AN: So, writing this was fun. It was something different from the norm, and it's awesome. Oh, and just because I congratulated you all does not mean that you stop reviewing! I loved your input and knowing what makes you like my story enough to follow it. It really does motivate, and you even give me ideas for my chapters too. So don't feel like you're going unheard, I appreciate all of your reviews.
|Chapter 20 - Intermission - Something New|
The explosions and gunfire rang in her ears as she dove for the door to the house, her bloodied hand leaving a grisly imprint on its chipped white finish. Her other hand clenched to her stomach, making her gasp in pain as her fingers felt the life fluid pour and spatter on the ground, the doorjamb, the floor. Her torment was so excruciating, she couldn't even stay on her feet. Her body unwillingly tumbled to the floor, her head almost knocking against a two hundred year old coffee table. Spitting her sweaty, fire-orange hair out of her mouth, she pulled herself up, groaning in pain as more blood gushed on her lap. Her now aching back laid against the table's edge, propping herself up so she could watch the confusion and carnage outside.
"Where the fuck did Smudge go to?" She chuckled spitefully as she watched Grease dive behind the blown out wreckage of a house. He was an asshole. His name matched his looks, his personality. Stringy black hair draped over his face, almost mocking her own hair style, with a bushy goatee speckled with spit, blood and remnants of food from that morning. Grease definitely was a dirty fucker; he hit on every woman in their troupe and was as smart as a herd of Brahmin, but when it came to explosives, she had to admit that he was their specialist. While her grenades would land too far from their mark or only send a smattering of shrapnel to her target, he could toss a frag and it would explode on impact with their chest, or tangle itself under their feet and literally blow their pants off and send those limbs flying sky high. He had been the one disarming the mines for the troupe to get deeper into the neighborhood, and the explosion from the start of the firefight had left its burnt impression on his metal shin guards.
"Fuckin' pick up a scope and cap the bastard! Forget about Smudge, she's probably dead!" Bleeder's voice pretty much went unheard. She watched as the girl scrambled behind a burnt-out tree trunk and reloaded her rifle, cursing as another explosion broke up the confused shouting and bullet storm. Bleeder often tried to maker herself the leader of the team, claiming to have the eyes of a hawk, but never managed to overthrow the captain. Her hair was thick in an unnatural sense, painted red with acrylic paint, her eyebrows and lashes suffering under the same strange treatment. She always said that blood looked too ugly as it coagulated, and it stained brown in hair. How she knew that, she never asked, only guessed.
Aside from her unfulfilled superiority complex, Bleeder was an incredible marksman for being a child of the wastes. She was skilled with all types of rifles; assault, Chinese, hunting, and even laser in some cases, but she was partial to sniper rifles. Of course, she had been on long distance guard duty, but when a sniper bullet had hit the mine in front of their group, she had lost her scope to the now dangerous street in the chaos.
Her thoughts were interrupted as the bullet holes in her stomach reminded her she was slowly dying. With gritted teeth, she felt along the pouches of her hand made brahmin leather bag, looking for some sort of thing that could stem the blood flow or at least dull the pain. Three pouches yielded nothing but ammo and junk, yet the fourth opened to the almost delicious feel of a hypo of Med-X. Her fingers deftly whipped out the syringe, uncapped its protective case, and stuck it in the flesh of her stomach, the pain of the wounds and needlepoint washing away as she injected herself with the painkiller.
"Where's Lockjaw?" Grease took a risky lunge to Bleeder's position. She frowned upon hearing him; she had almost forgotten about Lockjaw. As she watched the two yell at each other, ducking low as a few shots from the mystery sniper rifle grazed all around them and the tree trunk, she shifted her weight so the blood wouldn't spill out, and threw the Med-X out of the open door.
