Way Back Home: Song of My Loneliness
Notes: I really struggled with writing this chapter at first. I knew where I wanted it to go and yet still had a hard time getting it down. The secret I learned to writing Hancock? Lots of booze.
In the weeks that followed, John tried to make good on his promises to the displaced ghouls. He visited settlements within a day's walk and convinced Jack and Diane Marx to join the farmers at County Crossing; Frankie Jones went up the coast to Nordhagen. A few days after that, he found a new settlement: a giant concrete hole in the ground full of water, perfect for growing tarberries - and now occupied by Wiseman and a few of the others who'd left Diamond City at the same time. The Olsons went there with him the following day; Molly, bless her heart, had thanked him for finding some of her old friends, and when he'd walked back to Goodneighbor the next day, he'd done it with his head held high.
He was trying, working as hard as he could to find them all the right places to go, but some of them were too impatient, too anxious to keep living in Goodneighbor, even for a week or two. One morning he woke up - well, okay, one afternoon - and ten or twelve had left early that morning, fleeing into the ruins with few weapons and - so far as Daisy knew - no real idea of where they were going. The next day, another couple had fled; the day after that, four.
All he could hope was that the ones who left without his help were safe in the ruins, that they'd made it somewhere intact, or as intact as ghouls ever were. He couldn't blame them, anyway - the day after they'd arrived, one of Vic's boys had gone around to all the newcomers, extorting protection caps from them. He'd tried to convince Vic that this would hurt more than help, but Finn and Ogre had thrown him back into the street, laughing the whole time. John wasn't a big man, and while he could be vicious, he knew beating the shit out of the two of them wouldn't get those ghouls their caps back.
The only one left of the thirty-four refugees that had followed him to Goodneighbor was Kent Connolly, still staying at the Memory Den. John made a point of visiting him every couple days; the old-timer was obviously delighted to have any company, although he seemed to have a soft spot for John, who made it a point to bring Kent a box of snack cakes or a bottle of Nuka-Cola.
After his visits, he'd take something and go see Irma. Sometimes she'd let him get into a lounger for a few hours and - if he was lucky - he'd get to relive a great high, or a particularly good fuck, or the night that he and Mikey Collins got into it with a couple super mutants down by the river. Sometimes, though, things would go sideways and he'd find himself standing with his brother again, watching Martin's slimy smile as they watched the ghouls leave Diamond City.
John had spent the day at the library, scavenging and exploring the old stacks. He was headed back to Goodneighbor with a sackful of gifts - a couple mysteries for Daisy, some old holotapes for Kent, some guy called the Silver Shroud, even some chems for himself he found stashed in a broken safe - when he heard the screaming. A woman's voice, and it was hard to figure out where it was coming from. He crouched, grasping his shotgun in both hands and checked that it was loaded. He cast his eyes at the canyon created by the smashed office buildings around him, ears seeking the echo of a woman screaming.
He should go about his business; it would be getting dark soon, the winter sun setting alarmingly early. He should head back to Goodneighbor, to a drink at the Third Rail and a huff of Jet and Irma's warm bed. He should -
His ears prickled at the next scream and he turned, heading towards the sound, now that he'd located its direction. He was never much for "shoulds".
John dropped low and crept along the shadow of a parking garage, keeping one eye half-turned to the open structure beside him, and paused at the next scream. It was definitely coming from in there. He inched forward into the entrance and looked around. The rusted corpses cars lined the inside of the parking garage, some still neatly parked between white lines and others pushed onto their sides and even burned.
The scream came again, from above and to the right. He checked his shotgun again and worked his way slowly up to the next level, slinking behind cars and keeping his eyes open. There was a flapping sound to his left and he started, looking for it, then relaxed as he realized it was just the fabric hanging loose from the roof of a destroyed car, fluttering in the breeze that blew through the open sides of the parking structure.
He walked up the ramp, following what sounded now like whimpering, a woman crying in fear or perhaps in pain. His muscles were hot in the chilled air of the garage, his brain sluggish - that's the only reason he could come up with later for the fact that he didn't hear the beeping approaching him until it was almost too late.
It took him far too long to see the suicider careening around the corner above him, the brute grunting and groaning as he ran down the drive. Instead, John's eyes focused on the woman behind him, on poor Myrtle Staunton, still clutching her cat, tears glistening in her bloodshot eyes.
Time seemed to slow - there was just the sight of her, trapped in that cage between two cars, screaming for help as three mutants stood around her, mocking her despair in their stilted tones. His vision shrank then, as he noticed the suicider coming ever closer, his lips pulled back in a horrific grin, a tortured scream issuing from his throat as each step brought him closer.
Closer. Closer.
