kindness begets kindness
The valley of Boulder Springs was barely behind them the next morning when Boone pointed out the bright, glowing city of New Vegas, glittering like a jewel in the early morning light. The tower of the Lucky 38 Casino cast a hazy halo into the sky, and even as they edged closer and the rest of the city disappeared from view, the 38 stood out like a beacon to the lost. Boone noticed the gaps between the Courier's ramblings became longer, the conversation more sparse, the closer they got to the city. She started to fidget with the edge of her cap and her hair, awkwardly tucking up strands just to pull them down again.
Boone agreed with her apparent unease associated with the little pocket of civilization; he had never liked the Strip himself. The only good thing about it had been Carla, beautiful Vault girl from the beautiful city. One oasis within another. A fine deal better than what was owed him, that was certain, and the memories still made his stomach ache for his late wife.
The sniper made an eager detour to the Gun Runner's, where the two dusty travelers traded their random goods for caps and ammo. Boone was fairly shocked when the robotic vendor paid out over a thousand caps as the Courier slung a much more empty pack back onto her shoulders. She shrugged at Boone's incredulous look.
"Look, I pretty much grab anything that isn't nailed down," she said defensively, but Boone only raised an eyebrow before shrugging back. Courier, Negotiator, Prospector, it all made for a better resume than Boone's own; he was a murderer, who dabbled in cowardice and long reaching depressive guilt.
The east gate of Freeside loomed over them much too soon for Boone's liking, gaudy and rusted from years in the Mojave sun but the Courier seemed to be looking at everything but the towering metal doors. She slowed to a nearly a crawl, then stopped completely before the shadow of the gate touched the dirty tips of her boots before raising her eyes up from the ground.
Clarke stood there for several long moments, her hands hanging by her sides and trembling. Boone thought she looked as if she was about the fly apart at the seams at any second, dread flowing off of her like waves. Her eyes were wide and white, reminiscent of the night they first met, and he found himself shifting uncomfortably in his own skin.
He wasn't at all surprised when she turned on her heel and started walking back the way they came.
0
Boone's chest was heaving under the heavy weight that settled against his sternum, but his arms wouldn't move to push himself up. When he moved his head weakly, blood poured out of his ear, but the Courier wasn't moving at all, lying on her face with one arm twisted awkwardly underneath her. His ears were ringing and dust was still settling around him from the explosion. There was blood everywhere, on the ceiling, splattered on the walls, and part of a leg was lying completely under the desk next to Boone.
"Goddamnit Clarke," Boone swore as he tried to push himself up again, and noticed that the heavy weight on his chest seemed to come from the bit of shrapnel imbedded into the fabric of his shirt on his right side, the dingy white tee already soaked in blood. "You better not be dead, you bitch."
The Courier's injured arm twitched and she let out an agonized moan before rolling over, her limb flopping uselessly along with her. It was bloody and badly burned from the blast, the nails on most of her fingers gone. It was an ugly sight.
"Duh…Don't call me a bitch," Clarke ground out through clenched teeth as she groped at her dislocated shoulder, touching the bleeding patches gingerly as she looked everywhere but her ruined hand. Her voice was husky, as if she'd been asleep for days. "What happened?"
"What part of 'don't touch the bodies'… didn't you get, Courier?" Boone snapped, shifting to lean against the upturned desk. The man was lightheaded, but he grabbed the edge of the hot shrapnel in his chest and gave a yank. It flew free with a sick squelching sound, but it was a squat little thing much wider than it was long, and the flow of blood was sluggish. It clattered loudly as Boone threw it to the side.
"Survivors should be our first priority, Sniper," the girl lashed back with a snarl. She was lying on her back, breath hitching with pain as she opened and closed her injured hand, and beads of sweat were leaving streaks of white skin in their wake.
Boone glared at her for a moment before huffing and looking down to his chest. "Learn this, Clarke. The Legion doesn't leave survivors. They leave traps."
The trek back to Novac from the ranger station was a slow one, the Courier and the Sniper leaning against one another with every painful hobble in an awkward three-legged dance. Boone's head swam with every swaying step, and he bent over to retch more than once, while Clarke's good hand, slippery with blood and shaking, twisted up in the back of his shirt to keep him from stumbling ass over foot into the dirt. He suspected that if he went down, there would be no getting back up, both of them weak and injured as they were.
The ringing in Boone's ears rose to a shrill pitch as Dinky appeared, and their trek slowed to an inch. He was vaguely aware of a voice, so far away, but the Courier's breath was hard and hot on his clammy neck as she shouted at Ada Strauss' turned back, hundreds of yards to the left, and one of her burly bodyguards nudged the would-be doctor with an elbow.
