FOUR

Goodsprings

June 24th

23:11

"I got another one, I got another one," En said through her guffawing. Her head pounded like a monster, but she was telling jokes, and to Hell with her head. A few people had come in since Trudy had 'accepted' her, most talking among themselves, some sitting alone at the bar and listening in on the jokes. The entire saloon had transformed from an empty, boring old dive into a smoke-filled, cosy bar. Right, her joke. "Alright, alright, how can you tell if a cop's gay?"

Easy Pete was hiccuping, tears in his eyes, and Trudy was grinning despite herself as well.

"If he's got flies buzzing around his nightstick."

Pete roared with laughter. The joke itself wasn't that good, but En supposed the alcohol in the man's system helped him find everything funny. And Trudy was probably more amused at Pete's hilarity than the actual jokes. Still, they were having fun. And no one took offence to some politically incorrect joking. En always thought you had to be able to joke about everything. Making jokes about acceptable topics and not about sensitive ones was hypocritical, and besides, making jokes about something didn't mean you lacked respect. She had nothing against gay people ('some of my best friends are gay' and all that), but that didn't mean she couldn't crack a joke about them. And Easy Pete clearly thought the same way, because En had made quite a few black-guy jokes too, and he'd laughed heartily at all of them.

"Awrite, awrite, my turn," Pete giggled, motioning for another refill. "Why does a blonde always have empty bottles in her fridge?"

The sound of a door closing interrupted the joke. Sunny stood in the doorway, Cheyenne panting next to her. En, for one, was glad to see her. Be nice to have a drink with her and have some fun. Because even in the short time she'd spent with her, En had developed a lot of respect for this woman, with her useless rifle and her stupendously well-trained dog.

With a grin, Sunny sat down next to En and finished, "In case she haves people over and they don't want anything to drink."

Pete let rip with another bout of laughter, slapping his hand on the bar, cackling with mirth at his own stupid joke.

"Hey, don't look at me," Sunny said hastily. "I just know the joke, I didn't come up with it." She motioned at Trudy for a bottle of beer.

Quietly, so Pete couldn't hear, En told Sunny, "He's been making lame-ass jokes like that all night."

Leaning with her back on the bar, her elbows on the wood, she took a swill of her beer. "Hey, sweetie, I know I'm not your mom, but are you sure it's a good idea to hang around in the bar so late? It might be best to get back."

She was having fun, but she supposed Sunny was right. Then again, she felt strangely privileged to actually have this woman even talking to her. "I was actually hoping we could have a drink and get to know each other a little better?"

Sunny's smile looked genuine. "I'd love to, hun, but you need to think of your health first. And doc Mitchell's. He's asleep now, but he'll have a heart attack when he hears you've been out so late."

"Yeah, I know. You're right. Guess I'll hit the sack."

"There'll be more occasions. Go on, get to bed."

Of course, when she got up, Easy Pete immediately protested, "Aww, you're not goin' already, are you? And we were just getting' to know each other!"

"Yeah, I uh... I should be heading back." She pointed at the red-stained bandage on her head, still looking like a ludicrous beanie. "I'm still recovering and all."

He wiped away a guffawing tear. "Alright, sweetheart. Gotta take care of yourself when you're on the mend."

"That's right," Sunny scolded. "No irresponsible behaviour on my watch." Playfully, she made to kick En on the backside. "Move it, young lady."

En had loved to stay longer, especially as she closed the door behind her and heard the music, the voices and the laughter still inside, muffled, but still there. Ah well. Sunny had been right, best to head for bed, if only to spare Mitchell's heart.

She sighed, stuffed her hands in the pockets of her dirty leather jacket and started walking. Despite her disappointment at having to leave the bar, the cold evening air felt nice on her face. What didn't feel good was the throbbing in her lower belly. Damn it, those three cokes had gone straight to her bladder. That meant it was pee-time again. Her favourite moment of the day.

