The Hotel in the Dust

Date: 9.28.2224

Location: Westlake Outskirts
Status: Alert, Cautious

The blocks stretch empty before me. Emptiness—cracked streets, abandoned cars, fences collapsed like tired arms. Every step echoes, not just on concrete but in memory, in marrow.

Far ahead, a hotel rises against the gray horizon. Windows broken, paint peeled to bone, but it hums. Light flickers behind a few panes. Maybe a generator. Maybe someone awake. Maybe something watching. Either way—it’s alive.

Water clings to the low spots. Puddles swollen from recent rains, mingled with runoff and mud. Each step sinks a little, boots catching on debris, on scraps of wood, steel, plastic. The Pip-Boy hums softly, tracking moisture, weight, radiation. Radiation’s low—better than Sulphur. That’s a small mercy.

I pause. Pull out X-Cell, inhale deep. Mentats follow, sharp, clear. Headspace aligns. Calculations run: waterlogged ground slows movement, hides pitfalls, might mask ambushes. Slow, steady, precise. Every step matters.

Concrete shifts into soaked soil. One misstep and it’s boots full of sludge, gear heavier than before. I plant sticks, lean on them, trace paths through puddles that could hide surprises. The hotel grows closer. Its hum steadies, more real, more deliberate. Someone—or something—is keeping that light on.

I scan rooftops, windows, shadows. Nothing moves, but the hum persists. Safe? Maybe. Worth checking? Absolutely. Survival isn’t guessing—it’s reading, then deciding.

Every puddle, every board, every half-collapsed doorway whispers: the wasteland doesn’t forgive. But neither do I.

The hotel waits. And I am coming.

—Big Chief