8 months and 500 miles later
Crossing the Virginia/Tennessee Border into Tennessee

Blood came out of his shoulder as the man began crawling backwards away from me. He grunts as I pull my knife from his dead comrades throat. More blood splattered the ground, narrowly missing my trench coat and boots. With the blade facing down I approach him, stepping over another dead comrade of his.

"Pe-please. You don't, ugh, have to do this," He groans as he stops, a large rock lying behind him.

"Why? You guys ambushed me. If I were in your shoes would you have done the same? If I lied before you, bleeding and groaning?" I asked, standing right before him and squatting down.

He looks at me, was about to respond but then decided not to and just looked away instead.

"That's what I thought. You Raiders are all the same. Bloodthirsty and power hungry. Merciless to those that can't defend themselves but the second you get overpowered, the second you know your life will end you cower and beg for mercy. I, like you and your deceased friends over there, have none to give," I said before thrusting the blade into the Raider's heart.

He gurgled as his lungs began to fill with his blood. I watched as the life in his eyes went out and he lied restless against the rock. I pull my knife out and wipe the blood on his pants before tucking it away into its sheath attached to my left shoulder underneath my trench coat. I quickly pat down the four dead raiders but didn't find much. Some pistol ammo, a switch blade, a couple of Browning HP pistols, a 10mm smg and roughly 20 rounds of 10mm ammunition, and a wooden plank with nails on it. I discarded the board and put away my new loot into my pack. I take one look back and then proceeded the way I was going, West.

After crossing a hill the wasteland before me became a desert. Where once there was luscious green fields, now there was only sand. Sand as far as I can see. No dead trees, no ponds in river beds, not even destroyed buildings. Just dunes of sand. I marched on, the sun glaring down on me. I notice something off in the distance. Something that is reflecting the sunlight towards me. As I got closer that object took shape. Buildings, many buildings. Many more the last time I was there. Paths have been made into the sand leading out of the town and further into the desert. People are entering and leaving the town. As I got closer I could hear noises; Machinery, the roar of engines, chatter, the squeaking of a wooden trailer, a Brahmin mooing, a baby crying, doors opening and closing, honking, a town full of life and productivity. A great cement wall surrounded the town with watchtowers on each corner. I can see the men standing there, armed with T93's or R98 assault rifles or leaning behind 50 caliber M2 Browning turrets mounted on the railing. They wore black painted combat armor and skull shape face masks. Pierson and his ideas. The large metal gate was open with people of all kinds marched in or out of town, some carrying large jugs tied to long sticks. Those leaving had their jugs filled with water, those entering carry empty jugs. Caravans too walked through the town, their Brahmin either have crates or jugs tied to their backs. Each head of the two headed cow huffs and grunts as they follow their human owner. A sign hung over the gate; 'Welcome to Sweetwater'. So he changed the towns name. Much better than Deadwood. As I stepped into town I hear a car approach me then honk at me. I turn around and see an old Corvega. Rust has mostly taken over most of the car, hiding its true color of ocean blue. Its driver stuck his head out and began shouting angrily at me.

"Hey dumb ass! Get out of the street. There's a sidewalk there for a reason!" He shouts, pointing at a sidewalk on each side of the road made of wide planks of wood. There pedestrians were walking where as on the road I am vehicles and Caravans are walking. I simply nod and step on the sidewalk to the right. The driver sticks his head back and drives off.

Things really have changed since I was last here. I pass all sorts of shops as I walk further into town; A barbershop, a Police Station, a blacksmith with its needs, a large shed for the brahmin, a Grocer, even a Firemen house. Eventually the building I was looking for stood before me. A Saloon called 'The Thirsty Camel' on its sign, the picture of a Camel drinking from an Oasis on said sign. I groan at the sight of that and step in.

The Saloon felt like one from an old western. The bar was to my left, wide with patrons sitting on bar stools drinking from large mugs or glass cups. The bartender, a young man in a crisp white apron and a red shirt stood behind the bar, was pouring out drinks. Behind him was a shelf just as wide as the bar, filled to the brim with bottles of all shapes and sizes filled with clear or light brown liquid. In the center of the room were many tables, each with four chairs. Some tables were full, a couple empty, the rest only had one, two, or three patrons, eating, drinking, and laughing. Music played from an old juke box beside the bar. I think its Dean Domino or Frank Sinatra that is playing. Pretty waitresses in hoop skirts walk around the Saloon, carrying metal trays from table to bar or a door beside the bar labeled 'Kitchen'. Right by the door is a stair case leading up. Probably to rooms you can rent for the night. Some patrons were looking at me as I head to the bar, but the rest paid me no attention.

