It was a hot day in the desert. Of course most days in the desert are hot, but this day was particularly hot. The sun beat down mercilessly, frying anything that dared hold still too long on the hardpan. For miles, there was nothing but bright, dry hardpan desert, and flowing mirage lines in a complete circle. It was on that day, that a tall, dark figure moved silently across the desert. He was just over six feet with dark skin and deep brown eyes, clad in a burlap wanderer's outfit. It looked almost like a robe, with a hood for keeping the sun off of your head, and straps attached everywhere for keeping handy things in. He himself, kept a big survival knife strapped to his belt. Just beneath the bottom of his skirt, you could see faded denim jeans and worn leather boots. By his side was a muscular brahmin with three packs slung over it. They were stuffed until they almost burst at the seams, with god knows what. They bulged in odd and alien shapes, pointed and rounded alike. Three waterskins, two empty and one barely filled with anything hung on one side. A bell dangled from the brahmin's neck, which rang out low every time it took a step. Carved into the bell was the word "Bo".
The two of them walked side by side, neither talking or mooing (or whatever the hell it is brahmin do), just calmly making their pace as if they weren't burning to death out in the middle of nowhere. As the sun finally began to set, the man produced a still full waterskin from beneath his robe, and took a long swig, being sure to savor it, swish it about his mouth a bit, and swallow it slowly. It washed down his throat, cooling it almost to the point that steam spouted from his nostrils. Or at least, that's how he felt. He was dying of thirst, he knew. Another day of this, and he'd be dead for sure. He hadn't eaten in days, and his water was nearly used up. Despite his calm demeanor, he was losing hope of living. But, like anyone wise knows, panicking will only make it worse. So, he walked on, aware f the danger, but not giving nature the satisfaction of seeing hi squirm.
Finally, the sun retreated behind distant mountains, blurred from mirage like everything else, and he sighed. Now would come the cold, and while it was better than the scorching day, keeping warm without a tent was not easy. Suddenly, something caught his eye. Just beyond his line of sight, he saw something, a light, flick on. His heart stopped. His legs wobbled, then held tight, not letting him move another inch. The brahmin kept on, but he couldn't take another step. He continued to stare at the speck of light, to assure himself it wasn't just his imagination. But as he was staring, more lights flicked on. At least five. A smile stretched slowly across his chapped and cracked lips, cutting a thin pink line through his dark face. He began to move again, catching up to Bo. Bo too, had seemed to spot the distant traces of life, because his steps became longer and more rapid. Together they nearly jogged their way to the small town.
The entered the town limits after half an hour or so, passing a plywood sign on the way that read "Welc me to Newton" in faded white paint, held up by two two-by-fours. The town was not much more than a long strip of beaten road, lined with about fifteen buildings. The first two they passed were a post office and a clinic. Since the only things that ailed him were an empty stomach and a dry mouth, he scoped out the saloon in a hurry. As soon as he spotted it, he started to make headway for it, before realizing that he had no caps to his name. First things first, he'd have to cash in. Just a few doors down from the saloon was a two story building with a sign that read "Sundries!" in bright orange. He lead Bo over, and untied the sacks from him. After swinging them over his own back, he headed into the bat-wing doors that stood in the front archway. They creaked loudly as he went through them, the left one barely budging at all. He guess they didn't have much oil to spare in this town. As soon as he was in, he spotted the front desk. In fact, it was just about five feet from the door. The rest of the building was likely devoted to sleeping quarters and storage space. Behind the desk, was an old man, with a leathery face and thinning hairline, wearing a vault suit with the number painted over in blue. He thumbed through a copy of Pugilism Illustrated, that was missing half of the front cover and looked a bit scorched around the edges. He glanced up to see the stranger entering his shop, and put the magazine beneath the counter, then came back out with a long barreled revolver. The stranger stopped dead, not daring to agitate the man. They stood off for a moment, before the old man spoke up.
"Welcome to Miguel's Sundries. Can I help you?" he asked, using his thumb to cock the hammer on his revolver. The stranger looked down at the gun, thinking of the best was to approach the situation. Finally he concluded that the best way was to be frank.
"My name is Clan. I just got into town, and I wanted to trade some goods for caps, if that's all right with you. I just figured you'd be able to make best use of-"
"Caps?" the old man interrupted, raising an eyebrow.
"You don't use caps round here?" asked Clan, shoulders starting to ache from the weight of the sacks.
"No no, we do. I just thought you were...never mind. I'd be happy to help you," said the old man. He smiled, releasing the hammer and tucking the revolver into his belt. Clan slowly approached, still not wanting to provoke him. He placed all three sacks on the counter, untying them in turn. He reached into the first sack, and came out with a bottle of turpentine.
"Got quality stuff here. Got it from a vault, 82 if I recall. Not much in there but cleaning supplies and radroaches when I got there," he put the bottle down on the counter, and reached into the second bag, bringing out a wad of old dirty money held together with a rubber band, "And this one if filled to bursting with pre-war cash. Collected it over time, but I found a lot of it in an old hideout. Check the dates, they're from way before the war." Sure enough, the old man read the dates, and they were from at least 10 years before the war began. He nodded at them, then placed them on the counter next to the turpentine. Clan reached into the final sack, and pulled out a dirty battery. "This one's got nothing but spare electric parts. Good ones too. I pulled them out of the bots myself when I could, but I picked a few of them up in abandoned houses." He put it back in the sack, then placed the other two items back in their respective bags before wiping his hands on his chest. "How much you think you can give me?" he asked the old man.
Miguel seemed to retreat into thought briefly, then he began to inspect the sacks, sizing up a good amount to swindle Clan with. "Five for turpentine, three for any other cleaners, twenty for every pound of cash, fifteen for batteries, and twenty for fusion cells." Clan smiled, clearly not buying it.
