The old woman had a plate of vegetables and meat for him. What kind of meat, he didn't want to know, but it smelled good. Problem was, nothing else around him did.
"Thought you might like something to eat, young man. You done a good job here."
Arcade looked up at her, then down at his hands, which were sticky with drying fluids up to the elbows. All morning he'd been out here on his knees with their hosts' one and only female brahmin, trying to coax a breech calf into the world. Two heads made for difficult births at the best of times, and this attempt had seemed doomed to failure. He'd been on the verge of attempting a risky c-section, when it finally turned and slid out. The baby - a heifer - was on the smaller side, but it was already on its feet and nursing. I guess I could be a veterinarian, if it came to it, he thought unenthusiastically. Might as well be a dentist, too. And a barber. Just like in the old West. Yeah. Wouldn't old dad be proud.
He pushed his glasses up his face, repenting of the gesture immediately as he left a tacky smear of blood on his nose.
"Thank you. I need to wash first, but I could eat. I'll come inside in a minute." He paused. "Has she been alright?"
The woman's smile faded. "I put maize in her hands and she shucks it. Ask her to pick beans and she'll do it, like there's nothing in the world but those beans. It's like having one of my grown daughters back in the house to help… only my daughters never held their tongue for a moment. Are you sure you two can't stay a piece with us? I can't imagine what you've been through, with the war behind and all."
Arcade shook his head. Even after all these weeks, he couldn't be sure the Brotherhood had given up their inevitable pursuit. Some days, he thought he'd never stop looking over his shoulder. The last thing he wanted was for these people to suffer for their kindness.
"We have a home out east. Family." In his mouth, it sounded like the lie that it was. You needed faith to make a claim like that, and he had none left.
She shook her head incredulously and returned to the house. He wondered just how flimsy their story seemed to her. He'd kept the details scanty and it wasn't like they were the only strangers on the old highway. The Legion's final push had created a swath of misery as they passed, and many had chosen to leave ahead of their advance, choosing an uncertain, nomadic life over slavery or death. Some of these still hadn't found a new home. Some of them had turned to a raider's methods to survive.
Farmers like this couple - people who still had something to lose - had every right to be suspicious of vagrants. Some had warned them off in no uncertain terms (a drawn shotgun was a very persuasive argument). Most had been kind, however, offering food and lodging in exchange for work. Arcade repaid them to the best of his ability.
With the nearest real settlement several days' travel away, these people didn't have access to any medical care. They made do with what they had - and were, on the whole, healthier than the patients he was used to, the people packed into the slums of outer Vegas. The water was cleaner, the food more abundant out here. Even so, accidents happened. Diseases found their way into homes via the occasional caravan. Little Johnny fell out of the hayloft and his leg healed badly. Infant mortality was horrifically high, as evidenced by all of the tiny gravestones behind the farmhouses.
By early April, he'd already used more than half of the medical supplies they'd brought. He couldn't bring himself to hold anything hostage against the 'what if' of tomorrow. With these he treated - or at least diagnosed - everything from an infected toe to terminal cancer. Not wanting to just give a man a fish, he educated the people who wanted to learn, training them to use what resources they had to the best of their ability. And, just today, he'd taken the first steps toward a promising career in animal midwifery.
He washed his hands with the pump, glad at least that clean water wasn't scarce out here, so far from lingering industrial poisons and heavy radiation. The caustic lye soap they all used stung his hands, leaving them chapped and raw, but it was better than nothing. Waving them dry, he retrieved the Pip-Boy he'd left on top of an empty rain barrel.
She wouldn't have thought to take it off first, he mused. It was a part of her, even if that meant getting it lost inside of a cow's… well, she took it worse places than that. In Arcade's keeping, the battered old device was clean for once. Working better too. He'd addressed all of the error messages that she had ignored, recalibrated it to take better advantage of the weak satellite support that remained, and used it - along with his maps - to chart a viable path forward, choosing a route that might give them a reliable supply of water.
Of course, it wasn't really his to keep. The 'gift' had been the impulsive act of a person who expected to die. Would he eventually give it back? Yes. Absolutely. When she asked. That didn't seem likely in the near future.
He bent his head to enter the low doorway of the farmers' cabin and took a place at the table. He nodded to the master of the house, who grunted in return. His wife was the talkative one of the two, and it was her voice that carried the conversation - or the monologue - on. They'd had a good life out here, she said. Forty years now. Sometimes it seemed a little too crowded nowadays. Their nearest neighbor was only a mile away. But this is where they'd always been. Where they'd buried their sons. God willing, someone would bury them in the same plot when their time came.
