//------------------------------// // [Fo:E - Wanderer] Story Setup // Story: Chapter: 13 // by Chapter 13 //------------------------------// Fallout: Equestria - Wanderer By: Michael A. A radio lies half buried in the sand. It is old and worn, covered in scars from years of continued use. It's a simple little contraption: a small, brown box. It had once been a brilliant red, but time had worn away its cheerful visage. On the front were three knobs; one controlled volume, another controller the station, and the last controlled power. The inside, while a marvel of prewar engineering, was actually fairly simple. Several cheaply enchanted crystals lay inside, vibrating with the invisible radio-waves that permeate the air. The original owner of this radio is unknown. His reason for owning it is unknown. Was it a gift? Was it an impulse purchase? Or was it just something they felt they needed? Whatever the reason, it was not theirs anymore. It had passed through the hooves of several ponies through the years. It had been bartered, stolen, looted, gifted, and passed on in the years since it’s original creation. Now, it belonged to the Wasteland. Not far from this half-buried relic was a road. It was well traveled—the sand compacted from the hooves of countless travels. The ponies who traveled this road all had varying motives. Some traveled with a caravan in tow. Some wandered in hopes of riches or something ‘better’. Some ran their fears. And some simply wandered, no motive or reason. This road was a graveyard. Bodies lay splane along this road. A ransacked caravan. Blood dripped from lifeless husks. It soaked into the sand. The road was stained red. The previous owner of the radio was among those dead. In life, he was a trailer. He had bartered his goods along this road all his life. In death, he was another victim of the wasteland, a reminder of the horrors it held. Among the dead was his family: wife and young son. He had wished for his son to inherit his route. His trade. This would never come to happen. Along with the family, lay guards. Three, in total. One had been old. He had spent his entire life as a caravan guard. He had been good, but not good enough. The second was young. He had left his family, going out on his own to seek his fortune. They would never know what had become of him. They would morn. The final one had been a mare. She had been strong, suffering the most of the group. A former slave, this was her second life. But now, it was her only death. Six lay dead, but seven lay on the road. The radio crackled to life.   Goooood morning, wasteland! My name is DJ Sandstorm, and I welcome you to my little show. Now, let's start off with the weather, shall we? Today's tempature will vary between suck-y and terrible, and it look like it's going to be another cloudy day—thank you, pegasi! All joking aside, I'd like to warm all my listeners that it appears that we have another radiation storm rolling in from the east. If you want to join the ranks of the wastelands favorite undead, I highly suggest staying near shelter around early this afternoon. On a news standpoint: it appears that the Rebel Rioters have struck again, sacking another caravan traveling along the [temp]. Once again, they left no survivors. Caravans are warned to hire extra security when traveling throws this area, or avoiding it all together. That’s all I got for now, sadly. My name is DJ Sandstorm, and I’ll leave you with a little classic that I hope brightens up your day. I don't want to set the world on fire. A cough sounded. I just want to start a flame in your heart. A cry of pain rang out. In my heart I have but one desire. A final cough. And that one is you, no other will do. The radio crackled once more, the died. Silence reigned over the field of death. Six lay dead, seven lay in the sand. One falls feels the grip of darkness overtake them once more… *** I wince. Pain suddenly floods my otherwise numb mind. I feel hot, yet cold at the same time. Warm sand presses up against my face and side. I'm on my side, I soon realize. I slowly crack my eyes open—the first thing I see is sand. It's always sand. I try to get up, but my side erupts with more pain. I hiss through clenched teeth. I fall back onto my side. I feel weak, like the gravity had grown ten-times more powerful. For an unknown amount of time later, I lay there. I don't think—my head hurts too much for thought. All I do is focus on the endless plain of sand that lies within my field of view. Once again, I try to get up. I hiss, but I push through the pain until I'm on my flank. I feel winded. I cough, my dry mouth and throat making it hurt far more than it should. I sit there, for a while. I don't look around; I don't even look up. When I do turn my head, it's only to inspect where my pain originates from. I look at my side. My brown leather barding is stained red with dried blood—a bullet-hole at its center. I've been shot. It wouldn't be the first time, but I'm glad it's not my last. Slowly, I push up and try to rise to my hooves. Pain flares up from my rear left leg, but I manage to get fully onto my hooves. Favoriting my left hind hoof, I turn around and walk forwards. My caravan is dead. The second I woke up in the sand, I knew this was the case. I didn't know the names of the caravan family that had hired me. I didn't ask. They were all dead. I painfully limp around the remnants of the caravan. The brahman are dead. As I feared, we were picked clean. There were no guns, no food, no water, no medicine… nothing. I was dead.