Wait a minute. About twenty or thirty metres next to doc Mitchell's house was a small, dilapidated old Poseidon Energy gas station, and some dude was sneaking around there, looking extremely suspicious. Mitchell would probably throw a fit if he heard about it, but if it was suspicious, she had to check it out. The guy could be a burglar, or even a murderer. Because didn't this town have trouble with a bunch of escaped criminals or something? He disappeared behind the building, holding a duffel bag. En carefully, and as quietly as possible, hustled up the hill to the gas station, staying out of sight.

"Freeze!"

Shit. God dammit he'd noticed her and gone around the building.

"Kindly don't move, or I'll blow your head off." Yeah, sure, because her head hadn't been through enough already. "You one of those Powder fuckers? Don't lie!" The voice was harsh and determined, but also noticeably nervous.

"I don't even know what powder fuckers are. Doesn't sound all that appealing either," En answered calmly, even though her heart beat hard in her chest (and her head!).

"Wait a minute," the voice said slowly. "You're not that kid that got shot up on Goodsprings Cemetery, are you?"

"Matter of fact, I am," En grunted. "And now that you know who I am, mind if I turn around so I know who's pointing a gun at me?"

There was the sound of a weapon being holstered. "Yes, of course. Sorry 'bout that, I'm just a little on edge."

"So am I," En told the man as she turned around. "But then, I got shot in the head, so I may be hallucinating all of this."

The man let out a short laugh. He was in his mid-thirties, not bad looking, she supposed, but a bit too well-groomed. His hair was neatly parted to one side, his shirt immaculately clean and buttoned all the way to the top, and his brown leather vest looked brand new. "Miss, for all I know, I could be dead and hallucinating too."

Right. A self-proclaimed kindred spirit. "Don't see any skull fragments missing on you?"

He took out a diligently polished silver whiskey flask and held it out to her. When she made a declining gesture with her hand, he nodded. "Right. No alcohol for injured folks. Mind if I have some?"

En shrugged.

The man took a generous swill, grimacing from the burning liquid in his throat, and said, "I was pretty close to dying myself. Though not as close as you were, obviously." He spoke very articulately, his pronunciation far more cared-for than most.

"Any closer than I was would mean having your brains used for wall decoration. What happened?"

He sat down on a fallen gas pump, taking care to wipe all the sand and dust off it first. "Caravan got attacked by powder fuckers. I was the only survivor." With a sigh, he added, "Tina and Chipper, they… didn't make it." He hoisted his flask slightly before taking another, more modest and dignified sip.

"I see. But why so jumpy now? They didn't come after you, so you should be fine, right?"

"Actually," the man sighed, "They did. They know I'm here, and they want me dead." Right, this must be the refugee that the villagers kept hidden from those escaped convicts. No wonder he was a bit tense.

Still, he should be pretty safe here, right? En shrugged again. "Can't reach you here, can they?"

"Not out in the open, no. But they can coerce the people of this town into telling them where I'm hiding and turning me over. And they're doing a pretty good job of it. Making threats, spooking people. Set fire to Chet's place too. Well, they tried. Couldn't even do that right. Amateurs."

En frowned, not understanding. "And those powder fuckers are… who, exactly?"

"Ah yes, forgive me. Not my habit to use expletives. It's actually Powder Gangers. Criminals that got locked up in NCRCF, prison facility a ways Southeast of here. They revolted, killed or drove off the guards, and seized the prison. Now they're terrorizing the countryside, so to speak."

"And why are they called Powder Gangers? Because they have gang-bangs in the powder room?"

Another short laugh. "No, because they primarily use black-powder explosives as weapons. They had to use them during their forced labor, so they know how to handle the stuff." He got up. "But hey, I don't have time for question-hour. I need to keep my head down in this place. I sit out here too long and they'll spot me."

"Alright. So uh, what now?"

He pointed his chin at the gas station. "Now I'm going back to enjoying my wonderfully uncomfortable hiding place." His face scrunched up. "I'm telling you, the hygienic circumstances in there are just appalling."

"No, I mean, where are you gonna go from here? As in, you can't stay in there forever."

"Oh. Like that." He looked out over the town of Goodsprings, quiet and dark in the valley below them. "I hate to give these people trouble, so I'll try and sneak out sooner or later. Not right now though, too dangerous."

"Right. Need some help?"