"What the fuck are you telling me; Locky's gone too?" Bleeder and Lockjaw had a thing together. The only other name for it was carnal, superficial attraction. He was a new addition to the team; they had only recruited him a few days beforehand. Their brand new heavy weapons specialist, he was a massive man and could carry both a full tank of flamer fuel and ammo for a mini gun on his back. The whole team was suspicious that he had not only dabbled in Buffout, but probably was chock full of mutations from radiation. His skin, when not caked with grime, had an offsetting hue of green. They also suspected he either had Super Mutant in him (a simple drunken joke that ended up sticking with them), or was definitely in mid-turning to be one. Bleeder never left the man alone, and he never denied her, but never reciprocated either. He had lust, sure, but his feelings didn't go much deeper than that.
Another explosion and staccato hail of gunfire laced the war zone, making the two out by the tree jump and crouch to the ground. An inhuman yelp erupted just outside the door, and she restrained herself from whipping out her pistol as a severely wounded man crawled over the door jamb and into the relatively calm darkness of the house.
"Fuckin'... is that you, Smudge?"
"Rudy?" He sounded weak, and she leaned to get a closer look at him as he pulled himself in. His legs were scorched black, and the smell coming off of them was a sickening, burning sweet. "Holy shit, Rudy, get over here!"
She couldn't see any expression or indication of pain. His face, nay, his whole head was covered with a crudely stitched burlap mask, a pair of goggles sewn in and tufts of mole rat hair decorating the top and sides. "Yeah yeah... I'm comin'." He pulled his weakened body next to hers and she immediately surveyed the damage. "Got my fuckin' pants blown off, huh?" His masked voice was uncharacteristically sober, spiced with a chilling acceptance for his destroyed legs.
Rudy was their brawler. As she searched through his pack, looking past his impressive collection of brass and spiked knuckles, knives, and spare parts for the power fist on his arm, she sighed. If Dermal, the group medic, didn't pop her fucking face in soon, they'd be one less member. And a surprisingly skilled one, at that. Though melee fighting was usually a death wish, with their team working at full capacity, he was a swift and merciless killer. And he had the trophies to prove it: mummified victims' hands decorated his waist from past scuffles with wasteland schmucks.
Granted, the guy was usually high on a mixture of Jet and a little bit of Psycho, but he made infiltration and balls-to-the-wall beat downs look like an art form. On chems, he was a jittery paranoid and in combat he was like a hyena; laughing and crying at the same time, jumping and twitching around like a madman, and scaring the fuck out of their enemies. Yet when he was sober, which was whenever they weren't doing a planned raid or simply relocating and enjoying down time, he was one of her closest companions. The both of them agreed to never use the word "friend". It was too personal, too attaching, too corrupt. But still, they loved each other like disposable siblings; fun to pal around with and spend time together, but could be a necessary loss that they readily accepted.
"How do they look, Smudgy-poo?"
His comment in such dire times made her laugh. She felt a familiar warm, iron-tasting liquid trickled down her chin from the corner of her mouth, "you look like shit, Rudy. Lucky for your burnt ass, you've got one stimpak and a few bottles of water left."
"Fucking goody goody, I can have a refreshing drink as my legs shrivel off."
"Oh can it, ass, which leg do you wanna keep?" She uncapped the stimpak and shook the literal life-saver in his face. Now, if Dermal didn't come, at least he'd have one leg still functional. The idea of a permanently crippled, possibly amputee Rudy left a depressing sour taste in her mouth, though. She wondered if he'd even stick with the team after this intense injury. Hopefully they were more closely-knit than other pockets of their kind, and if anything, he's be left with a pack mule job or at least be Dermal's aide behind the lines.
"Fuuuck... let's say my right. Is it hot in here? I'm fucking burning up." He ripped off the mask, revealing his sweaty blond hair and pained green eyes. If he wasn't near death, he would have looked adorable. That was a trait she definitely liked. He was a cute motherfucker. Again, it could only be limited to a brother-ish cuteness, but it was something.
She unceremoniously stuck the needle in his knee and pumped the medicine into his system, handing him an uncapped bottle of water that he drank immediately to gain back the lost fluids from his burns. They watched in pseudo-silence as the blackened skin began to curl and peel off, revealing fresh pink skin underneath. His other leg began to peel as well, but not enough to warrant recovery. Rudy snatched up the rest of the water and chugged it down, pulling himself up to sit next to her, and carefully moving around his reborn leg.
