The stunned circle of Riders stared at Benny. Benny could see Swank staring idly at the ground, slowly shaking his head. Bingo's light blue eyes bulged, threatening to jump out of their sockets.
Benny put his arm down, and turned to Bingo, "We've already lost a couple of our boys today. Just gotta rig the game sometimes, baby." He didn't have much love for Cloud. The idiot was mostly just a big hype man for the Chief, but that was no reason to sentence him to death.
Surprisingly, Bingo didn't roar in anger or start spewing profanities. Instead, his eyes returned to the inside of his head, albeit still glazed over from liquor, and he slowly kneeled down. Moving at a snail's pace, still in complete silence, he sat his Nuka Cola on the ground and removed the leather pouch he used to store the combat knives and his booze. Standing back up, he glared at Benny, his face bright red. He was on him instantly.
Benny saw a fist soaring toward his face. Too surprised to even react, he felt the impact and heard the crunch of his nose breaking. Seeing stars, he staggered backward, tripping on something. He landed flat on his back and felt a fiery pain shoot through his spine. Before he could even think, he felt something smash into his ribs. Then his chest. Then his head.
Instinctively, he curled up into a ball, pressing his hands against the back of his head, his elbows meeting in front of his face. The beating didn't stop. He felt Bingo's boot dig into every bit of him over and over again. Against his eyelids, smashed against his face, he could see a kaleidoscope of colors that flashed red on every impact. He felt the Mojave sand against his face. It might be the last thing he ever felt.
Just as Benny was sure that Bingo's bloodlust wouldn't be filled until there was another corpse in the caravan camp, it ended. Still afraid to open his eyes and leave the fetal position, Benny remained motionless. He heard Bingo clear his throat and spit. He immediately felt a warm, sticky mass splatter across the hand covering his face.
"Finish your looting, and let's get a move on. We're losing daylight," Bingo said cheerily. Benny could hear the smile in his voice. Fucking psychopath.
The utterly silent circle of Boot Riders slowly began to disperse. As Benny opened his eye – the only one he was still capable of opening – he saw a hand reach down and grab the nickel-plated pistol. Not much he could do about it.
He felt someone grab his torso. His eye slammed shut again. Tensing up, he pulled his knees tight against his chest.
"It's me buddy," Swank whispered, "Let's get you out of here."
Benny tried to move, but some combination of tense muscles and instincts wouldn't let him leave the ground. Maybe he was going to die here after all.
Swank sighed, and Benny felt Swank's arms encircle his torso. He let out a muffled yelp as Swank tightened his grip and lifted him off the ground. He swung him over his back. Benny could feel pain radiating out over every inch of his body.
As they walked away, Benny opened his 'good' eye. It was so puffy that he couldn't manage to see the world through much more than a sliver. Through the narrow crevice, he could see the fuzzy movements of Boot Riders combing through the camp, picking up the last of the scraps. In the middle of it all, he saw the blurry outline of Bingo. He stood, hands on his hips, grinning at Benny. Grinning. Half-delirious and consumed with pain, Benny's stomach turned, sick with a hatred for someone he was powerless against.
Swank threw Benny on the back of his bighorner. What was his name? Jumbo, Junker? Swank clicked his tongue, "Giddyup June." June, that's right. He either had a concussion or was a bad friend. Probably a bit of both.
Swank rode June slowly, trotting back toward camp. Even at their slow pace, Benny could feel every step, bump, and change in incline throughout his body. Every single part of him was an instrument of pain now. The clothes against his skin stung. The bighorner's fur stung. Even pressing his lips together sent small bursts of pain through his nerve endings.
Finally, they reached a small corral near the narrow canyon. Everything sounded muffled and distant to Benny through the haze of agony, but he heard Swank and the guard exchange a few words. Swank pulled him off the bighorner, slinging him over his back again. When they reached the Boot Rider camp, it was dark. A massive bonfire cast eerie orange and yellow light over the tents. Through the slit of his eyelid, Benny could see that the place was mostly deserted, save for a few women milling about. It may have been 2274, but the Boot Riders lived like it was 1800; women were generally expected to maintain the camp while Bingo and the boys went out raiding. As far as he knew, none of them even knew how to ride. It certainly wasn't as bad for Boot Rider women as it was in some groups, like the Legion, but they weren't given much opportunity either.
