The Exodus from the accursed base was a trying time for the men and their families. While there was no radioactive fallout to contend with, they were frequently beset by the fallout of humanity. Roving bands of psychotic marauders attempted several attacks on that noble group.
The company itself was in no danger, for they wore the Armor of Power. Members of their families were not so lucky. Once the vermin found out they were easily repelled, they began to fire on the unarmed civilians from a distance.
They took a great many casualties, yet for every member of the Exodus that was struck down in this way, our noble brethren took two lives from the wasteland.
Finally, the forefathers came to the safety of the bunker. Capt. Maxson, the great deliverer, decreed this to be our new home, and all was well.
In the fullness of time the bunker became our home, our temple and our salvation from the terrors of the outside world. We began to build and shape our fortress into something glorious, the beauty of which the technologically bereft world had never seen before.
Yet there were those who sought still more. These restless souls demanded we look to the southeast for the advanced technology that was supposedly housed there.
Capt. Maxson warned these impetuous youths that the research facility was doubtlessly destroyed when we were spared, but they would not hear his words. They took their sanctified armor and headed off to find their Holy Grail, but not before they spoke the Deliverer's name in vain, questioning his very bravery!
These men were never heard from again.