My metal combat armor squeals protests as I slog through the putrid fens of south Boston. Leaving the cozy confines of the Castle was a damned foolish idea looking back on it. I should have brought my fucking power armor. Also shouldn’t have been lazy and repaired the suit. There isn’t enough scrap in the Commonwealth to accommodate building weapons, armor, and finally a damn roof over your head. I’m only one man. One currently hung-over one, to make things evermore shitty.

Nuke it! I needed to get my head back in the game. Then the game started, not with a whistle, but through the hum of arthropod wings. My grip tightens around the heavy hunk of lead-slinging metal, tuned to the automatic frequency of 5.56 FMJ. My AR was the next best thing to a shotgun for tearing up oversized rad bugs. If you could hit them, they’re harder to see than you’d think and that’s the real bitch. Thankfully the sun is out in full now. Don’t ask me how horrible these bastards are at night.

I click the safety off and slivers of adrenaline pulse through my flesh. There’s a certain rush I get when there’s a live round in the pipe and the death switch snaps to life.

A loud buzz blasts, followed by a searing sting in my back. I spin over my right shoulder, slamming onto my back and swallow a mouthful of irradiated water, which I promptly vomit into the slightly less radioactive air. I can feel the bloodbug affixed to my back crush into goo, but another is on me in seconds. A venomous proboscis glances off my left shoulder guard, then my chest piece. On the third attack I grab the needle with a gloved hand. The insect freaks as my other hand takes a second hold of its main battery.

I get up one a knee, the other submerged while oversized wings buffet the water like a turbine. My goggles are slid up on my forehead and not over my eyes. Retard move. Now I’m blind and deaf from abnormally loud buzzing. My limbs struggle to function against the stinger’s toxins that course through my guts. Those sons of bitches are four times bigger than hypodermic needles.

With a death-grip I wrestle the proboscis for an exhaustingly long time. I keep trying to get a foot against its thorax for leverage, but the bug is going insane. With a roar of sheer desperation I pushed all my weight forward, falling intentionally to the ground while simultaneously wrapping both my legs around the beast’s abdomen. I squeezed my quads like hell while pulling up with all my might. Finally ripping the stinger from the abomination’s head with a sucking crunch. Blood, (most likely someone else’s) and bug goo spray all over me. More mess plops about into the fen waters. It’s twitching body thrashes in the muck like a balloon going out. I sit there wheezing, but not for long. Something else will be along soon and I really don’t want another fight now, or I’ll have to dive headfirst into my stash of hardcore combat stimulants.

Sadly, the time for performance enhancing pharmaceuticals isn’t now and I have to stick to a simple stimpak to flush out the parasitic bug shit. Once out of the swamplands and away from blood-sucking fauna I crouch down upon dry irradiated land. The new package of Radaway cackles as I open it to reveal the pills that save me, (or prolonged me from) a horrible death by radiation poisoning. I choked it down with somewhat clean water from the bladder on my back. Thank god it didn’t burst when I hit the deck to kill that stingwing. Luck will save your life in the wasteland, also drugs and good cardio habits.

Life, if that’s what you want to call it, had been reduced to a never -ending cycle of fight, loot and take drugs to repeat the first two actions. Hardcore stimulants are new Asprin. Most people don’t live long enough to experience the long term side-effects and there are drugs to cure your addiction to all the other drugs. But what if I get addicted to the drug that cures my addiction to other drugs? Never mind, best not to wander down any dark mental paths while already on a dangerous physical one. Ugh, why how did I forget my uppers back at camp?

So I keep on keepin on for about two miles, away from the swamplands and on towards a massive double-layer raised super highway paralleling a town I don’t know the name of. Part of the highway has collapsed and the road now sits silent and broken like a shattered body suspended on stilts, guts drooping down to the ground by gravitie’s pull and time’s taunts.

Highways were good and bad. Good, because they still offer the most direct method of travel in one direction, you can loot cars along the way, and most importantly have the high ground. Bad news, raiders sometimes use them as fortresses, or ambush points for travelers looking for an east route. They also sucked major ass if there are multiple collapses, of which you can’t see miles ahead and don’t feel like jumping down 100ft to your destination. Some have said ‘fuck it’ and jumped anyways. It’s crazy how long it takes for bloodstains to wash away from rain. Sometimes highways, like this one for instance, broke into ramps and tiers for easy access, but even then this scenario only offers hypothetical access to one side. You have to be ready for anything and everything to go wrong.