Boone had never been much of a fan of the woman, truth be told. Her hollow medical façade did little to hide her blatant chem distribution service, and the man was certain she enabled old No-bark's addictions, but her flat, plain face was a beautiful sight as she palmed her other guard and came running towards the bleeding pair. The sniper barely cared that she had little to no credentials right now, her supply of Med-X and stimpaks usually seemed never ending for those who could pay, and the Courier's purse was heavy with Gun Runner caps.
Boone wasn't sure which one of them fell first, but his knees hitting the dirt jarred his teeth together enough to chip one, releasing sandy shards of tooth into his mouth that he couldn't seem to manage to spit out. Clarke slipped out of his grip, but before he could wonder why, the floor of the Mojave came rushing up to meet him, and that's all he remembered.
0
Boone came to to the buzzing of flies on his face and the oppressive desert heat pressing into his skin and filling up his lungs. When he moved his hand to brush the insects away, it felt as if he was pushing his hand through water or fabric, slow and heavy. He wondered just how much Med-X Ada Strauss had administered to the pair, and the thought snapped his eyes open wide. Did the Courier even survive?
She was breathing slowly next to him, their cots pressed close together in the corner of Ada's cramped tent, barely six inches between them. Her injured arm was wrapped from fingertip to shoulder in white gauze, but blood and pus seeped from little gaps in the bandage and her face was flushed red with fever, dark hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. Her lips were cracked and bloody, the big, ugly bullet-wound scars looked pale and white next to the bright pink of the rest of her skin, and she needed new clothes. The Vault Suit she had worn had been ripped completely away from her injuries, leaving it missing an entire arm, and torn open from navel to throat. Someone had tried to pin it closed awkwardly with three little bobby pins, but Boone could see more gauze between the folds.
Boone struggled to sit, his own dingy white tee-shirt gone and chest wrapped tightly with bandages. There was gauze taped to the side of his head, right over his ear, but he seemed to be in mostly working order as he swung his legs off the side of the dirty cot. His knees hit Clarke's bed, jostling her, but her breathing didn't change from it's slow, steady pace. He wanted to reach out and shake her, or maybe to just touch her to make sure she was actually alive, but he didn't dare.
The slight Courier, for some damn reason, could make his head swim when he hadn't been blasted halfway to hell with a jury-rigged cap bomb, so he kept his hands to himself. He waited several minutes before trusting himself to stand, then stood for several more, steadying himself against a table topped with a chemistry set, bubbling happily away and smelling of chems, before he walked out of the tent into the glaring sun of the Mojave morning.
Ada made a noise halfway between an grunt and a gasp when she saw the sniper stumble out of her tent and grabbed his forearms. "You really shouldn't be up, mate," she snapped with no real rancor. "Let's grab Mr. Boone some water, yeah?" She directed the order to one of her bodyguards, who ducked halfway into the tent before reemerging with purified water.
Boone wanted to gulp the bottle down, but he knew enough to sip lazily, lest he end up vomiting all over the good doctor. "How long?" he asked, his voice gravely and rough.
"Today is day six," Ada admitted. "I reckon you had yourself a nasty concussion, and I had to stitch your nipple back on, so don't expect it to be quite as pretty no more."
"Where did you get… clean supplies?" Boone knew he should have been asking about the Courier, fever sick in her cot, but the sniper didn't really care to hear the answer. Six goddamn days. He wondered if her blood had turned to poison yet.
The woman snorted in derision. "You really think the fine people of Novac would let Lady Jane over there go without clean bandages for her delicate, heroic self?" she pounded out, jerking her thumb over her shoulder towards the tent and the unconscious woman within. The doctor didn't sound pleased. "They flagged on down the first merchant who passed on by, bout four days past. Damn near spent every cap in town, but didn't matter none. Infection already set in on that arm by then."
Boone physically flinched. The infection would definitely kill her, but amputation at the shoulder would probably just do it faster. He wondered how much shrapnel they had to dig out of the girl, and was honestly surprised she had yet to die. On the other hand, if two to the skull couldn't keep her down, how could she let herself be taken down by a fever?
Maybe her luck had just run out?
"Listen, Craig," Boone resisted against the urge to recoil when Ada used his given name, "Your friend in there needs a real doctor, not some two-bit hack with a tent. She needs meds and chems I just ain't got."
