Chapter 44

Week Damn One

During the stroll into Frosthill—Sandra felt, oddly enough, just like her old self again.

There was a time when she ventured from one new place to another on a fairly regular basis, the sky always overcast and the temperature always cool or cold—and now, she smiled, feeling a rush of nostalgia as she sauntered down the open, snowy stretch.

There was a line of buildings on either side—a clinic, schoolhouse, town hall, the hotel, a weapons shop, a general store, a bank, and even a barber shop—and at the very end of the stretch was the saloon, a couple of the townspeople loitering on its stoop and trading end-of-the-day gossip with each other. Past the town and up the hill, beyond the saloon and overlooking Frosthill, was a church—a skinny, elegant cross standing tall above its roof—and Sandra slowed to a stop in the center of town, several memories returning to her.

Most recently was the memory of Joshua Graham, the man who always carried a bible, a jet black one with that very symbol etched on the front. She remembered her first visit to Utah clear as day, and she remembered hearing Joshua recite many passages from the bible—which, unbeknown to him, helped to awaken even farther memories of her past.

Because—one memory from the east, one single, solid phrase, always seemed to stick solidly with her, no matter what else eluded her mind.

"I am alpha and omega," Sandra mumbled mindlessly. "The beginning and the end…"

"Miss!"

Sandra wheeled around—seeing a tiny black-haired girl suddenly sprinting up to her, the girl panting, wearing a thick scarf around her neck and looking annoyed.

"Clint just knocked down Mr. Frosty!" the girl complained, jabbing an accusing finger behind her, where a young boy was standing over the ruins of a rather large snowman. "He's being mean!"

Sandra's mouth drifted open, unsure of how to respond—and just then, the young boy named Clint rushed over as well.

"She said I couldn't knock its stupid hat off—and I proved her wrong," Clint said smugly, shooting the girl a snide look. "Samantha's just mad because I did it."

The girl, Samantha, scowled at him. "You knocked his whole head off!"

"So? The hat came off, didn't it?" Clint laughed at her. "If-so fact-o—"

"Hey hey hey—that's easy," Sandra told the boy. "Anybody could do it like that. Sheezus. Where's the freakin' challenge?"

Clint and Samantha both stared at her.

Sandra smiled, clasping her hands together and marching over to the snowman's remains. "I got a real challenge—watch."

She went to work right away, restructuring the top of the already large snowman—only now, it wasn't becoming a head. Instead, she seemed to be flattening the front of it, rubbing snow away from its surface—and then, she dug her finger in, drawing three circles on it and creating what appeared to be a target.

"Now—here's what you do as a wasteland kid," Sandra grinned, stepping back from the makeshift target. "You pick a weapon—one you wanna get really skilled with—and you just practice. It can be melee, it can be a bb gun, whatever—the point is, you wanna try to strike as close to the center as possible. Can you do that, kiddo?"

"Hey—who even are you?" Clint barked, eyeing her oddly. "Why's a grown-up trying to play like a kid?"

Sandra smirked, tilting her head and giving him a coy look. "Do I look like a grown-up to you?"

"No. But you are one."

"Well… them's fightin' words, Mr. Eastwood."

"Mister… who?"

"Go grab a bb gun, Eastwood, and we'll see how good you really are."

"Why do you keep calling me that—?!"

"Go get a bb gun! C'mon! what're you, chicken?"

"Nobody calls me chicken—!"

"Then go get a bb gun! Go ahead! Make my day!"

"FINE!" Clint erupted in frustration, tossing his hands up and storming away.

Sandra laughed hysterically, shaking her head as Samantha giggled along with her.

When Clint eventually returned with a bb rifle, he had three more of the local children with him, as they all apparently wanted to give this game a try.

"Oh… hell… yes," Sandra smiled approvingly, taking the bb rifle and surveying it up and down. "Just like the one I had when I was your age. Now watch."

She shook it once, hearing the bbs rattle inside, then pulled the lever back and lined up her shot, the feeling of it as familiar as ever. When she fired—the bb shot straight through the center of her snow target, and all the children gathered around it, ogling it closely.

"Whoooa—she shot it right in the middle."

"My daddy shoots like that!"

"I bet you can't do that, Clint."

"Yeah I can!"

Clint took the rifle next, and Sandra gave him a brief rundown on how to use the sights before he fired at the target. Suddenly, a line had formed—and the other four children stood patiently behind Clint and waited for their turn.