Currently, I am venturing south, into lands I’d never been. So the super highway sitting ahead in warm orange haze could be smooth sailing, or a super mutant death trap ending with bits of me leaking out of bulging bloodbags. Damn super mutants are such unreasonable assholes. At least with raiders you have a small chance to talk while you figured out which one to kill first.

The sun is at its zenith. I have plenty of daylight so I sit down in the crook of two small hills with scraggly trees for cover. When thousands of nukes blast a continent, there’s little left to hide behind. I let my AR hang loose in front from a convenient tactical chest sling while I take my laser musket off my back. That process is a royal pain in the ass to do by yourself and makes you look like a tard. It’s also why I never leave back-holstered weapons loaded. I once saw a guy kill himself by frantically wrenching a loaded pipe rifle off his back while a ghoul charged him. The fool gave himself free spinal surgery and an even cheaper lunch for the ghoul. And yes, I put the man out of his misery before the monster ate him, I heard you judging me. Repaid the man for a lesson learned.

Now, time to glass. The six crank laser musket is my weapon of choice and subsequently received the best optics mounted to its glorious frame. The weapon is reliable, has knockdown power and most helpful, range. I recently added a high-power scope/holographic site hybrid combo that lets me switch between long and short range in seconds. Plus, if I bust my scope in combat, or by squishing a big bug with my back, I have back up sites. Always have a fallback plan, no pun intended. I fucking hate puns.

I sit with my legs crisscrossed and forearms resting against my knees, wrapping tight against them. It’s hard to describe, but everyone has their own unique way of tightening into themselves for a shot. Getting tucked and secure is the key. I glass the super highway and see nothing and nobody. Could be a real good sign, or a super shitty one. I lower the rifle and scrunch my face, blinking rapidly. Squinting through a scope for any length of time makes my face ache and sometimes twitch afterwards. Makes me look extra psycho. Possibly not a bad thing, in certain company.

I jog a half-mile to the bridge until I reach the shaded cool of its underbelly. I stick to what cover I can find via wrecked cars, cement meridians and piles of architectural debris. The buildings that still stand are butted up close against the highway to my left shoulder. I muse how the now dead residents of the outskirts never guessed that nuclear blasts would finally bring about the peace and quiet they surely wanted from the constant road noise. Ugh more dark thoughts, moving on. Think of beer. As visions of busty blonde bar maids wearing dresses of ancient thread flash through my mind I move toward the collapsed opening in the highway. The partially illuminated opening is only a couple hundred yards ahead.

The nuclear induced ramp lays open and unobstructed, she beckons me up to take a load off and enjoy her potentially smooth company. But the Commonwealth is a bitch and I’d rather spend time with the St. Pauli girl who’s curvy and less damaged.

No sooner had I put an iron-toed boot upon the ramp I hear distant stomping. The weight behind the thud tells of footwear triple the size of my own. I jerk my head around, while unconsciously winding my las musket’s charge cells. I had this baby modded for six full cranks. My gunsmith said I shouldn’t go past five, but I’m a sucker for firepower and round numbers. Speaking of digits, three super mutants now appear and have given source to the sound. The leader of the triumvirate is now charging and his green muscle-bound arm blinks red. He’s a suicider with a mini nuke strapped to his forearm. Super mutants care little for life and even less for their own if it means taking another’s. Typical day in the wasteland.

Since I don’t want to become a bloody tableau upon the cracked concrete I started running up the ramp, while also pulling a Psycho injector from my belt. I need distance and the high ground to survive this, along with the speed to get me there faster than the crazed super mutants. The needle pierces my flesh.

The drug’s effects are instantaneous. White-hot tendrils of adrenaline lance into my chest. I feel numb and hypersensitive to my surroundings at the same time, like a vaporous machine I can control. My legs churn like pistons below my waist that I can hardly feel. They eat yards fast and I blast up the ramp. My boots scrape gravel against concrete and I vault over the three-foot shelf of broken road. All the while never looking back, I didn’t have to. I can hear everything around me and calculate its distance. Fuck, speaking of hearing, others are here! Seconds after I crested the lip of the ramp at a dead run I knew I was fucked. Raiders have set up shop everywhere. Las fire screams out from above, behind and across. The highway looks like a rave party light show. Good thing I’m already high.

