Date: 10.24.2224
Location: Red Rocket Truck Stop, Lafayette Outskirts
The evening stretched long after the Atomic Garden boards were folded shut. Jean Dean and I took to the picnic table outside. The swamp pressed in thick—the buzz of mutated crickets, croaks of radfrogs, and the steady, sweet-stink of swamp gas rising from the Coutee waterways. He drank from a chipped bottle of Swamp Shine, glowing eyes catching the lantern’s light like embers that refused to burn out.
“We should be safe here tonight,” Jean said low, scanning the horizon. “Brotherhood’s been patrollin’ the apartment blocks. They don’t bother with the Coulee unless they think there’s somethin’ worth takin’.”
I rested my hand near my holster. Safe and temporary often walk together in this wasteland.
Jean gestured back at the Red Rocket.
“This place might look like rust and scraps, but it’s stood because we stand for it. Always have.”
Inside, the ghouls’ home felt alive. Marcy and Mabel Dean had laid out food: swamp stew and a plate of powdered donuts scavenged from somewhere long forgotten. A cracked frame rested on the counter—a family portrait, pre-war, showing a smiling Black family dressed neat for Sunday best. Jean’s jaw tightened when he saw Clancy looking at it.
Clancy froze—mutants unsettled him, ghouls doubly so. But this picture wasn’t feral rot, it was family. He glanced at me, then back at Jean, and gave the smallest nod I’ve seen him make.
“Can I… have some food?”
Jean’s eyes softened.
“Help yourself, boy. Already told y’all—what we got, we share.”
Clancy dug into the stew, eating in silence. A lesson passing into him without words.
Pinball, meanwhile, lit up with excitement. The Dean children giggled as the robot rolled dice and dealt cards, his servos jittering but stable. The games seemed to anchor his core memory, smoothing out the glitches. Pinball hummed like he hadn’t in days—like being among laughter brought him back online.
Larry, though, couldn’t stomach it. His paranoia about ghouls gnawed at him. He slipped snacks into his bag without asking—candy, jerky, a sealed bottle of cola—and muttered about “sleepin’ elsewhere.” He slunk off into the dark, holing up in a collapsed house down the road, out of reach of the Deans’ hospitality.
Later, Jean pulled Clancy aside.
“That noise earlier—the Vertibirds? That’s the Brotherhood. They’re not after people like me unless we got tech or caps they want. But they sweep this city for scrap, weapons, power armor parts. Always hungry for somethin’ they didn’t earn.”
Clancy bristled at the name. His past with the Enclave hung in the air like gun oil.
“I know their kind. They say they’re preservin’ the old world, but they’re just hoarders in armor. Won’t let anyone else in, won’t share a damn thing.”
Jean gave him a hard look.
“Sounds like you know more than you say.”
Clancy didn’t answer, but his hand tapped restless against his thigh.
Even Larry, before retreating, had piped up:
“Brotherhood don’t trust no one. Not even me. They’ll bleed ya for your gear, then call it charity. Only way you get close is if they want somethin’ you got. Otherwise—you’re just a shadow to ‘em.”
The words were bitter, but true.
When the house finally quieted, Jean and I sat alone again by the table. The swamp hummed like an endless engine, and the glow of the Vertibirds was gone over the horizon.
Jean tipped his bottle toward me.
“Chief, you see it, don’t you? This world don’t care who you were—only what you stand for. Folks like me, we’re not supposed to last. But we do. Because family’s worth more than fear.”
I nodded. He wasn’t just surviving—he was staking ground in a world that wants everything scattered. A small outpost of civility, a red beacon burning in the ruin.
And for tonight, the Deans’ truck stop was sanctuary.
—The Big Chief
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