When Arcade could finally get a word in edgewise, he asked the question he always asked before moving on.
"What will we find if we keep going east? More neighbors? Another settlement?"
Until now, all of their hosts had offered a ready answer. Not this time. The woman only looked at him sharply. "Nothing, so far as I know. Traders come from that direction, sometimes, and they don't talk about anything much between here and a place they call 'Denver.' She paused. "To tell you the truth, it's been a good long while since we've had anybody from that direction."
"So tonight might be the last time we sleep indoors for a while."
"Might be," she answered evenly. "What do you think of that?"
As if on cue, they both looked at the quietest person at the table, beating out even the taciturn farmer for that distinction. She was eating, slowly and mechanically, not looking at anybody or giving any sign that she was listening to the discussion that concerned her.
"I'm tired," Arcade admitted suddenly. "I'm not sure I can take much more of this. Especially if this really is the last house." Traveling alone with a ghost who would not or could not talk made him feel more lonely than actual solitude would have. She followed directions and walked as far as he asked her to, but that was the limit. Any innovating, any planning, was his mental load to bear alone. Never a leader, he missed the stability of his former life; a lifelong hermit, he nevertheless found himself wishing for the sea of acquaintances that Vegas had pressed upon him. Instead, he had only a burden: a young woman he could neither abandon nor forgive.
Standing like a wall between them, a barrier he could never dismiss, was the knowledge of her terrible crime. Sometimes, in fits of impatience and desperation, he threw it at her, intending his words to wound, to provoke an answer. If this had any effect at all, it didn't show. Paradoxically, he actually dreaded the day the shell broke. If she ever woke up from the shock that had locked her in, there'd be hell to pay: guilt she couldn't deny and impossible atonement. And he'd probably still be standing by, barring some incident. He had no idea what he would say or do on that day.
"You could leave her here," the matron suggested, breaking into these thoughts. "I'd take care of her like she's my own, don't you doubt. There's nothing like the peaceful life for healing the problems of the mind. You can… send for her later. When you've reached your home." He could tell by her tone that she considered that highly unlikely.
Yes. Please. Take her. He kept his voice level. "I can't. It's tempting, but I can't. There might be people coming after us." He hesitated, then confessed, "Soldiers, actually. I didn't tell you everything."
A guarded look came into her eyes. "Not for her, certainly. A little thing like that - she's harmless." But you may not be was the clear subtext.
"For both of us," he said firmly. "Believe me."
He fully expected to be kicked out after that, but she didn't say anything except, "Better turn in then, if you mean to get an early start. I'm sorry the loft bed's not near long enough for you." She took a deep breath and seemed to come to some decision. "If someone does come after you've gone, we'll put them off your path, don't you worry."
"Please don't. They've killed for less."
The lines on her face creased as she frowned at him. "Who are you? I'm curious, not angry. You don't seem like criminals."
"If you haven't already, you'll eventually get news of a infamous Courier from Vegas. That's her. I'm just the Courier's accomplice. Not that that isn't bad enough." What she would hear, he had no idea. Nothing could be worse than the truth. "It's complicated. In a way, it's a story that goes back to before I was born. This is just the end of it."
"Not the end," she said firmly. "You're still alive, aren't you? Where there's life, there's hope."
Later, back on the trail, he meditated upon these simple words, wondering if they were true. The farmer's wife - a nice, friendly woman with a nice, friendly name like Sarah or Abigail - was the last person he talked to almost a month. After just a few days into that month, Arcade was talking to himself almost constantly, becoming his own advocate and accuser both.
The missiles had never lit up the sky behind them and Arcade was grateful for this. He didn't think he could have lived with the alternative. He hoped that the Brotherhood had prioritized disarming them over giving pursuit - not for the sake of their escape so much as for the NCR's safety. He still couldn't forgive himself for his actions in the silo, even though doing anything else would have killed him. The selfish part of him kept trying, though.
You're not that skilled with terminals, his only conversation partner told him. What good would it have done?
The boys and girls in steel had it sorted - hell, it was their fault for shooting the man who might have stopped it with the push of a button.
It's not wrong to want to live. Every animal does. Do you really think you're better than your biology?
It wasn't your fault. It was hers.
Veronica would have killed you both.
Every now and then, he ventured out of his head to throw a new diatribe at the millstone he carried around his neck.
