He drank deeply. He paused, frowned, and drank again- and coughed, wiping his mouth.
Odd. It tasted... different. More bitter, somehow. Well, it was only the first of five. Maybe this one was just... special.
"I am a very, very patient man, you know."
The Legionnaire strained against his binds, grunting as the cactus needles dug deeper into his skin. Stockholm watched with an odd curiosity as the man's droplets of blood and sweat began to mingle, running along his skin in swirling streams.
The young soldier gritted his teeth. "I have no words for you, profligate."
"Apparently, you do," noted Stockholm dryly as he began to whet his knife. Damn steel didn't hold an edge like it used to. Caesar's Legionnaires had tough and stringy flesh- while it was a pain to gut them now, they'd make for decent eating later. Having already skinned and gutted four of the scouting party's number, he moved on to their commanding officer, rather burly and scarred fellow. But to make things more convenient, Stockholm dragged the officer's corpse by the hair and dropped him in front of the bound soldier so he'd have a decent view. It's not every day you get to watch your superior be drawn and quartered, after all. It's most people's dream!
"Savage disgusting animal!" snarled the bound Legionnaire, eyes bulging from his sockets as Stockholm made a long, clean slice along the officer's belly. "You are undoubtedly the lowest of dissolute I have ever had the displeasure of encountering!"
"And now he begins to talk." With a sigh, Stockholm began sawing into the sternum, careful not to cut the lungs. "You know, I'm disappointed. Really, I am. When I heard of these Legionnaires, following the example of a long-forgotten empire, I was intrigued. What was their motive? Their drive? Did they want knowledge? Peace? Justice?" The sternum finally gave with a splintering crackle, giving Stockholm access to the heart. Still twitching. Feeling a bit knawish, he slashed at the huge arteries and veined membrane until the organ came free.
"But no," Stockholm whispered, staring at that heart that fit so snugly in his hand. "They wanted to conquer, like any other common animal. Pathetic." He took a big bite of the heart, chewing on the elastic outer sac thoughtfully. "I remember when they first put boots on the ground. Arizona." Looking up intently, blood running down his face, soaking into his beard, eyes dead and lightless, Stockholm looked like a horror even radiation couldn't produce. "You don't even know where that is. And I'm the profligate?"
The cactus the Legionnaire was tied to held fast, even as the young man thrashed. "I'll kill you!" he roared as blood pooled beneath him.
"No. You won't." Another bite. "I wiped out your party with five bullets." Five bullets and a knife, technically. "But if you did manage to kill me in this scenario, I'd be thoroughly impressed. Really, I would." A few inches of blood still remained in the empty chest cavity; couldn't let it go to waste. Stockholm dipped the heart in, took another bite, and washed it down with a cupped hand of blood- ugh, too salty. How nauseating. The red stuff had never tasted good to Stockholm- or anything that came from a human, really- but it kept him alive. Or gave him the illusion of it, anyway.
The soldier took a deep breath, collected himself, and squared his shoulders- to the best of his ability, anyway. He was tied to a cactus. "And if I die, profligate? It doesn't matter. For my death, ten will replace me. This worthless handful of sand will be hours, and you will be crucified. Your last breath-"
"Will be of me, begging for mercy? Is that it?" Stockholm chuckled. "You're determined. I like that. Keeps the meat taut." Stockholm finished field dressing the officer, plopping his unneeded organs at the captured Legionnaire's feet.
"Cato Empiricus!" he declared, unfazed by being ankle-deep in writhing guts. "You'll be shrieking that name as they prop you up."
"And I can shriek all sorts of other things, too. But you'll have to tell me, first." Stockholm stood and went eye-to-eye with the young man, their noses almost touching. Cato's eyes were green. Forest green. Didn't see that often anymore. "Tell me where to find Sallow."
He paused, feeling the warm spit drip down his cheek. "Oh, very mature. Now, maybe that name isn't familiar. Caesar? Ah, yes, I see that bizarre, perverse lust in your eyes. Where can I find Caesar?"
The other cheek. Stockholm sighed and wiped his face with what used to be a Legionary tunic. "You really don't understand, boy. I want information, and you can't goad me into killing you. I'm going to keep you alive for a very, very long time. I will break your fingers and toes, one by one, by the knuckle. I will cut you, let your wounds heal, and cut you again. I will feed you just enough to keep you alive. In a week, after stagnating in your own piss and shit, you'll talk. They always do."
Even faced with that, the soldier didn't say a word or betray the slightest hint of fear. Just stared straight ahead, sweating under the Mojave sun.