"Do you know where Lockjaw, Dermal and Victor are?" She asked, and she turned her attention back to Bleeder and Grease, who had finally noticed the two of them in the house and sprinted to the doorway.
"Yeah, they're in the house next door." Rudy waved at their comrades who barreled in, dropping their tired frames to the floor across from them. "Victor had sent me out to check if all of you were still alive and if we could still make it out of here. Seems so, all of the mines we cleared away lead a straight path back to the wastes. Right, Grease?"
"Fucking right, and we would be up by that playground by now and filling that faggot sniper with lead if I had gotten to the rest of the mines in time." Grease sighed and ran his leather gloved hand over his forehead, wiping off sweat and blood. The two had been lucky; sure, they were cut up some due to the explosions, but they could still carry their asses out the door if they wanted. She and Rudy couldn't.
"Well thank fuck that Lockjaw's safe," Bleeder mumbled, and all three of them stared at her.
"Thank fuck?"
"Oh, shut the fuck up, Smudge."
By the time the sun was on the other side of the sky, their whole troupe had managed to converge in the house, Dermal immediately working on Rudy's leg, her bleached white hair tied back with rubber bands. Bleeder sat in Lockjaw's lap, nudging her face against his thick beard, and Victor took to wrapping her up with scraps of cloth and leather. The firefight had stopped, and they were all to sneak out of the house and make a run for the wastes.
Except her.
"But, but Victor, just 'cause I have a couple bullets in my stomach doesn't mean I can't get out with you guys!"
He sighed in response, running a hand through his green and black hair that had been styled into a mohawk before sweat and adrenaline had turned it flat and soft. Victor was their captain, their leader. He was the only one out of all of them, perhaps even herself, that could still act like a normal functioning human being. A weakness most of their type thought, but it was actually fucking smart and a huge advantage. The only drug he was guilty of taking was Psycho, and even then, he was like Rudy in his handling of it. Only for raids and hunts. Save for those late nights when he just needed a flaming high and the rest of them were asleep. Or so he thought, of course.
"I don't want to leave you, Smudge. I really don't. You're our grade A gunslinger, that's for damn sure, and you can pistol whip like a fucking demon." It was a weird way to say a eulogy, but she appreciated it with a little spite. And it was true. Her hands were capable of firing off a perfect shot, and she was quite skilled at fixing guns and then using them to bludgeon a ghoul or a dog, whatever the case may be. "But we don't have any stimpaks for you. Dermal's injured too; her shoulder got grazed in the crossfire." Fucking grazed? The bandage on her shoulder wasn't any dirtier than it had been before it dressed her.
"So that's it then? I'm out? You're just going to leave me here?"
Victor immediately shook his head no. "Smudge, you will always be a member of our team. But we need to go. If we find another group out here, we'll send them to come and help you, or something." He stood up, done wrapping her stomach, and sighed again. "But we need to get to Evergreen. I need to get my men out of here, and we can't bring you with. You might start bleeding again, or worse, end up getting us all jumped for having an injured party member with us." She watched Rudy stand up with Dermal's help. Her last stimpak had gone to him, and his left leg was stiff but functioning again. The other group members stood as well.
"You... you fucking pricks..."
"Smudge, you'll be fine. These houses are completely untouched, whoever is out here, they don't ever go inside. You can heal up fine in here and then get your ass to Evergreen. Dermal, give her some of our provisions and some extra Med-X." Victor put his hand on the door and waited as the disgruntled medic dumped a good amount of Salisbury steak, snack cakes, and syringes into her bloody lap. When she was done, he turned the handle, everyone primed for the rush to safety. "We'll see you around, Smudge." Victor, though now a complete asshole that would one day get a bullet lodged in his skull for leaving her, looked genuinely upset. Bleeder and Grease gave her some sort of sympathetic nod, yet Lockjaw remained silent. Dermal mumbled a goodbye and all that was left was Rudy at the doorstep, staring down at her.
