The pistol fired, sounding like a thunderclap despite the thickness of the emergency bulkhead. It was only a single shot, but that was enough. Janice collapsed, hitting the floor and bleeding profusely as Madison Li screamed in horror, crying loudly at the sudden loss of her friend. Dad stood frozen, his normally cheery face locked in an expression of horror.
Charles threw himself against the glass, assaulting it with fists and feet as he tried to reach his father. The man with the trenchcoat who'd sealed himself in with Dad, and callously shot Janice, didn't even glance towards the noise as if the youth didn't even exist.
"I suggest you comply immediately sir, in order to prevent further incidents," the man with the pistol stated casually, smoke still gently rising from the barrel. The whole scene felt surreal, like a nightmare he couldn't wake from.
Everything had been going so well, he'd managed to find Dad, get the science team back together and secure the purifier deep within the Jefferson Memorial. Maybe, just maybe, he'd get to help do something worthwhile by bringing clean water to the people of the Wasteland.
Dad told him he was proud of him. That simple sentence meant the world to Charles. And yet there were still so many questions, so much he wanted to do with and ask his father. He still wasn't clear why Dad had left without telling him, why he'd sacrificed so much for this project. Charles still felt hurt, abandoned. But he loved his father, and knew, through working alongside him; perhaps their relationship could be mended. Maybe he could make Dad happy.
But the Enclave had arrived, and everything fell apart.
Dogmeat scratched at the glass, trying to dig his was through the solid bulkhead with nothing more than his front paws. Charon moved down a few meters from the Lone Wanderer, aimed his shotgun and fired point-blank. Yet not even the shells from the Ghoul's powerful weapon broke through the bulkhead. Charles had seen the shot and, deep down, knew he wasn't going to break the glass with his hands if the shotgun hadn't even scratched it. Yet animal instinct drove him on as he attacked the bulkhead, determined to do something to help his father.
"Are we clear?" The man asked without sparing a glance towards the woman whose life he'd so casually ended. Beside him, the two Enclave soldiers aimed their plasma rifles threateningly at Dad, in case he somehow didn't realize the gravity of his situation.
"Yes, colonel," Dad ground out grudgingly, sounding like he very much wanted to strangle the colonel, rather than follow instructions. "I will do whatever you want, there's no need for more violence." Though the tone was neither begging nor groveling it was clear Dad was willing to do whatever necessary to preserve the lives of the remaining scientists under his care. Li remained a blubbering mess, huddled on the floor and sobbing, gazing at the fallen form of her protégé, dead on the floor, with horrified disbelief.
The Colonel, it seemed, was more than happy to abuse that protective desire. "Then you will immediately hand over all materials related to this project and aid us in making it operational, at once." The man slipped his 10 millimeter back into its holster, clearly confident in his position. With a solid bulkhead between him and Charles and two power-armored soldiers at his back, it did seem quite a strong one.
"Dad?" Charles managed to sob out, pounding his hands against the glass, feeling the blood starting to down his arms after he'd somehow cut himself. Dad didn't look at him, instead keeping his gaze focused on the Colonel.
"Very well," dad stated plainly. "Give me a few moments to bring the system online." Charles' father turned about resignedly, moving towards the large control panel in the chamber's center. Dogmeat's scratching grew more intense, as if he sensed something Charles could not.
Dad hunched over the panel and punched a few buttons, his actions hidden from his anxious son. Evidently he wasn't moving fast enough however, as the man in the coat growled out, "Enough of these delays!" His gloved hand dropped to the sidearm at his waist and for a panic-stricken moment, Charles feared his father was about to be shot.
"Just a few moments," the former doctor of 101 responded as casually as he could, eyes fixed on the consol rather than any of the men with guns. There was a moment of deathly quiet with anticipation for what would come.
Yet nothing could have prepared the kid from Vault 101 for what occurred.
Suddenly there was an explosion within the chamber, several pipes rupturing and computer screens bursting. An alarm started screaming out a warning that radiation levels were climbing far beyond safety restrictions. The four figures on the other side of the glass began convulsing in pain, the two soldiers falling with gurgling cries of agony.
Now it was Charles' turn to cry. "DAD!" He screamed, throwing himself as hard as he could against the glass, throat already raw from shouting, "HANG ON DAD I'M COMING!" Tears ran freely down his face as he sobbed, pounding his fists against the impenetrable barrier.
