Chuck stood on the corner of the street, hands in his pockets. He could hear men's voices from inside the building. Muffled laughter, cold and mocking. The girl didn't cry out. She didn't speak. He could hear the filthy mattress creaking. A part of him knew that when he closed his eyes at night he would always hear that sound. It had soaked into his soul.
He took one hand out of his pocket and ran it through his hair. He had stood like this for several minutes, trying to make up his mind. The metal barrel of the 9mm sent cold shivers down his spine as he pulled the piece from the waistband of his jeans. He thought about his father. He pulled the slide back and sent a bullet into the chamber. Chuck put the pistol back and ran his fingers through his hair again. He thought about his mother. Stop. Don't think about her. She'll be fine. He took a deep breath and crossed the street. The voices grew louder as he approached the splintered wooden doorway. He pushed the door open, his right hand glued to the butt of his gun. A couple of men looked up as he entered the room. They smiled at him. Leering, scavenger eyes. Chuck pulled the pistol and fired.
Four dead men lay cold on the floor before him. The girl still made no noise. One of the men had died right on top of her, his jeans around his ankles. A small pool of blood was soaking into the mattress around her. She looked at Chuck and he almost cried. The light had gone from her eyes. They had been hazel once. Now the irises could have been cold and black as the night outside. They looked at one another over the carnage. Chuck felt empty. Like a babe fresh out the womb and already pleading for the grave. This was no life.
"I'm… I'm so sorry."
She turned her gaze away from his face and with a steady hand smoothed down her skirt. She rolled the corpse off the mattress and came unsteadily to her feet.
"Chelsea."
She extended a hand and Chuck took it. His hands were so cold.
"Charles. Chuck, I mean. My ma's the only one calls me Charles."
"If you don't mind, Charles, I'd like to get anywhere but here."
Still holding her hand, Chuck led her out of the room. He didn't look back at the bodies. They had never mattered to him. Only the girl. Glass crunched underfoot as they stepped out into the street. A few curious locals glanced in their direction. Gunshots weren't uncommon in Freeside, but that didn't prevent a morbid curiosity. Chuck glared at the junkies until they scurried off.
"I have a small apartment, not far from here. I have some food, and a bed. Would you like that?"
"Yes."
Chuck felt her shiver. He resisted the urge to pull her close, to wrap his arms around her and never let her go. He didn't even know this girl. Chuck led her down the street, ducking into alleyways to avoid prying eyes. He pushed open a door with his shoulder and led the girl down a set of stone stairs to a small, hidden-away basement apartment. Chelsea released his hand and sat upon the bed. Chuck set his pistol on the table and lit a small oil lamp. The thick, unsteady light filled the small room.
"Would you like something to eat or drink?"
"What do you have?"
Chuck opened his refrigerator and peered inside.
"Cram, beans, and Sunset Sarsaparilla."
"I'll take a soda."
Chuck pulled two bottles from the fridge and handed one off. She swallowed half the draught in a single gulp, her throat bobbing with desperation. Chuck watched her drink, his bottle unopened. The girl wiped her lips and set the soda on the floor. She met his eyes.
"Please don't look at me like that."
Chuck tore his eyes away from her face and settled them upon the floor.
"I'm sorry."
"I don't want to be pitied."
"It's not pity… it's… I'm just sad is all. That shouldn't have happened to you."
"It's happened before."
"That isn't how things should be."
"I know."
They sat in silence. There was a tension in the air, but the lack of speech was almost comfortable.
"Why did you shoot them? They'll kill you, you know."
"I know. But, it wasn't right. My father was a King. They should be better than that."
"They aren't. No one is."
"Would you like to stay here? You must be tired."
"I am. Thank you."
"You can have the bed."
Chelsea nodded. She lifted the sarsparilla to her lips and finished the bottle, then turned and stretched out upon the mattress. Chuck stepped over and helped situate the blankets around her.
"Oh. You probably don't want to sleep in those clothes. They're, umm, they're bloody. I have some of my sister's things. You can borrow them."
Chuck turned and opened the bottom drawer of a busted-up dresser. He pulled a light blue summer dress out and set it upon the bed. He turned back and closed his eyes while she changed.
"Good night, Chuck."
"Good night, Chelsea."
The whole of Freeside was talking about the shooting in the morning. He had left Chelsea alone in his home, heading topside to hear the news.
"Four Kings, gunned down in the night. Probably those damn NCR squatters stirring up trouble again."
Chuck kept to himself, avoiding most of his usual haunts. He had been seen last night and he knew it. It would only be a matter of time before the Kings discovered the truth.
When he returned to the apartment Chelsea was seated at the table, an open can of Cram in front of her. She looked up as he stepped inside the door.
"Word has already gotten out about the killings. They don't know who's responsible yet, but I figure it won't take them long. I have some food and other supplies that I can pack up. We can be ready to leave in a couple of hours."
Chelsea didn't look up from her meager meal.
"I'm not leaving. You should, but I can't."
"What?"
"They won't know that I was there. I'll be safe here."
"Safe? No one is safe here. If the Kings don't hurt you, some other piece of shit will."
"And if I walk out those gates some Fiend or legionary will do far worse. No place in the Mojave is safe. Might as well stick with the shithole I know."
Chuck ran a hand through his hair. He didn't know what to say, what to do.
"I can't just leave you here."
"Yes, you can. I don't know you, Charles. You have no responsibility to protect me. I don't know why you took it upon yourself to try and protect me last night, but I guess I'm grateful. You've been kind, now get out of town before that kindness kills you."
"But…"
"No. Trust me. This is the only way. I can look out for myself."
Chuck sat down at the table across from her. He stared at his shoes, his heart pounding in his chest. Fuzzy little spots of light danced across his vision. His voice was hollow when he spoke.
"You can stay here. There's food and water. Only a couple of my friends and family know where it is, but they'll leave you alone. It's the best I can do."
"It's far more than anyone has done for me before."
She stood up and came around the table. She placed a soft hand underneath his chin and lifted his face until their eyes met.
"You have beautiful eyes. I wish I could have known you."
She kissed him on the lips and then turned and crawled back into the bed. Her mouth had been warm. He would remember her, and that feeling. Chuck rose from his chair and packed a small bag with a couple cans of beans and a bottle of purified water. He reloaded the magazine in his pistol and placed the half empty box of shells in the bag. He stopped at the door to look at her one last time. She was asleep. Her eyes fluttered beneath their lids. Soft, pale skin shone in the lamp light. She was so beautiful.
The stairs creaked beneath his weight as he climbed up into the street. Junkies and thugs loitered in nearby alleys and on the street corners. He avoided their eyes as he headed towards the North Gate. No one stopped to ask him where he was going. No one cared. A small group of tourists with their accompaniment of local bodyguards passed him by, their eyes averted and their noses in the air. They stank of arrogance and privilege. Two days before and he may have tried his luck at picking a pocket or two, but now he kept his distance. A few of the escorts nodded or said hello as he exited Freeside. He ignored them.
Chuck had been outside of the city walls only a few times in his life, and then for only a few hours at the most. He knew little about wasteland survival, but that didn't matter to him anymore. He would try his luck, apathetic about his chances or the end result. As he crossed the road and entered the desert, Chuck turned back to get one last look at the ghetto that had been his home for the entirety of his life. He gave the walls the finger and didn't look back again.