Chapter 32
The Doctor's Dilemma
"Wake up! Come on… you've GOT to wake up!"
Amata shook her almost violently—Sandra groaning and irritably trying to shove her away. Amata was yammering madly over her bed, Sandra drifting in and out of consciousness as she did, tossing and turning on her hammock within the bus as a cold sweat broke out along her forehead…
"Where is he…?" Sandra moaned thoughtlessly.
"He's gone!" Amata shrieked from her subconscious. "He's just… gone!"
"He can't be…" Sandra shook her head as her heart began to pound. "No, I…"
Vault 101 vanished from around her—and the Capital Wasteland whizzed through her thoughts like a holotape on fast-forward, shakily discovering Megaton, wandering the wastes and growing extremely rattled by her frightful experiences—but she hit a stroke of luck when she finally managed to hire a bodyguard.
With Charon by her side, the terror soon became commonplace, and the fear turned to excitement, the thrill of adventure sweeping her away before the horrific showdown came to be—James hunched against the thick glass, face warped with pain as the radiation ate away at him, tears filling his eyes as he swatted his hand, pleading for his daughter to flee… and flee, she did.
Fleeing the radiation—fleeing the death of her father—fleeing her innocence, and fleeing into a cesspool of the Enclave metal men that had started it all—and at long last, a demon most needed finally arose inside her, and Sandra became a necessary monster the day the Enclave daunted upon the Capital's doorstep.
Never could she forget the rush of it all—the white hot rage that dominated her every move, the wicked, primal contest of survival between her and her opponents, from every sound made to every move enacted, every breath inhaled and every gun loaded—her body moved swiftly in sync with the reloads and pauses, taking full advantage of every opportunity she got to ambush yet another Enclave murderer.
And it filled her to the brim—an absolute blast of euphoria, an evil, wonderful sensation, an explosion of murderous and victorious glee with every kill she obtained. And it was that very feeling—that haunting, evil enjoyment of slaughtering the Enclave—that so deeply plagued her now.
Because part of her longed for it again.
They deserved it, after all.
Charon's coffin shot through her mind in a split second, then James, crumbling to the ground as his life faded away—and Sandra found herself enraged, jolting around and grasping for her weapon, desperate to kill them all—oh God, they'd fucking pay for what they'd done—!
"Mistress!"
Charon's raspy voice hollered through her mind—she could've sworn she felt his big hands clasped around her arms once more—giving her a hard shake and snapping her out of it all.
And truly, he succeeded again—because Sandra sat bolt upright in her hammock with a start.
Inhaling rapidly, her tank top glued to her with sweat and her long crimson bangs hanging wildly over her face, Sandra sat still inside the dark and quiet bus, hunched on her hovering bed and trembling all over.
She gnawed her lip, trying, forcing her mind to cling to the faces she saw—the pained James and the ghoulish Charon—but they fled her mind at once, leaving her only with a deep darkness inside, a total emptiness and a longing to kill with no rhyme or reason whatsoever.
Sandra let out a choking sob, burying her face in her hands and feeling utterly overwhelmed.
She knew it—she saw it, memories and experiences, people she loved—but how close were they to her? How long did she travel with them? Did she ever travel with them? Where were they? How did they die? How did…
It all eluded her—and Sandra sank deeper into her sorrows, trying her damnedest to swallow her muffled cries and failing entirely.
It was maddening; she felt it so strongly, so deeply, and she was so certain of how profoundly the experiences had impacted her—but nevertheless, she couldn't recall a single detail of it all. The only thing she knew for sure was that she had loved ones back east, and the Enclave was responsible for killing them.
Her cries faded away, a slow-burning anger beginning to take its place. Her hands lowered, coiling into fists as she gritted her teeth, blowing a strand of hair from her eyes as her heart hammered with fury.
Yes—this feeling was the problem, the very thing that nearly urged her to shoot Old Man Sellers, the overwhelming desire to hunt down and kill every last member of the Enclave.
But back then, back out east…
This feeling wasn't a problem at all.
It was her solution.
Sandra glared hotly down at her hardened, trembling fists, heaving several angry breaths and wanting more than anything to please the demon inside.
Nothing would feel better now than killing yet another Enclave monster…
In fact, the world was full of monsters.
The Legion, the raider gangs, Marko, the Judge, and surely certain crooked elements within the NCR—the Mojave was filled with terrible, evil people.