"You really smashed my life to pieces, you know? You were incredibly thorough. I couldn't imagine a more systematic disassembling of everything I'd worked toward than your companionship gave me. I still have trouble believing it, and I lived it. You are my worst nightmare incarnate." Anger and frustration - more at himself than at her - made him fractious. "I was a good person, or at least a minimally decent Samaritan. I'd escaped the trap I was born into. Now I've done things I can never take back, things I can't blame my progenitors for. I helped you escape justice, for one."
No answer, not that he'd expected one. With a jerky movement, she threw a stick she'd been holding for the last half hour into the fire.
More calmly, softly now, he conceded the one-way argument - until the next time it arose, at least. "I was older. Between the two of us, I was far more capable of responsibility. I made my own decisions and they led me here. Excusatio non petita, accusatio manifesta. You're living that truth. And so am I." Dropping one last armful of brush on the fire, he crawled into his bed roll. "On that happy note, go to sleep."
He didn't bother to make sure she did. If she wanted to keep watch, great; if not, he didn't care. If something surprised and killed them in the night, so be it. He couldn't very well stay awake for the next six months. Anyway, they only had the one weapon between them, and he wasn't giving it to her… though, sometimes, he wondered if he should. Maybe then his problem would solve itself.
That's a dark thought. More proof that my supposed virtue was never meant for extenuating circumstances. And aren't those the real test?
o - o - o - o - o
Another day, another long hike over terrain that changed only subtly as the miles stretched behind them. Gentle rains brought a transient spring to the desert, one that swiftly turned to summer, the brassy sun withering the leaves and flowers that had sprung into fleeting life. While they lasted, they painted the desert an unlikely green, giving his eyes a brief respite from the ugliness all around. This rebirth was there one day and gone the next, and with it the last of the cool weather.
With no more hospitable hearths to break the journey into pieces, Arcade lost track of the days and the miles. He kept an eye on the compass - a survival guide had once told him it was easy to walk in circles when the scenery never changed - but ignored the date. He knew approximately where they were in Utah. He didn't know how many miles they walked every day, but didn't find it significant enough to calculate. By a mixture of chance and design, he found enough water to keep them alive, though only just. He was always fair in its division, though he resented the portion he gave her; she always partook and never helped. It grated on a man.
Food was a constant problem. No great Nimrod he, Arcade struggled to get close enough to the graceful, long-legged ungulates that had recolonized the plains in humanity's absence. He didn't bother to try for the jackrabbits. Even a successful hunt didn't always yield good results: at random intervals, his plasma defender reduced their dinner to completely inedible greenish slop. Such an event was enough to bring him to the edge of despair. Not that he was ever far away.
A few weeks into the neverending sea of sparse grasses, there arose another, very pressing problem, one he hadn't adequately prepared for in his packing: man cannot live on meat alone. Yes, they ate such plants as he knew to be safe, but these weren't enough and weren't the right sort; fatigue that went beyond simple travel weariness weighed on him and there was a stiffness in his joints that was more than just a sign of age.
"Scurvy," he announced one morning over a breakfast of dubious meat from the night before. "And us a thousand miles from the nearest ocean. Should have brought some limes, eh?"
She looked up at him then, almost hopefully. Her face was badly sunburned, nose peeling; she'd lost her hat somewhere two weeks before, and the jury-rigged sunshade he'd fashioned kept slipping off. It was a response, the first meaningful one he'd seen in days, but it didn't encourage him. Instead, he became angry.
"No, we don't have any limes! They don't exist anymore. Just like your vault. And we're going to die before we reach Colorado, well short of our nonexistent destination."
She sighed and looked away, but this didn't defuse the fury he'd opened the door to.
"'Tell me about the rabbits,' Arcade said mockingly, echoing her long-ago request. 'Tell me how it's going to be when we're living off the fat of the land.' Well, this is it. The rabbits are too fast and the land is too lean. You're a perfect stand-in for Lennie, but I missed my chance to play George. Did you even know how that story ends when you invoked it?"
The blank look she gave him was reproachful and Arcade felt an unexpected pang of remorse. "I'm being cruel," he said, not without shame. "I thought I was better than that. I'm not. It's good to know that about myself, I suppose." Standing, he kicked dirt on their fire. "Nothing to do but move on. Maybe we'll… well, maybe it…" He stopped. There was no point in finishing the sentence, was there? He wasn't going to convince anybody, not even himself.
o - o - o - o - o
A hundred miles or more short of the state border, the food ran out. The antelope were gone, off in search of greener pastures. A day after that, the water dried up. The rivers marked on his map had disappeared, or - more likely - the navigation system on the Pip-Boy was way off. He rationed out the last canteen as slowly as possible, even though he knew that wasn't what the survival guides recommended: you were supposed to drink all of the water you had while you looked for more. Well, he didn't believe that there was more to be found, so this had to last.