John aimed, took the shot, and missed, hitting a car farther back. Myrtle wailed, the mutants around her turned. There was a high-pitched shriek where the metal punctured, and he aimed again. Only one shot, and then he'd have to run, reload, hope for the best. He took a deep breath, aimed, fired -
The suicider went down. The nuke stopped beeping.
And then everything blew.
When John came to, it was to silence and the flashing of flames around him. His whole left side ached; his hands scrabbled, searching for his shotgun, found nothing but pavement and rubbish. With some effort, he cranked his eyes open and looked around. For a long time, he couldn't make sense of what he was seeing: a parking garage, with two cars blown out and smoking up the ramp from him. His eyes gradually focused, and he was able to make out the large green figure of a dead super mutant thirty, maybe forty, feet away, up the ramp, bleeding from a large wound in his chest. A mini nuke had rolled partway down the ramp, towards him, glowing red on one side from the fire up the way.
He sat up, his head protesting heavily, and looked around. Behind him were more cars, all pushed slightly out of alignment, probably from the blast of the nuclear reactors in the cars up the way exploding. His stomach lurched - from radiation, or head trauma? Probably didn't matter.
Dazed, he looked around again for his shotgun and found it, about fifteen feet away and half-under a car. He bent over, half-crawling towards the wooden stock, and pulled it free. He thought about keeping it out, then laughed at himself; no way he was going to be able to fight anything, the way he felt. His mind drifted to the Med-X in his bag, and he pulled it out, rolling up his sleeve as he went.
John hated anything that involved shooting up, and for a moment he wondered if the nausea would get worse. His head was pounding, though, and maybe, just maybe it would help. He was searching for a vein when he remembered why he'd been here in the first place.
Myrtle.
He turned his head, vision swimming with the sudden motion, and looked up the ramp at the cage. It was flanked between the two smoking cars, and suddenly he became aware of the smell of cooked meat, and a metallic taste under his tongue. He stood, barely noticing the ache in his limbs as they protested the sudden motion, and began making his way up the ramp, shoving the Med-X back in his bag as he went. The shotgun hung from his left hand, empty and useless.
The roaring silence in his ears was deafening as he stepped over the body of the dead super mutant and got closer, closer, closer to the cage and the burning cars. Greasy black smoke billowed around him, and the scent of meat cooking turned his stomach.
Inside the cage, nothing was left of Myrtle or her cat. Instead, in a fifteen foot circle around the two cars, there was a slick and fatty substance, charred in places, that he realized had to be fat. Body fat, body waste.
His stomach lurched again, and this time he couldn't stop the sour yellow bile that rose up in his throat, flipping upwards and out of his mouth, onto his boots, the ground, the grease around him.
The next few days were a haze. Somehow he stumbled back to Goodneighbor, back to the Memory Den. Irma took one look at him and called Dr. Amari, who frowned and clucked her tongue and laid him out with a drip of Rad-Away in the crook of his elbow. The metallic taste faded, and his hearing seemed to return, although later he couldn't have said when the two happened.
Amari dosed him with Med-X and when she wasn't looking, he supplemented with some of his own supply. She simply couldn't - or maybe wouldn't - get enough of the drug in him to erase the pain in his creaking joints, to wipe out the image of Myrtle screaming and clutching her cat.
John stared at the exposed brick walls of the Den, floating inside his body, and thought about all the ways he'd failed.
"You need to go outside." Amari's voice was disapproving, as always. She'd never had the soft spot for him that Irma did. Sometimes John wondered why that was - maybe she didn't like men; if so, that was okay with him, though she didn't have to be so harsh about it.
"Tired of my handsome mug already, sweetheart?" He couldn't help but tease her, despite her stern expression.
"It's the smoke. I'm a doctor, John - don't call me that," Amari waved her hand dismissively, although if it was at him or the smoke, he couldn't tell. He put the cigarette between his lips, took another petulant puff, and got up off Irma's couch. He looked wistfully one more time at the soft red velvet, then shouldered his pack. His joints still hurt, although he had a feeling now it was from the Med-X, not the accident. The high was excellent, but it really wasn't meant for long-term use, and he knew that.
"Guess I will," he said to her retreating back, or to himself. He pulled the pack up over his shoulder clumsily, one hand still holding his cigarette, and made his way to the door. From Kent's room came the sound of the Silver Shroud holotapes John had brought - "Oh wow, John, these are the bee's knees!" Kent had said when he presented them - and his considered for a moment stopping in there before deciding to head down to the Third Rail.
He could use a drink.
The bar was the same as the last time he'd visited; warmer than outside and loud, full of people and smoke and music from the radio blaring so loudly that the sound was distorted. He bellied up to the bar, waving at Charlie and getting a filmy drinking glass with finger prints on the side into which the Mr. Handy poured a couple fingers of whiskey.
"That it?" John asked, cocking one brow. If robots could smirk, Charlie would.
