Chapter 13: Aftermath

Ranger Jackson scowled and ran a hand over his short cropped hair before setting the wide brimmed hat atop his head. The day was going from bad to worse; that caravan bitch wouldn't stop harping at him about leaving, the highway was crawling with fucking mutated monsters, raiders, the Legion, fuck knew what else and atop all that now he had to deal with this shit. He strode down the hall in the back of the Mojave Outpost, his responsibility; his never ending list of problems. The men standing at lax attention outside of the Outpost's three beat to shit but nevertheless still functional prison cells. The men in their tattered khaki fatigues snapped hasty salutes which Jackson returned with a roll of his eyes behind the shaded sunglasses he wore and a tip of his hat; the rookies were always so damned formal.

"Whats the word private?"

"You asked to be notified when the prisoner said something."

"That I did. Did he say he's ready to talk?"

"Sort of. Just sat up and asked for water." The ranger eyed the prisoner through the bars with a look of repulsion mixed with amusement, his lip turned in a grimace at some sick joke known only to him. The prisoner sat on the edge of the cot set against the far corner of the cramped cell, eyes locked on the floor.

Jackson waved the two aside and slipped his key into the lock, swinging open the iron barred door before walking inside. As the door slammed shut behind him the prisoner looked up and locked eyes with the ranger's through his sunglasses, one an almost calming cerulean blue and the other blood red. The ranger found the gaze a touch unnerving but years of service in the NCR had turned him into a hardened veteran, and most recently a beleaguered bureaucrat and both had granted him nerves of steel along with an unflinching demeanor. He leaned back against the wall next to the door and folded his arms.

"Mornin' son."

"Mornin'." The prisoner returned in an indifferent tone.

"Got some manners at least. How you feelin' friend?"

"Good enough. My throat is killing me."

"Yeah, funny thing 'bout that." Said Jackson as he dug into a pocket to retrieve a dingy brass star.

"Stimpaks can repair the damage done by dehydration, sunpoisoning and all that, but your nerves still scream at your brain that your dying of thirst, that your skin is baking. It'll pass." He said, tossing the star over to the prisoner. The man snatched it out of the air, never breaking the lock he had on the ranger's eyes before glancing down to inspect the object. It was a faded, scratched and smudged Mojave Express Courier badge, reading 006 at the bottom. On the reverse it read a series of numbers along with instructions to return it to the nearest Mojave Express station or pick up box.

"Jackson Derricks. Shady Sands resident, former NCR private, 15th Infantry Battalion. Discharged on psychiatric recommendation due to trauma suffered during the Battle for Hoover Dam, awarded bronze Kodiak for bravery during combat. Relocated to Primm three years ago." Said the ranger, reading off the data pad that had appeared in his hands.

"Roughly at which time employment with the Mojave Express began. At some point, the paper trail this far east is shit, Order #0006845 was placed with the Mojave Express and Courier 007 –you- was dispatched with high clearance package for Divide station. Not long afterwards contact was lost with Divide station as outlined in incident report #0006845-ME. Should Jackson Derricks be found, apprehend for questioning." Jackson huffed around his handlebar 'stache. Somewhere deep in the murky depths of his mind the prisoner registered the facial hair with something terrible, a grim acceptance. Would you get it over with?

Silence hung heavy over the room as the ranger looked from the data pad in his hand to the man seated before him. After a moment, he retrieved a pack of pre-war cigarettes from his shirt pocket. Popping one in his mouth, he thought for a moment before extending the pack to the prisoner. The Courier looked wary but accepted the smoke. The ranger lit up and extended the light to the end of his prisoner's cigarette. They puffed in silence for a moment before the ranger spoke.

"File says to hold you for questioning so, what do you know about Divide Station?" Jack couldn't help but bark a laugh, a curt, bitter thing that held no warmth.

"Afraid I can't help you there," The Courier responded, taking a long draw on his bogey.

"I got shot in the head on a delivery a few weeks ago outside of Goodsprings. Doctor managed to patch me up but…I don't remember anything before waking up there." The Ranger regarded the Courier with an indifferent gaze before shrugging his shoulders.

"Suppose I'll have to take your word for it; the brass is seeing spies everywhere out here now and my P.O.I. list is crammed full of folks just caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Besides, we've got bigger things to talk about." He said, snubbing his cigarette out on the crumbling concrete wall of the cell. The Ranger tapped the bars and called out to the men on watch.

"One of you go get his 'package'. Its sitting on my desk, can't miss it." As a private snapped off to follow the orders the Ranger stepped forward so he could get a better look at his prisoner. The scars told stories, and he bore them in droves, faded lines criss-crossing the edge of his cheeks, running below his left eye, the calming azure set beside the angry red.

"So, you said you got shot huh?"

"That's right. I was shot in the head, robbed and then dropped in a hole."

"That why you and your friends went to the prison?" The Courier broke away from the Rangers gaze and hung his head low.

"No."

"So then, Mr. Derricks, you mind explaining to me why you and the rest of those people hauled off and declared war on that prison?"

The Courier hung his head low and sat in silence for a moment. When he did speak, it was a hoarse, fragile thing.

"It's a long story."

"So start at the beginning." A chill ran the length of the Courier's spine as he thought back to the events that had brought him to that damned prison.

I wasn't strong enough….

The scuff of boots and the sound of tumblers clicking open announced that the guard had returned with the Ranger's request. It was simple burlap wrap stained with crimson blotches in places.

"And this…Shit man, I don't even know what to make a' this." Said the Ranger as the rookie set the package down on the floor and undid the knot holding it together. As the folds unwrapped, Jack couldn't help but feel a sinister grin turn the edge of his lips up.

So small for, such a big guy. For laying there on the stained burlap wrap in the center of the prison was the pale white, shriveled and under-endowed cock of Lou Eriks.