"Smudge, I-"
"... Just fucking go, Rudy..."
He hesitated as he turned back around, but of course, he sprinted out with the rest of them, leaving her alone, covered in blood and already wanting to get up and bust a fucking cap in their heads. The door slammed shut and she listened as their boots pounded on the street until she couldn't hear them anymore. But of course, she couldn't just leave. She was shut in the house, her lap crammed with useless shit, and couldn't move, lest her bullet wounds remind her that she was incapable of moving two feet without collapsing back to the floor. She was alone.
She would be stuck in that house for weeks, she decided. An hour earlier, she had heard slow, yet cautious footsteps at the door, and she expected the mystery assailant would open the door and try to kill her. She had been prepared, though, her pistol had been loaded and waiting, and she even screamed at the person on the other side of the door just try to open it, yet some silent moments later she heard a click and a muffled chuckle. The sniper had locked her in. He had probably laced the street with mines again, too. Even if she had managed to heal up enough to make it to Evergreen, where justice for being left in the dust awaited, she could step on a mine right on the doorstep and leave little Smudge giblets for birds to feed on. She was essentially locked in the house until she would die. What a fucking bitter end.
But wait.
None of the asses had scavenged the house. The cowards had been too ready to leave; for all Smudge knew, something in the fucking home could save her, or ease her pain. Now she was faced with a dilemma. Either stay put, save extensive pain and bleeding, yet stay rooted to the floor and probably continue to slowly die, or try to scour this shithole of a house she was condemned to and hope to find at least another extra hypo of Med-X if not a stimpak. Of course, the former offered the pull pain to last until she died, which to some wastelander, would sound like heaven. But she wasn't a weak-as-shit wasteland shmuck. She was a self-entitled human radroach, with a knack for surviving in some obscure and brave way, or of course, dying valiantly in the effort. The latter sounded much more exciting anyways, and it could speed up her possible death, too. If she survived and wouldn't explode as soon as she stepped out the door, she'd write a book about her betrayal, or something like that. Whatever the settlers and homebodies did in the cities when they had some story to cry about.
Her legs struggled to push her up, her fatal wound forcing her whole body to tremble. Blood began to seep onto her wrap, and she groaned with the effort it took to simply stand. Her hand pressed to her stomach, suppressing the bleeding, as she stumbled across the filthy living room littered with debris, trash, and just plain old rot and dust. The soft glow of the setting sun shone in through the boarded up and grime-encrusted windows, illuminating specks and particles of dust that she regarded with distaste, knowing they were flowing into her lungs every time she took a shaky step. The decrepit and ancient house creaked with weakness as she threw herself upon the bathroom door behind the stairs, punching it open and worrying more about her imminent death than the blood that now arose on her knuckles.
Laid out on the broken sink across from her, something metal, something hope-inspiring, something that could either save her or make her want to shoot herself, gleamed in the dim light.
Smudge cursed as she heard the house shake and turned as fast as she could to look out of the bathroom. The door had slammed open, and the frightening barks of a dog reverberated through the shadows. Her heart beat, though slow, had quickened slightly, and she lifted her pistol, ready to kill whoever it was that got in the house. If it was that damned sniper, god, she'd just-
"Hello? Anyone here? Oh shut it, Petie..." A girl's voice? A young one, too. Maybe even around her own age. What the fuck was she doing out here?
"Who the fuck are you?" She sidled out from the protection of the bathroom, but felt her legs give way and she tumbled to the floor. The girl in front of her gasped, and Smudge watched as the dog accompanying her growled. That dog looked really familiar. Too familiar. In a flash, the dog yowled and dashed at her, and she screamed, covering her face, aiming at the dog with her pistol hand. That dog, she knew it. She knew it enough that it was going to kill her, right then and there. Rip her guts out and give the prizes to its owner. It was over. It was fucking over. No justice to dish out to her traitorous band mates. Just death.