The highway has two levels supported accordion style by steel supports now mold green and flaking. The road collapsed in a strange sandwich fashion where you could ascend by concrete switchback slabs. A proverbial maze of busted masonry, rebar and raider-built fortifications. Its violent occupants adorn all levels like evil toll booth operators. They surely saw me out in the flats and have been waiting in ambush this whole time.

I need to keep moving and gain elevation. Ahead I can see a makeshift metal ladder leading up through a large hole in the top layer of the highway. Light shines down through the opening in a musty beam teaming with dust. That is my exit. A hailstorm of laser beam and combustion lead rain all around. A raider popps up directly ahead from behind a sandbag wall. I vault and knock him out cold in mid air with the butt of my musket and spin through the momentum of attack without missing a stride. I love drugs. In the split second I was looking back I got a glimpse of the super mutant. He’s still in pursuit, but thankfully lots of raiders have begun shifting fire to him and his two friends. There is already a large piece of the mutant’s shoulder missing from supercharged las shots. The beast shrugged the cauterized wound off and its useless arm dangles, now along for the ride to imminent incineration. His two sidekicks lay down heavy fire, one armed with a minigun, the other a missile launcher.

My dilated eyes bugle. I’m five yards from the ladder and a raider starts sliding down. My musket raises and fires. The round launches through his chest, taking meat and bits of metal ladder with it. I hear the round hit with a popping crack. His corpse smolders while I scrambled up. Heavy gun and missile fire is all about the scene as I breach the top layer. A massive 15 foot tall red tanker truck sits listing on the right side of the highway, close to the residential buildings and provides much needed cover from crossfire. Raiders are camped in the buildings and shadowed windows flash bright from muzzle blasts.

I take it all in and don’t stop more than five seconds. I have to keep moving or die. I run back towards the way I came and hear raider’s modulated voices taunt through crude helmet vox amplifiers. Six feet from the edge of the broken highway I slide down to one knee, stopping my drift with a boot two inches over the lip of distended chunks of concrete clinging to meshed rebar. My rifle raised. Perfect timing, the suicide mutant is just making his way up the ramp. I take one second to aim, exhale and fire. Everything goes bright and I’m thrown back five yards. The drugs keep me on my feet and I slide back almost in reverse of my charge.

A small mushroom cloud forms out of the searing light. I remembered to put my goggles on this time, so I wasn’t completely blinded. The highway shudders and rumbles. I need to scram. Pieces of ancient architecture and bloody detritus rain down as I run back to the teetering tanker truck.

Once on top I see an entire squad of super mutants running toward the explosion from around the distant bend in the highway. They must have sent the suicider in first to soften things up while the main force hung back. Smart for dumb fuck ogres. The silence of aftermath died as quickly as it was born and the gunfire erupts anew. Raiders and mutants that survived have recovered from the blast. Many vaporized instantly or were crushed by the glacial-like cave-ins. I stow my las musket and draw my 10mm sidearm. We’re going for a ride.

Bullets snap into the tanker and lasers careened off in terse ricochets. I return fire across the street to get them ducking. All the time I need.

The tanker groans its last protest and is now tipping end over end. I hold onto the very back rear ladder and is raised up higher by the second as the truck pitches down nose first. At the peak angle I launch myself like infected livestock out of a medieval siege engine. The building ahead of me missing most of its face and is open to the air. I’m headed straight for the fourth or fifth floor, which was where the raiders were who I raked with some 10mm. They’re no longer ducking. I react fast to slow things down and take a rip from a Jet inhaler. Time slows waaaaay down. My 10mm bucks and I watch the smoking shell casing spin through the air as it catches the noonday sun. A raider’s neck explodes, sending blood towards the comrade beside him in a thick spray. Moments pass, and blood ejects before I got one last shot from ten feet out when the world blasts back into real time. My finger keeps pulling the trigger as I impact with the second raider. Bones snap, we tumble, things break, more gunshots, and I awake seconds later sprawled out on top the raider. I feel like shit but I’m alive. Gunfire still pops below in rapid count. Too many for my rattled brain to keep track of.

My body armor mods broke most of my fall as well as the meat pillow the raider so generously provided himself as. I put the barrel of my 10mm on the dry wooden floor and pushed myself up into a sitting position, then put another round into the raider I crushed along with his friend laying nearby. You can never be too careful, I’ve seen people stagger up from worse. Footsteps below. Coming up the stairs. A fresh magazine enters my 10mm as new adrenaline grows in my chest. Bring it pussies!