At least she admitted it, but they had few options. Ranger Station Charlie might've been equipped with the medical equipment necessary to handle injuries like Clarke's, before the entire command had been slain and their bodies rigged with explosives. Other stations closer to the river barely had supplies for their own men, constantly fending off raiding parties and dealing with skirmishes along the sandy banks of the Colorado, and those farther west were much too far, past…
"Goodsprings. There's a doctor in Goodsprings, the one who dug those bullets out of her, he's back in Goodsprings, and by the look of it, the best doctor we're gunna find in the Mojave right now," Boone said, a clear note of desperation in his voice.
Ada's look wasn't a confident one. "And what, strap the kid to your back for a day and a half? Ain't no quick way to get to Goodsprings, what with Primm Pass gone to hell with that Deathclaw and all. She's sure as hell to die before you get where you're going, then more than likely will drag you on behind her. The fever dreams started yesterday at dawn, best we can do is give her Med-X for the pain till the reaper takes her."
"What sort of fever dreams?" The former soldier knew a thing or two about fever dreams, saw more than one of his friends lay there, hours or days before death, eyes wide open but unseeing as they cried for their mothers, or to people who weren't there, or thrashed away from some invisible monsters. Few who had fever dreams lived past a week out in the trenches.
"What does it even matter? She was calling for some man, Paul, Saul, something like that, kept saying sorry to some girl, Jeanine. You know who they are?" Ada asked.
Boone shook his head. It was likely that Clarke didn't even know who they were, not anymore. She might've left her life in that grave in Goodsprings, but left behind her memories instead. It would be no service to her to let her slip away quietly in a dirty tent under the shadow of Dinky the Fucking Dinosaur. The sniper had long forgotten that that sort of drive, the will to live, even existed, and he couldn't just snuff it out. Not this time.
Boone furrowed his brow at Dr. Strauss. "So, what you're saying is that she's sure to die here, but she just might die on the road, right?"
0
Nearly every settler in Novac filtered on by before Boone took off down south towards Nipton in the midmorning light. The McBride couple came by with several dried and salted brahmin steaks to tuck away into Clarke's pack, and Old Ranger Andy came shuffling up to him with apologies and guilt and enough ammunition for a small platoon. Boone insisted the old man keep his guilt, reminding him that it was the Legion that had raided the ranger station, but readily took the ammo with thanks. Even No-Bark appeared to shove several Stimpaks into the sniper's hands, who didn't bother to question where they had come from.
It took four pairs of hands and very clever wrangling to slump the Courier over Boone's back before tying her in place with long strips of bloodstained fabric, several under her knees and more under her arms to keep her in place. They bit into Boone's stomach and chest, making it hard to breathe, but he didn't complain. The discomfort he felt now would be nothing compared to the agony he would be in after a day of hard walking with an extra hundred odd pounds slung over his back, and he'd rather not think too hard about the stinking bandages that no doubt played part in the infection in Clarke's arm, sitting wrapped around their bodies. Perhaps any hopeful raiders would take him as the dead man Ada labeled him as. He knew that any sort of firefight would be fatal, so avoidance was his lone defense. His only grace now was how light the Courier's usually heavy pack was as he swung it across his chest.
Ada had come towards Clarke with another dose of Med-X, but Boone had waved her off and administered just a small dose himself, intent on making sure the Courier didn't drift off into death due to an overdose. It wouldn't be fun, but if she woke, the sniper would handle the hallucinations. Still, he counted out a bit over a hundred caps to bundle into a purse for Dr. Strauss. She had saved their lives, after all.
A few hundred yards outside of town, just before Dinky disappeared from sight, Boone heard a familiar voice calling his name. He closed his eyes and let out a long suffering sigh. Wasn't the day already hard enough to face without this sort of encounter?
Manny was sweating and armed as he jogged up to the overburdened sniper, and he gave a faltering smile, obviously unsure. "I heard you were making your way to Goodsprings, I didn't really believe them," he panted, trying to catch his breath. It was particularly hot that day.
Boone resisted the temptation to roll his eyes, but knew the reality of it; word traveled fast in such a small settlement.
"I'm coming with you," Manny didn't ask, he acted as if he was simply presenting the facts of the situation. Boone narrowed his eyes at the former Khan. Truth be told, he would probably benefit from the help, but he would also rather lay down and die before traveling with the other man, rather than having to face down their past and the heavy, complicated emotions that hung between the two. Besides, if Manny left behind the small town, they would be without any sort of protection from the dangers that roamed the desert sands, and Boone told him as much, not unkindly. The other man looked obviously torn between loyalty for his home and the memories of comradery he remembered between himself and the sniper.
