Mr rammlied
Vault dwellers memoirs 1
The one good thing about growing old is that you get your way. The new leaders of the Tribe (they refuse to call themselves Elders until I have passed on, which should be soon, if I'm lucky) want me to record my knowledge for future generations. Bah! What knowledge they need is to be found with sweat and blood, not some letters on a page. But the future is a great unknown, and they may have a point. To make them happy, I've written down what I feel will be important. (The important words being "what I feel will be important.")
They want me to write my memoirs. Fine. I'll do it. But as the song goes, I'll do it my way. And I'm old enough that I will get my way.
The War
I know little about the War, but it doesn't really matter. A lot of people died when a lot of atomic bombs went off and nearly destroyed the world. If you don't know what an atomic bomb is, then imagine the worst thing possible. Atomic bombs were worse than that.
The Vaults
Like all of the original members of the Tribe, I came from the Vaults. Before the War, the government of the United States, which numbered in the thousands of villages, and had many, many tribesman per village, paid to have these huge holes dug in mountains and huts of metal and stone built underground. There were many Vaults. Some were close to cities, and some far away. These Vaults were to be used as safe places in case of atomic war. As you may guess, when the War came your ancestors made it to a Vault. Vault 13 to be specific.
For several generations, your ancestors and mine lived within the Vault. As best as they could figure, it was too dangerous to try and leave the Vault. They grew their own food, recycled their waste, read, worked, slept, had families, and even purified the necessary water within the Vault. I was born in the creche, and was raised by the community (and a robot). It was a good life, but all good things come to an end. About three generations after the War, the water-purification chip the Vault relied on to create the fresh water broke down. All the spare parts were missing or busted, and without the water-chip the Vault was doomed. Something had to be done.
The Overseer gathered the healthy of us between a certain age and made us draw straws. Guess what? I drew the short one. Wouldn't be much of a story if I didn't, would it?
I left the Vault the next day.
Vault dwellers memoirs 1
The one good thing about growing old is that you get your way. The new leaders of the Tribe (they refuse to call themselves Elders until I have passed on, which should be soon, if I'm lucky) want me to record my knowledge for future generations. Bah! What knowledge they need is to be found with sweat and blood, not some letters on a page. But the future is a great unknown, and they may have a point. To make them happy, I've written down what I feel will be important. (The important words being "what I feel will be important.")
They want me to write my memoirs. Fine. I'll do it. But as the song goes, I'll do it my way. And I'm old enough that I will get my way.
The War
I know little about the War, but it doesn't really matter. A lot of people died when a lot of atomic bombs went off and nearly destroyed the world. If you don't know what an atomic bomb is, then imagine the worst thing possible. Atomic bombs were worse than that.
The Vaults
Like all of the original members of the Tribe, I came from the Vaults. Before the War, the government of the United States, which numbered in the thousands of villages, and had many, many tribesman per village, paid to have these huge holes dug in mountains and huts of metal and stone built underground. There were many Vaults. Some were close to cities, and some far away. These Vaults were to be used as safe places in case of atomic war. As you may guess, when the War came your ancestors made it to a Vault. Vault 13 to be specific.
For several generations, your ancestors and mine lived within the Vault. As best as they could figure, it was too dangerous to try and leave the Vault. They grew their own food, recycled their waste, read, worked, slept, had families, and even purified the necessary water within the Vault. I was born in the creche, and was raised by the community (and a robot). It was a good life, but all good things come to an end. About three generations after the War, the water-purification chip the Vault relied on to create the fresh water broke down. All the spare parts were missing or busted, and without the water-chip the Vault was doomed. Something had to be done.
The Overseer gathered the healthy of us between a certain age and made us draw straws. Guess what? I drew the short one. Wouldn't be much of a story if I didn't, would it?
I left the Vault the next day.