He smiled, baring two rows of even, white, perfect teeth. "Actually, yeah. But don't worry, it's not for right now just yet. But someone getting my back would be nice. Anyway, see you later, miss."

"En."

"Mm?"

"En. It's my name."

"Oh. Right." He held out his hand. "Name's Ringo."

She shook his hand. Groomed as he might be, his hands had the calluses of a man who's worked for his money. "What, like the Beatle?"

He frowned, irritated. "Yes. Like the Beatle. I wish people would stop asking that."

En chuckled. "I know what you mean. Same way I wish people would stop assuming I can't pronounce my own name and that it's actually Anne."

Blinking in confusion, he asked, "Wait. I thought you just said it was Anne?"

She rolled her eyes. Figured. "En. Not Anne."

"Oh, I see." He clearly didn't.

"Ee-en."

Yep, now he got it. "Oh, I see. Sorry. It's not a name you hear very often, is all. Well, not a name that you hear… ever, I suppose."

"Yeah, it's unusual, I know."

"Well," he said with a smile, "It's been good meeting you, miss En."

"And you, mister Ringo."

He tipped an imaginary hat and sneaked off to the gas station. It was probably best to do the same, only to her own temporary place of residence. And En didn't doubt for a moment that an irate doc Mitchell was as dangerous as whole platoon of Powder Gangers.


Carefully, and as quietly as possible, she opened the door. It was dark inside, but she could hear doc Mitchell from his room, snoring as if he was trying to level a forest. Good. She undid the laces of her boots (argh, that headache when she bent over!) and picked them up, walking on her socks to minimize the noise. She made it to her bed easily enough, but as she sat down on it, one of her boots slipped from her fingers and bonked down on the tiles. She froze instantly. Whoops.

Mitchell snorted, let out an inarticulate gargle, and then kept on snoring. Phew, close one. Her clothes got off in relative silence and the hospital bed creaked only slightly when she lifted her legs onto it. Geez, she felt just like she was coming home – to her real home then – and had to avoid her sleeping parents after a night of drinking at the bar. She didn't drink much, mind, but that didn't make the hour any less late. Plus, the new bartender at Cassidy's was kinda sorta totally hot, so she often stayed a bit later than most people. It had been seriously awkward though when his mom, the doctor with the messed-up hand, had taken her aside in the street and asked her if she needed information on birth control. Hoo boy. She was a nice woman, even with the strange aura of sadness she always had around her, but that had been a terribly uncomfortable moment. Just for fun, she wondered to herself what Mrs. Brannigan would think of the sterling work Mitchell had performed on her noggin.

Her thought were broken by a loud, ripping fart from Mitchell's room. Clapping a hand over her face, En strained to keep from laughing. She had no idea people could fart so loud in their sleep, and its volume shattering the silence of the night, combined with the tension of having to sneak into her bed as quietly as possible simply made it impossible for En not to laugh. She did so quietly though, getting into bed and pulling the sheets over her. Still giggling, she laid her head on the pillow and then realized she still had to go to the bathroom.


"What time did you get in last night?" Mitchell asked sourly, pouring himself another cup of coffee.

En stopped brushing her teeth and said, through a mouthful of foamy toothpaste, "Around eleven, I think?" It was a white lie. Victimless crime, right?

"You sure?" he asked, suspicious. "Because I heard you come in and it wasn't eleven."

Nice try, doc, but she wouldn't be so easily fooled. "Heard me come in over your snoring, did you?" En said with a mischievous grin.

Mitchell only harrumphed and looked into his coffee cup, setting it to his lips.

She figured that now she got her strength back, it was time to say some things that shouldn't be left unsaid. "Hey doc?"

"Mm?"

She pulled back one of his old, almost completely de-varnished chairs and sat down next to him, at his old dinner table. "Thank you. For everything. I mean it."

He grunted a short laugh. "That's alright, girlie. You're a handful, but I'm glad I could help you out."

She laid a hand on top of his. "I really mean it. You saved my life. I can't possibly ever repay you, but – "

He laughed again, this time more freely. "Don't worry, girlie. Seein' you up and about is the biggest thanks you can give me." Droplets of coffee stood in the white hairs of his moustache. "No need to talk about repayin' and all that."

