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: the first group to rebuild civilisation and culture. They formed new fortified settlements and outposts. The other group just 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. 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 they have a ton of fuel they are willing to exchange for some of our apparently famous grain. Bargain! (I wonder if the local petrol station 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!
The Game begins. Page 1...
It quickly becomes apparent that everything has fallen into decay and ruin, and wild dogs roam the wastelands. In order to lift my spirits after seeing this once incredible landscape turned to grey wasteland I bang some tunes on the radio and turn the speakers up to 11. Time to get my jam on.
After travelling about 9 miles I reach a small town, but just as we get there my bag of Mint Imperials spill out from the glove box forcing me to stop the car lest a few get stuck under the pedals (well, the book gave no clear reason to why the hell I would want to stop). Just as I'm about to get back on the road, what sounds remarkably like a shotgun rings through the air. Do I do the sensible thing and drive on, or do I act like an absolute idiot and get out to investigate...
After checking (twice) that the car door is locked, I move slowly towards the nearest building. I'm bloody crapping myself and wondering why the hell I decided this was a good idea. Wiping nervous sweat from my forehead with the string back of the driving gloves, I half expect another shot in my direction. But there's nobody down this narrow street at all. I step round the corner, but as I do an unseen voice warns me that I'll resemble a colander if I move. Not wishing to resemble any kitchen utensil I do as I'm told. "Where are you from?" the voice barks. Now I can either claim to be a lone, badass nomadic warrior or tell the truth. Well honesty is always the best policy (so they say) and looking at myself neither badass nor warrior comes to mind...
I tell the unseen gunman that I'm from New Hope. At this the figure steps out from the shadows I see that he's a cyclist. A cyclist?! Good god, this man has balls. That's one charity bike ride I would definitely sponsor. His manners leave a little to be desired - he keeps his gun pointed at me whilst telling me his life story. He claims he and his family were ambushed whilst driving their station wagon last week (is this any time to be going on a family holiday?) and his wife and kid killed (oh, sorry). He was looking for some tins of beans and sausages in the supermarket when he was attacked by rabid dogs, hence the shotgun. I decide to believe him. He finally puts the gun down, and says his name is Johnson. He says he's heading to New Hope, so I give him directions. He tells me not to stop at Joe's Garage - they don't have any petrol, but are quick to rob anyone that stops there. I wish him well on his journey and toodle back to the car, and as that honesty really is the best policy it's one I'll be following from here on in when it arises. Time for more tunes on the car radio...
Hell yeah, this is the life. I feel invigorated. Ah what's this coming up at the side of the road. Well I'll never. It's Joe's Garage. I decide to stop to see if Johnson was telling the truth. From afar. I'm not letter the sense of heroics get to my head again. A hot rod, clearly with one careful owner, is parked round the side. While I'm having a nosy, a girl comes out from the office in t-shirt and blue jeans (there's even a picture in the book), she gives a disarming smile and ask if she can help. I'm sure she's being a bit flirty, I mean she clearly knows a man of substance when she sees one - the black framed specs, the way my hands are at 10-2 on the steering wheel, my sports casual clothes and the dulcet notes of 99 Red Balloons in the background signifies true masculinity. As lovely as she seems, and I'm sure we'd hit it off, I decide not to take the risk - and stay on the path of the lone road warrior that I must become...
Click here for Part 2!