Sandra found herself standing beside each shooter when their turn came, giving them general instructions and advice. One child shot after another, and—unbeknown to her—a bigger group of townspeople had gathered on the stoop of the saloon now, all of them watching her with interest, and there was even a large face pressed to the window of the barber shop, as the huge person inside was observing the lesson as well.

This continued for a while until Sandra noticed that the sun was setting. So, she gave the children her goodbyes and headed into the hotel, a quaint little wooden building at the end of the stretch from where she'd arrived.

The inside was cozy, not massive like a Vegas business—but comfortable, the left side complete with a few dining tables for the guests, the right being the front counter with an elderly man manning the register, and in the center, a lush crimson rug stretched into a back hallway, where the rooms presumably resided.

Sandra approached the counter and made small talk with the old man for a while—a man named Brimley, with a hat, glasses, and overhauls—and he revealed to her that he was a raider back in his youth.

"That was back when the fire of youth drove everything I did," Brimley explained. "Lemme tell ya… nothin' motivates a young man like guaranteed survival and regular access to poontang."

Sandra fell silent for a second, opening her mouth and raising her brows.

"Huh," she uttered. "Wow, that's… wildly inappropriate. So you got a room open here…?"

"Just the one on the top floor… best room in the house, but it costs the most, too."

"Fine by me."

Sandra didn't mind; she brought plenty of her funds with her, and she knew more would be on the way when the bounties came. So, she paid for the room, then ventured up the stairs and pushed the door open—pleased at the new temporary home before her.

There was a storage area down a narrow path, and to the left was the large bedroom, two doorways in the small walkway just before it—one leading into a nice, clean bathroom, the other leading into a kitchenette. The bedroom itself had a large, comfy bed with deep blue comforters on it right in the center, two windows on either side of it, giving her a great view of the town—and along the walls were workbenches, shelves, and a storage trunk for her belongings. The walls harbored paintings—beautiful and peaceful ones, mostly of mountain scenery—and the room smelled faintly of lemon cleaner, as Brimley had presumably recently cleaned the room.

Sandra tossed her stuff on the trunk and plopped down on the squishy bed, folding her arms behind her head and smiling up at the spinning ceiling fan, basking in the comfort for a short while.

So far, she truly loved it here—in fact, if she'd brought her friends along, she could almost see herself staying, leaving the wars of Nevada behind as well as all the troubles attached to them.

But, the reality of the situation wasn't so simple; this place had its own wars, and if she wanted to keep those wars from ever breaching her real home, then she'd have to nip them in the bud here and now.

And—to the greatest of her pleasure—she'd have the efforts of Randall, his firm, and the NCR all backing her rather than simply running at the danger alone. This put her mind well at ease, and her eyes began to drift shut, nearly falling asleep before shaking herself awake.

Sandra leaped swiftly to her feet and strolled out of the room, hoping to explore a bit more before she slept.

Next door to the hotel was the building with the spinning colorful bar outside—something she remembered seeing in the old holotape movies back in the vault, the trademark item of a barber shop.

Sandra twirled her bangs around, holding them out and examining them before reaching behind her head, feeling that her hair was already growing down her neck, killing her usual style. She didn't want a cut—not in this frigid climate—but she could use some help in managing longer hair, as she'd simply never done it before.

So, she pushed the door open and waltzed inside—and instantly, the sight surprised her.

The barber shop was spacious in the center, a few chairs aimed at mirrors along the side wall, a long metal bench across from it. A ghoul with a full head of hair—styled and gelled—was sitting on the bench and puffing on a cigarette, and a large green supermutant was just across from him, sweeping the floor and grumbling while he did, a radio on the counter near the door, which was playing an Aerosmith song.

"Goddammit, Cutty—whaddid you do with my smokes, boi?" the ghoul rasped, flicking ashes away. "I only got the one left—I need my pre-war menthols!"

"Fuckin'a… I didn't touch your smokes, fuckin' baby," the supermutant, Cutty, grumbled in a deep-based voice. "Look at mister high-and-fuckin-mighty, King Cocker, thinking everybody's comin' after him, eeeverybody's out to get him…!"

The ghoul, Cocker, narrowed his milky eyes at the mutant. "Don't lie to me, cocksucker—gimme my damn smokes back!"

"Why you gotta smoke all the time? It's fuckin' nasty, makin' me breathe that shit in all the time… hackin' and coughing and whatever the fuck…"

"Cutty—I swear to God, if you don't give 'em back, I'm gonna make the noise."

