It is dark when I leave the Old Mormon Fort. The gaudy flashing sign for Freeside jolts into my brain through painful eye sockets that I shield as if from sunlight. A silent stare greets me from a street vendor selling cooked up vermin and parasites, I hobble on past and struggle to open the gate enough to fit through.
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Heading west, I begin a long journey that would unnerve even the healthiest of travelers; the sand grabs my ankles with every step, my shotgun and even my clothing feels heavy and cumbersome. The slightest suggestion of danger and I cower down with baited breath, praying that it pass.
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I make it through Outer Vegas without incident but approach Vault 22 to find Cazadores prowling the flatlands thereby pushing me into a treacherous mountain range with only moonlight as a guide. The incline is steep and heavy underfoot and I exhaust quickly, aware of a dull ache rising behind my eyes the higher up I climb.
Cautiously I pause for rest but dare not linger; the cover of darkness has served me well to this point. I take a sip of purified water and am on my way again, clawing my way through rock and stone and sand and earth.
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Suddenly I am aware of the scuffling of gravel and accompanying puff of dust; I am at the bottom of a crevice, a steady trickle of blood running from my forehead down through the creases in my face. I try to dab it but my hand will not raise to my face. I wait for the burning sensation; the hot, fiery stab of a thousand needles perforating my flesh, but it does not come. I cannot feel anything. A furrowed brow becomes a whimper; a whimper, a cry. I am scared and alone and dying.
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A finger twitches; I will my hand to clench. With all my strength I reach into a pocket and produce a syringe of RadAway. I do not feel it pierce my skin nor do I feel the fluid enter my muscle. I wait.
A twinge of pain awakens my right ankle and I look to see that my foot is twisted underneath me, jutting out at an obscene angle. No time for grief, no time for anguish, an unholy mix of adrenaline and desperation washes over me and propping myself upright I scramble forward on two arms and one knee.
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My body shivers relentlessly, pain comes and goes in waves, sometimes so intensely I scrape my fingertips in the ground and bloody them. Finally emerging from the mountains, I lie flat on the ground allowing two Bighorner Bulls to pass me by before dragging myself onto a broken road which must be the road into Jacobstown. It must. I crawl and I crawl and I crawl.
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Cold air kisses cold beads of sweat on my neck as my kneecaps grind against hard concrete. I have lost all concept of time and distance and instead focus on fantasies of warmth, comfort and safety. My mind guesses at what my eyes cannot see: shapes in the darkness, outlines and shadows both friend and foe.
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Most of these illusions become trees or rocks or simply vanish as I approach them but one shape has remained in the middle of the road, distinct and prominent. I cannot guess what it is but I am sure it is alive.
"Help me." My mouth moves but no sound escapes. I try and fail again, unable to vocalize.
"Help me!" This time out loud, cracked and gravelly.
"Please!" I shout and snarl, reaching a hand towards the shape. He approaches me - a man, no, Super Mutant. There is nothing I can do, nowhere to hide, I reach for my shotgun but he speaks to me in a calm, assuring tone:
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