His father managed to hobble over to the bulkhead, even as the Colonel collapsed behind him. Dad placed his hand against the glass, trying impossibly to grab those belonging to his only son. Face warped in pain, he managed to cough out, "I love you, Charles. Now run… Run!" His face contorted one last time and he collapsed, hand sliding down the bulkhead as he fell to the floor.
Dogmeat howled in grief, going into a frenzy of scratching and biting the bulkhead, trying to save the old man who'd always had a treat ready for him. Charles was in a state of shock. "Daddy," he whispered, tears flowing silently down his face. He'd stopped punching, unable to grasp the sight of his father lying dead on the cold metal floor, "Daddy, don't leave me alone…" He added, face and bloody hands pressed against the glass.
James didn't rise. "DAD!" Charles screamed, realization finally hitting him square in the face.
He felt a rough hand grab his shoulder, "Come on boss!" Charon growled, pulling the horrified Lone Wanderer away from the sight. "There's nothing we can do for him! We've got to get out of here!" Charles let the Ghoul drag him away, even as loud screaming sobs wracked his lungs and echoed throughout the vast empty spaces of the Jefferson Memorial.
Charles awoke with a start, upper body caked in sweat, eyes damp from tears as he gasped air into his battered lungs. It was all so real, the memories flooding back with perfect clarity.
Rolling out of bed in a state of panic, the man fell to the floor, body tangled in the filthy comforter. Despite jarring his elbow on impact, the sharp pain did nothing to slow his panicked flailing. He wasn't supposed to remember, he wasn't, not that.
It was pitch black in the motel room as Charles fumbled about, trying to find what he needed. His fingers managed to locate a jug-shaped object in the darkness, and knowing only two objects in his possession were jugs and both contained the same contents, he greedily snatched it up. Pulling the cork out and releasing the foul smelling concoction, Charles drank deeply. Before he realized what he was doing the bottle was empty, every trace of moonshine entering his stomach. His vision began to blur and yet still, it wasn't enough. He could still see Dad's face staring at him, his hand separated by nothing but glass…
Moving towards the table where he was sure he'd left a few doses, his struggle was rewarded when hands fell upon a syringe. Jabbing his arm without delay, the cool rush of Med-x working its way through his system calmed his nerves tremendously. Yet, even that powerful numbing sensation, as the pain-killer did its work, wasn't enough, what he really needed was air.
Thankfully, despite the bottle of moonshine, Med-x and emotional distress from his nightmare, Charles maintained enough of his faculties to disable the jury-rigged shotgun before he tried his hand at the knob. The door fumbled but didn't open, his semi-conscious state, struggling to recall why. Finally, remembering he'd, of course, locked the door, Charles managed despite the tremendous shaking of his hands, to fit the key into the lock and turn it.
The swamp air rushed into his room with full force as he flung the door aside, remarkably cool without the beating of the sun, tickling every inch of sweating skin exposed by his lack of shirt. Gulping the air into his battered lungs ferociously, Charles managed to make it a few steps out the door before he collapsed into the muck on hands and knees.
Mud squished around his fingers, dirt worming its way into the knees of his pants as his body dry heaved, exhausted and battered. He could still see it, hear it, he could somehow even smell it. That foul odor of leaking radiation and fried circuitry permeating the area beyond the bulkhead, that stench worse than all the foul smells of the bog combined…
After resting in the mud for what could have been hours, or minutes, he couldn't say, Charles gathered enough strength to force himself onto his knees. He knelt, both knees in the squalor, dirty hands resting on his thighs, naked from the waist up and unarmed. It wasn't a particularly good situation to be in and part of him certainly recognized that. And yet, despite natural instincts and his intentions for self preservation, he couldn't move, couldn't find the strength to return to the safety of his motel room and locked door. So he sat, alone, until his senses suggested otherwise.
It may have just been the moonshine or chems, but something told the battered man he wasn't alone, survivalist instinct honed by ferals, Super Mutants and slavers beyond the ability of any teacher. That sense of warning triggered, Charles began to slowly glance about, eyes unsure of what they might see. If he wasn't imagining things, and truthfully he was quite certain it was merely battered nerves, he didn't want to make any sudden moves and alert any strange entities to his prescience.
