Captain John Barnes ground his teeth, fist clenching tightly over the handle of his Berretta as he fought to bottle up his anger, he was an officer in the New California Republic Army and as such it was his duty to remain stoic and fearless, to set a standard for his men to follow. The wind shifted, blowing the acrid smoke that plumed from the burning town flooded into his nostrils, several men gagged at the smell of burning flesh. John swallowed heavily, his eyes watering from both the smoke, the smell and the sheer frustration as he stared down at the burning remains of a once thriving down, gun shots and panicked screams pricking at his conscience, reminding him that if he acted now there were still lives that could be saved. But instead he had to stand idle on the walls of Fort Mills, alongside a growing crowd of NCR troopers, staring across the Sacramento River as Scottstown died.
The raiders had come at dawn. Whoever had founded Scottstown had chosen to found the town in between three hills with the river at its back. Nestled in the shelter of the tall hills Scottstown had been protected from the worst of the wasteland storms and the river had given them a ready trade route that was safe from most raiders, who preferred to stick to solid ground. And so Scottstown had prospered, the corrugated iron shanty buildings slowly being replaced by permanent wooden structures as the town grew larger, more and more people attracted by the safety offered by the town's mercenary protectors. The town had even grown rich enough that it was able to remain independent of the NCR, a fact that the residents of Scottstown were paying dearly for.
Those three hills that had protected the town from the vicious wasteland storms, that had allowed the town to grow fat and wealthy, had been the town's downfall. The hills had hidden the raiders approach from view until they had crested the hill, waste-wolf furs flying in the wind like some grotesque cloak on the ancient knights of old. John assumed that some well-placed bribes had been paid, that more than a few mercenaries were strolling off into the night, packs heavy with caps. John had already argued with the Colonel, almost begging him to let John take a company across the river and evacuate any surviving civilians before they were found by the merciless raiders but the Colonel had coldly refused to send NCR troops to rescue non-NCR civilians.
"Sir!" John whirled round as he caught sight of the Colonel, the man's great, bristling ginger beard leaping out from the throng of legionaries. John strode towards his commander feeling a cold anger wash over him as moved, determined that he would not stand here and do nothing while innocent's died in front of him.
"Captain." Colonel Barr replied wearily, holding up a hand to check John's stride.
"Colonel." John waved a hand across the river, to where the flames leapt up into the night sky. "Just let me take a company…hell just let me take a platoon and I can save some of them."
"No Captain." The Colonel snapped loudly, troopers turned at the sound and he hurriedly lowered his voice, pulling John over to a less crowded section of the wall while the soldier's attention was dragged back towards Scottstown as fresh screams erupted from the flames. "The NCR's policy is very clear on matters such as this, those people decided that they could manage without the NCR's protection and they must live with that decision, we can only hope others will hear of this massacre and make a wiser choice."
"It doesn't have to be a massacre." John pleaded. "Just allow me to gather some volunteers…"
"No." Colonel Barr cut him off with a swipe of his hand. "We have our orders Captain." He flinched as a series of wolf like howls erupted from Scottstown, the eerie baying was the war cry of the raiders. John bit back an angry accusation as the realisation that his Commanding Officer was terrified washed over him.
It made sense, he reflected bitterly, some rich, powerful family back home had bought their son a commission and had him posted to quiet backwater where he was unlikely to see any action. Colonel Henry Barr most likely planned to go into politics once he had served for a respectable amount of time, his military experience just a minor road bump on his journey to a comfy chair in the senate, the generous pension afforded to senior officers certainly wouldn't be unwelcome either.
"Sir." John said slowly, trying hard to hard his newfound contempt for his commander hidden. "The men can handle a bunch of ill equipped, under dressed raiders, we've got a fair amount of veterans in the ranks. As for our orders, we can just say that we were fired upon, or that the raiders attempted to cross the river." He pointed at the wreckage of Scottstown. "No one expected that this would happen, intel suggested that there might be raids but no one even imagined an attack like this. You'll be a hero sir, the saviour of Scottstown." John desperately aimed at the man's ego, hoping that it would overcome his fear.