As I got closer one patron got up from her stool, downed her mug, placed a small handful of small arms bullets, and left. As I took that seat the bar tender took the ammo and began cleaning a large beer glass.

"What can I get you?" He asks as I place my pack by my feet.

"Is Pierson here? I need to speak with him," I respond, resting my arms on the bar.

I noticed by the one second pause my voice my gas mask alters startled him a little bit.

"I'm sorry but Mr. Pierson is a very busy man. He has an open door policy though in the morning. If you'd like to come back in the morning you can take a number and wait," He says, putting away the clean glass and grabbing another one dripping wet.

"I believe this is an urgent matter that needs immediate addressing," I said, placing the silver bullet and a clip of .308 caliber rifle rounds. The bartender looks at the money and the silver bullets and then at me. Quickly he pockets the money, grabs the bullet, and places the still wet glass down.

"Give me one moment," He says before stepping out of the bar. "Maria, could you watch the bar please?" He asks a nearby brunette waitress. She nods and with a smile takes his place as he steps out of the room and heads up the stairs.

"Can I get you anything?" The waitress asks me, taking my focus away from him and now on her.

"Uh no I'm good thank you," I said. Her smile vanished as she heard my voice.

"I'm sorry but if you want to sit on that chair you have to order something sir," She says, her smile back on her face.

"Water then please," I said. She nods and turns towards a faucet against the wall. She was about to fill up a glass when suddenly the door the bartender and a man in a clean white suit with matching white dress shoes, tie, pants, black dress shirt, and white fedora came rushing down the stairs. All chatter and laughter died as all eyes turn to that door. Only the music still played.

"Where is he?" The man in the white suit shouts as he looks around the Saloon, the bartender right behind him. The man's skin has seen much better days and he resembles a rotten corpse that has been sitting under the sun for way too long. Even under the white fedora I could tell he has no hair. He spots me and a large smile forms on his face as he approaches me. The only hair he has was a thin pencil mustache above his lips.

"John?" He asks as he stands right by me. I notice Maria leaving the bar and the bartender returning back to his post.

"Hello Pierson. It's good to see you," I said, getting up from my stool.

"Haha it is you. The fuck are you doing just standing here. Come lets have a talk in my office," He says slapping my shoulder and pointing at the room he stepped out of. Everyone's eyes were still on us.

"The fuck are you all starring at?! Mind your own business!" Pierson shouts as he noticed the glaring eyes. Everyone immediately went back to what they were doing; drinking, chatting, and laughing.

"Come come. We got a lot of catching up to do," He continues, leading me to the stairs after I grab my pack.

"Oh and Michael?" He shouts at the bartender just as we were to go upstairs.

"Yes Mr. Pierson?"

"One round on the house for everyone here," He shouts back.

Again the room fell silent, even the jukebox stopped playing music. All eyes were on Pierson, then on Michael, then back on Pierson.

"You heard me Michael. One free round of drinks for everyone here on the house!" Pierson shouted. As we climb up the stairs the Saloons erupts in cheers and then laughter. The music continues and the Saloon returned to laughter, chatter, and music.

"You don't do that often do you?" I ask as we take another set of stairs up to the third floor. But, instead of a hallway full of numbered doors there was only one room right by the end of the stairs.

"No. Only on special occasions," He says as he opens the door and we step into a rather nicely decorated living room. Large green leaved plant in the plant stood by the door. I touched its leaves and its a real plant. I place my pack by the door. In the center of the room, facing the western side, stood a red couch and before it a TV and a Radiation King Holotape player. Beside the TV there is a shelf filled with Holo-movies and books. Beside the couch is a sand clock shaped ashtray about the height of the arm of the couch and on the other side a small table with a couple backs of cigarettes and a flip lighter.

We approach a door at the end of the living room. We step into an office roughly the same size as the living room.

