Fallout: San Antonio

Chapter 1

Miles Carter took one last look at the metallic walls of Vault 26 before stepping out into the unknown. The massive steel door groaned shut behind him, sealing off the only home he had ever known. The stale, recycled air of the vault was replaced with the acrid scent of dust, decay, and rusted metal. His dog, Jack, padded beside him, ears perked, sniffing at their surroundings.

The wasteland stretched before them, vast and unforgiving. The remains of the old world lay scattered across the horizon like forgotten bones. Miles clenched his fists. He wasn’t stepping out here for adventure or curiosity—he had a mission. The former Overseer had betrayed the people of the vault, condemning them to suffering. Miles would find him. And he would make him pay.

For now, though, he needed shelter. And supplies. The hulking remains of a Super Duper Mart loomed in the near distance, its faded signage barely legible. It was a ruin of what had once been a hub of pre-war consumerism. The roof sagged in places, allowing weak beams of sunlight to filter through, casting eerie shadows across the shattered tile floor. The aisles, once stocked with food and essentials, were now skeletal remains of rusted shelving. Shopping carts lay overturned, and tattered remnants of promotional posters clung desperately to the walls.

Miles hesitated at the entrance, scanning the interior for threats. His gut told him the store was empty, but gut feelings got people killed out here. Jack growled lowly, his hackles rising. Miles pulled his 10mm pistol from its holster and took a cautious step inside. Silence greeted him.

Nothing moved.

Maybe the place was truly abandoned. He took a slow breath and crept forward, Jack close at his side. The dog’s sharp senses would give them an edge if anything lurked in the shadows.

Miles moved carefully through the ruins, stepping over debris and weaving between collapsed shelving. His every footstep was measured, his senses on high alert. Then, something caught his eye—movement around the corner. He froze, pressing himself against a half-broken aisle. Jack stayed close, his muscles tensed.

Voices.

“…we don’t answer to him! We run this side of town now.”

Miles’ grip on his pistol tightened. Raiders. He risked a glance around the corner. Two of them, dressed in makeshift armor, stood near the front of the store, locked in a heated discussion. They were part of the Forged, one of the more brutal raider groups.

“Yeah?” the second raider sneered. “Then why’d we get orders to torch that camp? You think the old man’s just gonna let us run wild?”

Torch a camp? Miles narrowed his eyes. These raiders were taking orders, but they didn’t sound too happy about it. A settlement was in danger—maybe nearby. Could he warn them?

He held his breath and listened.

“You’re talking about that settlement to the north, right?” the first raider asked.

“Yeah, of course. They’ve been giving him trouble for a while now. They have supplies we want.”

That was all Miles needed to hear.

He inched backward, signaling Jack to stay quiet. If these raiders caught him listening in, things would get ugly fast. He moved slowly; every step deliberate. But as he neared the exit, his boot scraped against loose debris. The sound was faint—but in the dead silence of the wasteland, it was enough.

One of the raiders stopped mid-sentence. “You hear that?”

Miles didn’t wait to find out if they’d investigate. He crouched lower and slipped out the door, Jack at his heels. The cool morning air hit him as he emerged into the parking lot. He took a quick glance back—no one was following.

With one last look at the ruined supermarket, he turned north. He didn’t know what settlement the raiders were talking about, but if they were in trouble, he had to find them.

And fast.

The morning air was thick with the scent of dust and decay as Miles set out across the wasteland. The raiders’ conversation had given him a lead—there was a settlement out there, somewhere, and it was in danger. But finding it was another matter entirely. With Jack padding faithfully by his side, Miles trudged forward, eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of civilization.

Hours passed. The wasteland stretched endlessly in every direction, a graveyard of rusted husks and crumbling ruins. What had started as a determined march had turned into a frustrating, aimless wander. He was lost.

