WAKING UP RESTED

DATE: 8.23.2224
LOCATION: Union Pacific Strang Yard — La Porte, Texas
STATUS: Continuing East
SIGNAL: Active

I woke up rested.

That alone felt strange.

Strang Yard was still quiet in the early morning. Freight cars sat along the tracks in long rows, rust catching the first light. Switches, signals, and rail lines stretched through the yard like the skeleton of a machine that hadn't completely forgotten its purpose. Somewhere farther down the line, metal shifted against metal. Not enough to tell me a train was coming. Just enough to remind me the railroad was still here.

I had chosen this place because it was between things. Not a house. Not a settlement. Not somebody's territory that I had to explain myself to. Just a station and a yard sitting between destinations. Unconventional shelter, but shelter, nonetheless.

Before leaving, I looked around and found a few things worth taking. Nothing that would slow me down. A couple of useful pieces from an abandoned maintenance area, some spare material I could make use of later, and enough to justify stopping long enough to search. The rest stayed where I found it.

Funny thing about leaving somewhere behind. You think distance creates separation. You think walking far enough means the place becomes smaller in your mind.

Vault 288 has proven otherwise.

I still have the memories.

Zee especially.

I catch myself wondering what she's doing right now. Probably buried somewhere in those machines she understands better than most people understand themselves. Hands covered in grease. Eyes focused. Solving problems that most people never even realize exist.

She told me she loved me.

Strange thing to carry across a wasteland.

A word that simple.

Love.

Before Vault 288, I thought I understood it. Family. Loyalty. Community. The things you build over years. Then I woke up 147 years later and everything I loved was gone. Somehow, in the middle of all that emptiness, somebody reached out and reminded me I was still alive.

I wonder if Samson knows.

Not the one I met on the road.

The real Samson Reed.

Considering they seem to know of each other, I have to wonder what travels between them. The man in 288 is apparently carrying the weight of an entire Legion behind him. If the Legion shares information, does he know?

Does he know about Lillie?

Does he know about Zee?

Does he know about Vault 288?

I wonder if those Synths are only carrying his face, or if they carry pieces of his memory too. Do they enter the Vault? Does Samson hear about travelers passing through? Does he know where I am?

Maybe somewhere out there, a version of him is telling the original:

"Mike Marcel is okay."

At least, I'd hope so.

The wasteland is full of unanswered questions.

I have learned that chasing every answer will leave you standing still. And I cannot afford to stand still.

This morning I found the last bottle of gourd juice Samson gave me.

I held it for a moment before opening it.

That bottle carried more than liquid. It carried a reminder that someone believed I would make it farther than I thought.

I raised it toward the morning sky.

"Thank you, Samson."

Not just for the drink.

For the lesson.

A man can prepare another person for a journey he may never see.

I drank the last of it.

The bottle is empty now.

But the strength remains.

The Hartman Bridge is in the distance.

I'll make my way toward it in a few.

— Big Chief Mike Marcel