nothing more than faded shapes, he could always make out at least three figures.

One redheaded male, bending to rip the throat from his dark-haired brother. His knee breaking his back. And the winged demon overhead, his face a ruined smudge of green--but grinning widely.

It was the year 2277, and Charon's life had not changed in the least since he'd arrived in Underworld.

But it was about to. Charon could feel the strange premonition crawling up his back and slithering across his bad shoulder, the moment he paused to stare at that painting. The instant the sound of the door to the concourse--'outside'--echoed open and shut, and Patches began whooping like the obnoxious town drunk he was,

"Whoo-ee! We got ourselves a tourist! The Vault Gal, none less!"