"Look, I just wanna say – "

"I know," he interrupted gently. "You don't have to say it. You're a good girl, miss En. And you better believe it does me great pleasure to make sure good people stay in this world."

"Still, what you've done for me is incredible. Thank you."

"It was my pleasure, girlie. Coffee?"

He clearly felt uncomfortable being thanked or getting compliments, so En left it alone, hoping he truly did realize how grateful she was. "Yeah, coffee would be nice, thanks."

"That stuff'll kill you," a familiar, friendly voice said in the doorway behind her.

"Hey Sunny," En greeted, turning around so she sat sideways on her chair.

Sunny stuck to a cheerful, "Hiya."

"Good morning, Sunny," Mitchell grunted. "A coffee once in a while won't kill ya."

Sunny sat down at the table, opposite En. "The oceans you drink per day, will."

Unimpressed, Mitchell set En's cup down in front of her. The coffee smelled heavenly. "We'll see how alive you are when you're my age."

All her hair was tied into her tight ponytail, but Sunny still flicked back a lock of imaginary hair. "Die young, stay pretty, doc."

"I prefer dyin' old an' ugly, myself." And scolding, he added, "And I don't approve of all this reckless idealizing of a young death."

"Just joking, doc," Sunny said with a grin. "I aim to live to a peaceful old age, don't you worry."

"So what brings your pestering self to my house, Sunny?" Mitchell asked.

Sunny shifted in her seat and leaned forward on her elbows. "Cobb was here again this morning. Said he wants Ringo by the end of tomorrow, or they'll come and get him." With a look of disgust, she added. "He said he'd be satisfied with just Ringo's head, too."

Mitchell's jaw worked furiously and his hand clenched his coffee cup so hard his fingers went white. "Those damn Powder Ganger bastards. They ain't satisfied with shootin' up two caravan drivers, no let's just kill the third as well!" he shouted. "And why not butcher a whole town while we're at it, just to get to one guy who hasn't even done them any wrong!"

"It's obvious we can't sacrifice the people of this town to keep Ringo out of their hands, but I mean, we can't just hand him over, can we?" It seemed obvious which path Sunny wanted to take. "I mean, we need to do what's right, but seems like it's a lose/lose situation here."

Mitchell breathed in through his nose, thinking.

It might not have been her place, but En said it anyway. "It's obvious what you need to do."

Sunny raised an intrigued eyebrow.

"You need to get everyone together, arm as many people as you can, and kick those fuckers' asses back to powder town."

"No such thing as powder town," Sunny said with a chuckle, "but that's the way I feel too."

"Ain't the way I feel," Mitchell muttered.

"I know, doc, but – " Sunny began.

"If you try to stand up to those bastards, it'll be a blood bath, Sunny. I know you're tryin' to do what's right, but god dammit, none of the people here deserve to die." He rose, agitated, to refill his coffee cup. "And that's if you can actually get everyone to make a stand!"

"If you're convincing enough, you can get anybody to fight for what's right," En merely said. The history of New Arroyo, which was required reading for every child going to school in the town, had shown her that much. People could be inspired to do the right thing, even at great personal cost. It had been a lesson miss Bishop had hammered into every child, whether they liked it or not.

"And imagine you do, huh?" Mitchell snapped, pressing the button on top of the thermos and letting his cup fill. "No way you can hold them back without people gettin' hurt." He pointed a finger of his coffee-cup-holding hand at En. "Girlie, I don't want to see you get dragged into this just because you're all starry-eyed at Sunny's reckless idealism. And you, Sunny, I won't tolerate you abusing the fact that this girl's young and impressionable."

"I may be young," En said with her arms crossed, "But I'm not agreeing to Sunny's plan because I'm impressionable. I'm agreeing because people need to stand up for what's right. Here, and everywhere else. If everyone did, there'd be no more Powder Gangers or Slavers or press gangers."

Mitchell sighed. "I know, girlie, and I understand. But we gotta think of the safety of this town."