Walking up to Benny's tent, Swank pulled back the flaps and ducked inside. He laid Benny down on his bedroll and knelt down next to him. Benny could barely make out his features through the haze of his barely-opened eye. He heard a splash of water and felt a cool, damp rag on his forehead.
"I'm sorry. He shouldn't have done you like that. But what the fuck were thinking? You can't interrupt the ritual like that," the words poured out of Swank in a rapid crescendo, "You're lucky he even left you alive. Do you have a fucking death wish? And to save Cloud, who gives a shit about that guy?"
"I'm gonna kill him," Benny replied softly, ignoring Swank's questions.
"Benny, get your shit together. You're not gonna kill him, and you know it. If you wanna get out, we can get out. Run away maybe, try and find another group. But don't be an idiot," Swank growled.
"I'm not going anywhere, baby," Benny murmured, his eyes closed, "I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch." Swank sat silently for a moment, his lips pursed. He shook his head and left the tent.
Benny shifted around in his bedroll. He imagined his whole body as one big raw yellow bruise. How was he even going to sleep like this? As the predicament roiled around in his head, unconsciousness slowly and pleasantly dragged him into its embrace.
"Wake up, you idiot," he heard Swank grumble after what felt like mere moments. The rays of sun filtering through his tent flaps revealed otherwise. He felt pain immediately. It was all he could feel.
"Ugh," was all Benny could manage. He heard loud noises outside, a bustle of activity.
"They're breaking down camp. I'm packed up, but you need to get ready too."
"Wha – what's going on?" Benny mumbled, opening his working eye. His view wasn't quite through a slit anymore, but he still couldn't see much. Swank was kneeling over him again, his brows furrowed.
"I can fill you in later. Do I need to carry you again, or can you manage on your own?" Swank asked.
Benny sat up. Every bone and tendon in his body felt like it was scraping against another. He heard a crack as he straightened his back. "Fuck," he gasped, the exertion almost sending him back to the ground. "I can do this," he said through gritted teeth, more to convince himself than Swank.
"Yeah, okay," Swank muttered, as he started gathering Benny's things.
The two of them loaded Benny's duffel bag with his belongings and collapsed his tent, folding it into a crumpled mass of bighorner hide. Benny tried to help as much as he could, but he couldn't bring himself to bend over, and he had to take constant breaks. He could move around, but doing so was torture. Swank either didn't notice or didn't care. He worked wordlessly, barely acknowledging Benny. The rest of the camp looked like a hive of giant worker ants. Everyone, from Bingo and Cloud all the way down to the kids, pitched in. It was a well-rehearsed routine for the nomadic group. The mass of Boot Riders made the exodus from the ravine to the corral, leaving nothing but a ring of rocks where the bonfire was held.
Swank, still giving Benny the cold shoulder, turned to him as they arrived at the corral. "Alice didn't make it," he said tersely, "After you load up on a pack bighorner, you can ride with me and June."
"Works for me," Benny grunted, expressionless. There was no point in getting too worked up about his fallen steed now. He would just add her to the list of things to get up worked up about when he had his chance for revenge.
As Benny was strapping his duffel bag and tent to one of the pack bighorners, he felt a tap on his back. Turning around, he saw Tommy and his giant mustache. Tommy let out a soft whistle, "You look like shit man. Let me give you a hand."
"Sure, thanks," Benny replied. His hands, bruised and covered in scabs, felt arthritic, making it tough to tie knots to strap his pack in.
"You know," Tommy said in a hushed tone, as he secured Benny's pack, "None of us wanted to see Cloud die out there, except for Bingo. Between you and me, your little stunt may have earned you a beating, but it also earned you the respect of a lot of Riders."