Deadwood. A town in the middle of fucking nowhere would be an understatement. The only watering hole for several hundred miles. Has the appearance of a shanty town with the feel of being in the old west, the only pre-war structure being this towns tavern. Not sure what it used to be, but it hasn't changed a bit. I grab one of my knick-knacks, a silver bullet, and place it in my pocket. Dozens of people walk through the open street, dragging carts or pushing shopping carts filled with stuff or carrying rather large backpacks filled to the brim. The roar of engines fill the streets as old Corvega cars, trucks, and Lone Wanderer motorcycles outfitted with extra plates of metal for armor, turrets, spikes, or a nice raider paint job take the place of where the horses would be. On top of some of the shanty metal buildings stood men wielding R98's and T93's watching the streets. They all wore different kind of armor; leather, combat, metal, but all painted red. I approach the tavern, a sleazy hole named 'The Nuclear Radroach'.

Pre-war music plays from the corner of the large room. A dozen or so round tables fill the room, with patrons of all sorts drinking from mugs, glasses, and means of cups that can hold beverages. Fans that barely turn provide little cool air in this scorching heat. To the left stands a bar with a large shelf filled with glass bottles each with either a golden, brown, or clear liquid. A young man with a neatly trimmed goat-t and hair tied back stands behind the bar serving out drinks to the few patrons sitting on bar stools by the bar. Armed men in red armor stand by a door beside the bar and the exit.

"What can I get you stranger?" The bartender asks me, placing his hands on the bar, placing his square of cloth on his shoulder.

"Not this swill. I'm here to see Pierson. Is he in?" I ask, digging through my pocket and retrieving a silver bullet with initials on the bottom of the shell and a few bullets that none of my guns use.

The bartender, after giving me an almost silent snarl at my swill remark, inspects the silver bullet, pockets the bullets, and leaves saying 'I'll check' before doing so.

I watch him as I see the bartender head towards a door guarded by two giants wielding R98's and in red painted combat armor. The men let him in. I couldn't hear anything he says but what I do hear is a very rusty voice shouting "He is? Show me!"

The bartender gets pushed out of the room and a man in a fancy white suit steps out. His skin has rotten very badly but his nose is surprisingly still intact, supporting a pencil thin mustache underneath. His bald head is covered up by a matching fedora and a black tie complements the suit. When he spots me he flashes me a smile, his teeth well intact.

"Ha ha it is you. Is it John?" He asks as he approaches me, his face lit up with joy.

"It is Pierson. It's good to see you again," I said as I stretch out my arm, ready to shake his hand. Instead though he embraces me in a hug.

"Old friend. I thought I'd never see you again. Come come. Let's sit have a talk. Caleb. Fetch the good scotch and those cigars I like," He says to me and then the bar keeper who went back to his post.

He nods and from the top of the shelf retrieves a pre-war bottle of scotch, it's label well intact showing a pasture with the title being 'Pastures Batch'.

"No no no. Not that. The good good stuff. The one I keep in the safe," The ghoul says before leading me to his room. The door shuts and the ghoul heads to behind a grand mahogany desk. A map of the United States hung behind him between two large bookshelves, filled with books of all sizes. He opens a drawer, placing a pile of papers and other things inside, leaving the desk clear of everything. He retrieves a crystal ashtray and places it on the center of the table before gesturing me to sit on a comfy looking leather chair and sitting on a larger leather office chair. I sit down, placing my backpack and my rifle against the desk.

Just then Caleb, the bartender, opens the door and steps in bearing a bottle of scotch, two whiskey glasses, a lighter, and a box of cigars. After placing them on the table he leaves without uttering a single word.

"May I?" The ghoul asks, opening the bottle's protecting and then removing the cork with a loud 'plop'.

I nod and hand him a glass.

"I wish I had ice but this will do. Cigar?" He asks, handing me the glass and then opening the cigar box, revealing San Francisco Sunlights neatly arranged. I nod, lightly tapping the button on the side of my gas mask. The circular vent retracts and nothing else and I take a sip of the 200 year old scotch. I let out a loud 'mmm' as it's texture and light burn goes down my throat.

"Good isn't?" The ghoul asks as he lights my cigar and hands it to me before lighting his.

I nod and inhale, the cigars flavors filling my mouth before I exhale a large puff of smoke.

"So old friend, what brings you to Deadwood. How have you been?"

"I've been good Pierson. I see you still collect pre-war text and knick knacks."

"Of course. Just because the world ended doesn't mean we can't cherish the past."

"I found my Vault. I know where it is." I said, finishing my drink.

"And where is it old friend?"