With a shrug, Stockholm dragged the bodies of the had-been scouting party around him, and having already packed the worthwhile meat away, began prying out teeth from the severed heads. Bottle caps were all well and good, but between settlers and raiders, he really didn't have enough to barter. It was hard enough as it was, staying afloat with the NCR and Legion trying to monopolize the caravans. Even taking out an entire party of Legionnaires led to nothing truly saleworthy, just a few coins with that Sallow asshole on them- bastards didn't even carry rations, just foraged off the land. But Stockholm didn't let the anger get a hold of him- no, he simply popped out one tooth after another, letting the rhythm soothe his nerves. Maybe during all that time, that Cato kid was screaming or cursing at him, or uselessly wailing for help across the open dunes. If he did, Stockholm didn't notice.
Just over a hundred teeth later, Stockholm scanned the horizon and took a short nap under the shade of a rock, just because really- the man deserved it.
When he awoke, he chastised himself for spending so much time a single, unfortified location- really, he was getting lazy. Lazy and old. Lazy and old and ugly. Well, uglier. Couldn't be helped.
He circled around the rock formation he had chosen as his courtroom for the soldier, marveling at his luck for finding a cactus nearby, when he noticed that the soldier's head was drooped against his chest, and the dust on his legs was slightly wet. Really, now? It had only been, what, two hours? Sure, it was a hundred and ten degrees out here, but come on. That's prime Mojave sunbathing weather!
Of course, as he got closer, he noticed that the soldier's first layer of skin had been peeled away by the sand-studded wind, leaving him shiny and slightly bloody. Stockholm had to admit that even he hated it when that happened. "Okay," began Stockholm, stifling a yawn. "Let's try again. Where is Caesar?" He swatted away a family of bloatflies that were trying to lay eggs in the Cato's eyes and mouth. That'd be... interesting, but really not what was needed right now.
"You can't get to him."
"Let's say I could."
"You can't." The Legionnaire sounded like he had run a marathon. "The only way... the cove."
A cove? Wait... so that meant Caesar wasn't in the Mojave at all.
"And where is this cove?"
"East... southeast. Shore of the river."
That's all Stockholm needed to know. He couldn't help but smile. "Thanks, Cat-boy. You've been a great help."
Cato didn't say a word, just hung there dejectedly. With a sigh, Stockholm slashed him across the throat, cutting cleanly through until he felt the grind of the vertebrae. The soldier kicked and struggled a little, maybe from surprise, or panic- so Stockholm put him out of his misery with a hard stab through the heart. He stopped moving shortly after that, and Stockholm untied the rope to add some more teeth and meat to his pack.
He was never going to leave him alive like that. He wasn't cruel.
Only an hour after he had started moving southeast did Stockholm hear howling in the distance- good thing he left. He hated dogs. Especially the post-war dogs. Especially the post-war dogs that looked like they came out of a rattlesnake-coyote orgy and fell into a vat full of steroids.
In reality, that he had managed to take out an entire Legion scouting party by himself was pure luck. If the team had taken dogs along with them, he would've been a goner- no element of surprise, and he hated dogs, after all. He had tracked them all morning, waiting and waiting for them to travel into undefensible territory- and they did. A well-placed bullet from his Chinese support rifle was all it took to punch a hole through the officer's helmet- not very good worksmanship- and after that, the rest of the party fell apart. With no cover and no idea where the shots were coming from, they were did before they hit the sand. All but one- Cato- that rushed up the dune Stockholm had buried himself in and began stabbing down into the sand with his machete. One of those stabs almost went right through his neck, Stockholm though, rubbing at his throat- but again, luck was on his side. With a few kicks, punches and a draw of the knife, the kid was on his back and clutching at a slashed tendon. Easy. The idiots didn't even use guns. Just machetes and spears.
The jingle of teeth, the steady beat of his rifle against his back, the snugness of the revolver at his hip, the heat waves rising off the sand- it was all like a lullaby. He loved it. He hated that he loved it, but he fucking loved it. He- wait.
Stockholm stopped and slid into cover behind a long-dead tree. Peeking out, he saw the oddest thing- a quarter mile out, a pack of brahmin and a herd of bighorners staring each other down.
The alpha bighorner stared at the lead brahmin.
The lead brahmin stared at the alpha bighorner.
And then they rushed each other and started fucking in the middle of their respective herds. Fighting the urge to laugh and vomit simultaneously, Stockholm turned away, a hand clutched to his mouth.
A hand that smelled like blood.
Trying to block out the squishing noises and the braying and the mooing, Stockholm looked southeast, and wondered. First, the New California Republic, and now these machete-waving Legion idiots were moving into the Mojave. Things were worse than they looked... seems like wherever he went, the power vacuum got there first. Damn.
An exceptionally loud bray pierced the Mojave, nearly making Stockholm fall over in shock. The bighorner and brahmin fell apart in a heaving heap. Shit, that was... explosive. He felt the shockwave from there.
Well, Stockholm thought, all he had to do was get the NCR and Caesar to fuck each other. Fuck each other dead.
Been a while since Stockholm has been doing stuff. It's nice to have two stories- one where the protagonist is a normal, humane, decent person, and another where the lead is a sociopathic maniac.