Capital Wasteland
2277
Eric downed the bottle of Scotch and threw it hard against the wall where it bloomed like a sparkly flower.
On the radio, President Eden talked about baseball and how children should be America's future, earning a loud drunken laugh from the Regulator.
"Damnit Eric!" Cynthia scolded, walking in from the kitchen, "Alan, stay where you are, sweetheart, there's glass on the floor…" The black haired boy stopped at the woman's knee nodding, backed away in the kitchen as his mother set to sweep the floor with a rag on the end of a stick. "Can't you show at least a little bit of respect? I bust my ass trying to keep this place clean and you just…"
Looking up, she saw Eric making puppet movements with his hand and mouthing 'blah blah blah…'
Standing at six foot eight inches and built like a tank, the man really didn't feel all that intimidated by the five foot six inch skeletal jet addict trying to act pissed.
"You want me to shut up? Why don't you do something useful every now and then? Maybe, like, fix the holes in the wall or something?"
Still slouched in the couch, Eric scoffed and pulled himself straighter, "Because I'm the one that pays for your next fix and the clothes your kid wears. You think my job's a picnic? Is it wrong of me to relax when I get home?" He paused, as if waiting for an answer, then slouched back, "Why don't you fix them walls?"
"Because I need to tend to the cattle, cook, clean up and school my son!"
His eyes turned to the quiet child in the doorframe, "Then maybe you shouldn't waste your time on him, why does have to know how to read? He doesn't want to touch a gun and does nothing but sit on the porch waiting for a dead guy… Fuckin' waste of skin."
Cynthia didn't answer. Eric said things sometimes but didn't really mean them; just the whiskey talking…
Prepared to let it slide, she went back to scrubbing the floor when a tiny voice, hoarse and constricted from withheld tears, spoke up, "My dad isn't dead." Alan spoke, his tiny fists balled and turning white from being shut too tight.
Laughing, Eric dragged his bulky form off the sofa to face the kid.
"Your dad's gone, kiddo…" He brushed off Alan's mother and stepped around the couch, "He's been gone for three years and hasn't wrote once since…"
"You're lying!" The boy stomped up to the man's face, shoving an accusing finger under his nose, "He wrote to us all the time! I found the letters under your bed! He's coming back any days now!"
Eric froze, eyes wide, when Alan removed a sheet of neatly folded paper from his shirt to shove it in his step-dad's face.
Al, Cyn, my sweethearts, for years, I've awaited your answer and for years was left with horrible doubts and my only memories to hang onto. Today, my contract ends, this is the last letter you will get from me, either because I did not make it home, and this is my chance to say goodbye, or because everything I wish to tell you will be told in person. In the event that something happens to me before we are reunited, I want you to know that I forgive you if you simply resented my departure and hope you will forgive me as well.
Alan, three years must seem like an eternity, I know, and you may not even remember me by the time you read this, but know that I will always love you, be who you want to be, my boy, and I will always be proud of you.
Dad.
The Regulator turned to Cynthia, his eyes dark and shoulders rising slowly.
00000000
The man is furious, hollering incoherently at his girlfriend, a boy sobbing in a dark corner of the room, knees brought up against his chest.
This shack is pitiful and the two Brahmins in the pen outside are just plain malnourished, not to mention the shitty razor wires from the fence, lying around half buried because nobody bothered to pick them up after finishing the tiny pen.
Maybe it's my fault, maybe I shouldn't have just buggered off three years ago without a warning, it's not like I just went quiet afterwards though; every month, I'd send over some caps and a letter, asking that they send me pictures or something to let me know everything's alright.
Never got anything.
The other guys received letters from their family, said it was all that kept them going, me, it's the uncertainty that kept me alive. I wouldn't die before I knew what's what, now I know, and I'm not ready to die yet.
Doors are locked and I'm not pissed enough to break a window, so I use a bobby pin and screw driver to pick the lock and enter the kitchen.
Just beyond the flimsy wall, the guy is still going:
"…Forget all about that asshole because he forgot…"
"His keys." Sure isn't the most badass one liner in history, but I'm not the most badass man in history either, and it's true, I forgot my damned keys.
This guy seems like a baby supermutant and his duster isn't making him any smaller.
"Who the fuck are you?" He's drunk, but not so much that he can't walk straight, just enough to be stupid.
"I'm the Mailman, delivering the newspaper," his eyes widen as I go on, "want the latest headlines? That's my kid, you're in my house and I'm back. Weather forecast? Unless you chill the fuck up, there's a decent chance of shitstorm that might result in ten millimetres precipitations, want the sports too?"
He's confused, people like him get violent when they're confused and, despite what I'm saying, I don't want this to end in a shootout, not with my boy in the room and only a Chinese pistol on my hip.
"You looking for a fight, you pansy?" his hand hovers over the handle of a .44 magnum, strapped to his hip.