"Ooo—big man, makin' the fucking noise, like I give a shit about your fuckin' noise—"

Instantly—the ghoul straightened up and inhaled, unleashing the longest, loudest, and raspiest yell Sandra had ever heard, reminding her of all the worst feral ghoul hoards she'd seen across the wasteland.

Cutty continued cursing and berating him as Cocker continued making the noise—then finally, Cutty reached into the pocket of his tattered blue shorts, pulling out a pack of menthols and pitching them at cocker with all his might.

"Fuuuck—there!" Cutty snapped. "You happy now?!"

Cocker collected the pack from his lap and shot the mutant a curt, fleshy smile. "Now how fuckin' hard was that?"

Sandra giggled, stepping forward and giving the two a brief wave. "Hey, um… can I get my hair done, or…?"

"Oh… now, see?" Cutty said, jutting out his meaty arm toward Sandra and giving Cocker a look. "You went and ignored a customer because you had to bitch about your fuckin' smokes."

"Whatcha need there?" Cocker wondered, standing to face Sandra and ignoring Cutty's remark. "Don't look like you need too much chopped off."

"No, but… I've never had longer hair before," Sandra replied. "Can you style it? Or… show me how to tie it back right?"

"Ahh… not a problem at all, new blood," Cocker said smoothly, grabbing a chair and wheeling it around. "Pop a squat, and let's get started."

Cocker went to work on her right away—and his hands moved with swiftness and know-how, making her think he must've had the job before the bombs even fell, as every move came naturally to him. He cleaned her hair, combed much of it back, and tied it on the back of her head in a stylish sort of knot, sharp hairs left to jut out of it from all ends, almost like several crimson blades. Some of her growing bangs were left to stream down either side of her face, but she could see much more clearly now, and the hair felt to be far less in the way.

Sandra almost felt pampered, if such a thing existed in the world anymore. Frosthill was truly treating her well so far.

She chatted idly with them until Cocker was done, then paid him and left him a hefty tip. After she left—feeling totally refreshed anew, strutting about with confidence—she decided to pop into the general store, purchasing a slender black jacket and slipping it on under her old-world duster, relieved to finally have sleeves. Then, she headed down to the end of the stretch, nightfall arriving as she strolled into the saloon's swiveling doors.

The bartender was a man named Al Swearer—who cussed and cursed nearly every other word he spoke—and she sat at the bar for a while, trading jokes with him before turning and gossiping nonchalantly with the people sitting nearest her.

Her night was pleasant—and her restful slumber in her new, wonderful room was as comfortable as ever.

Sandra thoroughly enjoyed Frosthill—and she hoped the bloody business to come wouldn't ruin it all in one blow.

Her first week in Frosthill felt like much longer—like her life had entirely started anew.

As her hair grew, she maintained the new style under Cocker's guide, and she regularly divided her time between Randall and the residents of Frosthill. She meet the man at the NCR office within the bounty firm—a suited businessman named Brookshire—and she traded daily conversations with Randall in his office, swapping stories about their endeavors since leaving the Mojave.

When she wasn't with Randall, she was hanging out with the townspeople—stopping outside to talk to or teach the children, joking around with Cocker and Cutty, trading chatter with many of the vendors in town, and drinking at the saloon during the later hours. Her routine became common, and everyone in the town was slowly warming to her, namely because of how she acted around the children—most notably, as if she was one of them.

The only lonesome part of her new routine was the part that took her uphill.

Because, for whatever reason, Sandra always found herself wandering up the hill past the saloon every night, visiting the dark, empty church and sitting on its pews in silence. She had no reason to, aside from gazing around its musky interior and imagining what its services must've been like two-hundred years ago—but ever since her father first taught her of the bible, she always wondered what the pre-war churches were like, and she'd never really considered visiting any of them until now.

In fact, she found herself flipping through the bible every time she arrived; it was the bible given to her by Joshua, one she always carried in her pack, but never bothered to flip open before arriving in Frosthill. Parts of it were difficult to understand, but other areas were simply fascinating, especially Revelations.

"Oooh… Judas," Sandra grumbled down at the book, sitting alone in the church yet again and shaking her head down at the bible. "Oh, you fucked it all up…"

"Had my fair share of Judases in my day," a low, somewhat familiar voice spoke from elsewhere. "They always fuck it up."

Sandra's eyes shot up from the book, landing on the figure that had just emerged from the large gaping hole at the back end of the church—a man with orange hair, a hat, and a thick black duster on, familiar pensive eyes and pip-boy fixed onto his arm.