The heat bore down on him mercilessly, and his canteen grew lighter with each sip. Thirst clawed at his throat, fatigue creeping into his limbs. As he wiped the sweat from his brow, his gaze fell upon something troubling ahead—a field of irradiated land, the ground cracked and lifeless, twisted remnants of trees clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. The bones of long-dead creatures lay scattered across the earth, a silent warning to any who might venture too close.

Miles hesitated. Cutting through would be faster, but the risk wasn’t worth it. He took the long way around, adding more time to his journey. He had no choice.

After another grueling trek, he stumbled upon a ruined gas station. The remnants of a billboard provided just enough cover for him to observe the figures huddled around a campfire. They didn’t wear the signature armor of the Forged, nor did they appear outwardly hostile. Still, strangers in the wasteland were unpredictable.

Miles needed answers. He needed direction. Raising his hands to show he was unarmed, he stepped forward.

A deafening blast shattered the uneasy silence. The travelers had opened fire.

Diving for cover behind a rusted-out car, Miles cursed under his breath as bullets peppered the ground around him. Jack let out a low growl, ears flattened against his head. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

“My name is Miles!” he shouted from cover. “I’m a vault dweller from Vault 26! I mean you no harm! There’s a settlement in danger—I’m trying to warn them!”

Silence, save for the crackling of the fire and the distant whistle of the wind.

Then another shot rang out.

Miles gritted his teeth. There would be no reasoning with them. He had hoped to avoid a fight, but in the wasteland, survival was king.

And if it was a fight they wanted, it was a fight they would get.

The sun hung low over the ruined landscape, casting long shadows as Miles crouched behind a rusted-out husk of an old-world sedan. His breath came in quick, sharp gulps, his hands slick with sweat as he gripped the handle of his revolver. Across the cracked pavement, three men—raiders by the looks of them—fanned out, their weapons drawn.

The first shot rang out like a thunderclap, sending a plume of dust and debris into the air near Miles’ head. He ducked lower, cursing under his breath. His fingers curled around the revolver’s grip, and he risked a glance over the car’s frame.

They were closing in.

Another shot. This one ricocheted off the metal frame, showering him with rust flakes. Gritting his teeth, Miles pivoted around the car, braced his arm against the hood, and fired. The crack of the revolver echoed through the empty streets. The nearest wastelander, a wiry man with a jagged scar across his cheek, staggered back as blood spattered across the cracked asphalt.

The other two reacted instantly. One, a broad-shouldered brute in tattered leather armor, raised a sawed-off shotgun and fired. Miles barely had time to throw himself backward as the blast tore through the car, sending metal shards flying. Pain flared in his right leg as something sliced into his thigh. He hit the ground hard, gasping.

No time to dwell on it.

Rolling onto his back, he aimed and fired again. The brute let out a gurgled cry, clutching at the gaping wound in his chest before collapsing onto the pavement.

That left one.

The final wastelander hesitated, his rifle wavering as he took in the scene. Miles used the moment. Ignoring the searing pain in his leg, he pushed himself up, steadied his revolver, and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Empty.

The wastelander’s face split into a grin. He raised his rifle, but Miles lunged forward, slamming his full weight into the man. They went down hard, tumbling into the dust. The wastelander snarled, swinging a knife, but Miles caught his wrist, twisting it until the blade clattered to the ground. He didn’t hesitate—his other hand found a jagged rock, and he brought it down onto the wastelander’s skull. Once. Twice.

The body went limp.

Breathing hard, Miles pushed himself upright. His leg throbbed, blood seeping into his pant leg, but he was alive.

He limped toward the nearest corpse, reloading his revolver with slow, deliberate movements. The wasteland had taught him well—never leave an enemy breathing.

The fight was over.

Miles had won.

The last of the wastelanders fell, their body crumpling into the dust with a final, hollow thud. Miles Carter exhaled sharply, lowering his weapon as the tension in his shoulders eased—if only slightly. The wasteland had taught him never to relax fully.

