Origins

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Samuel was dying.

We had left Bunker 114 and Cold Mountain behind hours ago and darkness cloaked the Wasteland. As we sped east toward Raider Bluff, I wondered if Brux’s parting shot meant our mission had failed before it even began.

Samuel’s eyes had remained closed for almost the entire journey. Wet blood soaked his right shoulder. The congealing agent had slowed the bleeding somewhat, but he wouldn’t last for long. We had to find someone who could remove the bullet and stop the bleeding. If we couldn’t, either Makara or I would have to do it.

The Recon’s bright blue lights pushed back the night, letting us see ahead in a wide arc. Thirty years of red dust covered most parts of the highway. We zoomed past decrepit buildings, ghost towns, and mangled road signs, the skeletal remains of Ragnarok.

Makara was speeding as fast as the heavy Recon would go — about fifty-five miles per hour, the wheels churning to get us to our destination.

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