"No Captain." Colonel Barr growled him, emphasising John's rank. "We need all our men defending the fort and the NCR's side of the river, those are my orders and anyone who does not obey them to the letter will find themselves in front of a firing squad."
John turned and walked away in disgust, not bothering to hide his contempt. A particular loud scream made him cringe, and the thought of disobeying the Colonel's orders crept into his mind. He stood staring at the water that lapped gently against the side of the NCR army boats, small things that had been dragged overland from where they had been found, lying disused on driveways and in garages. He could just march out and take one, men would follow him, he knew that for certain. Some would follow because of his reputation, some because they owed their lives and some would follow because like him they hated standing idle, just watching a town die and listening to the screams of women and children as they were raped and murdered.
He felt his feet start to move, striding towards the ramp nearest the riverside gate. Then Colonel Barr's words echoed in his head, John had no doubt that he would carry out his threat if troops did attack the raiders. Not only would the Colonel feel embarrassed at the casual disregard for his authority, he would also face whispers of cowardice that his men rescued civilians while he hid behind the solid walls of Fort Mills, those whispers would inevitably reach Shady Sands and Barr's humiliation would be absolute, his retribution for that humiliation would be brutal and ruthless. John would most likely escape said retribution, he was a decorated soldier and it was doubtful that the brass would allow him to be executed, most likely he'd be sent to front lines of some hell hole where they could best use his abilities and when he inevitably caught a bullet they would use it to placate Barr and his family.
John came to a reluctant stop, he was willing to give his own life, he had no family left, no one who would mourn him once he was gone. His men were a different story, many had families to support, mothers, wives and children who waited for them to come home. John had wrote enough letters home, telling families that their son or daughter had died in service to the republic and he didn't think he could bear it if the next set he wrote had to explain that their son had been executed in disgrace because Captain John Barnes hadn't been able to keep his emotions in check and follow orders. Sighing heavily, John straightened his back and wiped all trace of emotion from his face.
"Stop staring and get back to your posts, the walls just for sentries." He barked at the crowd of men, sergeants took up his cry, shoving those who were reluctant to leave.
"Captain we can't do nothing." Private Dodd protested, his face filled with the same righteous indignation that had been on his own face just a few minutes ago.
"You are a soldier Dodd, you swore an oath to obey lawful orders. Those orders have come down the chain and they are to do nothing so that is what we are going to do." John growled angrily, the thunderous look on his face making more than a few stragglers hurry off of the ramparts.
"But sir…" Dodd started to protest.
"Dodd." John hissed, pushing his face close to the soldiers. "I don't want to have to write back to your wife and tell her you got yourself shot for disobeying orders because unless you get your ass shot obeying orders she doesn't get that military pension to help look after the little ones. That what you want Dodd?"
"No sir." Dodd said quietly before a stubborn edge crept into his voice. "But that don't make it right."
"You're in the army Dodd." John replied quietly. "The army decides what's right." Dodd stared at him for a few moments and John couldn't help but wonder what the man saw. Did he see a soldier, just another faceless cog in the war machine, did he see a man desperately wanted to charge across that river or did he see another heartless officer whose only concern was gaining fame back in the NCR heartland? Dodd shook his head quietly and stepped into the darkness, leaving John to stare at the burning town, every scream jabbing at his battered conscience.
John groaned softly, pain flaring in his head at even that small motion. At least the pain meant he was not dead, though was little comfort as the pain raged around his head like a rampaging Brahmin. The pain somehow managed to get worse as he sat up, blinking at the sudden rush of light, temporarily blinded as they struggled to adjust. The sheet that covered him itched against his bare skin and he pushed it away, his legs blindly find the side of the small bed and touching down on the cold floor. Gingerly he opened his eyes, blinking heavily as the world slowly changed from a fuzzy mess to its normal state. He was in an office of some sort, a doctor's office he amended as he saw the medical equipment lying on the surrounding shelves. Some light managed to stream through a dirty window pane, the source of light in the dark room. The humming of the machine told him that there was electricity, most likely the doctor had conserved power to run whatever medical machines were needed to patch him up.
