Stray
Chapter 2

The place he's holed up in is more like a shack than a house. There are just three rooms: a main room, a kitchen and a bathroom off to the side. Each one has paint peeling off the walls; it's a nondescript colour of puke. When he walks, he sees his own footsteps imprinted in the layer of dust that coats everything. Judging from the empty fridge, the uncluttered kitchen counter and the bare cabinets, this place has most likely been ransacked more than once. Almost everything that's not bolted down has been taken, save for a few empty bottles and syringes. Through the holes in the ceiling, Flak can see the sky above.

It's starting to get cold. If they have to stay here through the night, he'd have to build a fire. Flak pulls his coat around himself. There's a stack of old newspaper in a corner of the main room. Yellowed and brittle. That would work. Probably. Then again, maybe he shouldn't build a fire. The light will attract the Wastes' inhabitants to this shack and it's the last thing he wants. When he peeks through the dirty glass windows, he sees three of the deathclaws still outside. One of them is younger than the others, its body lithe and less muscled. It pecks at the corpse on the ground with its bloodied snout. Flak can't recognise who the red smear on the ground is.

The other crunching footsteps circling the house tells him that there are more than just the three deathclaws that he sees. He thinks the older deathclaws are teaching the younger ones to hunt. Can they smell him through the walls of the house? They probably can smell the raider; him and the rusty tang of his blood.

In the other room, the raider is sitting parked in a corner, holding the syringe of Med-X steady. Flak watches while he sticks the needle into his right arm, burying it in his flesh. Flak sees the moment the drug takes hold of him. The raider raises his chin and turns his face to the ceiling. He opens his eyes. Grunts. He has his lips parted, swollen and pink as he pants. Flak can see his heart beating fast on his pulse point. It makes the metal ring around his neck meet his throat with every breath. Like a collar.

He'll sell for a lot, this one. This particular one's muscles are hewn by survival. He's strong. Sinewy. And that throat will look good in a proper collar...

That time's over, though. Flak's done with that. That's another life. Not this one anymore.

Flak stands up and walks to the window. The sound of his muffled footsteps alerts the raider and he sits upright. The raider gropes for something around him and his hand closes around the empty Med-x syringe. He lifts it up like he might stab Flak but he pauses when Flak doesn't move. The raider looks up at him with those glazed-over eyes, his pupils large and dilated, bleeding into his irises. Keeping his eyes on the raider, Flak settles on the couch nearby. As soon as his ass touches the threadbare cushions, the raider licks his dry lips. He flings away the empty Med-x syringe and sends it skittering across the floor. He sneers at Flak.

"Told you I ain't sharing," he slurs, the gravelly undertone rubbing Flak just on the tip of his ears. The raider licks his lips again. Flak doesn't see a hint of that scotch he promises he isn't sharing.

"You're still bleeding," Flak reminds him about his open wound. The raider grunts.

"'s what the Med-X is for." Flak nods like he understands. He doesn't. He watches as the raider places his hand on the wound on the left side of his torso. The raider can't reach it properly but he doesn't ask for help. Flak doesn't offer to help him. The wound stays open. The raider closes his eyes again. He has a flush washing up his neck, spreading across his cheeks. His pulse is still beating fast. Flak turns to look out the window. Between the planks that board up the windows in the front room, he tries to spot the deathclaws out there. Yes. They're still there. He sees a massive body sitting on the sand. The snap of bone enters the room from outside. Flak cringes.

The next time Flak looks through the holes in the ceiling, he can see pink tints in the sky as day progresses into night. It's even darker when the sound of eating finally stops and the deathclaws start to skulk away. Their huge bodies block the shafts of moonlight in the kitchen window as they pass. The younger ones' smaller bodies cast shadows on the walls. Flak watches them from the kitchen window until they are merely tiny shapes moving in the darkness. Good riddance.

Time to get a move on.

Tightening the straps of his satchel, he enters the main room. He re-ties his hair, letting the ponytail dangle quarterway down his back. It's mostly dry now, done with spreading lakewater into his shirt. Through the cracks in the window, Flak peers out once again into the distance, just to make damn sure that there are no stragglers. He clamps down on the cabinet and is about to drag it away from the door when he sees shapes creeping in the dark. They're not large, burly, deathclaw shapes. They're human shapes. Three faint lights start to flicker with them.

Dammit. They're still chasing him, aren't they? Three lights. At least three people are after him now. Flak takes his hand away from the cabinet. He aborts the thought of leaving through the main door, feeling tension race across his shoulders. He backs up, moving to the kitchen. The bastards are heading here, aren't they? They want him. They're bent on collaring him. Fuck.

In the kitchen, Flak presses his body against the fridge, trying to push it off the door. It starts to budge, but it stays rooted to the spot. Flak takes a step back, then with all his might, he heaves against it. It slips, then topples down, crashing onto the floor. The fridge door swings open, making a final resounding bang on the linoleum. Shit. He doesn't know if his chasers heard the noise. Flak puts his hand on the now revealed doorknob. It's cold. He is about to turn it when he pauses.

Looking over his shoulder into the other room, Flak can make out the raider's prone shape sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall. In the darkness, he can see that the raider's eyes are shut. Is he sleeping? How the fuck can he sleep through all that racket? He'll be fine, won't he? The raider can fight them off, right? He's a raider, after all. He's been through much worse than...