"Illinois. In Rockford."

"That's two states away, through the desert. How will you cross it?"

"I want the Sandcrawler Pierson. I want her back."

Pierson lets out a heavy sigh before exhaling a big puff of cigarettes.

"I figured that's why you came. That's going to be a bit tricky John."

"Why? Has she been destroyed?"

"Heavens no. It's still intact in the garages. It's just, the Sandcrawler has become very vital to the development and the stability of Deadwood."

"How so?"

"You have been gone for over a decade. A lot has happened after you left. After we wiped out the Crimson Tusks we established a trade commune with the towns of Harbinger and Meridith. For our clean water Harbinger supplies us with black powder and other components vital to make ammunition and explosives while Meridith supplies us with fuel. We also trade seeds, good soil, and crops when we get a surplus. Only the Sandcrawler can heave our large tankers and without it we won't be able to continue this trade deal I have with them."

"I see. And you don't have any other trucks to haul your tankers?"

"I do but not has good as your Sandcrawler."

"Then you will be able to continue that trade deal you have. It's my truck. I built her from the ground up. I spent hours pulling her out of the sand and months scouring together the parts to fix her up. I want her back."

"Ugh. Fine. But actually I could use your help."

"Do you now. And in return I get my own truck back is it?"

"No. I'm not like that and you that John. Two days ago our caravan back from Meridith was hit. Only the Sandcrawler made it out intact and its driver. Without that fuel we won't last that long. We got maybe a week of power at most. You are an experienced tracker. Can you help us please?"

I let out a final puff of smoke and squish the now much smaller cigar into the crystal ashtray and get up, putting my backpack back on and grabbing my rifle.

"I will. I'll need supplies though, fuel, and that driver as a guide."

"Thank you John. I knew you wouldn't let me down. The Sandcrawler is in garage number 6. At the gunshop show them that bullet. I'll let them know you'll be coming and I'll let the driver know you're waiting for you."

I simply nod and leave Pierson's room and the bar.

Outside everyone was stealing glances at me as I leave the tavern and back out into the scorching heat.

Two buildings away I step into the towns weapon shop titled 'Deadwood's Gun Emporium'.

The inside consisted of a large, rather empty counter with a cash register on it and a R98 Assault Rifle in pieces. By the door stood a guard in red metal armor with his hands crossed. The butt of a revolver stuck out of its holster attached to his side. Before the counter and against the wall stood two metal tables filled with all sorts of guns. On the wall hung rifles, shotguns, sniper rifles, and other kinds of larger weapons. Behind the counter stood several large metal shelves filled to the brim with wooden crates. A rather large man with a thick, red mustache donning a dusty Robco overalls stood behind the counter applying maintenance to the R98. He sees me and moves the pieces aside, clearing his part of the counter.

"Welcome to Deadwood's Gun Emporium. What can I get you stranger?"

"Pierson sent me," I said while presenting the store owner the silver bullet. He looks at it, sees the initials underneath it and nods.

"What do you need?" He asks, crossing his arms.

"Special ammunition and lots of it. Do you have any armor piercing rounds?"

"What caliber?" He asks approaching the shelves and going through some of the many wooden boxes.

"5.56, 45 acp, 10mm, oh and I need special shotgun shells too."

He shortly comes back, dumping the contents onto the counter. Dozens of boxes of 5.56 with armor piercing on the description. I grab the boxes and place them in an empty compartment of my ammo satchel. Well actually my ammo satchel mostly has empty magazines and only a few are full of ammo.

The next box he empties has both 10mm and 45 acp rounds of the armor piercing variety.

"That's all the armor piercing rounds I can spare. Have to keep the rest for our own," He says as he tosses the empty box aside.

"You've given me plenty. Now again what kind of shotgun shells do you have?"

"For a 12 gauge?"

"Yes."

"Flechette, magnum, several frag, a couple boxes of armor piercing, and the regular kind," He says retrieving another box, slightly smaller, and places it on the counter. It was filled to the brim with all sorts of shotgun shells in different color varieties.

"I'll take the magnum, frag, and armor piercing," I say taking the correct colored shotgun shells, with the shop keepers help, and place them in another compartment of satchel.

I say my thanks and leave the shop and after grabbing two boxes of canned goods and several large gallon bottles of water I head to the workshop that contains my war rig.

