In Hope Town, guarding the gate was an easy job.
Although only a gate separated this place from the wasteland, and taking another two steps forward meant entering a hell where no one cared if you died, it was not the wasteland after all. There was no need to take great risks to earn a considerable salary.
And the job was respectable enough.
Whether they dealt in legitimate business or otherwise, people tended to restrain themselves somewhat when they approached a settlement.
Even raiders needed a safe place like this to exchange their stolen goods for other things they needed.
Otherwise, what they looted would be worthless trash, fit only to be left on the ground for scavengers to pick up or become trophies for other wastelanders.
Especially now, when most wastelanders in this area had started using automatic rifles produced in the southern part of River Valley Province.
With hand-built pipe rifles, it was already difficult to survive. They too needed to keep up with the times and hide where they ought to hide...
Standing at the west gate, Mark yawned and pulled out his rusty pocket watch for a glance, calculating how many hours remained until he got off work.
This job was all about killing time.
That was especially true at the western gate, which wastelanders rarely visited.
Just as he was wondering where to drink after work, the guard standing beside him suddenly looked westward and muttered with a frown.
"What was that sound?"
"What... what sound?" Mark snapped shut the brass cover, put away his pocket watch, and looked at the new guy.
The lad had only joined the town guard a few months ago. He was the son of a hunter in town, and Mark vaguely remembered his father. They had drunk together before.