"Oh… I will end you," Sandra snarled at no one, cradling her head and digging her fingernails into her skull. "I'll kill you all… I'll kill you all… I want you dead… I want you dead…!"
Her eyes clasped shut, and for several minutes, she sat in total silence, hot tears rolling down her cheeks as she finally began to simmer down. She heard herself speak, hissing and angry words, the ramblings of someone gone mad…
Sandra choked out a pitiful laugh.
"I'm f…" she sputtered sadly, shaking her head. "F… fucking… falling apart…"
In the seconds following, strangely, she found herself thinking of Randall.
Steven Randall had a particularly traumatizing past as well—but unlike Sandra, he seemed to carry it in stride, maintaining total sanity as he did. Sure, he had a desire for revenge just like she did—but he was calm and collected, well put-together in a way she was not.
Sandra pondered on this.
Now, all she wanted to do was venture up the hill and speak to Randall, to ask for his advice on the matter… but it was the middle of the night now. Randall was probably sound asleep, and she didn't want to disturb him.
Then again, he once told her that he'd be 'liable to tan her hide' if she ever kept any serious problems from him, especially problems that could negatively affect her ability to do her job.
Sandra decided it was worth a try, climbing out of her hammock and stretching as she carefully maneuvered around the others. She slid into her bounty hunter duster before opening the side door, not noticing that Arcade's bed was empty as she walked past it, stepping outside and pausing for a moment simply to enjoy the peaceful scenery.
Sandra slipped her hands into her pockets, glancing around—then, she caught sight of something peculiar farther down the road south.
It was incredibly far away, near the old abandoned jail that sat south of Primm—but she was certain she could see movement just before the building, a few people in tanish-brown uniforms marching toward the jail, two of them carrying a body, a body with a dangling white doctor's coat hanging from its torso…
Sandra felt a horrid sinking sensation as she gazed down the street.
"No…" she shook her head, backing away and climbing into the bus again.
To her horror, Arcade's bed was empty—and he was nowhere else to be seen.
A sudden panic shot up and down her like lightning.
Sandra rushed to the front of the bus, snatching up Vulpes's binoculars and hunching over the dash—she pressed the binoculars to her eyes and gazed far down the south road outside. And, in the magnified sights, she was able to see three rangers approaching the entrance of the old jail, two of them carrying an unconscious Arcade into the building.
It was during this moment—this brief, tiny moment that seemed to stretch on for an eternity—when Sandra slowly lowered her binoculars, her eyes an icy blue, and the dark, perfect realization instantly came to her in full.
The demon inside was not a problem.
It was now—just as it always had been—her greatest and most reliable solution.
In fact, the demon guided her hand now—as well as her feet, moving across the bus to grab her weapon, guiding her fingers as she reloaded her shotgun, guiding her legs as she marched out of the bus with a powerful stride.
Sandra strode alone down the empty road, calmly lighting a cigarette and puffing on it smoothly, her free hand clenching the shotgun by her side.
It was during this time when Ranger Dawson and her two followers settled in the back room of the building—handcuffing Arcade, wrapping a rag around his head and gagging him, then tossing him crookedly onto one of the cots inside the jail cell. Arcade lay motionlessly on his side, unable to move, his eyes fighting to open as Dawson slowly closed the barred door on him, locking him inside and smirking evilly at him as she did.
"Trying to stay awake… you're tougher than you look," Dawson remarked. "But you might as well give up, seeing as how you're caught now."
Arcade moaned weakly into his gag.
Dawson slowly grabbed the bars, her nasty grin widening.
"Do you know… what the NCR does to Enclave scum like you?" she hissed sadistically. "I'll be surprised if you make it to the prison without getting your ass beat first. The truck is gonna be here by morning, and then, you'll be off to your new miserable life. I hope you like hard labor, buddy. In fact… a squirmy little pretty-boy like you… oh, you're gonna get everything you deserve in prison."
Arcade gazed drearily up at her from behind his lopsided glasses.
Dawson maintained her disgusting smile.
"And you know what else?" she snarled with serpentine rasp. "You… fucking… deserve it."
Arcade let out a terribly defeated breath, his eyes drifting shut.
"Not as much as you do."
The rangers whipped around at the sound of a new voice in the room—
BANG—BANG.
Sandra fired off rapidly—and both of Dawson's men fell dead to the floor instantly.
