Another Unoriginal Oneshot Book

Acedia et Industria

The Boneyard, 2243.
-
Angels. Messengers. Beings of light. Shapeshifters. Forces for good or for evil, powers beyond human comprehension.

Los Angeles, now called the Angels' Boneyard, had once purported to be "where dreams come true." Edward didn't think anything resembling an angel's description could come out of this place, but he'd been wrong before. On occasion.

Oh, it was alright. NCR was sparing no expense to turn it back into the glimmering façade it had been before the war. But atomic annihilation has what some might call an "irreversible effect" on a place's ecology, and it wasn't exactly palm trees and movie stars anymore. More like sand, rubble, and a few too many deathclaws for comfort.

In fact, Edward Sallow did have a few dreams coming true at the moment. Unfortunately, all of them were nightmares.

With their wealth of knowledge, the Followers of the Apocalypse could have become a great force for change, if only they would prioritize the right causes. Countless hands stretched out to them expecting to be filled, never turned away until there was nothing left to give. Which, guess what, attracted more greedy hands.

Edward had suggested requiring some sort of volunteer service in exchange for the Followers' attention. There was no sense dealing with individual needs when raiders still prowled California, and the government was too useless to do anything about it. A militarized Followers of the Apocalypse — counterintuitive, but promising.

But when they weren't cloistered in their labs and libraries, the Followers were giving. And the hungry masses were taking. Smack in the middle of every outbreak, they couldn't even protect their own people.

His head rested against the slat fence where he sat. His voice was too dry to keep reading aloud, so he stared vaguely at the sky.

Diane didn't mind. She'd heard the raspiness sneak in over time as he raised his voice to reach her on the other side of the fence, a few feet farther down. She'd insisted on this configuration for their meetings, over Edward's protests. Chances were, the bacteria had invaded his system weeks ago. It would probably lay dormant for the foreseeable future; if not, well, that was tomorrow's problem. Right now, he just wanted to be with his mom.

She'd been in the quarantine zone for a long time now. It was harder and harder for her to walk here and meet him, but she managed to. She talked less these days. Didn't want to start coughing. The indignity of tuberculosis.

An ancient disease. A peasant's disease. What was this, medieval London? It was the 23rd century, and these were supposed to be the most enlightened people on the continent. But they had to treat every last plague rat who wandered into the compound, so the sickness kept spreading, and there was no medicine left.

And... that was it. End of story. Diane wasn't important enough to win at triage roulette. She wasn't strong enough to outlast these slugs for the next shipment. She was fighting a losing battle, and not the heroic kind. The kind where you sit in your own fluids for months or years and then die, and there's nothing your kid can do about it.

After communing in silence for a time, Diane whispered softly. "Wish I could see your face."

Edward put his hands on the slats and hoisted himself up to peek over the fence at her. He grinned roguishly, not flinching when he saw the pronounced sunkenness in her cheeks. It made her smile.

"You're funny. And bad."

"Can't forget bad."

"I love you, Eddie."

His feet hit the ground. He couldn't blame her for being sentimental lately; she had a lot of time to sit around and think.

Edward didn't. He was a full-time student, but now he had to take on his mother's duties too. He would rather study than do housework, so their quarters weren't up to Diane's standards at the moment. Leon ran wild, fed by friends' families or the library's food bank. He had no interest in school and little patience for chores. He came home with new bruises and rips in his clothes every night.