The area surrounding the motel was remarkably clear. Pilgrim's Landing, with its dilapidated buildings and Farris Wheel, filled an entire field of view, but seemed to hold no figures. The remaining land was pitted with small swamps along with natural rises and dips in the land. Several small patches of gnarled trees or rocky outcroppings occupied some space but overall he had a fairly good view of the surrounding area. Despite the strange sensation in the pit of his stomach and the prickling of his scalp, Charles couldn't see anyone who might pose threat or harm. In fact, he didn't see anyone at all.
The tiny gleaming lights off in the distance couldn't be real, they couldn't really exist. They were mere figments of his imagination, a lingering reminder of the plasma rifles he'd seen the day his father died, the chems were playing off a memory he'd only just struggled through, and nothing more.
Finally, exhaustion proved too much for the Lone Wanderer. Fully confident there was nothing more than imagination playing tricks on his battered faculties, Charles crawled, body entirely drained of energy, back into 1G, collapsing on the floor. He only just managed to tap the door closed with his foot, feeling immense comfort as the click of the lock sounded, sealing him in.
Then sleep overtook him.
"Where is he?" Riley asked Donavan for the third time in the past ten minutes, hands folded behind her back, combat boots threatening to beat a groove into the floor of the Ranger compound due to her constant pacing.
"Coming," Donavan repeated, still not bothering to pull his head out of the electrical panel he'd peeled open. The glow from his shoulder-mounted flashlight reflected outward, casting his armored shadow eerily across the opposing wall. The techie had taken the loss of power in the compound as he did every technical issue, with a slight grunt of frustration, followed by a journey to his toolbox.
Though Donavan wasn't the best listener when it came to Riley's concerns, particularly while things needed repair, he was two steps above the other Rangers. Butcher had suggested she take a sedative, relax, and wait it out. Brick, on the other hand, had stated rather casually, "Riley, you're the boss and all, but if you don't stop moping in here, I'm going to shoot you." Not wanting to test how legitimate that threat was, Riley moved down the hallway to pace around Donavan.
"It isn't like Chuck to be late, and never twice." Riley pointed out, her brilliant orange hair pulled back into a messy bun, face free of grime due to a quick visit to the sink. As far as Riley was concerned, she'd done everything in her power to look nice, and was hoping a certain Vault Dweller would notice her efforts. Sure he was a hell of a lot younger than her, no one was debating that, and she wasn't even sure what it was she felt when she thought about him. But she was absolutely certain she wanted to look her best when the handsome, bearded face appeared down the hallway, arrival long foretold by the happy barking of a dog.
It was the same bearded face she'd seen when she'd first woken up in Underworld, from a coma she, looking back, was shocked to have survived. It was a kindly face, black hair tucked beneath a Baseball cap, well maintained beard covering an expression of concern, shared only by the Ghoul in the doctor's clothing, Burrows, she later discovered. He'd helped her stand, taking her arm in his rough hands and gently pulling her to her feet.
He hadn't known her from the rest of the Wasteland and yet, when she begged him to help her team, the closest thing she'd ever had to family, he'd done so without hesitation. Charles, or Chuck as she preferred, hadn't even asked for caps, he'd just gone, murmuring something about "trying to make DC a better place."
He'd returned her people to the compound, all unharmed save a few cuts, bruises or the odd broken bone, nothing a stimpack couldn't fix. Beyond that, he'd even agreed to help with the Wasteland mapping project, agreeing to pop back in every so often with new information in exchange for plenty of caps.
What Riley hadn't expected, was how often he'd returned to Ranger Compound after receiving his honorary membership and armor, and how much she longed for those visits. Chuck was a very punctual man, arriving every two weeks without fail, usually accompanied by Charon, the massive Ghoul bodyguard who said very little and yet somehow never failed to elicit a chuckle from Butcher, and Dogmeat, his always happy canine companion who never passed an opportunity to shower Riley with slobbery doggy kisses.
Riley made small talk with Charles each time, turning simple paydays into meetings lasting hours. On several occasions he actually slept in the compound, setting out the following morning. That was far from unusual, the Capital Wasteland was treacherous, dangerous and even a simple journey was potentially life ending.
Riley had grown incredibly fond of Chuck, his quick wit, kind heart, twinkling eyes, charming smile…
Then, two weeks ago, he missed his meeting. Butcher reminded her that Super Mutant activity was extra intense in the area and likely the trip was beyond realistic safety. Donavan pointed out that Charles had said something about getting close to his Dad that last time he'd been in the compound and maybe he'd gotten caught up in working with James.
