M1903 Springfield (Given to him by his father)
Glock-22 (Taken from a police officer's skeleton, who obviously didn't need it any more)
Watch (Again, given to him by his father)
A backpack filled with an assortment of maps, a blanket, all of his food that he carries, and a book.
Reginald Carswell was born to wanderers of the wasteland. His mother was a caravan merchant. She took pack mules and went down the old roads to barter supplies to the towns. His father was her guard. When he was born, they took a short break from the travels at one of the towns that was on their route. As Reginald turned eight, they continued back on their route, with Reginald in tow. He grew up on the back of a mule, observing the sights of the wasteland.
They never went near the city of Boston, which was tens of miles away, but he heard stories of it, and how beautiful it was before the bombs fell. His wish was that he'd get to see that city. When he was 16, his father died of radiation poisoning. His dying wish was that his only son should go see the world. Reginald inherited his father's personal effects, and helped his mother go on the caravan routes.
As he turned 19, his mother became old, and couldn't make the journey any more. She retired in the same town she took her short maternity break in, and Reginald set out into the wastes, to find some vestige of the old world, and trying to forget the past.
Reginald walked through the street. It was once one that was probably very busy once, but not any more. There were some wrecks of cars and trucks, but most had been stripped for parts long ago. The road stretched on for miles, and there was only the hilly outcroppings and the desolate flatlands beside it. He liked it this way. These were the roads he travelled as a kid. He knew some of them by heart. This one led westward, towards the Great Unknown.
He had heard stories that there was an underground shelter nearby here, but he assumed it was probably empty, or sealed shut. The shelters that he had seen were all sealed, and their eerie doors, large and circular, held thousands of people. The thought was interesting, as the people inside had no concept of all this. Perhaps they thought of the outside as green and lush like the old times, or did they think it was still burning from the nuclear fire? He could not answer those questions.
The sun was high above him, and he carried himself across the road. He was wearing his boots that had seen thousands of miles, his cargo-pants, which were coloured a nice light shade of grey were covered by dirt, and his green tunic was covered by his duster, which he wore everywhere he went. He looked up at the sun, and smirked, "At least I have you."
Olivia exhaled slowly, her breath flowing past her dry lips. No matter how many times she licked them, they always got still dryer. I'm too stubborn, she thought to herself. I've a full canteen in my pack, yet I won't even go to grab it. She was stubborn, yes, but also prideful and a bit foolhardy. She'd do anything to prove that the elements and her peers couldn't best her. Olivia could feel the hot sun bearing down on her, making her dark hair feel hot atop her head, slicked back from her face as it was.
There were few sings of life out here, and Olivia grit her teeth, fingers twitching nervously over her handgun. Perhaps there were people who had survived out here in this nuclear wasteland. Certainly there were enough who had perished, and were still perishing. It was one reason why Olivia was grateful for the sterile life inside the Fallout. It was all she'd ever known, aside from the stories her father used to tell of what the outside world was like. Perhaps his corpse was out here somewhere, claimed by radiation and other invisible poisons.
Her feet moved over the ground, stirring up as little dust as she could. There were feral things out here.
Reginald felt the sweltering heat, now more than ever. It was almost unbearable. As he searched the horizon for some sort of shade, he found an old car. It was mostly destroyed, but, there was still some sort of shade to be found under the roof of it. He forced his way into the front seat, tearing the rusted door off, it hitting the ground with a grinding thud. Climbing into it, he sat down on the torn-up seating, and looked out onto the wastes he had just traversed.
This part of the wasteland had been reduced to mostly dry grass, dead trees, and hills formed by the nuclear blasts. He didn't know what anything south of here was, but he did know that anything northward was frozen tundra. Or, at least, that's what the wanderers he met said. However, none of them had been past the Appalachian Mountains. What was beyond them, was anyone's guess.
Olivia's fingers twitched again, her eyes flicking slightly westward, over the deserted road that stretched on and on, littered with debris, signs of the old world. Had she heard something, or was it the nervous, hidden thumping of her own heart? She grit her teeth, ignoring the silly stab of fear that betrayed her, instead focusing her eyes across the horizon, trying to figure out where the sound had come from. She gripped her handgun more tightly, knuckles white as she glanced around. The rest of her squad had spread out, but her radio was secured to her shoulder. In a bind she could easily press the button with her cheek or her chin and speak directly into it. But she didn't want to alert her team too quickly. No, the commander wouldn't respond well to a false alarm.
Olivia kept her eyes peeled on the road head of her, ducking behind an old overturned truck, its windows all shattered, only bits of glass remaining. The paint was chipped and peeled and dusted, but looked as though it had once been a flamboyant yellow. Olivia shook her head at the obvious display of arrogance, wealth, and youth that had likely been flaunted by the truck's previous owner. Was she glad the old fabled world of riches and privilege was dead and destroyed? Perhaps.