"Petie!... Goddamn- heel, boy! Heel!" The girl sounded like she was struggling. Her hand moved from her face to see what was going on, and why the dog wasn't at her throat. She had actually stopped the dog, pulling back on his collar and dragging him away from her. Why hadn't she let him kill her? It was obvious who was going to win; the girl had a damned .32 strapped to her back and seemed in perfect health. "I, I'm sorry for that." The girl forced the dog to sit, and she watched, amazed, as he obeyed and she turned to face her.
"What the fuck are you doing, girl? Just kill me and get it over with," she growled, and the girl looked taken aback, before smiling some crazy smile. She was fucking high, she bet.
"You're already pretty dead to begin with," she began, and she came up to her. She frowned and knelt down, reaching for her stomach. In response, she almost barked and smacked her hand away. The girl only laughed slightly, and turned to fiddle through a duffel bag she had hanging off her shoulder. When she saw her take out a stimpak, she lost all anger towards her. She, she was going to save her? "Hold still, now."
The stimpak hurt as its needle pushed into her skin, but she felt immediately rejuvenated as its contents washed over her stomach, feeling the bullets deep inside her tumble around before being expelled as her body rebuilt itself, "why are you doing this? I'm a fucking raider, haven't you seen one of us before?"
The girl smiled as she took the gauze off of her stomach to let the bullets fall to the floor, pink skin threading itself over the holes in her stomach, "yes, I have." She picked up the bullets and examined them as she spoke, "that's why I figure, if I revive one of you, the rest of you will stop taking potshots at me while I try to stay alive."
Smudge laughed at the audacity of the girl's reasoning. It would never happen that way. "It won't ever happen that way, scrub." She sat up slowly, her body still stiff and slightly unresponsive. "But, I'll tell you what. You're something special, saving someone like me. I, I don't know what to say. My own teammates left me for dead here..."
The girl scrunched her nose in disgust. "Barbarians,"
"Yeah, yeah, barbarians alright. But thanks for this, really." She sighed and looked to the dog. It was still on edge, but it was wagging its tail. "So, uh, as soon as I get my strength, I'll go ahead and leave. Don't wanna make you uneasy or some shit, having a raider bitch around you."
"What are you talking about?" The girl stood up, smiling. "Your friends left you here for dead. If you can even call them friends. You're going to be all by yourself out there? I won't allow it."
"Look, girl, you don't want someone like me around, really."
The girl laughed and sighed, still smiling. "Well, you haven't tried to back stab me, and we already seem to get along well. If anything, how about you stick around with me and Petie until you're ready to go wherever you're going? I could always use a hand out here; the wastes suck when your team consists of yourself and your dog."
Smudge actually chuckled. This girl, woo, was she something. Willing to have a raider tailing her around? Completely and utterly insane. But she had respect for the girl. She did save her life, after all. Maybe, maybe she would stick with her. In fact, when she thought for a moment about it, maybe this girl really could help her. Thinking about her troupe made her head hurt. And thinking about what they would do to the poor girl if she had offered them help sickened her, too. Maybe not yet, but after the events that went on today... maybe she'd reconsider her current life's path of killing, looting, and betraying. Only maybe.
"You've got yourself a deal, girlie." Smudge smiled and stood up, and the girl returned the gesture.
"For starters, my name is Alma." She turned and pointed back to the dog. His fur was flat and calm, not bristled like it had been only moments before. "His name is Petie." She looked back to Smudge, grinning, "And I'm sure your name is not 'Raider Bitch'."
Smudge smirked and shook her head no. "No, it's not that. My nickname amongst those bastards that left me here was Smudge." When she thought of her real name, she smiled slightly, a genuine smile. She hadn't used her real name in years. Maybe she would feel more... more human with it. "But, I don't want to go by that anymore. At least not with you."
Alma turned to Petie, and Smudge followed, "then what should I call you then?"
As the girl pet the dog's head and calmed it down even more, Smudge realized that she would be spending the next few days, if not weeks, with this girl. She wasn't used to her kindness, her willingness to make a friend out of an enemy. That's what made the next days and nights more enticing. It would be something completely new. Something exciting. And she could always pull the plug, so to speak, if this new-found partnership wouldn't work.
"Call me Elizabeth."