Even with his wounds fully healed, even with the pack on his back only filled to half-way out of cautiousness, the weight of each step still made him sway. The weariness he'd worn on his face, burnt into his features, no doubt, when he first saw those godawful mushroom clouds on the horizon all those years ago, he could feel it seeping deeper. His bones carried it now, hollowed by the reminder. The wind carried it into his breath. It was labored already. He couldn't have gone more than a few miles.
Ah, not like I've got anywhere to go.
He slid the bag off his shoulder.
A lawn chair. Well damn, look at that. Set up like a scene from some greeting card in front of the lake (Lake Vegas, the jutting slab of rust and paint still cheerily advertised, the perfect family destination!)
Stretching out, precariously, one joint at a time like he'd seen his grandfather do too often enough – it all made sense now why he did it – he collapsed, seating himself on the colorful plastic that yielded just a bit too steadily for him to be comfortable.
He could taste the pauses now whenever things changed. The wind, the view, it didn't matter. They all tasted like copper. Maybe everything was on a lilt, or maybe his mind was going, but the world seemed to move a bit slower these days.
It was probably him.
He cracked his back, arching painfully.
Yep, definitely him.
He settled low in his newly claimed prize. He mused to himself what kind of picture he knew he must strike – yep, nothing to see here, boss, just one of them traveling ghoul mechanics. That's all he was now.
Should he keep the name Miguel? He ran a thumb over the label on his lapel in absent thought. Naw, new place new name. That's how he'd been playing it all these years now, right?
Flicking the faded fabric, half surprised it didn't finally give up the ghost and fly off into the wind, he felt his insides start to stir. What name should he chose...? Had he really become that desensitized to himself? To his identity? The one thing he hadn't managed to get shot to pieces after all these years? The question burned straight through him, ripping out the callouses he'd built up around him from all his years in Tuscon, all his years in Mexico City.
What NAME should he chose?
Raul. Goddammit, my name is Raul Alfonso Tejada. He bit at the urge to shout it out to the Mojave. I've come out here to die, dammit, I might as well have the balls to die the same man I was born.
The wasteland couldn't take that...could it?
He stopped picking at the fabric. The anger receded just as quickly as it came, replaced by the hollow feeling he held in his bones. What did it matter if it did anyway? Even if people knew who he was, knew the name of the last Tejada, they'd be dead themselves soon anyway.
It wasn't like before the war. Things didn't stick anymore. It was just like this desert, the dust got stirred up under your feet and blew away before you'd even made a path.
Fucking hell...
The sun was getting high again, how long had he been sitting there? This kind of weather...he laughed, letting the landscape wash over with nostalgic, dipping into the humid afternoons spent on street corners, sweat laced with the sweet breeze of air-conditioned apartments, hell – even the memory of wrestling cattle down on the ranch brought a weary smile to his face.
He could really go for a sarsaparilla.
Blown over in the dirt beside him, a cooler lay rotting on the ground. He nudged it with his foot, shaking out the sound of broken glass and bottle caps scraping together.
Eh, now there would be too much of a good thing. A nice view, easy chair already laid out, AND ice-cold refreshments? He shrugged and let his back slip down against the plastic seat. Couldn't have things getting too easy now...it'd be a shame to let that piddly little hope inside him grow any bigger.
Some NCR sad sacks (or, at least, he assumed they were NCR – he'd only heard the stories of them from back West) were practicing pot shots at some camp they'd set up across the lake. They hadn't seemed to notice him yet. He wasn't sure if the Californians took kindly to ghouls...he scratched at his chin, peeling off a quarter-size piece of skin he'd rather not look at, and wiped it on the arm of his chair.
Lesse...last thing he remembered of California were those Bay Watch shows and Hollywood makeovers him and his buddies used to watch whenever their street's cable wires "mysteriously" got crossed. Those little run-ins with good fortune, he smiled, remembering, would let their little old black-and-white set pick up every channel this side of the Rio Grande.
These NCR suits didn't seem in desperate need of a makeover. Not that it was very likely that Hollywood even existed anymore outside of yellowed tourist pamphlets. It was equally unlikely that this particular breed of Californians were wearing scandalous red one-pieces under their uniforms.
Pushing down against his shoulder, he rolled the muscle into his finger tips, prompting a few clicks that he still wasn't entirely used to hearing.
Maybe things would be better for him up north. He hadn't met a ghoul yet on the road, but who's to say they were treated any differently up here? Maybe Vegas made the whole lot of them equal, skin or no skin. All men couldn't help but be equal when their pockets were empty.
But that wasn't a matter he'd have to deal with for a good few days. Maybe even a few weeks, at the rate he was dragging his tired old bones across the desert.
His little vacation spot was situated high enough on a hill so that he got a decent view of the horizon. So, while the troops couldn't see the menacing group of tattered and gun-heavy fiends kicking up dust towards their way, Raul spotted them almost immediately.
Don't judge a book by it's cover. Heh, yeah, well when the binding's decked out in human skulls, crashing into each other like links on a key chain – well, you learned to trust your first instinct.
They weren't making headway fast. Just sort of ambling towards the encampment, laughing up the dry desert air and talking to each other in voices that were entirely too loud. Raul waited for the troops to notice them. Waited for a head to shoot up, an alarm to sound off – something at least, it seemed, ought to happen.
What looked to be the leader of the pack, a pale man with arms as thick as his waist and a hunching posture that somehow made his figure more intimidating, waved for the others to be quiet. He had a sort of monstrous metal instrument on his back – a shiskabob? Maybe a flamethrower? From this far away, it was hard to tell. From the shadow it cut though, he figured, the thing had to be gigantic.
They were moving quieter now, having noticed the troops, prowling steadily towards the encampment. Still no alarm bells.
He knees groaned as he started up from his chair. There might be time to warn them if he could -
If he could...
But it wasn't the pain in his knees keeping him still, suspended, not quite standing not quite sitting half-way above his seat.
He'd signed his guns away before. Ever since Rafaela...hell, long before Rafaela, they'd ceased to do him any good.
His guns didn't do shit to save her life. Or the girl with the familiar smile back in Tuscon. And they sure as hell wouldn't do much to save his own if he ran down their firing them off like some damn vaquero.
Who was he kidding? He wasn't a vaquero.
He wasn't any sort of hero.
He was just an old, old, unGODLY old man.
And with that weight coming down on him, he fell back against his chair.
It wasn't like it was his problem anymore, anyway.
He tasted one of those pauses again, dry and heavy in his mouth. Like sucking on a penny after it'd been in the sun.
Those guys down there'd be alright.
He stirred uneasily in his chair.
They-...yeah, they'd be alright.