"Instead of always thinking about these people's safety," Sunny shot back, "How about thinking of their right to choose?" When Mitchell looked at her, not understanding, she continued, "We're not alone in making this decision. We're not the bosses of this town."

Frowning, Mitchell asked, "You're not thinking of putting this up for a vote, are you?"

"I sure as Hell am."

He raised his hand and let it fall to the table with a loud bonk. "Guess there won't be any stoppin' you, will there?"

Determined, Sunny answered, "No. We need to at least discuss this with the people of Goodsprings."

Sighing, Mitchell gave in. "You're right, Sunny. But I don't like how this is gonna turn out."

"Hey um," En asked carefully. "Would you guys mind if I came to that meeting too?"

Mitchell opened his mouth to speak (most likely to say no), but Sunny was faster. "Of course it'll be alright, sweetie. You live here, right?"

"Well… only temporarily."

"Doesn't matter," Sunny said dismissively. "You'll probably still be here when the ball drops, so you have every right to be there."

"There's just not arguin' with you, is there, Alejandra?" doc Mitchell grunted, actually using her full name. He pronounced it 'aleeandra'.

"No, Frank," Sunny said, dead serious. "You know this must be done." She rose, briefly squeezing En's shoulder as she did so. "I'll get everyone ready, tell them we'll all meet at Trudy's in an hour. That okay?"

Mitchell shrugged, "As if you'd be any less determined if I said no."

"This is for the good of all of us, doc."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Let's take change that bandage now, huh?" Mitchell said to En after they'd finished their coffee. Sunny had gone out to gather the people of Goodsprings, leaving the doc and En alone, and one of them had been left in a very sour mood and one of them with the same old never-ending headache.

"You're not mad at me, are you?"

He smiled despite his bad mood. "No, girlie, and I understand why you're both so set on fightin' the good fight. And don't get me wrong, I agree with the sentiment. It's just, at my age, you understand that keepin' people safe is most important. Still, if the people of this town decide they're gonna stand up, then that's what they decide."

"And you don't think I should butt out?" She kinda felt that she should. It wasn't her business after all.

"No, you have every right to say what you think. Now get your crusadin' butt to the bathroom and let's change your bandage."

The injury still felt extremely painful, especially with the bandage around it was tugged or pulled on, and more than once, En had to screw her one eye shut as another stab of pain lanced through the right side of her head.

"Awrite, I'm gonna take the last bit off now. Don't be startled, okay?"

She wasn't really looking forward to seeing the damage, but she supposed, better now than later. "Alright. I'll try not to jump all the way to the ceiling and break my skull even more."

"Atta girl."

And even though she was prepared for something bad, she still reflexively sucked in air, shocked from the damage. Her light brown hair had been shaved away, leaving a big bald patch above her ear. The white skin that was exposed had been torn open, leaving a long, broad, dark red wound, the bloody crust resembling half-coagulated lava. Looked like it would turn to a long, broad swathe of scar tissue. En felt her lip tremble as she saw it, even though she'd said only a day before that it was "just hair". But seeing it drove the reality of it mercilessly home. She'd be disfigured, even though her face had been spared, she'd have an ugly, hairless cratery mass of scar tissue on the side of her head.

"It's… not as bad as it looks," Mitchell attempted, seeing her dismay. "It'll heal over."

"Yeah," En said with a small voice. "It's just… seeing it like that breaks my heart."

She felt his hand on her shoulder. "Mine too, girlie. But you live, right?"

Exactly. It was no good being all torn up over a lost bit of hair. "You're right, doc." She turned her head in the mirror. Her short ponytail would look totally wrong with that ugly scar. "I'll need a haircut though."

Mitchell chuckled, applying a smaller piece of gauze to her head, taping it on and then wrapping a narrower bandage around her head so she didn't have the beanie anymore, but a trendy bandanna instead. "I'll wager you do. You can always ask Trudy, she can cut hair." Stroking an imaginary lock on his own bald skull, he added, "Look what a fine job she does on mine."

En struck a rimshot on an imaginary drum kit, making the accompanying "ba-dum-tsh!" sound with her mouth.


