Chapter Twenty-one: 'Cause I'm Evil
I've never looked for trouble
But I've never ran
I don't take no orders
From no kind of man
I'm only made out
Of flesh, blood and bone
But if you're gonna start a rumble
Don't you try it on alone
Elvis Presley, Trouble (1958)
Crying and screaming echoes throughout the Old Mormon Fort. The smell of old blood and stale urine permeates the air, causing Lola to take shallower breaths in an effort to avoid the smell. A frazzled looking woman with a large green Mohawk running from tent to tent.
"Busy place," Raul comments. Lola nods, looking around.
"This place looks like a war zone," Boone says quietly.
"You wouldn't be far off," a voice says from beside them. They all look to see the woman with the Mohawk wiping sweat from her brow. "Julie Farkas, Followers of the Apocalypse. Do you need medical attention? Any help?"
"You look like you're the wane-one-who needs help," Lola says, gesturing across the compound. "Where are all your doctors?" She smiles wryly and gestures to the various individuals running around in labcoats. Lola counts about five of them.
"You're looking at them. We're stretched a little thin here."
"I can see," she says. "Do you need any halt-help?" Julie looks thoughtful.
"Well, we could always use more medicine," she reluctantly admits. "Med-X, stims, RadAway." Lola nods.
"You can have any excess we have," she says, nodding to Cass. The group had gotten wickedly good at scavenging ever since they found Veronica and so they had an excess of just about everything. More than what everyone was willing to carry most days. It'd be good to give it to someone who could use it instead of just selling it for caps.
"More where that came from," Cass says, dumping a pile of medicine into a surprised Julie's arms.
"Just give us more time to collect," Veronica says with a wink.
"Thank you," Julie stutters, stunned. Lola smiles, ignoring the pounding in her head that is made worse by the muted screaming ringing throughout the camp. "Did you need medical attention?"
"Actually," Veronica says, but Lola answers quickly, cutting the girl off.
"It can wait," she says. "Until you have someone free." Julie nods and Veronica mouths 'are you sure?' She smiles again to try and put her friend at ease. She wanders away from her group and by the tents dotting the Fort, glancing in every so often to see injured people in ragged clothes or writhing, crying men and women detoxing. She sees an empty tent and walks in, trying to get away from the noise and scenes of ill health.
A blonde man in a labcoat matching Julie's is bent over a dusty book resting on an unsteady desk. He startles at one of Lola's footfalls and looks up at her. His right eye is swollen and black beneath his glasses. Before she can stop herself, she blurts out,
"How's the other guy look?" The man smiles sardonically, and answers,
"Infuriatingly handsome, as always. If you're looking for medical help, try one of the other doctors. I'm just a researcher and not a particularly good one."
"What kind of research?" she asks slowly, eyeing his book with interest.
"Oh, you know, finding alternative treatments for common illnesses and injuries. Stimpaks out of barrel cacti and other fantastic improbabilities. As far as fruitless wastes of time go, it is quite noble in its aims," he says. Despite his light tone, there is a hard edge to his voice that Lola recognizes.
"You sound bane-bitter," she says. He smiles that sort of half smile again, the one that doesn't look at all happy, and says,
"Yes, well. It's a noble goal but I don't think this research will yield much fruit. No pun intended." He looks at her with a searching gaze and asks, "You are here for medical attention, aren't you?"
"Well," she starts, trying to focus on what to say. "I can't really," she gestures to her mouth hopelessly. "It's hard."
"Aphasia," he says knowingly, and she nods, not really understanding the term. He looks at her a little closer and she feels like he is a child studying something with a microscope. Whether he intended to let her burn is open for discussion. "You understand everything said?" She nods. "But you have trouble articulating your own thoughts?"
She nods slowly, eyeing him. He tilts his head.
"Expressive then. Stroke? Head injury?"
"Shot," she says after a moment to comprehend what he is asking. Hesitantly, she lifts the brim of her hat to show him the scars that linger on her temple and snake down her cheek. "Twice."