Memories of the previous night flooded back to him, and that was only if he had been unconscious for a day, if could have been longer after all he'd been shot. Memories of the ambush, of his capture flashed before him, the last image was of the man in a checked suit pointing a pistol at his end…of a bang. John's hand flew up to his head, his fingers cautiously probing. His hair had been shorn short, like the military cut he'd sported years ago.
"Whoa easy there, easy." A warm voice chuckled, John jerked his head away from the window to see an old, balding man shuffling into the room, an easy smile on his weathered face. He moved across the space to an ancient looking chair near the bed. "You've been out a couple of days now, why don't you just relax a second, get your bearings, see what the damage is. How about your name, can you tell me your name?"
"John, John Barnes." He grunted in reply, a hand shifting to cradle his aching head. The old doctor must have realised he was in pain because he reached over too one of the shelves and selected a syringe. He took a few seconds to find a vein and jab the tip into John's arm before the pain faded to a dull throbbing.
"Well I can't say it's what I'd have picked for you." The old doctor chuckled as he removed the syringe and dumped in a tray full of what John guessed was disinfectant of some kind. "But if that's your name, that's your name. Everyone round here just calls me Doc Mitchell."
"Here?" John asked uncertainly.
"Goodsprings, ever been to our lovely little town before."
"No, first time I've had to deliver a package in the Mojave." John muttered, his mind figuring out exactly where he was on his mental map.
"Now…" Doc Mitchell sounded nervous for the first time, John tensed as he prepared for what he assumed would be bad news. "I hope you don't mind but I had to go rooting around there in your noggin to pull all the bits of lead out. I take pride in my needlework but you better tell me if I left anything out of place." He pushed a mirror into John's hands and stepped back, his eyes watching John intently. John felt icy fear twist and turn in his stomach, pictures of horribly maimed soldiers rushing into his head. He had to wait a minute or so before he gathered the courage to flip the mirror round, revealing his reflection.
"Damn Doc." He chuckled, his body sagging as relief swept through him. "Your bedside manner might need a bit of work, way you were talking I thought I'd have a face like a ghoul." The mirror had revealed the same face he always had, with the addition of two fresh scars at his hairline where the bullets had wreaked their havoc. Even they were no matter, give it a week and his hair would regrow and cover them up once more.
"Heh, sorry 'bout that, but fortunately gunshots wounds are rarity round here, s'mostly gecko bites, radscorpion stings and broken bones." John couldn't help but feel guilty as a mortified look appeared on the old doctor's face.
"Doc, you managed to patch me up good as new after I got shot twice, in my head, I can pretty much forgive you anything right now." He smiled widely, keen to show that no offence had been taken.
"Good." The old man chuckled, more at himself than anything else, John suspected. "Well let's see if we can get you on your feet." John ignored the hand that was held out to him, keeping his ready to grab at the side of the bed or the nearby desk if he should fall. They felt unsteady for a few nervous moments, unused in days they took a while to regain their old steadiness. Once he was sure he was not going to pitch over he took a couple of steps forward, bare feet almost sliding along the wooden floor until he had the confidence to take a proper step.
"Good." Doc Mitchell nodded approvingly. "Why don't you walk down to the end of the room, over by that vigour testing machine there." He pointed at a metal box, even taller than John who was not a small man at 6 foot, it reminded him of the old gambling machines that casinos were fond of using, he'd even played on a couple when he had been on leave in New Reno, why Doc Mitchell would have one, was beyond him. The old doctor hovered nearby as he made his way across the room, his sense of balance growing as he went.
"Looking good so far." The old doctor chuckled when John had gotten to the machine without incident. "Go ahead and give the vigour tester a try, we'll learn right quick if you've got back all your faculties." John raised a sceptical eyebrow but the Doc just gestured at the machine, a knowing smile on his face.
His right hand gripped the protruding handle tightly, he jumped as the machine sprang to life, lights flashing and the quiet tones of some pre-war tune. He took a moment to calm himself after the shock, his nerves had already been frayed by the two bullets he taken in the head.
