Fallout

Ohrada byla už dávno jen udusaná hlína - ani za nejvýdržnější rostlina nevydržela, když po ní týdny a měsíce šlapala kopyta mnohometrákových zvířat. Všechno, co tu bylo k jídlu, přinášeli lidé z vesnice v papírových pytlích. Krávy na nich vypadaly trochu zvláštně a granule byly napůl novinový papír, ale bylo to lepší než hladovět.

Pak začalo pršet, a na svět se prodraly bledé, nažloutlé květiny. Rostly rychle, a za pár hodin už pokrývaly předtím pustou hlínu.

Sklonila k nim nedůvěřivě hlavu. Květina zasyčela a zakousla se jí do ucha.

Brahmina ji druhou tlamou ukousla až u země a spokojeně začala přežvykovat.

The residents of vault 100 smiled gently to one another as they entered the common room. Everything was ready; desks stocked with fresh paper, the robots with laden trays of snacks and drinks; pencils sharpened. And there, on the wall, the calendar.

It was time.

One by one, they seated themselves. Not all at once; some had arrived hours ago, others at the last minute.

When the countdown began, only some of the youngest panicked; picking up the pace, their legs twitching. But the old timers smiled. They knew their history.

April would come again.

The drabbles would be written.

"I'll bet you're not used to these, huh?" The young man had two left eyes. She knew it was impolite to stare, but what else could she do? It was already watching her.

"I'm sorry," she said, finally, realizing he'd asked something. "What?"

"We call them windows," he said, speaking slowly. "They let us see outside our houses. The fancy kind has glass in 'em."

"We have windows in the vault."

The boy frowned. "Underground? How come?"

"So we can see outside our houses."

"Into what?"

The idea froze her, but not before the mini-nuke threw her out the window.

It's not what she was expecting, any of this. She's heard about the desert, of course; in essence, it's just sand. Sand is fine. Sand is normal. Beaches have sand - she knows this, even if she's never been to one. It looks different in movies, but of course, they're black and white.

It's the little things. Literally. A hair dryer basks in the sun. A hair tie hangs on a discarded bicycle, dropping like fruit from the handlebars.

Her feet sink into the ground for every step. But she keeps taking them. One by one.

She's not quite there yet.

Isn't it crazy how time flies at a breakneck speed, yet it somehow seems to stand still at the same time? Just look at me, riding the same train from work for thirty-seven fucking years. Bits and pieces and little details change, but nothing major changed for as long as I've been alive. Hell, this entire planet is stuck in a bubble of contentment, waiting to be burst. I mean, we've been basically stuck in the 'fifties for over a century, for crying out loud.
Wait, what was that flash?
Oh no.
Oh well, be careful what you wish for...

"Uh, about your hand..." Shit. Why had she said that? She felt herself slide into panic, but Nick just smiled.

"I know it's there, sweetheart."

Okay, that was new. She tried to look casual. Unaffected. Shit.

"I don't mind talking about it." He held his his fist up, such as it was. "It irks me when people pretend like it's not there. Like I don't know what my own hand looks like." He flexed each skeletal, metallic finger in turn.

Breathe, she told herself, then put her own hand over his. "It looks like the hand of someone I love."

"Ne, my si tu poradíme, děkujeme."
"Máme se dobře, stavte se na večeři a uvidíte."
Starosta Andalu takhle vždy odmítal kolonisty snažící se přestěhovat jeho lidi.
Andale bývalo hezké městečko, ale když bomby přestaly pršet, v Andalu zbylo pár domů uprostřed radioaktivní pustiny.
Starosta svým svěřencům dávno vysvětlil, že se jim lépe žije, když jsou sami, a tak se obyvatelé Andalu s cizinci nebavili a žili své životy téměř jako před válkou.
Kupec, který navštívil Andale, byl vždy pohoštěn čerstvým masem.
Nikdo se na nic neptal, ani na to, kde se bere to maso, když široko daleko nebyla žádná stáda.