"Just me," Virgil said, giving her a wave as he sauntered forward. "Just figured I'd come see what's bringing you here every night. I live right up the mountain from here, so… every now and then, I see you walk in here, even though nobody's used this place for decades."

Sandra slowly nodded, glancing down at the bible, then back at him. "Why doesn't Frosthill use the church?"

"Well… there's a giant chunk missing, for one," Virgil pointed out, motioning to the large hunks of wall and roof mossing all around him. "And… beyond that, most of these ex-outlaw folks don't have any idea what the bible even is, let alone what God is."

Sandra stared at him. "Really?"

"Yeah. Really," Virgil affirmed, moving closer and pocketing his hands. "Most people didn't grow up like we did… in a vault, with an education, learning things and adapting ourselves to new knowledge every day."

Sandra only just noticed the pip-boy on his arm. She knew he was wearing one when they met back in the Mojave, but she never thought to ask him about it.

"Another thing Marko and I have in common," Virgil said. "And… you and I have in common. Hell, all three of us have it in common… growing up in a vault, knowing literature, being able to sport a pip-boy when nobody else gets to. Vault privilege. That's what that is…"

Sandra stared down at the scripture, pondering on Joshua Graham and thinking that his odd ways were suddenly much clearer to her. He always felt the need to recite the passages to others, and she never understood why—but if everyone else in the wasteland had been deprived of ever knowing these readings, then perhaps educating others on all the topics they missed out on was a good idea.

Virgil studied her intently. "Do you believe in God, Courier?"

Sandra sighed, flipping a few of the pages around absentmindedly.

"I don't know," she replied honestly. "I did growing up. Sometimes, I still do… and other times, I don't know..."

"Yeah… life's confusing in that way," Virgil muttered with a nod. "Personally, I don't care for God. I tend to care more about things that are actually helpful… and people who are. Not ideas. Real people, and real actions. But… that's just me."

"I do that too," Sandra admitted. "But I'm not gonna know if God's real or not… until it's too late to care anymore."

Virgil's brows raised. "That… what you just said, there… that's wiser than you probably even comprehend. You know that?"

Sandra didn't reply, gazing down at her book again.

Virgil tilted his head curiously at her. "You really are like two different people in one. A crazed, hardened badass is at war with an innocent child inside you. I can't help but wonder which one is gonna win in the end."

Sandra's eyes rolled across the words on the page, pondering on when Randall had said something similar about her a week ago.

"I'm not gonna know that until it's too late, either," she murmured.

"It's the cruel fate of man that they're allowed to know so little about their own destiny," Virgil determined. "Unless… they just forge that entire destiny on their own instead of waiting for something else to make it happen. That seems to be the big war inside you, Courier. You're in a constant struggle between both ideas, and you simply can't force yourself to pick one. Let the world decide your destiny… or you decide your world."

Sandra narrowed her eyes at him. "I guess it'd be pointless to ask which one you do."

"Oh yeah. Completely pointless," Virgil agreed. "I am my own God. There's nothing of import or in need of consideration beyond that."

Sandra stared at him. "What about Marko?"

Virgil returned the stare. "What about him?"

"Well… you said you worked for him, and everyone else I've ever met who knew him seemed to worship him out of fear," Sandra explained. "He's not your God?"

Virgil maintained his stare with her for a long, silent moment—expression entirely unreadable, eyes sparkling with intrigue, and he unraveled a faint, thoughtful half-smile.

"Goodnight, Courier," he disclosed, waving her off and marching out of the church.

Sandra sighed, staring at the gaping hole after he was gone. "Night, weirdo…"

She closed her bible, stuffed it in her bag, and marched out of the front doorway, walking carefully down the icy hillside and wandering back into town.

Just when she rounded the corner of the saloon—she stopped dead—as an impossible sight then met her eyes.

Just outside the saloon was a group of the townspeople, vendors whom she recognized—and standing in front of the group were a black-haired man in a green sports jacket, who stood alongside a man in a white overcoat belonging to the Followers of the Apocalypse.

"Hey—there the fuck she is," Al Swearer said, pointing near the edge of the building where Sandra stood. "She the one you're fuckin' looking for?"

Everyone turned their heads and faced her—and she met eyes with Niner and Arcade, both of whom looked truly stunned to see her.

"Oh my God," Sandra breathed in total disbelief.