I enter a large auto workshop with all sorts of large mechanical tools lying neatly by a large tool box in the center of the room. A large array of shelves stood by the edge of the shop and parked right in front of the garage door stood my truck. I place the crates of food by the door and unload the three large jugs of water that I have tied around my back with thick rope then stop to take a good look at my Sandcrawler.

Previously a large tow truck with tow hook and weight ball I have had it modified with a metal snow plow up front and extra layer of metal on every inch of the outside of the truck that I have painted a tan yellow to match the desert sand. The exhaust of a powerful V12 engine stuck out of the hood of the truck. In the back of the truck I have included many shelves on the outside filled with various tools and survival supplies. Mounted near the crane of the tow hook is a SAW lmg. The skull of a deathclaw has been painted on each door. Satisfied that the truck is just the way I left it I began loading the food and water onto the compartments on the side of the truck.

Just as I finished the door opens up and a young woman steps in. She wore blue jeans with brown work boots and leather knee caps along with a belt that has multiple types of tools on it. A Browning HI power was holstered around the hip and a large combat knife on the other right beneath a brown satchel. She also wore a brown shirt vest that did not hide her naval. An ammo belt with 10mm cartridges on it has been slung over her chest and around her right shoulder. Bright blue eyes gaze at me and she rubs her small pointy nose. Firm lips press a lit cigarette and her golden brown hair has been tied back. Tinted mechanic's googles lied firm on her head and a Pip-Boy 3000 covered her left arm. A necklace of two golden rings on a golden chain hung around her neck along with a small gas mask without the lenses. and a MP9 10mm smg lied slung over her shoulders.

"You must be John, the builder of this fantastic war rig," She says as she unslings a large green duffel bag and lays it on the ground.

"That I am. You must be the driver that got away from a Supermutant ambush," I said stretching out my hand.

My deep voice startles her a little but she quickly collects herself.

"My name is Zoey. Part time mechanic and full time driver and it is an honor to meet you," she says as she shakes my hand.

"It is?" I ask placing her duffel bag onto the back of the truck.

"I've never seen Pierson speak so highly of anyone before. You're kind of a legend here," she says while putting out the cigarette on the floor and lighting another.

"Really? Pierson isn't the kind of person to geek over someone."

"I didn't become his driver because of my rugged good looks. He consulted a lot with me after a few years of driving for him and he spoke often of you."

"How flattering. Here make yourself useful and help me fill up these magazines," I said as I empty the contents of my ammo satchel, with the exception of my shotgun shells, onto a workbench lying the wall.

"What kind of ammo is this?" Zoey asks as she opens a box of 5.56 rounds and holds up one of the cherry red tipped rounds.

"Armor piercing rounds. Supermutants don't go down easily and with these rounds we'll have an advantage. I also got some 10mm rounds that you can use," I say handing her a couple boxes of 10mm rounds.

"Thanks," she says as she grabs a few empty magazines for her smg from her satchel and begins loading them. Me being a bit faster finished my fifth magazine for my Marksman Carbine.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead. I don't bite despite my appearance," I said as I began loading the magazines for my two M1911's. 

"Did you really build the Sandcrawler?" She asks, pointing at my war rig.

"I did. Found her half buried in the sand and brought her here. Took a long time to do so and even longer to replace her broken parts and fix her up."

"It's a pleasure then to meet you. I've been driving the Sandcrawler for a few years now and it's been the greatest war rig I got to operate."

"If it is why did you leave?"

"My time here has concluded and the town needed my truck more than I did. Anyways are you ready to go?" I ask as I put away the last magazine and open the door of my truck, climbing in as I place my backpack in the space behind the seats. She nods and gets into the passenger seat after sliding open the large door, sunlight pouring in as she does so.

"Can I drive though? I am its driver after all?"

"No. I haven't driven her in a long time and would like to do so once more," I said press a sequence of buttons underneath the wheels, the truck roaring to life.

"So where exactly did you get ambushed?" I ask as I slowly drive the Sandcrawler out of the garage and towards the open desert.

"Roughly hundred miles that way," she says pointing at the vast hills of sand lying before us as we leave the town at a rather fast speed.

"It will take a couple hours to reach the spot. If you have any questions for me, ask away," I said looking at her as she leans back on her seat, lighting another cigarette.

"Well I have plenty," She says, flicking the ashes out of the open window as we drive down the harsh Kentucky Desert.