They'd all been good enough reasons and Three Dog didn't mention any harm befalling the Kid from 101, and Riley was certain if something had happened, Three Dog would have known. So, she accepted the advice of the Rangers and let it go.
Now he was due for another visit but again, hadn't made it. None of his faint whistling, none of Dogmeat's barking, nothing and Riley slowly realized that the sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach was genuine worry. He'd been there for her when she needed it, even when they were strangers and she was nothing but a risk, now it was time to return the favor.
"Donavan, are you even listening?" Riley repeated, growing slowly more flustered at the seeming apathy towards Charles' potential danger. He'd kept his head inside the panel, a steady stream of grumbled mutterings and muffled curses filtering outward without any signs of slowing.
"Ah, ha!" He announced suddenly, completely ignoring what she'd just said. Suddenly, the lights flashed back on throughout Ranger Compound, accompanied by the gentle humming of air vents suggesting they'd likewise returned to life. Crawling outward, Donavan pumped his fist while throwing his wrench to the floor triumphantly. "A few couplings were loose; probably some radroach crawling around back there jarred 'em."
Riley was too preoccupied to appreciate Donavan's success, "What if he needs us? What if he's dead in some ditch and no one knows about it?" Worrying did no good, it was pointless and she knew that. Yet, Riley was a woman of action and that's the way she liked it. This lack of knowledge, and inability to do anything to change it, drove her up the wall. She wanted to take the fight to an enemy, Infiltrator in hand, throwing grenades and cursing, not pacing about the bunker waiting for her…friend, to show up.
Seeming to realize the real distress in his leader's mind, Donavan spoke in a calm, soothing voice, "Riley, look, he's a big boy," the techie stressed, turning off his shoulder mounted flashlight. "He's got Dogmeat with him, and that damned massive Ghoul who never smiles. He'll be fine." He gripped Riley's shoulder tightly, "Ask yourself, do you really think that Charles, the Lone Wanderer from 101, who I watched mow down all those Super Mutants back at Statesman practically single-handed, is going to die out there?"
"I just want to know…" Riley mumbled, too exhausted and worried to be angry. She glanced down at the floor, kicking at an empty pork and beans can that someone, likely Brick, had left there.
"Tell you what," Donavan responded simply, strengthening his grip on Riley's shoulder with a calloused hand. His grip was warm, almost fatherly, something Riley found strange considering their similar ages, "If he's not here by tomorrow and we haven't heard anything, I'll take you to Megaton. There's bound to be someone there who knows what happened." The techie laughed brightly, eyes twinkling, "Why, after spending all that time at our place, I'm sure he'll be happy to host us for once!"
Riley mumbled something that sounded vaguely like an affirmative, but nothing could shake the feeling of worry that she felt deep in her soul for the kid from 101 with the sparkling eyes. And so, despite Donavan's protests, Riley continued her pacing before the radio, listening with strange apprehension every time a certain disc jockey came on the air, listening for any mention of Charles.
We're coming for you, just hold on Chuck, wherever you are.
It was on the covered bridge where he almost died.
Charles woke up on the floor of his newly acquired home base, considering himself lucky to still be alive and unharmed after the previous evening's debacle. After dressing himself and pulling the Confederate cap tightly over his head, the man helped himself to a bottle of Nuka-Cola, still refreshingly crisp, and a box of instamash. It wasn't the healthiest choice, but it was likely better for his body than chems and booze and health concerns hadn't stopped him there.
A quick examination of his supplies revealed a simple unpleasant truth; he was going through alcohol and Med-x far too quickly, especially considering his greatly depleted stash of caps. If he was going to continue feeding his cravings, he'd need to acquire more of both, preferably before he became so incapacitated by withdrawal that he ceased to properly function. So, after shooting up again and taking a much more conservative drink from the remaining bottle of moonshine, Charles picked up his assault rifle, trench knife and pistol and left the motel room to explore the surrounding marshes.
The area had returned to the smothering humidity he remembered from the previous day, large bloatflies drifting lazily about in swamp fumes, too lethargic to attack him. A constant peaty odor was everywhere, weighing on his shoulders almost as heavily as the murky air.
With Pilgrim's Landing seeming a far easier endeavor for exploration, better reserved for a day when he couldn't function as well as he currently felt, Charles decided to go out into the island proper. Picking the remains of a dirt path that seemed slightly less overgrown than the others, the Vault Dweller set out.