When they were down to the dregs, he divided it scrupulously between them, not allotting himself a single drop more than her. He regretted this generosity almost immediately, when his portion only whetted his thirst. I'm bigger. I need more than she does. How dare she accept it, after all I've done for her? She should have handed it back.
He was too exhausted to express his resentment, however, and too dizzy to make a belated argument for his greater claim. Besides, he was pretty sure talking made you dehydrate faster. Breathing, too. You exhale a lot of water. He made the decision to breathe less, but stopped when black dots started to creep into his vision.
There was a dark ridge of mountains ahead, a line of teeth breaking up the maddening sameness of the plains. It was hard to imagine reaching them under current conditions, but equally hard to accept that it wasn't the solution to their problem. Arcade told himself there was snowmelt trickling down the slopes, ice cold water collecting in little depressions among the rocks. He could already see it, smell it, taste it, even before they were near enough to make out the discrete slopes and elevations.
Night came and went. For once, they didn't stop. The coolness it afforded outweighed any fear of what dangers crouched in the dark. When morning dawned and illuminated their path, the mountains were in striking distance. Maybe.
Mounting the foothills leading up to the cliff required superhuman effort and got harder the closer they got, as it became more and more obvious that there wasn't an oasis at the end of the rainbow. A cleft in the rock ahead might shelter them at least, even from the noonday sun, thus allowing them to die in relative comfort.
Better than a cleft, there was a cave. A grim guide pointed the way for them: perhaps fifty feet from the entrance, the long-dead corpse of a man wearing the bleached remains of Legion red was lying face down, his arms stretched out in front of him. Arcade passed the body indifferently, not caring in the slightest for the story it suggested.
They entered the cave - and it was a proper cave, not just a niche in the rock. The ceiling was too low for him to stand straight, but it was ready sanctuary from the merciless heat. Not that it really mattered. They would die fast out there and slow in here. A cool breeze came from the inner chambers, like an exhale from the earth. Wind, he thought. That should mean something to me, but it doesn't. He dropped to the uneven floor and rolled on his back, panting as his heart tried to compensate. His companion hesitated at the mouth of the cave, a black outline against the sky.
"You can keeping trying, if you want. Explore. Die here or somewhere else. It's the same end, no matter what. I give up." Arcade wasn't at all sure he had said this out loud. He swiped a hand over his forehead in an automatic gesture, but there was no sweat to wipe away. A bad sign. He closed his eyes. The thirst was terrible, such that it crowded out any need for food he might otherwise have felt. He'd known hunger as a child, despite his mother's best efforts. Water had been precious in the crowded city where he'd spent his boyhood, and he had been thirsty sometimes… or, at least, he'd thought so at the time. He'd been wrong. This was thirst. How many patients had he seen dying of dehydration and heat exhaustion, baked red by the sun? Rich with privilege, he'd never known exactly how they felt near the end.
Three minutes without air. Three days without water. Three weeks without food. Lovely. I know approximately how much longer this will take.
It didn't have to last three days, he knew. He could choose at any time, so long as he acted while he was still conscious. In the meantime, however, he'd work on retrieving the stoicism that had abandoned him so many months before. Stiff upper lip and all that. This effort lasted all of five minutes before he fell into an exhausted sleep.
o - o - o - o - o
It was raining. Impossible. It never rained in Vegas… or in Navarro… or wherever he was now. But it was undeniable. It speckled his glasses, ran down his cheeks, and dripped onto his tongue. Unconsciously, he swallowed, a painful effort, and opened eyes that were almost sealed shut.
She had a canteen in her hand, as improbable as that seemed. He heard a sloshing sound inside as she tilted it once more over his head.
"No," he tried to say.
Looking down at him, she stopped and moved out of sight for a second. He heard the sound of gurgling water. Then she returned with one of their tin cups, only half full, and held it out to him.
Confusion turned into anger at her selfishness - she had a whole canteen, and he only got a few ounces? He grabbed for the cup and got most of it in his mouth. It was sweet and salty and tasted very strongly of metal, but it was the most delicious drink he'd ever had. It wasn't nearly enough, though. Everything in him demanded more, but more wasn't forthcoming
"Please," he begged.