"What are you saying?" Benny asked, perking up.
Tommy finished strapping Benny's belongings and turned to him, "I'm not saying shit, and, if I was, I would deny it later. Just know that you're not alone." With that, he turned and walked away.
As Benny returned to Swank and June, newly elated despite his nonstop pain, Swank had laid out a small hide blanket and sat cross-legged on it. He had a small medical kit open next to him and called over to Benny, "Come on, you've suffered enough. Get over here."
As Swank began bandaging Benny and applying precious healing powder, Benny filled him in on his conversation with Tommy.
"He's not the only one," Swank revealed sheepishly, "Rodney and a few of the others actually said similar things to me last night."
"Things are changing quick, baby. It's about time for a new cat to be runnin' things," Benny said with a glint in his eye.
Swank shook his head. "It doesn't work that way, Benny. This isn't a popularity contest. There's only one way, and even in your best condition," Swank looked around briefly and whispered, "you couldn't take Bingo one-on-one." Benny frowned in response, his lips making a perfectly straight line. "Anyway, let me fill you in on what happened after you passed out," Swank added, quickly changing the subject.
As Swank finished bandaging Benny and the Boot Rider convoy began marching northeast, Swank gave Benny the details of the preceding night. Bingo had called an all-hands gathering around the bonfire and revealed to the Riders that one of the merchants was carrying orders from a group called the Crimson Caravan Company. Apparently, the caravan was headed east toward Vegas. Although it was well-known that the city was a desolate – albeit impressive-looking – ghost town controlled by roving bandits, news had spread west that there was something happening; the city was stirring. Bingo ordered the camp to be moved in the morning. If Vegas really was coming to life, that meant more well-stocked caravans would be headed that way, which meant easy pickings for the Boot Riders. Benny nodded along. It wasn't a bad plan, especially by Bingo's standards.
"What do you think it means?" Benny asked.
"I think the Purple Caravan Company, or whatever the fuck they're called, is full of shit," Swank replied, "But it doesn't matter. If people believe it, then there will be caravans, and that's what really matters." Benny nodded again, but something felt off. The bigger caravan companies weren't prone to taking unfounded risks. There was something to this rumor.
The mass of bighorners and Boot Riders traveled northeast for three days, making camp late each evening. For a time, Benny could make out the silhouette of the massive Helios One complex to the southeast. He was thankful they were giving it a wide berth. Some gang – the Brotherhood of Steel – had taken up residence there. The Boot Riders had made the mistake of clashing with them before. They quickly learned that throwing spears and barely-functioning submachine guns didn't do much against power armor and gatling lasers.
In the late afternoon on the third day, they crested a large hill, and, finally, they could see the city. Las Vegas: untouched by the bombs of the old world but ravaged by the rust and the raiders of the new one. As the Riders began setting up camp for the final time, Benny pulled out his binoculars. From their vantage point on the hill, the Riders were about three miles southeast of the city. It was a great position to scoop up Vegas-bound caravans without drawing too much attention from the bandits in the city.
Through the high-powered lenses, the city did not appear as Benny remembered. Dim lights brightened the narrow corridors created by the formidable buildings lining the streets. Normally the place was pitch black. On the edge of the city, he could see the fuzzy outlines of people dragging huge chunks of metal across the grounds. As he adjusted the lenses outward, he could a structure – a wall, maybe – snaking around the western edge of the city. What the fuck was going on?
Benny tucked his binoculars back into his duffel bag. He tossed it on the ground next to the bighorner hide tent he had yet to begin setting up. He needed to find Swank. He meandered through the crowd of bighorners and Riders pitching tents and building small fires. The sun was starting its final descent, and the bustle of the camp was shrouded in the last purplish light the day was willing to give. He spotted Swank, nearly finished with his tent, and jogged over to him.
"Swank, baby, you gotta check this out," Benny said excitedly, "There's something going on down there in the –"
"Well howdy there, Boot Riders," a mechanical voice boomed over loudspeakers, cutting Benny off, "Do I have some news for you!"