"Oh my God—oh my God—oh my God is right," Arcade ranted—storming directly toward her and rounding on her at once. "Oh my God—what the hell were you thinking coming all the way up here alone?! Do you have any idea what you put me through? Do you hav—?"

Sandra grabbed him—yanking him into a hug almost violently and clinging tightly onto him.

Niner stood close by, arms folded as he glared at her, but she hadn't yet noticed; she stood still in the snow, the group outside the saloon slowly beginning to disperse, and she stayed there for almost a full minute, holding onto the doctor and feeling as if she might never let him go.

Arcade let out a deep cloud of breath, his anger abandoning him as his arms coiled around her as well. "Jesus… don't ever scare me like that again…"

"Ah-huh… you can tell her that," Niner grumbled. "But it ain't gonna do any good. She's always gonna do it again."

Sandra straightened up, moving to hug Niner as well—but Niner took a brisk step back, jutting out his hand and blocking her away.

"Nuh-uh—no—I'm fuckin' mad at you," he griped at her.

Sandra slowly lowered her arms, her watery eyes meeting his. "Then why'd you come here?"

"Because I care about you, retard," Niner snapped. "Doesn't mean I'm not still mad at you."

Sandra gulped, sniffing and wiping her eye before turning back to Arcade, her heart aching at the sight of the empathetic look strewn across his face.

"I'm sorry," she said genuinely, her voice weakening. "I have a lot to tell you… I jus… uhm…"

Then, she paused, glancing around and realizing the gang was not complete.

"We left Scar back at the tower," Arcade told her. "Not the climate for him up here…"

"No, where's…" Sandra met his eyes again. "Where's Foxxy?"

Arcade blinked, he and Niner trading odd glances.

Sandra surveyed them both, instantly feeling a spark of worry. "Where's Foxxy?"

"We… figured he'd be here already," Arcade mumbled in confusion. "He sent a note to the 38 telling us he was on your tail… tracking you up to Utah. He must've left days before we even knew. He should've gotten here before we ever did."

Sandra's heart jolted—and it might've stopped then and there, mouth falling open as a daunting horror swept over her.

"Did he take the Northern Passage?" she gasped.

"Ah… I'd assume so," Arcade muttered. "It's the only path any of us know of—"

"Which way did he go?" Sandra asked urgently, grabbing his arm as her heart began to pound. "There's a big tunnel to the left and a hidden one off to the right—which one did he take?!"

"I don't know, Sandra—I wasn't there," Arcade reminded her. "What's wrong? If he took the wrong route, then he'll be delayed, but that's not the worst thing in the—"

"Arcade!" Sandra cried, slinging his arm down as her eyes filled with tears. "You don't understand—he can't go there! He can't go to that part of Utah! That's where fucking Joshua Graham is!"

Arcade took slightly back as the realization slowly came over him. "Oh. Oh… God…"

"Look—listen—I know I owe you a massive explanation and about a million apologies—but I need you to do me a huge favor right now," Sandra rambled a mile a minute, adjusting the straps of her backpack. "Go back the way you came, break right, and head up the only path you see—then you'll find Randall's place. I need you to go to him, stay in the barracks, and cover for me. If the bounties come in while I'm gone, then take them for me until I get back. I have to go get Foxxy out of Zion."

"What?" Niner and Arcade barked in unison.

"You are not about to do this again right when we just got here," Niner snarled. "Come on, Six—stop running away!"

"I'm not running away—I'm bringing us all back together!" Sandra proclaimed. "Joshua crucifies the frumentarii, Niner! I have to go!"

Niner gaped at her, looking torn and losing all his arguments.

Arcade gave her a painful look of conflict. "I could go with you—"

"No—no, I need you here," Sandra said breathlessly. "You two can take bounties together—you're the brains and the brawns of the old operation. I can't abandon the bounties here, and I can't abandon him either. Please! Just do this for me and I'll be back soon!"

And at that—Sandra whirled around and sped off at once, breaking into a full sprint as she made haste out of Frosthill like the devil was at her heels.

She wondered if trouble would find her on week damn one of her stay—but she couldn't have imagined it would come to her like this.

Blood alit like gasoline—Sandra soared down the hill, approached the ranch on the fringes, and leaped over the wooden fence at once, speeding across the open field and skidding to a stop at the first stable she saw.

One of the many things she admired about Frosthill—it was the animals, many of the creatures here entirely different from those she'd seen in the Mojave.

And moments later—she exploded out of the stable on horseback, a jet black horse galloping across the open land and carrying her off at once.