DATE: 09.18.2224
LOCATION: Sulphur, Louisiana
STATUS: Cautious, Observant
After days on the old highway, I found myself in Sulphur, Louisiana. The name alone carries weight—volatile and sharp. The air is thick with chemical stench that clings to skin and clothes, a warning before the encounter.
The town is eerily quiet. Crumbling factories haunt the horizon, ghosts of industry long dead.
I spotted movement more than once. Raiders. Scavengers. Maybe both. They watched from a distance, and so did I. Nobody seemed eager to discover who would make the first mistake.
The ground is stained with yellow crystals. Sand fused into jagged formations, earth pushing unnatural things upward.
These sulfur deposits aren’t like the others I’ve seen. There’s a pulse to them, especially near bubbling sulfur pools that still hiss their ancient, acrid warning. Resource or trap. I’ll treat it as both. The wasteland’s silent killers hide beneath familiar surfaces.
Scavenged what I could: gas stations, homes, a mostly intact library. A few holotapes and a toolkit—small prizes in a quiet tomb.
Funny thing about history...it survives in place names. Long before the bombs, this town was built because sulfur came out of the ground. The factories weren't the source. They were the consequence. Even now, with the smokestacks silent, the earth keeps telling the same story.
Sulphur is a ghost, but I feel a heartbeat beneath the dust.
Tomorrow I'll head toward the Sulphur Supermarket.
If nothing else, people always leave traces where they once gathered.
And traces have a habit of becoming stories.
—Big Chief
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