Setting her jaw, she edged forward on quiet feet, grateful for the lining of dead grass that lined the old road that quieted her footsteps. Was something out there?
Reginald kicked his feet up onto the bulkhead, above the dashboard. He laid his rifle on his lap and looked in the car. There was a skeleton in the back seat. It was holding a pistol, laid up to the skull, and there was a bullet hole in it. Obviously, that person had killed themselves. It was a common sight to see, and it didn't shake him up the slightest. He took a tan slouch hat from the body, however, and stuck it on his head. His old hat, a straw one he had taken from a corpse, was traded off for some food he needed.
The dashboard was black, with a rotted-out wooden lining. The bulkhead matched the black rather well, but it paint was chipping. The car, on the exterior, had completely been rusted. The paint that once lined it had peeled off. He wondered what it might have looked like the day the bombs fell. Perhaps it was a beautiful shade of jungle green, or a deep blue. Maybe there was a family in here, or maybe it was just one person. He had no way of knowing.
As he was deep in thought, he spotted a figure on the road. It was only for a second, before it disappeared behind an overturned lorry. Perhaps it was his eyes playing tricks. He had, after all, been in the desert for a while.
Had she heard a creak? Some kind of shifting, and then a settling of weight, maybe. She kept very still for a long moment, frozen, before shifting forward, her throat very dry. Another few steps, and she wouldn't have immediate shelter behind the truck. Where was the next bit of shelter? There, ahead. One, a pile of shambled rusty bits that had probably once been a car or truck, and then just beyond that, an old rusted car. Was that a flicker of movement she could see through the windows? Only closer investigation would tell.
"C'mon, Liv," she whispered hoarsely to herself. She wet her lips, then darted forward, quick on her booted feet as she ducked behind the pile of abandoned pieces. Her sheathed knife pressed into her hip, but she ignored it, one finger stroking over the safety latch of her handgun before she leaned to the side, eyes narrowed against the heat and dust and sunlight, trying to get a better glimpse of the car, wondering if she was crazy, seeing things. Closer, closer... She moved forward again, darting just behind the trunk of the car.
Reginald pretended not to see the woman's fragile figure dart across the road, and behind the car. He feigned sleeping, which is something that seemed so foreign. He had not slept in days, and as he closed his eyes, he almost felt like sleeping for real, but this was a matter of life or death. This woman could be a raider, a slaver, or just simply an opportunist looking to survive. He could take no more chances.
Reginald slid his feet off the bulkhead, adjusted his cap, and stepped out of the car, rifle in hand. He walked over to the back, where he saw the woman, a pistol in hand, crouching down, "You should work on your stealth skills."
Olivia froze, icy fear flooding her veins as the man approached, a rifle held easily in his hand. She flicked the safety on her pistol, and the weapon gave a threatening click. She gripped it in both hands, the barrel aimed steadily at the stranger's chest. You should work on your stealth skills. The first words she had ever heard from an outsider, and it was an insult. Of course. Her head twitched, instinct screaming at her to radio in her commander, call for help. The others in her team would probably be too far away to hear any altercation between herself and this man.
"Don't move," she hissed, her voice a little raspy from her parched throat. "Get... get back." Damn her voice. Of course it would falter at a time like this. She couldn't let fear show! Olivia kept down in her crouched position, eyes narrowed, but couldn't help the feeling of realization and surprise that was starting to creep into her. There was someone out here, alive, moving about. But perhaps there were more. Perhaps the humans surviving out here would travel in packs. Her eyes flit back and forth before returning to the man.
"How cute." Reginald smiled. She was crouched down and pointing her pistol at him, but he didn't even back down. It was a sign of weakness, and he'd rather face his end there than back down to a little girl, "Go ahead. If you're going to shoot me, do it."
He let his rifle go into one hand, and he rested the barrel on the ground. Gesturing for her to take a shot, he grinned. Something about her seemed to suggest she wasn't a killer, or at the very least, had never killed anyone.
Olivia's eyes flickered, and then narrowed angrily at his use of the word 'cute.' She rose to her feet fluidly, keeping both the gun and her eyes trained on him as her gut clenched. She didn't want to shoot him, but he was clearly mocking her here.
"Back down, she demanded again, eyes flashing, "or I'll radio my team. You'd be down or dead in minutes," she said, her voice low. She took a step towards him, shoulders tense. Her eyes flit briefly over his form, taking in his somewhat ragged appearance, his clothing, the hard lines of his jaw and brow.