4:30 AM
August 17th, 2286
Mojave Wasteland
The slightest bit of sunlight peeked over the hills, illuminating a nearby town. Joseph couldn't take his eyes off of it. He walked straight and unwavering, as if hypnotized by the silhouette. A coyote's howl snapped him from this trance, and just as he regained some sense of thought, the exhaustion of the past three days of trekking caught up to him. The man fell forwards to the ground, just barely managing to lift his eyes to see a pack of coyotes staring at him. He pressed his palm against the dirt in a futile attempt to get back to his feet, but it was of no use. He had no strength left, no more will to live.
He could barely muster up the ability to separate his chapped together lips, and hoarsely croaked out an undefinable word. Even he didn't know what word he had wanted to say. And yet, he had said it in such a universal tone, an admission of defeat to himself. This is where he dies. Not on the battlefield, going out in a blaze of glory, but in the middle of nowhere, on the run, torn apart by coyotes and unable to even fight back.
A cold fell upon his body now as the icy tendrils reached out to claim his soul and carry him beyond this life to the eternity which he was promised. He accepted them with grace and a willingness to go with peace, hoping for them to take him before the dogs did. His eyes fluttered shut, prepared for the eternal rest, when a sound forced them open once more. In his state of delirium he was uncertain of what he had heard, but the second one proved his suspicions. Gunshots. There was somebody else here.
Yes! Saved! This wasn't his grave. Not here, not now. He just had to hold on a little longer, reserve that strength until his savior could scare or kill the hounds off. In spite of this new gleam of hope, though, his eyes began closing once more. He was powerless against it, failing to keep them open for only a few more minutes. As the noisy coyotes grew quieter and a silhouette of a man approached him, he had just enough time to utter a quick prayer before slipping into a deep, dark state of sleep.
He dreamt.
Long, long dreams. Visions of the meadow from a different life. His sister, his parents. A dog. The sunrise over a green Earth, a childhood far from the threats that lurked in those sandy wastes. He dreamt of leaving home for the first time, the splendor of stepping foot in the New Vegas Strip after an arduous journey through a danger-filled desert. He dreamt of meeting the woman that became his wife, winning jackpots in the Tops. Moving in with his wife and planning to start a family. And then the dreams became nightmares. They weren't detailed, merely flashing by in a quick blur, but he knew exactly what each blur was vividly, every moment still living in his mind as if it was the present. Every emotion, every ounce of pain and drop of blood still an open wound that had not yet healed, despite the years that had passed since they were inflicted.
And then they got worse. Each one more warped, more twisted than the truth. Nightmarish visions and dark forebodings hammering away at his spirit, a relentless attack that spared none, as even the memories he found a sense of safety and refuge in began turning into evil ghosts of the past come to remind him of his failures.
They got worse and worse, ripping away and tearing through the haze of unconsciousness and directly into the man's psyche, but before they could succeed in killing him from the inside, the man awoke, resuscitated and firmly grounded in reality once more.
When he came to, he found himself on a bed, an elderly woman with a pink dress sitting at a chair besides it. She peeked up from the red book in her hands, looked at the man's flittering eyelids, and stood from the chair, exiting the room. Some time passed, though Joseph wasn't sure if it was seconds or minutes, before a man of the same age as the woman entered the room. He took off his leather hat, revealing a hairless scalp, and took a seat at the same chair the woman was in earlier. By now, the foreign was fully awake, and could make out the elder's full white mustache in clear definition, as well as the red bandana around his neck and the brown overalls over his blue jacket.
The desert wanderer himself had waken up in a new attire, consisting of knee-high boots, ivory cargo jeans, and a faded purple jacket with a hood. They were mismatched, sure, but they were far more comfortable than the patched and torn clothes he had passed out in.
The man at the chair rolled a silver medical tray over next to him, with a variety of medical tools. Amidst the scalpels and saws was a solitary pen, which he reached over and grabbed, in addition to a clipboard already in his hands. "You know, I was wondering if you were ever gonna wake up," He chuckled softly, a somber look upon his face, his eyes showing the age of his soul and the toll the years have taken on him. "Let's start with the basics. Do you remember your name?"
The man attempted to speak, but only air came out, his throat much to dry to speak. The man handed him a bottle of water, which he promptly guzzled down without even a moment of hesitation. It took all of ten seconds for the entire bottle to be empty, after which he tried again, and found that, though sore, his throat was once again capable of words. "Joseph." He answered, his voice oddly balanced from being used for the first time in many days.
"Good. My name is Andre Mitchell, but that'll be Doctor Mitchell to you. As you might have been able to tell by now, I'm the town medic of Goodsprings."
"Heard…About you." Joseph croaked out, much to Doc Mitchell's surprise.
"Really now?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.
"My wife…She was brought here…Got saved by you."
"Well, we get a whole lot of travelers coming in here. Some walk in, others…We gotta carry them in. You were one of the latter." Immediately after saying this, he slapped both palms onto their respective knee, pushing against them and standing up from the seat. "Now! Can you walk?"
Joseph sucked in a deep breath, using his arms to position his legs off the side of the bed slightly, before pushing himself fully off. He stumbled, the Doctor reaching out to catch him, but the man managed to right his balance before that was necessary. His knees shook and trembled as he straightened them out, forcing him to lean on the silver medical tray, but before long they became still as they were supposed to be. Joseph took a few steps, as if he were learning to walk again.
"Good! That's good, that's very, very good. You should be in much better condition now than when I found you, but just in case…" The doctor reached into a cabinet, handing Joseph a metal syringe with a red liquid within and a gauge at the top. "Take this if you begin to feel sick, and come talk to me here."
The man took the syringe, recognizing it as a Stimpak. He slipped it into his pants pocket, ensuring it was safe where it was. "Thanks, doc. I appreciate this, all of this."
"Wait, listen. I'm sure you're very eager to get back out onto the wastes, but before you do, I'd recommend gearing up. When Michael brought you in here, he told me you had nothing on you. No caps, no water, no weapons, nothing."
"Michael?" Joseph asked, this name being unfamiliar to him.
"He's the man who protects Goodsprings for us, him and Sunny. I'd pay him a visit if I were you, he was real worried about if you'd be okay. You can usually find him down at the bar."
"Where's that?" Again, Joseph asked yet another question, though one couldn't blame him.
"Prospector's Saloon. Right in the middle of town, tough to miss it." The doctor answered, leading Joseph to the exit. "If you need a place to stay for a while, Trudy can hook you up. She's the barkeep. Just next door is Chet's, he runs the general store."
"Hey, thanks again, doc. I'm planning on staying in town a few days while I get my bearings. If there's anything you need from me, anything at all, I'll make sure it's done."
"Well, since you said it…Come back over later tomorrow night if you're feeling better. I got a job what needs doin'." Mitchell took Joseph up on his offer, offering out his hand. The man took it and, one firm handshake and a few footsteps later, Joseph was out the door and back in the saddle again, standing atop the hill the Doc's home was built upon and staring out over the post apocalyptic town of Goodsprings, the last bastion of freedom, just out of reach of the Legion.
This was it. He made it. He was no longer in Caesar's territory, no longer living in fear. He could live free again. As the sun rose over the distant mountains and with new clothes on his back he set off, bar-wards bound.
