A/N: Nov. 30, 2013 Update - I've now posted chapter two. I had previously written an author's note for this chapter, but apparently it didn't save. I will try to post new updates every few days or so, hopefully weekly at most. The chapters will also get a little longer as the story goes. Unless you prefer the shorter chapters, like I sometimes do. If you care enough, let me know in the reviews. I'm always open to story suggestions too. Any suggestions, really. I hope you enjoy!
Chapter One
An 18-Carat Run of Bad Luck
"Jack Flint," I said, and the man nodded while repeating my name.
He scratched his chin. "I'm Doc Mitchell," he said.
It was silent for a moment, giving me a chance to notice how hot it was, the sweat sticking to my neck and the back of my bare legs. An inexplicable chill came over me and I shivered. Doc raised his white eyebrows.
"I've got to admit," he said, "I didn't reckon you'd make it." Doc had a stern brow, though not unkind. What hair remained on his aged head rested above his upper lip and around the sides and back of his head. He looked very clean, even for a doctor.
I coughed, causing a wave of pain to echo inside my skull. I ran a hand down my face then through my sandy hair, which had been lightened by countless hours spent in the desert sun. There were no stitches or scars. "How long have I been here?" I said.
Doc cleared his throat and said, "Quite a few weeks, maybe even a month. You've been in and out of consciousness. Don't remember a thing?"
"The last thing I remember is staring down the barrel of a nine millimeter pistol. Do you have my stuff?"
"It's on the table by the front door." Doc stared hard at me, furrowing his thick eyebrows, chasing a train of thought.
I made to stand up off the thin mattress, the springs croaking like an army of frogs. Everything got sharp and blurred at the same time. Doc reached out and grabbed my arm to steady me. I took a second to gather myself before getting to my bare feet. Another shiver ran through me.
"Here, let me grab you something to wear," Doc said. He headed for the open doorway, casting a glance back at me before disappearing from sight. I didn't know where I was. I mean, Doc's house, clearly, but I had no clue where Doc's house was. I was almost to New Vegas the guy in the suit and his thugs got me. I could see the casino lights shining in the distance. The dry heat comforted me, let me know that I was still in the Mojave, at least.
I couldn't tell what time of day it was because the windows were all boarded up. An old gas lamp shone from the desk across the room. All I could see through the dim light was a couple of portable partitions, a pair of crutches leaning against the wall, and a shelf of IV tubes and rusty leg braces. Doc stepped back in and tossed a wad of clothes at my feet, dropped a pair of boots by the doorway.
"Go ahead and put those on," he said. "I'll wait for you outside."
I put on the plaid button up shirt that would probably be too hot, and the denim pants. I rolled up the shirt sleeves, just above my elbows.I put on the long socks and slid my feet into the boots. They were a little cozy, but they would do for now.
I walked through the dark hallway in the direction Doc had gone, the floorboards creaking beneath me. I opened what I guessed was the front door. It was bright outside, the sun directly above my head. Dizziness overcame me for a second, and I had to grab the door frame to keep my balance. Doc was sitting in a frayed lawn chair, a woven cattleman's hat protecting his bald head. He looked up at me. "Your things," he said, lifting up a pack that had been on the ground next to him. He must have put my stuff in it. It was heavy duty, military grade probably, which meant it would be long-lasting. I was grateful. "Thanks for fixing me up," I said.
Doc pinched the front lip of his hat with his thumb and forefinger, dipped his head down slightly. "I hope you don't mind it much, but I took a look at the letter in there." He cleared his throat. "I thought maybe it was from family, or a friend. Someone who'd care you'd been held up."
I put on the pack, adjusting the straps around my shoulders.
"None of it made much sense to me," Doc said. "But I'd go check out the saloon down the street. They see more travelers than I do. Might be able to tell you where to go."
"Thanks again," I said. I looked out over the sagebrush-spotted landscape. I was already thirsty. I located the Prospector Saloon about a hundred yards away, the neon sign bright even in broad daylight. I walked down the dusty hill, my toes pressing against the tips of the boots.