"Besides," Boone said, "Ranger Station Charlie was hit not two miles away from the town, every one of those trained men and women were murdered. What do you think the Legion will do to Novac if you give them half the chance?"
The sniper knew he won as soon as Manny's shoulder's slumped forward in defeat, but he didn't feel as good as he thought he would have when the other man looked at him with sad eyes and his lips pulled down into a deep frown. It was silent between them for a few moments before Manny spoke. "I always thought she was going to come back, you know."
Boone bristled. "What?" he snapped. If he was honest to himself, he had suspected Manny above everyone else in town for his wife's abduction, up until he had read the Bill of Sale for his wife and unborn child. His friend had been glad when Boone had told him that she was gone, and Boone had blamed Manny for his long, lone trek to Cottonwood Cove with every step he took.
"I thought she left in a huff, and when you went off to look for her, I thought for certain you'd come back with her, and when you came back alone, I thought she'd wander back into town after you for sure. Maybe if I did a little less thinking, you'd know that I still have your back, man," Manny said with a humorless smirk, looking down. "I just always thought she'd come back."
Boone started to turn away, tucking his arms underneath Clarke's knees. When he spoke, if was muffled by the rough fabric on this inside of her elbow. "Well, she never did."
"Boone!" The other man had waited until the sniper had put a healthy amount of distance between the two before calling out to the sniper's turned back, who just glanced over his shoulder without pausing. "I hope this one doesn't break your heart."
Boone groaned low in his chest and shook his head, not honoring the statement with a response. He would have stalked back there and thrown Clarke's limp body at Manny Vargas' face if he had the excess strength.
Hugging the western side of the cliffs between Novac and the isolated towns nestled in the wide, flat valley beyond them, Boone slipped around boulders and scrambled up steep inclines to stay off of the heavily traveled concrete highway. It wasn't long before sweat beaded on his forehead and sluiced down the back of his neck in a warm trickle, but he didn't stop as he rustled through the Courier's pack for water. A mostly clean rag was soaked before he awkwardly reached over his shoulder to squeeze a few drops of water into the Courier's mouth, and he could only hope that some made it down her throat. Her lips were cracked when his fingers brushed against them, and his fingers came away a little bloody, but at least she was still breathing steady against his skin.
Soldiers in the NCR were trained like soldiers of the old world, one of several attempts to reclaim pre-war glory in the ravaged wasteland. As such, Boone had come to be accustomed to long treks burdened by his uniform, pack, supplies. It wasn't rare to see men and women with upwards towards two hundred pounds strapped to their backs, transferring from one post to another, but Boone hadn't been part of the NCR in years, and soon his back was screaming, fire lancing through his shoulders. He didn't falter, conjuring up images of his training, back when this sort of agony was the norm. Back then, though, he had Manny huffing under his own burden by his side, and he suddenly regretted denying his old friend's help.
Finally, a deep, paved gully ran to his left that opened up into the main streets of Nipton, but the concrete was cracked and ashen from years of explosives and firefights, and Boone knew that this area was a popular one for gangs and raiders to lie in wait for unwary travelers. He could see the wreckage of several pre-war cars and a bus, pocked with bullet holes, and a still hand, no doubt attached to an equally still body, peaked out from behind some twisted metal. The walls of the gully were rocky and sloped sharply, and as pebbles tumbled and turned underfoot, Boone found himself steadying them on his hands and feet, feeling very much like a pack brahmin with his head hanging between his shoulders, watching his own movements carefully, lest he took both of them tumbling down the hill.
The body seemed to come out of nowhere, settled between the slope and a large rock that Boone had vaulted over easily before he stumbled and fell, limbs catching his legs and turning his feet so he landed hard on his chest with an agonized grunt. His chest exploded into pain and for a few seconds, he just knew that he made a fatal mistake by letting his attention wander, until he realized that the hands that seemed to grab at him just moments ago were stiffened into claws and still, skin pulled tight over bones. The man's mouth was open wide, and his tongue was black and filled with maggots. Birds had eaten his eyes and pecked away at the skin of his cheeks and skull, leaving wisps of hair that might have once been blond. The body had dried and baked in the sun long enough that there was no stink to the corpse, but he had been sheared quite nearly in half, a long, deep cut that ran from his right hip to his left shoulder. Some larger sort of animal had taken advantage and eaten his organs, leaving brown blood smeared on the packed sand, and bits of meat had dried into hard stones in the sun. The sturdiness of his armor had spared the body from the worst of the creatures of the Mojave, though, and it made Boone uncomfortable seeing an intact human instead of the usual bones, picked clean and chewed open to gnaw on the marrow within.