"I think you all know the reason you've been called here," Sunny addressed the townspeople. There were about sixty in all, gathered in the Prospector Saloon. It was a bit of a tight fit, but everyone had a chair and a small speaker's podium allowed people to speak to the gathering without having to shout from between the people. Many of them mumbled among each other in reaction to Sunny's words. "The Powder Gangers, led by our good friend Joe Cobb, have set an ultimatum. They want us to turn Ringo over by the end of tomorrow, or they'll come and get him, by force."

"Let them have him then," a nasal voice called out from the group. "If they come in shooting, there'll be more than just one person dead."

"I know, Chet," Sunny replied. "But you can't honestly expect us to just hand him over? After all the frustration they've had in getting hold of him, they won't be content with just shooting him. You want to condemn an innocent man to death because you're too afraid to stand up and fight?"

"This isn't a fight," the nasal-voiced man apparently called Chet shot back. "It'll be a slaughter. And I'm not dying over outsider problems!"

"Outsider or not – " Sunny began.

"I mean, what is this place these days?" the man called Chet continued, unperturbed. "A charity organization for wounded wastelanders?" He turned his head and let his eyes go over En, sitting in the back of the saloon. "I mean, how many more idiots are gonna show up at our door, half dead because of their own stupidity?"

"Chet, that's enough outta you," Mitchell shouted. "We're here to discuss the problem with the Powder Gangers, not to show the outside world that we're a bunch of inhospitable hicks!"

"Yeah, well, I'm against the 'Goodsprings versus the Powder Gang'-plan," Chet concluded as his last statement. Then he shut up.

En didn't feel all that welcome at the moment.

"I'm against the idea too," Trudy said calmly, rising to address the people of Goodsprings. "As mayor, I simply can't go along with a plan that'll get people killed."

"She's right," another villager said. "Sorry, Sunny, I like you, but I gotta say no too."

That seemed to be the cue for several people to get up and express their agreement.

"People, please," Sunny tried to calm the agitation. "Let's discuss this rationally."

"Ain't nothing to discuss," a burly villager shouted at Sunny. "I ain't dyin' over another guy's problems. Ringo's an alright guy, but he ain't worth getting' a bunch of people killed over. So I ain't playin' along with your movie bullshit. " And before he stomped out, he shouted, "But o' course, don't let that stop ya. You can get your ass blown off by the Powder Gangers all you want, Sunny Wetback."

Hearing someone say such nasty things to someone like Sunny made En clench her teeth with anger. Sunny herself was either too intent on persuading people to notice the slur, or she'd decided to ignore it. "Walking out isn't going to solve anything. Let's talk about this constructively."

But there was no stopping them. When the beefy villager had walked out, they'd risen from their seats as well, and now the saloon emptied, leaving only En, Mitchell, Sunny, Easy Pete, Trudy, and two or three people. And Trudy had most likely remained seated for the sole reason that it was her saloon.

Sunny leaned on the podium and weakly pleaded, "Come on, people. Don't be afraid. If we all unite…" She didn't finish her sentence as the last villager let the door to the saloon fall closed. Disillusioned, she lowered her head.

A painful, long silence fell in the saloon. And during that silence, En felt immensely sorry for the woman standing defeated at the podium.

"I think," Mitchell said hoarsely, "that we should all go home and think for a while. Think on how to solve this."

Sunny raised her head. "You can think. But I'm going to stop those murderous bastards. On my own if I have to."

"Not on your own," En said. It was out before she knew it.

"Young lady – " Mitchell attempted.

"No, doc," she cut him off. "You people saved my life, and I can't sit by while those Powder Gang guys or whatever they are terrorize you all into giving up an innocent man."

"So that's why I've gone through all the trouble of saving your life, girlie?" Mitchell asked her, upset. "So you can go get shot by these animals?"

"No," En retorted. "So I can do good things."

Mitchell sighed and shook his head.

"I'm an old, worthless fossil," Easy Pete said hoarsely. "But I can still shoot a gun. Sunny, my dear, I ain't gonna leave you hangin'. You've done so much for this town, an' it's a shame this town doesn't wanna do anything back."

Visibly moved, Sunny said, "Thanks, you two."