She watched him cautiously, capping the canteen and setting it down out of his reach. He made a clumsy lunge for it and she evaded him effortlessly, carrying it to the opposite side of the cave.
He lapsed into torpor again, puzzled and sad. One thought consumed his mind. Water. There's water. A few feet away. It might as well have been miles. Was this retribution for something he'd done? Something he'd said?
Some time later - somewhere between a few minutes and a few hours - she crept near again, carrying another scant portion. Things went on in this vein for an indeterminate period. At some point, he must have slept: he saw the sky outside the cave turn dark and then, without warning, it was light again. She kept coming back, only now she brought a full cup every time. At long last, he understood and wondered how he had forgotten his own lectures.
That was… smart. She actually remembered. A lifetime ago, a year and a half ago, they'd been in a stifling tent in Freeside, looking down at yet another beggar who'd dropped in his tracks, unable to afford a turn at the King's pump. The Legion had been abroad in force back then, amassed on the other side of the Dam, but it had still been a happier time for the two of them. He hadn't known and neither had she.
We don't have IV fluids most of the time, so we have to make do. It's dangerous to make an unconscious person drink. Moisten their lips, tongue, and gums to stimulate swallowing. Hopefully, they'll wake up enough to sip. This man isn't too far gone, not compared to some you'll see here. Help me prop him up. Nice and slow, see? Don't give them a whole lot at first, especially not pure water. Mix in some sugar and salt first. I always keep some in my kit.
He sat up slowly and tried a smile. It felt strange on his face and made his lips crack. "I understand. It's okay now, though. You did right. I can't believe I'm saying this after the last few months, but good job."
Her expression didn't change in the slightest. Crouching down beside him, she handed the canteen over. He realized from the weight that it was almost empty.
"Tell me there's more where this came from."
A barely perceptible nod. He took that as an invitation to drain it.
"Any food?" he asked doubtfully, after a long silence.
She shrunk into herself, shoulders hunched. He took that as a 'no'.
"Not to worry, we have a couple more weeks on that count. Not good weeks, mind you, but we do have half a chance now. Can you show me where you found this?"
She picked up the lantern and walked deeper into the cave. He followed, testing rubbery legs cautiously. If there wasn't food somewhere near, they'd be in trouble before too much longer, but it was hard to feel pessimistic about that now. Where there was water, there was life. That was a basic truth.
The farther they went, the easier their path became. Wide and level, with a smooth ceiling, it was looking more and more like a man-made tunnel than a natural cave. They turned a corner and that's when he saw the spigot mounted on the wall, fed by a pipe that disappeared into a hole in the wall. The ground beneath it was damp and mossy.
The handle was rusty and so was the water - brownish-red by the light of the lantern. He hesitated, but only for a second. It hadn't made them sick yet, and it wasn't like they had a better option. He drank deeply and almost vomited, then tried again, more slowly. He sat down against the wall, mentally gauging how much further he could walk. Not far. Now that he wasn't thirsty anymore, he had the luxury to appreciate his atrocious headache. She sat down and waited, hugging herself against the chill.
Eventually, his mind caught up with the possible implications of this discovery. "Have you seen any signs of living people? Explored this tunnel to the end?"
Shaking her head, she rose and lifted the lantern as if to scout ahead. She jerked her chin forward, indicating that they should go. Arcade forced himself to his feet again, if only so he wouldn't be left alone in the dark.
From that point onward, it sloped consistently downward. There were lights mounted to the walls and ceiling now, albeit none that were working. A helpful and unexpected handrail helped them to keep their footing as they descended a particularly steep incline. Just as Arcade was about to plead for another rest, or to suggest that they return to the packs they'd abandoned, they reached a steel door. Above it, a sign read 'EXIT' in big, red letters.
The hinges were stiff and the door was heavy, but it wasn't difficult for their combined strength to pull it open. A rush of sunlight, bright and unexpected, made Arcade shield his face - he'd left his hat back at base camp, of course. Even as his vision adjusted, he had to rub his eyes to be sure of what he was seeing.
"This… this I didn't expect." Standing uncertainly in the threshold, frozen in indecision, he noticed that his companion was once again looking to him for guidance, her own initiative spent.
Fair enough, he sighed. A steel staircase led downward, mounted to the cliff wall from which they had emerged. He decided it would probably hold their weight. Setting his foot on the top step, he beckoned for her to follow.
"Let's go, Megan."