Boone briefly wondered if this raider fell to the Courier's notched machete, his wound so reminiscent of the Legion soldier who had been split from shoulder to hip as Clarke spilt his guts to be soaked up by the sands, and decided that she had been the most likely culprit. There were few people wandering the wasteland that would pass up bullets to favor a blade, probably because people in the latter category were pretty effectively murdered by those who toted guns around. You know, people with sense, Boone thought to himself.
The sniper put his back to the body, and gazed out towards the horizon. Here, he was faced with a choice. He could continue on west then north, following the highway all the way up to Primm and Goodsprings, keeping up hope that his trek would stay a lonely one, or he could slide down the incline and set a hard pace up the train tracks, free from any prying human eyes, but also trapped on both sides by tall cliffs, with no where to run if non-human eyes decided to take interest in the two interlopers.
Boone only stood there for a few moments before making his decision, skidding down into the ravine with one hand behind him to steady himself until his heavy boots hit the metal rails and he turned north. The sniper had to contend with vicious animals daily, so given the choice, he decided to deal with wild animals for once.
0
The setting of the sun did little to lessen Boone's agony as he left the miles behind him. His skin was red and peeling, and he was sure that the exposed skin on Clarke's face had to look worse after hours unchecked in the blistering rays. Each step felt like he was wading through hot water as his boots kicked up clouds of dust, and every time he had to twist himself to pull Clarke's arm over his shoulder to check her Pip-Boy, she slid lower in her makeshift sling and wrenched his shoulders back. By the time the soft lights of Goodsprings came into view, Boone was cursing his stubborn pride, trying to focus on just putting one foot in front of the other as his body screamed at him to stop and lessen his burden. Every rustling breeze through the desert, he drank up like water, turning his face to take gulps of fresh, sweet air, because as soon as the wind would die down, the rank smell of infection and necrosis settled back over the two like a blanket.
Despite his agony, the sniper felt tendrils of relief worming it's way through his belly as every step pushed the long miles behind him. Soon, the soft, glowing shapes that made up Goodsprings transformed into the solid lines of buildings, and he could make out the Saloon nestled behind the burnt husks of motorcycles and dirty stacked crates, which Boone stumbled towards immediately. He didn't know where to find the doctor, but he did know where to find Trudy, de facto mayor of the settlement, and help.
"What—What in the hell, boy?" Boone startled and tripped, falling to his knees and scraping his palms against graveled stoned that had been beneath his feet. He didn't move or speak for several long seconds before he tilted his head to find the source of the voice. The old man that he hadn't noticed before was rising slowly from his chair, hand creeping for a revolver strapped to his hip. The younger man wondered if it was the lingering concussion or simple exhaustion that had made him this careless as to let a white haired fellow twice his age get the drop on him.
"Please," Boone rasped, muscles shaking under the strain before he collapsed to the side, shoving the Courier's hot arm into his face and trapping one of her legs under his hip. He heard the old man shout for Trudy as his limp fingers tore at the bandages holding the girl's body to his own so he could roll away and onto his back. The old man rushed over to the Courier's side and rolled her over as well, letting Boone get a good look at his companion for the first time in many hours, and she looked several measures worse for wear than she had that morning. The side of her face that had been exposed to the sun was blistered, an angry crimson, and she was breathing so very slowly. The stabbing pain in his gut at the sight was leagues worse than the physical pain that seemed to radiate out of every pore, and it made Boone wonder if having to watch this woman die was another punishment, just as he was utterly convinced that Carla's death was some sort of reparation for his ugly past.
"What happened, son?" The old man was asking him with kind eyes, and his revolver was still holstered. Boone distantly heard the slamming of a door and then felt another body next to him, but he tried to focus on getting words out of his dry mouth.
"Doc—Doctor Mitchell," he managed before turning to the side to cough roughly, and caught sight of a woman, who he assumed was Trudy, and other figures that were hanging back on the sagging porch of the Saloon. She turned towards the small crowd and started snapping.
"Well, didn'tcha hear the man? Sunny, you go on ahead and tell the good doctor to prepare for another visit from the Courier," she ordered, and people started to scurry off the porch. Two settlers, who stunk of booze and oil, picked Boone up under his arms and together, with the sniper sagging between them, they stumbled off behind Sunny.