"Double that, and it's a deal," he said. Miguel reacted with a surprised look. Then his face quickly turned sour. Lines grew all over his face, and he spoke with a sudden authority.
"You think all this garbage is worth that much? Boy, you sure h'ain't been in the trading business long have you?" he said.
"Long enough to know when an old codger is trying to cheat me out of my caps," said Clan, leaning in toward Miguel, smiling still. They locked eyes for a few minutes, neither adding a word to the argument. The room was silent all the while, and Clan could pick out a slight whistle from the old man as he inhaled. Finally, the old man broke and gave a loud groan.
"Fine," he said, "I'll give you half a cap to every cap, and I'll throw in a .45 and a box of ammo. There are heap of critters past here, and that knife ain't gonna keep you safe against any geckos."
Clan thought it over for a moment, before agreeing. Miguel turned around, and headed for the back room. It was through a rotting old doorway, that looked like rats had been chewing it. Clan leaned on the counter, thinking about what he'd get with his new bundle of caps. Images of brahmin steaks, and cold beer danced in front of his eyes. His mouth watered a little. He hadn't eaten in so long, and real meat, not that irradiated gecko or radroach crap that was more cartilage than muscle, was pretty rare out here. With so little water, keeping brahmin was a hard enterprise. Miguel came back shortly, with an attache case in one hand, and two lock-boxes, one in hid hand and the other tucked under his arm. He laid them out, then started going through the sacks. He counted the loot one at a time, writing the numbers down on a clipboard next to the register. In total, he took from one lock-box three hundred caps. Then he opened the attache case, and showed the contents to clan. There were two pistols, one light with a ring hammer and wood finish, and the other metallic black with a normal hammer and a black grip. Clan took them both apart and inspected them, not ignorant to the glare from Miguel, who clearly took offense to anyone having to double check his goods before buying. Finally, Clan chose the lighter one, and Miguel gave him a holster to clip onto his belt as a bonus. Clan attached the leather holster and slid the pistol into it. The weight of the gun felt good against his hip. It made him feel more secure, even without anything in the chamber. Miguel slid the other lock-box toward him, which Clan assumed held the ammo he was promised.
"Got eighty rounds in that box, and the clip holds ten at a time. You should be able to make 'em last if you don't go shooting everything that moves," said Miguel.
"I appreciate it," said Clan, looking down at the gun. It was sort of mesmerizing to look at. One of those things that makes a man feel more like a man. He turned on his heel, stuffing his caps into the largest pouch on his belt. As he made his way out, he could hear Miguel grumbling under his breath while he put away his new goods. When he was out of the bat-wing doors, Bo was trying futilely to graze on a patch of dried grass. "Don't eat that boy, you'll get sick," said Clan. He said that, but he didn't know where there would be a better option for food. He supposed he'd just have to ask if anyone around would be willing to spare some feed for a few caps. He untied Bo from the post he was secured to, and lead him toward the saloon.
The night was staring to cool down now, and crickets were sounding in the dark corners of the world. As they approached the saloon, Clan began to hear laughing from inside. It was only two or three people, Clan cold tell from the changes in tone of the incoherent murmur. He secured Bo to a new post, and patted him on the head. Bo let out a low groan and closed his eyes. He was tired. So was Clan. He moved up the wood steps, they creaked as he did. The sound inside stopped, and as he opened the front door, he was surprised to see five guns pointed at him.
He spotted the bar a few yards from the entrance, where a greenish ghoul stood. He wore a dirty tank top and coveralls were hanging about his waist. He had one eye, the other looked like a mass of pussy flesh, and it was focused directly on him. He brandishes an old double-barreled shotgun. A little ways away from the bar was a red-headed, light skinned, freckled woman with her hair done up in a bun, and a pink checkered dress. It was pic noticeably clean compared to the bartender's clothes. She had a tin tray with three bottles of beer on it in one hand, and a short barreled revolver in the other. Sitting at one of three tables in the room were three men in vault jumpsuits, with the numbers covered in blue paint just like Miguel's. One was black with a shaved head, split lip and squinted eyes, holding a 10mm pistol in his right hand. Next to him was a chubby man with loose hair and an untamed beard flying all about his head. His face was a bit red, Clan noticed. He was holding a bottle of whiskey in his right hand, and a 10mm sub-machine pistol in his left. Finally there was a skinny young man with his blond hair combed to one side, and small blue eyes. He looked by far the most nervous, since he had both hands on his rifle, which was a simple hunting rig with a scope duct taped on top.
Clan glanced about the room, taking in the scene. He slowly raised his hands up over his head, and said, "I'm not bringing any trouble. I just got to town, and I was hoping for a drink and a place to sleep." They looked at him a moment longer, then collectively stashed their weapons. The ghoul behind the bar motioned for him to come over, so he did. There being no stools, Clan leaned up against the bar. The ghoul went into a cooler against the wall and brought out a bottle of beer.
"Sorry about that," he said in a terribly raspy voice, "We're just a bit jumpy lately. Name's Otto. Pretty young thing walking around is Maggie. Those guys are just dunces that show up every night with a handful of caps.
A jesting cry of "Fuck you Otto!" came from behind Clan, followed by chuckles and the commencement of casual conversation. Clan drowned it out, giving Otto his full attention.
"I'm Clan. Came from far northeast, near what they call the Capitol Wasteland," said Clan, twisting the top off of the beer.
"No shit, the Capitol? I heard about that place. They say there's green everywhere, and clean water. And some new government that ain't been touched by the Legion," said Miguel, smiling wide and folding his arms.
Clan took a long swig of the cold drink. It was a million times better than lukewarm water. "Well sorry to tell you, but that's all a load of shit."
TBC...