I thought it would be more fun to play as myself, of and try to make the decisions as if I were there (well, sort of). This may be boring for you as it involves a lot of me running away from things. But I could also put my own twist on the story rather than just retelling it here.
I also wanted to see if I could survive, and dare I say it - win, without the Magical Dice that Always Roll What You Need, and without the Thumb of Time Travel carefully marking the previous page before a particularly risky decision.
The year is 2022. All was dandy and few were hungry. The world was living in perfect harmony, like ebony and ivory on Paul McCartney's piano.
But then disaster struck. The population was been devastated by a mysterious deadly virus. It probably started in our old University flat. In that frying pan. Eurgh. After 4 days, 85% of the world were dead. Riots, looting, destruction and apparently (verbatim quote) drunkenness were rife. So just a British Friday night out then.
6 months later the surviving populace had divided into into those that wanted to rebuild civilisation and culture. They formed new fortified settlements and outposts. The rest wanted to carry on pratting about in the wastelands and being a bit maim-y. On motorbikes and spikey cars. Being maim-y sounds like too much hard work. And I wouldn't have much street (road?) cred with my specs. Paladin of civilisation it is then, and a deluxe corrugated iron apartment for me in the fortified town called New Hope.
The Story begins
One morning I get a visit from a bunch of rather excited town councillors. Yay. They have taken a break from debating the merits of pedestrianising the city centre to pay me a visit. They've picked up a radio message from distant San Anglo saying that they have a shitload of fuel they are willing to exchange for some of our grain in order to improve their food production. Bargain! I wonder if the local garage will start taking seed packets as payment?
|Some unbelievably jammy rolls... Yum. Jam rolls.|
So I climb in, put on my seat belt (the book irresponsibly neglects this part), adjust the rear view mirror, and get the string-backed leather driving gloves from the glove box (that's what it's for). Now I mean business. Squinting through the narrow armoured visor of a windscreen, I start the car and almost immediately stall it. Second time lucky. Phew. San Anglo, here we come!