"Well," he says. "You seem to be doing well, all things considered."
"Thought you weren't a doctor," she says.
"I have the knowledge," he answers. "But my bedside manner is somewhat lacking. Julie tells me I'm a little rude. Sorry." She shakes her head and gives him a genuine smile.
"Haze?" a familiar voice calls. She and the researcher-not-doctor turn their heads to the opening of the tent. Boone appears, looking weary and burdened with responsibility.
"Boone," she says formally. The researcher eyes the beret that rests crookedly on the top of Boone's head and asks with a small smile,
"Haze?" She nods.
"Lo-la," she answers, enunciating both syllables.
"Did you choose that name on purpose or is it the name you were born with?"
"Not sure," she says. "'Bout you? I'm sure 'researcher-not-doctor' isn't an actual name."
"How would you know?" he says though not unkindly. "I'm Arcade. Arcade Gannon."
"Arcade Gannon," she says the name slowly, as if weighing it on her tongue. "That's a heavy name." He smiles that same sort of wry half smile that causes a flicker of recognition in Lola but it flees just as soon as she tries to grab it.
"Yes," he says, turning back to his book. "I suppose it is."
Inner Freeside did not suffer the end of the world well. Rubble lines the streets and beggars in torn clothes beg for food, spare caps, chems or anything anybody is willing to spare. Lola purses her lip and takes in the squalor that surrounds her. This place isn't what she thought it would be given its proximity to the Strip.
"Uh-oh," Veronica says. Lola cuts her eyes over to her.
"What?"
"Trouble," she says, motioning to a dark and desolate side street. A group of about six shaking men and women armed with more pool cues than guns. Their clothes are torn and dirty, barely fitting most of them.
"What is it?" Lola asks, confused. One of them take a menacing step toward them, waving a switchblade threateningly and then it dawns on her. "They aren't seriously going to-" A glint of a weathered and beaten pistol sticks out from the middle of the group. She hears the bullet whiz past her and embed itself in the wall behind her. She looks at the small smoking crater left by it and back at the group of people attacking them.
"Yeah," Cass says, putting the cork back in her whiskey. "They seriously are." The people without guns take off running toward them at a dead sprint and Lola's hand is instantly drawn to her gun.
Poor bastards, she thinks. She takes her hand off of her gun and dodges as one man with a baseball bat swings it at her. She feels the air from the strike hit her cheek and she balances herself to attack. She gives him a sharp kick in the sternum and he grunts, doubling over in pain. She doesn't get the chance to fight hand to hand very much and she finds that she likes it. Should that bother me?
A woman with a switchblade lunges at her and she feels the blade of the knife tear through the armor covering her side. She drags her foot across the gravel and swings it underneath the other woman's feet. She has poor posture, something Lola's mind takes note of and criticizes in a voice not her own, and the woman crumbles. She gives her a solid kick to the jaw and knocks the woman backward with a loud crack, eyes closed and bleeding profusely from her nose. She grins at Boone, who punches his opponent in the face. She can't tell his expression behind his sunglasses. She can see the blood glinting off of his face and the sight of it makes her unbelievable angry. Blood rushes through her veins and she clenches and unclenches her fists. Looking around, she sees that the others in her group have suffered similar small injuries and the rage in her burns all the brighter before she can even think to douse it.
"Fuck this!" she hears. She turns towards the sound to see a man drop his weapon, a sledgehammer that breaks in half as soon as it hits the ground, and takes off running down an alley. She takes off after him, her footsteps crunching the gravel and debris. She doesn't hear her friends calling her name as she rounds the corner after the thug. He looks over his shoulder to see her pursuing him. She grins almost maniacally and waves, a hunter chasing her prey.
"Oh God!" he says and he tries to pick up his pace. She runs faster after him, her heart pounding in her head. He turns a corner and slides. She uses the precious seconds he wastes trying to regain his balance to attack. She braces her feet as well as she can against the loose gravel and jumps, tackling him to the ground. He bites back a chocked sob as his head bounces off of the pavement.