Another villager nodded, "I'm with you guys. You gotta be willin' to die for something…"

"… or you'll live for nothing," the other villager that had remained, completed.

"I'm against you people throwing yourself in front of those Powder Gangers' bullets," Mitchell said, "but I ain't gonna sit by while you guys fight for your lives either. I can't shoot worth shit, but any one of you goes down, I'll be right there to save his life." And with an accusing glance at En, he added, "Or her life."

"I still think it's a stupid plan," was all that Trudy contributed.

Sunny ignored her. "We need to make sure that if we fail, they spare the village." Biting a fingernail, she wondered, "I'm not sure how we can do that."

"Easy," En said. "If they have Ringo, they'll leave the town alone, right? Then we stop them before they can make it to town."

"Okay, but they'll still go for Ringo. So that doesn't solve the problem," one of the villagers pointed out.

"Yes it does. They'll stop for two reasons," En explained. "One, they're dead. And two, we're dead and they've got Ringo."

"Yeah?"

The solution to that problem really was easy. "Whether we win or lose, the village will be spared. Because Ringo will be right there, winning or losing with us."

"Right," Sunny understood. "We just need to get Ringo to fight with us. I'm sure that won't be difficult."

"Even with Ringo," Mitchell cautioned, "You'll still be going up against terrible odds."

It was then En realized she didn't know how big that group of Powder Gangers actually was. "What are the odds, actually?"

"Well, there's Joe Cobb," Sunny told her. "And at least ten more, from what I've seen. Most have guns."

"Not exactly a fair fight," doc Mitchell pointed out for good measure. "And we've got no decent defensive tools. Sunny's got her rifle, Pete's got his lever-action, and I got my old laser shooter. But that's all."

This was where En could be invaluable to the group, and she knew it. "If I had the right things to work with, I could make some things to defend us with."

"What, you're gonna build guns?" one of the villagers asked cynically.

"No," she bit back, annoyed. "But stuff like mines, traps, tripwires, all of those things."

Easy Pete seemed intrigued. "What kind of things would you be needing, sweetheart?"

Good question. "Uh… some explosives, springs, switches, wires, pointy things, stuff like that."

With a mysterious face, Easy Pete said, "Come on over to my place in a bit. I've got some stuff that might help."

"Which reminds me," doc Mitchell said, suddenly cheerful. "I still owe you." He dug in his pocket and tossed En a plastic bag with twenty caps.

Easy Pete had some stuff that might help, indeed! The garage of his house was nothing short of a dragon's hoard for the amateur handyman. En had to breathe an awed, "Whoa," when she saw it all. There were tables and tables loaded with parts, junk, broken electronics, devices, disassembled machines, batteries, wiring, and everything else. It was like a playground! Her pounding headache temporarily forgotten, she let her eyes go over the unending amount of playthings, feeling positively giddy.

"An' here's the best bit," Pete said, bending over to pick up a wooden box from under one of the tables. "Gotta handle with care though." With a laboured grunt, he carefully placed the box on one of the few free spaces on the table, then pressed his hands against the small of his back, letting out a short, relieved groan. The letters on the wood said, "EXPLOSIVES".

"Can you work with that without blowing yourself up, sweetie?" Sunny asked, more than a bit concerned.

"If it hasn't sweated too much, then yeah. Can make some pretty impressive fireworks with that." She wasn't an explosives expert, but she knew enough to handle it safely. The pair of walkie-talkies a few tables further, combined with the industrial blasting caps and the plastic power socket cover her eyes fell on, would make for something very nice indeed. And wait a minute? Was that a rusty bear trap? Lovely. And the large railroad spikes, the assortment of springs, and the barbecue grill seemed to be calling to each other across the tables too. And look at that: an old crossbow, just dying to be combined with that long, thin electrical wire, that big fission battery and those two little things stuck in that dart board, with that laser anti-burglar system completing the picture. "Little lady," Pete said cheerfully, "from the look in your eyes, I can tell that something beautiful is growing between you and my junk tables."

She realized she'd been grinning for a while already, and could say nothing else than, "Oh, boy, I'm going to have so much fun with this."