Afternoon -- Outside Ashland, Maine -- 2187

  The sun would set soon. She didn’t expect much from the Lucky Aces Motel.

  A roof for the night. Some Nutri-paste. Soylent soup. Anything.

  . A large tree had cracked through the parking lot pavement, stretching toward the sky.

  Beneath the tree lay an old specimen collector bot, half-buried and silent.

  She knelt beside it.

  “I remember reading about these things in the Vault.”

  The lessons came back immediately.

  Specimen collectors were dangerous.

  Don’t interfere.

  If it tags you, you're already dead.

  The specimen tank was smeared with dirt. She wiped the glass clean.

  Inside was the skeleton of a baby.

  Scratch marks lined the inside of the tank.

  A specimen tag read:

  Human Infant Phase One

  She jerked her hand away.

  “Poor sweet child…” she whispered.

  She remembered the pediatric wing of the Vault. T1N-098

  Baby T1N.

  The machine twitches and whirs. Systems glitching.

  The eyes flicker on.

  She falls back.

  “It’s trying to activate.”

  She reacts instantly.

  Not panic — trained instinct.

  She destroys the eye.Breathing heavy. Silence again.

  She spat into the dirt.

  This wasteland is nothing but disturbing encounters!

  She knelt in silence for a while.

  She forced herself to stand. Anger would have to be enough.

  Values #31 — You will see disturbing encounters in the wasteland. Try to retain your humanity.

  It was worth checking inside the motel.

  The last few days had been disappointing. Scraping by every day. Slow death.

  She took a deep breath of the foggy afternoon air.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  Forward.

  Despite the motel being a wreck, the sign’s letters were still mostly intact:

  Lucky Aces Motel. Vacancy

  “Lucky… something motel,” she muttered.

  “Let’s hope it's lucky.”

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  Her thick boot kicked open the old lobby door.

  The glass shattered inward. Shards scattered across the floor. The smell hit her nose first. Something old. Something rotten.

  She ducked through the doorway, snagging her jacket slightly on the broken frame.

  No flesh wounds.

  Nothing broken.

  Good. Layering in the wasteland was essential: thick flannel, brown leather jacket, plus a shoulder holster.

  Her quantum revolver was already in her hand.

  She cocked the hammer.

  The heavy weapon swayed slowly as she scanned the dim lobby with a small flashlight.

  Glass crunched beneath her boots as she moved forward in careful steps.

  She froze.

  Something was inside.

  Her pulse quickened. Sweat trickled down her neck.

  From the back office came a sound.

  Clank.

  Clink.

  A voice muttered inside the darkness.

  “Bugs… bugs! Come up from the ground. They do.A gaunt waster shuffled into view.

  Its eyes were blood-red. Its clothes were ragged.

  Foam coated its mouth.

  The man slammed its metal pipe against the wall over and over.

  Then it looked at her.

  “I know you,” it snarled. “I've eaten you before.”

  It charged. Fear surged through her.

  She closed her eyes and fired. Boom, Her eyes opened.

  The revolver thundered. Smoke curled from the barrel.

  The rager stumbled. Seeing her chance,

  She stepped forward and fired again.

  Pow. The second shot dropped it instantly.

  Silence returned.

  Her ears rang.

  Two rounds spent.

  Values #55 Watch the corpse so it doesn't get up.

  She flipped open the cylinder and slid in two fresh cartridges.

  Twelve left.

  She holstered the revolver.

  Three weeks since launch day. If she survived long enough, she’d learn much more.

  Being thrown into the world with a pistol and a few supplies had made her paranoid.

  The Vault scientists weren’t completely inhumane.

  At least she liked to believe that.

  Things had to remain secret.

  Otherwise they might detect the Vaults.

  She began rifling through cabinets and drawers like an expert scavenger.

  It was a full-time job in the wasteland.

  If you didn’t find food, you starved.

  Soylent soup cans were worth their weight in gold.

  She was down to her last two packets of saltines—one for dinner, one for lunch.

  After that?

  Nothing. It had been a bad few days.

  One drawer contained a nudie magazine.

  “Don’t need that,” she muttered. “But I can trade it.”

  Values #17. Everything has value in the wastes.

  She stuffed dusty bags of coffee and a few small scrap items into her grungy red school bag.

  But there was still no food.

  Not even a breath mint.

  She checked her cracked old-world wristwatch.

  430 Pm. Getting late. She jerked up.

  A smell drifted through the doorway.

  Smoke.

  Meat.

  Burnt rubber.

  “Should I drive farther tonight?" she murmured. “Scavenge more?”

  It’s risky either way.

  Values #88 Better safe than sorry.

  Her stomach growled.

  She relented.

  “Getting late,” she muttered. “Better bed down here for the night. ”

  The motel’s front desk pegboard was missing most of its keys, but she snatched one.

  She stepped toward the lobby door cautiously. She was being tracked by a gang of raiders.

  Flesh Fiends.

  She peeked her head out.

  She had barely escaped them last week.

  Last time, I had to hide behind rocks for hours.

  I can’t risk being caught in the open.

  But what about my bike?

  The smell was stronger now.

  Cooking meat. Not an animal. A barbecue fire burned somewhere nearby.

  Her hand drifted toward her revolver.

  She was on their turf.

  And they were already cooking.