"Got you," she says. She punches him in the face and commences to beat him up. Each thud of her fists against his flesh sounds out in time to her heartbeat and she no longer cares if she should be having fun or not.
"Haze," her name is said but she pays it no mind.
"Please," the man chokes out. "I don't wanna die!" That stays her hand for a moment. She looks at the man, bleeding and writing beneath her, and tilts her head in confusion. She raises her fist again but she never gets the chance to land another punch.
"Haze!" A hand snakes into the back of her shirt and she is pulled off of the thug without ceremony. An arm snakes around her waist to hold her in place when she tries to break free and the hand that pulled her up with such force grabs her wrists.
"Boone," she says calmly. "Let go." The arms tighten around her in response like an unmovable prison of flesh.
"Get out of here!" he barks at the thug. "Now!" The thug, bloodied and shaking, gets up and sprints off as fast as his legs can carry him, leaving behind a spackled trail of blood. She down at Boone as well as she can from the way he keeps her pinned. His lip is fat and swollen, his chin covered with blood, and his sunglasses have slid down his nose to expose his eyes.
His eyes burn with rage, clear and bright, and that helps to bring her back to herself.
"What the hell did you think you were doing?" he asks quietly.
"They attacked us," she says. Suddenly, she realizes that she didn't care if she killed that fleeing thug once she got her hands on him. In fact, the thought of it exhilarated her. No. As much as she wanted to deny it, she could not. She had been excited by the violence in spite of herself. This wasn't the way she wanted to be. Pitifully, she says, "They were going to kill us."
"We were never in any danger," he says, his voice tight and strained like a father scolding a child. "They were never going to kill us."
I'm worried that if this violence from her doesn't stop then there will be no redeeming her.
"They hurt you," she says, her voice small like a child's. The hand on her wrists has loosened up enough for her to pull one free and so she does. Boone doesn't flinch when she pulls her hand away but the arm around her waist tightens almost painfully as if to keep her in place. She takes his chin in her hand and brushes her thumb across it, wiping away the blood to expose the skin underneath. He hisses, exhaling through clenched teeth.
"I'm okay," he says thickly. "It's not a good enough reason to beat someone to death."
But I say unto you, Resist not him that is evil: but whosoever smiteth thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.
"I have to be better," she whispers. Her eyes are unfocused and the makes Boone nervous.
"Haze," he says, lightly shaking her. "Come back to me." She blinks and those frayed fragments of memory disappear. She shakes her head, putting her hands on his shoulders and pushing at him. The arm around her waist loosens enough to allow her to step back. She feels fingers lightly drag across her waist as she steps back.
"We should probably get back," she says.
The two of them walk an arms' length away from each other. She tries to move further away but Boone always closes the distance. No doubt to be in a better position to grab her should she lose it again. Lola doesn't say anything. She can't form any thoughts past the blood pounding in her head. What is wrong with her? Relishing a good fight is one thing but to be so determined to kill seemed to board on the clearly psychopathic.
What kind of person had she been in her past life to enjoy the suffering of others so much?
The rejoin the rest of the group and Lola focuses her eyes anywhere and everywhere except her friend's faces. She sees only two bodies lying in the broken street-the bodies of the thugs she had fought. With a burning shame she realizes that her friends let their opponents live.
"You okay, hija?" Raul asks from beside her. She startles, looking up to see her friends eyeing her with a worry and a little bit of fear. She forces a smile that she doesn't feel.
"Yeah," she says, a tight edge to her voice. "Just got carried away." He nods and doesn't say anything else. They begin to make their way toward the back of Freeside, where the gate to the Strip is, and Lola doesn't say anything about Boone sticking close to her. The gate comes into sight, looking dank and dingy like the rest of Freeside. The lights shining brightly behind it, however, is a stark contrast that speaks of fun and luxury. Securitrons mill around the gate and Lola fondly, if a little warily, thinks of Victor.