The muck beneath his boots squished loudly with each step, releasing a foul smelling odor as he moved. Already, sweat was dripping down his forehead, nose itching fiercely, the slow, scratching sensation of need creeping inward. Still, Charles walked on.
For all of Tobar's talk of wild monsters and swampfolk, Point Lookout seemed entirely abandoned. Nothing leaped out from the marsh, nothing called for his blood and, worst of all, nothing glimmered in the light with the shine of promised wealth. He wasn't likely to get rich on the island, but judging from the conditions, he might get malaria.
The rickety old covered bridge seemed a fine landmark, the marshy creek running beneath far too shallow to cause serious harm if the bridge broke dumping him into the water. Yet, as he drew closer, the sturdiness and general maintenance of the bridge's construction stood out. This wasn't an abandoned old thing, like the buildings at Pilgrim's Landing, someone kept the bridge regularly maintained.
Despite a sinking suspicion that he should treat the area with caution, a combination of curiosity and need drove him onward. He wasn't crouching, but he certainly wasn't sprinting as fast as his legs would carry him. Scanning the horizon as best he could, visibility greatly reduced from a combination of mist, swamp gasses and twisted trees growing haphazardly wherever their roots would allow, Charles made his way onto the bridge.
Though the wooden planks groaned beneath him, each step felt confident, the bridge neither bending nor breaking. Directly in the center of the bridge, someone had set up a fishing spot, complete with small table, chair, tackle box and fishing pole, though what they were intended to catch within the irradiated waters Charles couldn't be sure. What appeared to be a cigar still gently smoking, rested on the table beside the tackle box, suggesting it had only just been abandoned. Curiosity now entirely aroused, the Vault Dweller made his way towards the set up. Sure enough, as he drew close, he noticed the line was still in the murky river below, as if the occupant had made only a temporary exit, fully intent on returning. He was so caught up in picturing the rod's owner that he nearly missed the figure on the other side of the bridge.
It was just out of the corner of his eye, the figure so inhuman it almost didn't register as existing within Charles' mind. It was undoubtedly male, and clearly had once been human, and maybe still was in the vaguest sense. The scrawny creature wore no shirt, face horrifically deformed, with bulging eyes, buck-teeth and pale skin, entire shape so twisted and malignant looking Charles felt a chill run down his spine at the appearance. A tattered pair of once blue jeans mercifully protected the creature's dignity, while it held a rusty hunting rifle, seeming more duct tape than weapon at this stage.
What was it Tobar said, radiation, time and inbreeding?
His heightened survival senses kicked in and Charles dived toward to the ground, Confederate hat falling from his head as he did. The swampfolk, which the Lone Wanderer guessed confidently was what the creature was, had raised the rifle and fired.
Even as his body slammed into the wood below, driving the wind from his lungs as spare clips punched his chest, the bullet whizzed overhead, splintering a support beam right where his head had been.
The drive continued, with Charles rolling over to the side of the bridge, flipping the table as he did to provide some modicum of cover. A second shot punched through the bridge's "floor" a mere instant after he moved, the twisted being already preparing a third shot. "Gool-dang!" It squealed in a hideous nasally voice, "We're eating good tonight!"
"Not if I can help it," Charles growled, bracing his Chinese assault rifle on the fallen table. Intending more to keep the swampfolk from firing again than actually dropping him, Charles held the trigger, spraying a burst of rifle fire towards the thing. Luck must have been with him because a handful of bullets managed to strike the creature in his left leg, blood spraying outward as the limb collapsed. The swampfolk fell with an ear-bursting shriek of pain, hunting rifle flying from its hands. Charles rose from his prone position to deliver the kill-shot when, from out of nowhere, he was struck in the side. Brilliant pain exploded along his ribcage, the force of the physical blow actually launching him across the bridge, slamming him against the low wall before he fell to the floor again.
Something definitely felt broken, yet through gritted teeth he scrambled towards his rifle, knowing if he didn't act quickly he'd have a lot worse to deal with than a few ribs. Grunting at the sharp pain erupting along his side during his sporadic movement Charles managed to grab the handle of his assault rifle without incident. A quick glance upward revealed what had struck him, though after looking, wished he'd remained ignorant.