Dawson whipped out her pistol just when Sandra raised her shotgun—both of them holding one another at gunpoint as a terrible sense of urgency overtook the room.
There was a tense pause.
Sandra gripped her shotgun tightly, glaring daggers into the ranger woman.
"Let… him… go," she growled furiously. "Now."
"Oh… you're really not in a position to bargain, sweetheart," Dawson sneered, cocking her head smugly. "Killing two rangers—you know you just made enemies of the entire NCR, right? Your life is ruined."
"Really? Because I don't see any witnesses here," Sandra snapped in response. "Just a couple of dead rangers just like you."
"You'll wanna think about that, hun—you'll really wanna think about that," Dawson uttered breathlessly. "Because I have backup coming to this building as we speak—and if you keep doing what you're doing, you won't get out of here alive."
"Bullshit. I heard what you said—you said they wouldn't be here until morning."
"It is morning."
"Not by the rest of the world's standards. Morning means sunrise—not four a.m."
"The NCR is painfully punctual, dear—and they often show up before the allotted time," Dawson told her. "You really wanna take that risk? You really wanna be standing over three dead rangers when the entire unit shows up here?"
Sandra glanced over at Arcade, feeling another stab of anger.
"Worth it to me," she rumbled.
"Oh, is it?" Dawson snarked, nodding at the jail cell. "And is it worth it to you to save a member of the fucking Enclave?"
Sandra stared at her, holding her shotgun high and falling entirely silent, now completely lost.
"You know who the Enclave are, don't you?" Dawson asked. "Evil, evil sons of bitches—they tore societies apart, waged wars for no reason, and they killed and kidnapped hundreds of thousands of innocent people—civilians and NCR alike. You do know that, right?"
Sandra said nothing, her furious expression hardening as her head began to ache.
"They are—the absolute—worst," Dawson growled angrily. "Whatever you think of the NCR—or even the fiends or the Great Khans—I assure you, they are nothing compared to the fucking Enclave."
Screams and visions penetrated her mind in a millisecond—a vertibird soaring over the monument—Enclave slaughtering everyone inside as she dove behind cover and attacked them one by one—James—dying—
Sandra shook her head and forced herself to remain in reality, though her eyes were beginning to water with a fervent angry remorse, hatred, hatred for the Enclave…
"And this man here," Dawson spoke on, using one hand to point at Arcade within the jail cell. "This man here is Enclave, sweetheart. His whole damn family was Enclave. We have all the evidence… from the war crimes of the Devil's Brigade to the names of everyone his family knew in Navarro. Mark Gannon—this man's father—was a top dog in the Enclave. That whole unit of the Enclave was the worst of the worst, and Arcade Gannon is one of them."
Sandra suddenly felt as if she was being physically ripped in half—vivid flashed of horrendous traumas whizzing through her mind as she fought to remain in the present, her mouth drifting open as the hot, furious tears streamed down her face. …
Arcade—her best friend, her inspiration, the sweetest man she'd ever met—Enclave?
She stood rooted to the spot, hands shaking as she gripped the shotgun viselike, the terrible conflict feeling as if it might tear her in two.
But then, her eyes ventured past Ranger Dawson once more.
Her gaze landed on Arcade, lying on his side, helpless and unconscious, hands bound behind his back, a gag fixed firmly into his mouth…
Sandra's tears suddenly seemed to stop, as did every vision and every sense of conflict.
Because in this instant, right this moment now—it wasn't the visions of the past, nor the pain of her losses back east. It wasn't the hatred for the Enclave, and it wasn't her lust for revenge that so angered her now.
It was simply this—seeing Arcade kidnapped and captive, unjustly stolen away from her and held behind those goddamn bars.
"He's one of them," Dawson snarled with a sneer. "He's one of them, sweetheart."
Sandra took a deep breath, gazing into Arcade profoundly before slowly turning her predatory gaze back to Dawson.
Then—with great resolve—she gripped the shotgun tight and shot the ranger a searing glare, responding to Dawson with a final, hateful glower.
"I don't care."
BANG.
Sandra pulled the trigger as the shotgun kicked her with recoil—and that familiar blast of euphoria rushed through her once more as Dawson's head exploded into a revolting eruption of blood and bone, red mist penetrating the air as a burst of crimson splattered the wall behind her fallen corpse.