"No, I just want my kid, get out of the way and everything will be fine…"
Cynthia decides to make this even more cliché and begs us to stop fighting. Used to love that bitch, when she wasn't a Jet addicted housewife, now it's just pathetic. Takes her a second to realize I'm here for Alan, not her, and when she does, it becomes even worst as she starts crying and screaming that I won't take her baby away from her, that he needs his mother and I'm a monster. She physically clings to the boy as her new boyfriend and I stare down at one another.
I'm not as impressive a man, but three years of soldiering made me lean and rough looking, and I can see in the man's eyes that he'd have drawn a lot sooner if it weren't for that nudging doubt. Just maybe I'm good enough, maybe the stone cold eyes aren't just an act.
"You'd take a son away from a mother that loves him?" He seems like one hell of a winner, as if a mother's love is better than that of a father or something.
"I'd give him a choice, at least."
Didn't think he'd agree, but he does, prying Cynthia from her son and letting him charge straight in my arms.
Despite the woman's desperate screams, I can hear the boy cry that he always knew, that he never had a doubt and "I love you, dad!"
You have any idea how long it was since it rained in the Wasteland? Well it's been a fuck of a lot longer since I cried and when the tears do make their way back on my tanned cheeks, it feels like ten thousand pounds were lifted off my back. My baby remembers me. My boy still loves me. What else can a man wish for?
There's a taste, a sound, a color to danger. A gun being cocked, a simple smell that triggers a response from the brain and lets you know shit has hit the fan.
Alan lets go, so I suppose he felt it too, and a second later, I'm twisting Cynthia's arm outward to make her drop the knife. Bones break and the dumb bastard she found to replace me finds nothing better to do than draw his magnum.
Still holding the damaged arm in one hand, I draw my own weapon with the other, spin outward and put two rounds in the man's face. His gun wasn't loaded, he'd have gotten me otherwise.
Cynthia drops the knife but catches it with her other hand and stabs my thigh in one fluid motion.
Pain and I go way back, I deal her as often as I can and she doesn't bother me until it's time to get patched up. Docs called that auto-hypnosis, I call it being tough as nail.
How many men can say they kicked their ex in the face and actually felt like a good Samaritan for it? Guess I'm lucky, but so is she because a lesser man would have used his gun.
The scope on said lesser man's gun is shit, so I leave it and just take the magnum, then the killer goes back to sleep and the father is struck with horror.
"Alan," I push my son to his room, "Pack your things, we're leaving."
The old Brahmin cart my father built is still in the barn, I checked, so while the boy places his favourite toys and clothes his bed sheet, I go strap Jorel and Hardy to the wagon. Brahmins don't move very fast, but they're strong enough to pull a whole family and their camp.
Once I'm done, I head back inside to check my stash, hidden under the fridge.
An American flag, a Vietnam war-era G.I. Uniform, a Combat knife, a Colt 1911 and an M1 Garand rifle, all a little dusty and showing some signs of wear after three hundred years of being passed down from father to son. My mother gave it to me, so 'father to son' isn't quite accurate, and I wanted my son to have it should something go wrong, guess it's a good thing that dead bastard over there didn't find it, mum would've resurrected just to bitch-slap me into a coma.
Hard woman, my mother, helped set up Talon Company and then told them to fuck off when she got pregnant, request they politely accepted and never held against her… Actually, I think old timers still avoid mentioning her name.
She's the one that re-chambered the Colt to fire 10mm, don't ask me how or why, and the reason why I now have a decent weapon instead of a Chinese automatic shit-flinger. The rest stays in the box, because too many guns just attract trouble. Next I check on top of the fridge and there it is, hidden in a shoe box, Cynthia's Jet stash. Fucking predictable. Since she bought it using caps meant for our son, I suppose that makes it mine, should fetch a good price with the right people.
After I'm done stashing our stuff in the re-purposed Winnebago and both my son and I are comfortably installed on the driver seat, which doubles as a bed when the piano-like cover is closed, I hand Alan the shit flinger. It's not loaded, I'm not a complete twat, but I still tell him to get used to the weapon, as it's his now.
First time in three years I get a good look at my boy. He's grown up, above waist high now, used to be I was afraid to knee him in the face when we played. I hear people praise each other on how cute their blond munchkins are, nevermind that every damn kid is blond with blue eyes to begin with. Alan has raven black hairs, dirty, I know, and in dire need of a cut, but still, coupled with his emerald green eyes, I can say my son is actually looks good.
Old coots that know nothing of the wastes might say he's too scrawny, looks sad and needs to stop frowning, but Alan's a Wastelander and as far as seven years old Wastelanders go, I'm proud to say he's my son. "Why are we leaving, dad?"
"Your mother's friend was a Regulator, they'll want to know what happened to him." Shit, that was supposed to be a lie, the real reason is that I don't have the nerve to deal with his mother right now, but the Regulators are actually going to be pissed about what I just did and my leg looks worse than it feels, I'll have to be careful for a week or so, can't spare the stimpack.
Well, as good a time as any to teach my boy how to dress a wound using whiskey, pure water and clean towels!