A solidly built swampfolk towered over him, a cedar baseball bat clutched in both hands. The undoubtedly male figure wore blue overalls nearly bursting from a combination of fat, bulbous tumors and what seemed a surprising amount of muscle. His face was hideously deformed, neck a mess of growth and tumors. An expression of wicked glee further twisted already horrifying features, near animal eyes looking down hungrily at Charles.
Somehow, despite the clumsy appearance of the second swampfolk, he'd managed to clamber over the bridge and make it behind Charles without alerting him. Even though the Lone Wanderer's attention had been focused on the gun-bearing enemy, he should have heard the bat wielder coming. If he survived, the Vault Dweller vowed to never underestimate the stealth capacity of these creatures again.
With a squeal more animal than man, the swampfolk swung the bat two-handed overhead, bringing it crashing down on the prone form of his opponent. Charles just managed to scoot backward in time, bat splintering planks where his personal bits had only just been.
A combination of panic and relief at having come so close to one injury he doubted a stimpack would fix prompted Charles to take serious action. Still sitting, he pointed the Chinese assault rifle up at his foe, barrel nearly touching the enlarged stomach. With a cry of rage, the Lone Wanderer held down the trigger, weapon spitting bullets like a fountain.
At point blank range the effect was deadly. The remaining bullets ripping the swampfolk's stomach apart in a gruesome display of killing power. Charles only just managing to escape the resulting wave of gore by sliding down the bridge as the creature collapse. The heavy body struck the already weakened side wall, cracking it further, though the stubbornly constructed bridge still managed to stop the swampfolk's corpse from tumbling into the creek below.
Fishing for replacement clip off his belt, the Lone Wanderer stood, attempting to reload the spent assault weapon. But, once again, he wasn't out of danger. A shot rang out and flaming pain burst in his right thigh. Charles screamed in pain, stumbling backward as the bullet struck him. Through the hazy field of vision, he saw two more swampfolk coming up the dirt patch behind him, one wearing overalls like the bat wielder and the other dressed only in blue jeans.
Overalls held a lever action rifle, the barrel still smoking from recent use, his shirtless cousin favoring a double barrel shotgun. Charles tried to react to their arrival, but it had been so sudden he found himself in a daze. The replacement clip still in hand, the Lone Wanderer attempted to find cover, but his wound hampered progress significantly.
With a maniacal grin and the scream of, "Die outsider!" Overalls hammered the rifle's lever, took aim and fired again. The second bullet hit Charles dead in the shoulder, bone near bursting from impact.
In the wave of blood and pain, Charles wasn't sure if it was the force of the shot, or merely his own maniacal stumbling, but something drove him backwards. The already weakened short wall didn't hold and, with a deafening crack, shattered, dumping the wounded Vault Dweller into the muddy creak below.
The impact was hard, driving the wind from his body, as rocks and logs battered his already wounded form further jostling the bullet-wounds. Only the slimy chill of the river water kept him awake, his blood flowing away with the stream.
Maybe it was meant to be like this…
The boom of a shotgun jostled him back to reality, though, for the life of him, he wasn't sure what the swampfolk was hoping to hit. The survivalist instinct that had brought him through so many trials already kicked in, and Charles, despite ever emotion in his body, refused to lie down and die.
Moving up to a crouch, the Lone Wanderer slid further beneath the badly damaged bridge, trying to buy precious time to reload his assault rifle…
Crap. Where the hell's my rifle?
A sinking realization loomed over him like an angry Deathclaw. His rifle had slipped from his hands during the fall, it was lying on the bridge, empty, and out of reach. To go after it would expose him to the swampfolk, who'd already proven their lethality with firearms, but without it…
Fortunately, Wild Bill's sidearm was still resting in its holster, the Brahmin leather keeping it remarkably dry despite the surrounding water. Yanking the pistol free, Charles held it in a shaking hand, while fidgeting around in his pouches for a stimpack, Med-x, or anything at all to numb the pain.
He could hear several more shots, as the swampfolk seemed content to blast away at the bridge despite lacking any targets. Sadly, all the jaunt through his pouches managed to turn up was a roll of gauze, recovered from a medical kit left in the motel bathroom. Shoving the gauze roughly into the bullet hole in his shoulder to slow the bleeding, Charles brought the pistol up to his cheek, barrel ice-cold, and waited.
One way or another, it'd all be over soon.
AN: Thank you those who favorited, subscribed and reviewed the last chapter. Your enthusiasm gives me strength! Until next we meet.