Jack, his faithful companion, padded up to him, ears perked and tongue lolling in satisfaction. Miles reached down and gave the dog a firm pat. “Good boy,” he murmured, feeling the exhaustion creep into his bones.

His leg ached fiercely from the fight, a fresh wound to add to the collection. He was drained, running on fumes after a long, brutal day. Staying here for the night was the only real option. First, though, he had to see if these bastards had anything useful.

Hobbling over to the bodies, Miles rifled through their belongings. He came away with 38 caps, a double-barreled shotgun with a handful of shells, and a set of road leathers. Changing into them was an ordeal—his leg protested every movement—but once the swap was done, he felt a little more protected.

His eyes turned toward the gas station. Maybe they’d kept some supplies inside. With Jack at his side, he limped to the entrance, weapon at the ready.

The station was silent, long abandoned. The wastelanders had left their mark—makeshift bedding, empty cans, and scattered belongings suggested they’d been using it as a home base. No one else was inside.

But then, something unexpected happened.

A cough.

Miles’ head snapped toward the sound, and his grip on his gun tightened. One of the wastelanders—the one he was sure had gone down—was stirring, weakly shifting in the dirt.

How? Miles had no idea, but he rushed over, kneeling beside the man, checking that he wasn’t armed before speaking.

“Are you okay?”

The wastelander coughed again, spitting onto the cracked pavement. His expression twisted with pain, but there was no immediate hostility in his eyes.

“Why did you attack us…?”

Miles blinked, a frown tugging at his lips. “Attack you?” he repeated, incredulous. “You attacked me! I even shouted at you while you were firing, and you didn’t stop shooting!”

The man—wiry, battered, and probably just as exhausted as Miles—looked away, as if realization had finally dawned on him. His gaze flickered to the bodies of his fallen companions.

“Well,” he muttered, voice rasping, “I guess that’s fewer mouths to feed.”

Miles stared at him for a long second, then sighed. This was the kind of wasteland thinking that got people killed. Still, the guy wasn’t trying to fight anymore.

“I’m going to help you out,” Miles said. “You gonna attack me again?”

The man shook his head, and that was good enough for now. Miles set to work, checking his wounds. “What’s your name?” he asked as he worked.

“Dane Watts,” the man rasped.

“Why did you attack me?”

Dane gave a humorless chuckle. “Isn’t it obvious? Out here, you can’t trust anyone. This was our home… Well… mine now.”

Miles hesitated. “You saw I was wearing a vault suit, right?”

Dane scoffed. “Please. You can steal those from anyone nowadays.”

Fair point.

Dane’s sharp eyes flicked over Miles. “Noticed you changed clothes the second the fight was over. Took ‘em off one of my guys, huh?”

Miles didn’t respond. No point in lying.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Dane muttered. “Only reason I trust you right now is ‘cause you’re trying to keep me breathing.”

Miles let the comment hang in the air before steering the conversation toward what really mattered. “I’m looking for a settlement nearby. The reason I approached you guys in the first place was to warn them—there’s a raider gang planning to hit them soon. Are we close?”

Dane grimaced. “Find a way to keep me alive, and I’ll tell you.”

Miles nodded and focused on patching him up. His first attempt wasn’t great—his medical skills had never been top-tier—but he wasn’t about to let the guy die. With a sigh, he dug into his pack and pulled out a stimpak.

Dane’s eyebrows lifted. “Those are rare out here, but you’re using one on me?”

Miles shrugged. “Call it an olive branch. Maybe we can help each other.”

Dane considered that for a long moment, then nodded. “Fine. You can stay here with me and heal up. Once we’re both good, I’ll give you your information and you can be on your way.”

Miles extended a hand. “Deal.”

Dane shook it, sealing the uneasy truce. The wasteland had its rules—survive, adapt, and make the best of what you had. Tonight, that meant trusting a former enemy.

What do you think of the story so far? What do you think will happen next? Leave a comment below and let me know what you think!

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