They'll take him won't they? An injured, strung out raider like him, alone and far from his pack, he is an easy target. When Flak's former colleagues reach here, they'll take him. Mark him as premium meat.

Flak doesn't care, though. He'd do the same if their positions were reversed. He pushes on again, holding onto the doorknob.

But...

He's not them anymore. He's not like them. He can't leave this man here to get caught by the slavers. Especially when they'd both... He looks down at the fridge lying forlorn by his feet.

Dammit.

Flak strides back into the house. In front of the raider, he crouches down and reaches for a shoulder. He shakes him. "Hey," he calls. The man grumbles half-formed words and shifts his body. Beside him, there are two empty syringes on the floor. Sonuvabitch. Flak shakes the man harder. "Get up."

The man's eyes fly open. It's plain to see that he's hazed up on Med-X. Flak leans back a little as the man eyes his face. Then, he shoves Flak's hand off.

"What?" the raider drawls. He scratches an itch on his arm.

"We gotta go, buddy," Flak replies putting as much stress as he can into his tone, his voice. He keeps an ear out for impending doom. "My friends are heading this way."

"Yeah? So what?" The raider says it like he's picking a fight. "Go with 'em. Leave me alone."

"We're not going anywhere with them." Flak glances at the front door, the furniture still piled up in front of it. It'll take some time for them to get through. He turns back to the raider who stares at him from under the curtain of his hair. "If they find you here, they'll collar you. You don't want that, buddy." At that, the raider squints up at him. A curious gaze roams over his face. His nostrils flare like he's taking a whiff of Flak.

"Huh." The raider licks his lips. "Thought you smelled like a slaver." Then he glances away. He slowly shifts again. He starts to move. Good. Flak stands up, waiting for the raider to stand as well. As soon as the raider straightens up, he winces and doubles over. "Motherfucker," he curses, the word bitten off into a growl.

"Come on," Flak orders. His voice is a harsh whisper. There is a shuffle from outside that doesn't belong to either of them. The raider reaches across his chest and under his armour, clasping over his wound. In spite of injecting himself with Med-X, the wound must still be hurting him. Even in the dimness, Flak can see that the gash doesn't look good. "Move," he commands as he heads for the back door, past the fridge lying down on its side looking pathetic. He turns the doorknob and peers outside. The thick smell of coagulated blood hits his face. On the ground, in blood-stained sand, are the remains of a person; scraps of flesh are attached to white bones picked almost clean. He doesn't want to know who this had been. Might be Sandra the Bitchface.

He hears a low hiss and glances behind to see the raider gritting his teeth. For a moment, Flak's tempted to grab him and steer him out by force but he doesn't. He's seen his fair share of raiders to know that a mere touch might end up with him on the floor with a broken neck. Flak's not going to risk it. He opens the door the rest of the way for him. The raider is grunting in pain with each step. The wound in his side is shiny with blood. The red has trailed down his muscles, seeping into his pants. The raider just glances at the pile of remains like it's nothing. Flak supposes the raider has seen this often enough. His kind enjoys playing like this; Flak has seen the mutilated corpses, the mashed limbs still tied onto dirty, blood-drenched mattresses. He knows the games they get up to in their dens.

"Move now," Flak orders in a whisper, briskly walking ahead.

"Don't fuckin' rush me." The raider spits at the ground. He sways a little when he moves. "Don't. Rush. Me." And then he stumbles. He curses and Flak seizes at the sound, at the pained exhale. Without thinking, he grabs the man's arm –

The raider jerks his hand back, instantly reaching for his pistol. Flak fights the urge to take out his own pistol. No ammo. He doesn't know what made him... What the hell was he... This isn't someone he knows. This stranger...

The raider's eyes are twitching as stare at him, his fingers brushing his pistol. Flak has seen this look before. The raider isn't bound around his wrists or ankles but Flak can see the fear masked by rage; it's prevalent in all the meat he's packed in the pen. Flak calms himself down. Because this isn't helping. Because this meat will fight him back. Slowly, Flak holds out a hand. The raider's eyes dart to it. "Come on," Flak says instead, keeping his tone neutral.

The raider's eyes return to his face. They scan him, much like the way his eyes had scanned the empty kitchen hours ago. He pulls his lips back. "Come on," he rasps. He says it to Flak like he's the one who's trying to persuade Flak, as though he was the one who was...

Fucking raiders.

Flak takes his arm again and doesn't miss the way the raider stiffens at the touch. Whatever. They both don't like having to do this. Manoeuvring themselves so there won't be any pressure to the wound, and so Flak won't get poked by the spikes on the raider's armour, Flak drives them. "That way...South East," the raider grunts at him, directing them. "Safe place," he adds. They trek in the dark, leaving behind the house, weaving between the trees and passing under the red rocket statue.

"Safe place for you, you mean," Flak says, grunting with effort.

"No one's gonna be there now," the raider replies, heavy breaths interspersing the speech. Flak can't read the emotion in his voice. The raider sags a little more against him. Is he slipping away?

Many steps later, Flak looks over his shoulder towards where the house had been, where he's sure Paradise Falls used to be. He sees nothing but trees.