A dirty and ragged man pushes past them at a full sprint, heading for the gate. His bare feet smack against the broken pavement. He makes it past the Securitrons to the door. A victorious smile breaks across his face as he pulls the gate open.
The Securitrons gun him down before anyone can do more than gasp and his blood flows onto the dirty concrete.
"God damn it," a well dressed older man sitting a ways from the gate swears. He looks at her group and says, "You guys look new so here's some advice: I wouldn't try that, if I were you. Not if you want to live."
"Duly noted," she says absently.
"Have to keep the riffraff out somehow," Raul says and the disgust in his voice makes her stop. He's glaring at the Securitrons and something tells her his words weren't aimed at the desperate straggler who tried to break in. She walks up to the Securitron and it swivels to face her.
"Submit to a credit check or present your passport before preceding to the gate," it says in a rough and mechanical voice. "All trespassers will be shot."
"How much for a creature-credit check?"
"2,000 caps," it answers. She bites her lip and looks at Veronica. She shakes her head.
"We're about 500 caps short," she says. "Our last supply run put us a little under. I could hack it, but…" and Veronica's voice trails off as she looks at the body cooling in the street. Lola nods.
"No unnecessary risks," she says firmly. "We'll work."
"Plenty of work to be found," the older man pipes up. He straightens the collar of his wrinkled and stained suit almost self-consciously.
"Where?"
"Let's see," he says. "The Followers always need help." Lola nods, remembering what she had seen at the Old Mormon Fort. The Followers of the Apocalypse, despite their name, seemed like good people. It'd be nice to do some good. "The Garret twins down at the Atomic Wrangler are looking for an errand boy. And the King needs some merc work done. Although," he says, looking Boone up and down. Boone tenses and adjusts his beret in that defiant way again.
"You got something to say?" he asks curtly. The old man shakes his head.
"The Kings might not take too kindly to your friend here, on account of his choice in clothing accessories." Lola takes his warning into consideration and looks into the faces of her friends. They look at her expectantly and she realizes that none of them will move until she speaks. She feels humbled and a little afraid of their trust in her given what they just witnessed her do.
"We split up," she says, clearing her throat. "Get more work done fate-faster that way."
"Ooh, ooh! I call the Followers!" Veronica says, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Cass snickers.
"That wouldn't have to do with a certain pretty lady with a green Mohawk, would it, girly?" she asks, elbowing Veronica in the ribs. Veronica slaps at her arm and turns redder by the second.
"Stuff it!" Cass cackles and looks to Lola.
"In that case," she says. "I'll take the Atomic Wrangler. I could use a drink right about now, all things considerin'."
"And I'll go with the cowgirl to make sure she doesn't cause any trouble," Raul says. Cass rolls her head back to grin up at him.
"Or you could cause trouble with me, handsome." He makes a face at her that seems to Lola to be oddly affectionate.
"All right," Lola says. "I'll go talk to the King of Freeside, then." Because I'm the one best suited for mercenary work. The thought is left unspoken but its written so clearly across everyone's faces that it might as well have been said aloud. "Boone, go with Veronica." The two of them protest at the same time.
"What? No! I have ED-E!" Veronica says. She looks to Boone almost apologetically. "Nothing against you, beret, but I can't exactly woo a pretty lady with your sullen ass around." He doesn't acknowledge the teasing, instead catching Lola's eye.
"Where you go, I go," Boone says to her stubbornly. Lola smiles wryly.
"To keep me out of train-trouble?" He hesitates, as if reluctant to answer, and eventually decides on a slow nod. She shakes her head and motions to him as the group disperses to complete their separate tasks.
"You should know," he says quietly. "That it's nothing personal."
"I understand. My middle name is misery," she says. It probably always has been. It seems to be all she's good at causing, at any rate. "And I'd want to keep an eye on me too."