The high cost of a low life.

The light of day comes too soon, and her head pounds with need, so Rachael rolls over on her shallow bag of hay and rotting bedding to snatch the last bit of last night’s whiskey bottle. She downs it, spilling nearly half on the floor in her half-drunken stupor. She smells dirt and brahmin shit, reminding her of life. The room sharpens. Rachael overturns every inch of the disheveled cot, flinging her few belongings a dozen feet across the 200-year-old linoleum.

“The fuck! Where are you?” she snarls, nearly yelling at this point. She continues to toss her and everybody else’s stuff into far distant crannies of the department. Tamriel is beaten awake by Rachael’s frustrated mutterings and a stray energy core. “Shut up, Rachael! Go back to sleep.” “Fuck you and your sleep! Where’s the Jet?” Rachael shoots back. She begins to push her sleeping comrades, looking under and around them. “How should I know? That shit’s gross. Turns you into a bitch. Will you shut up? The whole damn Mojave is going to hear you.” Tamriel throws her thin sheet up over herself, trying to block out the beast. “I’ll show you being a bitch!” Rachael ignores her warnings and chucks a nearby tin can at Tamriel, striking her face and drawing blood through the thin, worn fabric.

Tamriel starts to boil, cusses loudly, then bolts out of bed. “You’re fucking dea—” but is cut short by a 5.56mm bullet straight through the head. Shock widens her eyes, and a wet layer of Tamriel’s blood soaks into Rachael’s skin. Tamriel’s body unceremoniously slumps to the ground with a soft thud. Then the instincts that have kept Rachael alive for 33 years kick in. She’s instantly down and out of sight before the next bullet rings out from the four-story building to the south. She darts behind some rubble and only narrowly avoids getting shot.

With that first bullet, the rest of the crew is awake. Soon, different calibers are ringing out from every corner of the half-collapsed clothing store. They are surrounded, but there’s no sight of the gunmen. The unmistakable boom from a .50 caliber anti-materiel rifle shakes the air, and the ground just to her right explodes. The dust is inches from her face, heart palpitating, muscles frozen. Death surrounds her like a fog. She’s without a gun, knife, armor, or even just a plan. Completely naked to circumstance.

One of her few surviving friends, Thomas, comes to the rescue. He tosses her a half-charged laser pistol right before succumbing to half a dozen shots to the chest. “Damnit!” How many of her friends have been killed? How long have they been under fire? Rachael has to get out. This is a death trap. If she stays any longer, she’ll be dead too.

With a deep breath, she turns away and sprints as fast as she can. It isn’t until she reaches a wall about 500 feet away that she turns back. Two raiders follow her: a large male raider with a metal mask to her left, and a female one with spiked hair and long leather boots. Both are taking aim. Quickly, she ducks behind a large section of concrete wall and waits for a chance to return fire. The metallic bangs cease for just a second, so she dares another peek.

The male raider reloads to the left, and unfortunately, his partner does the same thing. Breathing a long, ragged breath, Rachael, without mercy, leans over the concrete outcropping and fires three high-energy rounds into the closer female raider’s head and shoulder. The woman falls, blind and clutching her seared scalp.

Turning to address the male raider, Rachael hears a shot from behind. Hardly has she registered the sound when a wicked burn starts up her thigh. A 9mm bullet lodges itself deep within, and she sees her crimson blood start to pour forward. Her leg gives out, and she collapses roughly to the ground.

“Ha, got you, bitch!” He walks up close and aims for a headshot. “This is for what you did to Jessie!” He gestures to the woman still curled up in pain a few feet away.

Rachael reactively squeezes the plastic trigger of the laser pistol and unloads the rest of her energy core into the man. Each round discharges with a whine and pop. He slumps over on top of her, paralyzed and beginning to drool. The familiar odor of burnt ozone and cauterized skin creeps into her nostrils.

She pushes the dying raider off and tries to get up on her leg, but the damage is immediately noticeable. “Fuck!” she cusses while falling back to the ground. A small inhaler of Jet falls out of her coat and tumbles down the hill. She watches the lost bounty intently, but another sudden puff of dirt reminds her again of life. She tries to limp away from the still-lethal firefight, but can only manage a slow crawl up the nearby embankment.

Somehow, she makes it to the crest and finally has time to process what the hell just happened. How many are there? Enough to kill the whole crew, at least—she counts at least four attackers. Any moment, they will appear over the hill and savagely feast upon her, but after an hour, it still hasn’t happened. Her muscles loosen. The relief, withdrawals, and crippled leg almost incapacitate the strung-out woman.

She crawls like that for a mile in dirt and her own blood. The sun starts to set before she meets anyone who’ll barter for a Stimpak, even if she has to sell her pistol for it. She manages to make a splint out of some broken timber. The soft ruins of a fallen billboard give her some shelter, so she lies back to observe the distant oranges and yellows turn to dusty nightfall while her leg painfully mends itself.

She doesn’t sleep. She has nothing to eat. Hot tears in her eyes keep the desert chill away. This was her fault. She was the one who tore their supplies apart; she was the one who made all that noise. Now they were dead, and the Jet was in her pocket the whole damn time. She looks down at her clothes and exposed skin. Tamriel’s blood is still caked onto every inch.

She glances out at the Lucky 38 far off on the desert horizon, with its white concrete tower, golden lights, and shimmering, intact glass. She envisions that far-off life—free from the constant shaking from Jet withdrawals, free from the festering memories of her dead friends. She thinks about her mother and father and wishes they were alive, but what would they think of her? She’s a pathetic junkie. More messy tears well up from behind her eyes. Soft sobs echo from the urban ruins like lone coyote howls.

Check out Rachael’s Character Sheet.