"I'll need to s'more caps, then," he said, pouring several more fingers in as John laid a few more caps on the bar, trying not to wince as he saw how few he had left. He'd have to find work, and soon; he hadn't realized how low he was getting on funds, living at the Den and hiding from the world. He still had the books for Daisy - maybe she'd give him a little something for bringing them to her. He'd have to remember to stop by on his way out of town.
With a whiff of fuel, sweet and a little tangy, Whitechapel Charlie flew off to the other end of the bar to fill someone else's order. John took a long, grateful sip of his drink, wincing a little at the spicy sourness of the liquor.
Behind him was a peal of laughter. He turned his head slightly, looking back at the crowd at the small table behind him. Vic and Finn and Ogre sat behind him, along with a couple other bruisers he didn't recognize, and the unfortunate blonde girl John had seen them with a few times before. Ogre took up almost a whole third of the table with his great girth, and John wondered - not for the first time - if maybe he'd had a hit of the old FEV. Big guy.
He slid a cigarette from his pack, lit it without entirely turning his head to look at them, and took a long drag, glancing at the table full of hulking bullies and wondering if he felt like picking a fight. The blonde girl looked like the kind of dame who needed someone to help her. The shame he'd seen on her face before was faded, replaced by a sort of world-weariness.
John turned back to the bar, took another hit of his cigarette, and raised his glass to his lips, wondering if he was really going to do what he thought he was about it. He sipped slowly, thinking and swallowing, and before he knew it, the liquor was gone. He set it back down on the bar harder than he meant to, but no one around him seemed to notice the noise. Behind him, Vic had his hands all over the girl again, and she seemed to have given up; her eyes were unfocused and pointed at the ceiling as Vic pinched and prodded her.
"Get us another round, eh, bitch?" There was the distinctive sound of Vic smacking the girl, hard, the slap on her ass just one more indignity, and with that, John stood, kicking his stool away.
The world swam around him for a moment; he stood still, trying to get his bearings, and then turned, puffing at his cigarette and dragging his bag with him.
"How much for -" The group at Vic's table was looking at him, but he realized the slur of his words around the cigarette was too much. He took it out, clasping it between two fingers, and tries again. "How much for an hour with her?"
The men at the table began to laugh, an ugly, rolling sound, and John tried to focus on just one of them.
"I don't think you have those kinds of caps," Ogre said in his slow rumble. John became aware that the whole bar had gone quiet behind him. He stood, still and resolute, trying to keep a lecherous smile on his face. None of this would work if they knew what he was up to. He flicked his eyes at her and thought about what it would feel like to have her rub up against him, and then he found he didn't need to fake it.
To have a girl like that, naked and - No. He needed to focus. This wasn't about his own base needs, his own desires or pleasure, even if it looked like that.
He looked back at Vic, repeated his question. "How much?"
Vic frowned at him, turned back to the girl, and gave her an appraising look. She looked down, at the floor, and John fancied he saw an expression of hope flit across her face.
Probably just his imagination.
"Fifty caps."
John only had about sixty, but he knew this game. Best to seem interested but not too set on it. He puffed at his cigarette, then turned on his heel as if this was way more than he'd consider. "Nevermind," he grunted. "Too much for a skinny thing like her."
A laugh around the table, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Vic unbuttoning the top of the girl's blouse, exposing one beautiful tit for him to look at. Her nipple was soft in the warm air of the bar, a dark rose color. He thought for a moment about what it might taste like.
"Too skinny?" Vic laughed. "Look at this shit."
John looked. He looked and he hated himself for it.
"Fine," he grumbled, doing his best to make a show of it. He handed fifty caps over to Finn, who took them with a knowing smile.
"Go with him," Vic smacked the girl on the ass again, and she tottered over to John. He wondered for a moment what she was on, to keep her so placid. "Be back in an hour."
John took her elbow in his hand and guided her to the stairs. She wobbled a little going up them, and he was worried when he saw how glazed her eyes were.
How would she fare in the ruins, with a look in her eyes like that?
Outside the Third Rail, the air was cold; with two blasts of the wintry breeze he suddenly felt more centered, more focused.
"Can you use a gun?" Her eyes went wide. "This's a jailbreak, sweetheart."
"No, I can't -" She turned, raising her elbow as she moved away from him, and he felt suddenly how skinny she really was - he'd said that to get Vic's goat, but he could feel her ribs brush against his knuckles. She shivered in the next gust of wind, and before he knew it, he was pulling his coat off and wrapping it around her, the faded and dirty leather swallowing her.
"Do you want out of this place?" Her eyes were huge in her small face, glittering pink in the neon from the Memory Den's sign. She nodded.
"Then we gotta go. Now." He started for the gate and, a moment later, heard the sound of her feet as she followed him.