"Okay." He muttered quietly to himself, hitting the start button. "Let's just get this over with." He swore as the handle began to shake erratically, forcing him to tighten his grip to stop the handle wrenching free. It continued for what seemed like an age, his wrist and arm beginning to ache with the constant jerking, then as suddenly as it started the handle fell still and lights flashed up on the screen before him giving him unintelligible scores like 'Knife Catcher' and 'Monocled Falcon, leaving John more confused than when he had started.
"That's not a bad score at all, considering what you've been through." Apparently the strange scores made perfect sense to the Doc, though John was beginning to question the old man's sanity. "Even the machine thinks you're lucky as a rabbit's foot wrapped in four leaf clovers."
"Lucky." John snorted. "I wouldn't call myself lucky."
"You got yourself shot twice in the head and lived to tell the tale."
"A lucky man never would have been shot in the first place." John replied stubbornly, all the crap that had happened to him in his life would have never happened a 'lucky man'.
"Suit yourself." Doc Mitchell shrugged. "Well we know that your vitals are good, but that don't mean that bullet didn't leave nuttier than a bighorn's dropping. What do you say you take a seat on my couch and we go through a couple of questions and see if your dogs are still barking?"
"Uh…no thanks Doc." John said hurriedly, he may have left the army five years ago but the innate distrust soldiers had for psychologists was still deeply ingrained in his psyche. "I'd better get going, need to find out why someone would want to shoot me in the head." And repay the favour, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, though he kept that to himself.
"Well ok, if you're sure?" The Doc sounded unhappy but he did not press the issue when John refused once more. "That's about it then. Here's what you had on you when you came in, it's not much I'm afraid. Hope you don't mind but I took a look this note but it was a just a delivery order."
John took the crumpled piece of paper and scanned it but it was only the old delivery instructions he had received from the Mojave Express store owner in Primm, Johnson…something.
Deliver the package at the north entrance to the Vegas Strip, by way of Freeside. An agent of the recipient will meet you at the checkpoint, take possession of the package, and pay for the delivery. Bring the payment to Johnson Nash at the Mojave Express agency in Primm.
Bonus on completion: 250 caps.
MANIFEST
This package contains:
One (1) Oversized Poker Chip, composed of Platinum
"Thanks." John muttered, he had been hoping that the note was from one of the men that had shot him. "For everything." He added more gratefully.
"Well hold on their just a minute." Doc Mitchell chuckled as he gestured to John's attire. "You can't go out into the wastes wearing just your under garments now can you? Now I've got an old vault suit you can borrow till you get the chance to get something new, sure Chet'd be thrilled to help you with that."
"Thanks Doc, you're too kind." John said gratefully.
"Now, now. I'm just doing what nay decent man would do, besides I ain't got no need of that old thing anymore, my wandering days are over. Speaking of which, I've got one last thing for you."
"Wow." John breathed as the Doc shoved what looked to be an oversized watch onto his wrist, a hiss emanating from it as it sealed itself around his left forearm. "A Pip-boy. Doc these things are rare…and very valuable. Selling this could set you up for life."
"I know." The Doc smiled sadly. "When I was younger that thing was a lifesaver, an explorer's best friend, now it just sits in a drawer in my desk gathering dust. I make enough to live comfortable enough, always call for a doctor in the wastes." He clapped John on the shoulder, a faraway look in his eye. "You remind of someone I used to know, got her eyes, and got the same damn stubbornness." He coughed loudly, a rubbing furiously at his eyes. "Besides what would be the point of me patching you up if I just let you wander out there to get yourself killed again."
"I…I don't know what to say." John mumbled, embarrassed at the grief he had seen in the man's eyes. He focused his attention on his 9mm Beretta, checking that the pistol was still in working order before pushing it back into its shoulder holster.
"No need to say anything, just get out there, find someone you love and do your damndest to keep them safe." He said with sudden passion.
"I will." John promised, getting the feeling that there was a take behind those words. He pushed an old hat onto his head, the small brim would keep some of the harsh wasteland sun off of his neck at least. "I will." He touched the brim with two fingers before he stepped out of the Doc's small house and out into the town of Goodsprings.