"Ah!" The cry broke the silence of the small house littered with medical equipment. A young man is sitting upright on a medical bed with his arm exposed, revealing the large mark left by sharp teeth. An older man with a moustache is applying some rubbing alcohol on the wound with a cotton pad. The elder stopped and looked up at the younger.
"Now John, I told you this would hurt. Unless you want to walk around with an infected arm, quit yelping," He said, sighing as he returned to his task of sterilizing the wound.
"Sorry, Doc. It's just that I've always managed to take out the gecko before it reached me. My rifle jammed and the son-of-a-bitch got me," John replied, "had to stab that thing with my gladius."
"I'll have no swearing in this establishment, John."
"Sorry, Doc."
"Alright, the wound is sterile. Now, I'm gonna get a bandage. Don't touch the bite!" Doc Mitchell said, standing up from his chair to get the bandage. He pulled on the wrap and tore off a large section, wrapping it around John's left arm, where the bite was. "There we go. That'll heal nicely."
"Thanks for patching me up, Doc," John said, giving him twenty caps for the treatment.
"Don't mention it! It's what I'm here for," Doc Mitchell responded, "You have a nice day, now, and careful around those geckos!"
The bite still hurt, but not as much as it had before. John slipped his NCR Ranger duster over his red calico shirt and patched-up jeans. The new tear on the left sleeve, which the gecko bite had ripped through, bothered him slightly. This jacket had seen better days; there were bullet holes, patches, and the bear emblem on the left shoulder was beginning to fade. Snapping out of the trance he was in, John opened the door, which creaked slightly, and exited Doc Mitchell's house to Goodsprings.
Goodsprings. The happiest little town this side of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. It was like a town right out of an Old World Western movie: A general store, a doctor's office, a saloon, and a bunch of little houses scattered about the area. Lots of caravans came to this area for the freshwater wells located outside of the town (hence the name "Goodsprings") and did some trading here and there before they hit Primm to the south. John had stopped in with his new companion, Jess, about a day ago. After staying the night, John's friend Sunny Smiles told him that there were some geckos over by the wells. Jess stayed at the saloon and played Caravan with some townsfolk while he, Sunny, and her dog Cheyenne went to clear out the geckos. During the course of it, John's hunting rifle jammed and he had gotten bit. The water was still safe from the geckos.
John looked around and decided to stop by the Goodsprings General Store to see if Chet could mend the tear in his jacket. Chet was a twitchy fellow who wouldn't do anything as long as he made some personal gain. He's been to New Vegas-twice. Both times he says he got real drunk and lost lots of caps. Hell, he'd probably go there a third time if he scrapes enough caps together and actually manages to make the journey. Who knows? Maybe he'd strike it rich and live the big life in Sin City.
A musty smell filled John's nose as he entered the little shop. It was rather dank, the only light coming from a few windows and a small lantern on the counter. Chet stood behind the counter, wiping down the counter while listening to the Mojave Music Radio. John strode towards the counter and stopped in front of it, tapping his foot to the beat of the song playing. Chet looked up and set down the rag.
"What can I do for you, John?" Chet asked, leaning against the wall.
"Yeah, there is," John replied, slipping off his duster, "I need this tear sewed up. Left sleeve. Can you do it?"
Chet took the duster and observed the tear, "What's the magic word?" He asked.
John pulled out ten caps and slid them over to him. Snide little bastard… John thought. Chet picked up the caps one by one and put them in the register. "I'll get it done. Come back in a few hours to pick it up."
John nodded and took his leave. He felt different without his duster; he felt alien, foreign. Now, he only had the short sleeved calico red shirt, the bandage on his left arm and his jeans. The duster was the symbol of a true ranger. Without it, he felt like an ordinary bum from California. Come on, Mercer, it's only for a few hours. I'm sure you'll be fine without your duster. It's just an article of clothing… John thought. He trudged towards Trudy's Saloon. Easy Pete was sitting outside in his usual spot. The old timer had years of prospecting experience, and he was an expert with dynamite.
"Howdy, Easy Pete," John said with a wave of his hand.
"Howdy there, Johnny," Easy Pete replied with a tip of his hat. His attention turned towards the bandage on John's arm. "Took a bite from a gecko, did ya?"
"Yeah… my rifle jammed," John explained, "I'm gonna go inside…"
"Yeah, Johnny… watch out for them geckos… he he he," Pete chuckled. John tried to ignore him as he went into the saloon.
The first thing he saw was the familiar face of Sunny Smiles, a good friend of his. She greeted him with a smile as she walked over. "Howdy, Jack," Sunny said. She had always called him Jack, ever since they had met.
"Howdy, Sunny. Hello, Cheyenne," John replied, petting Cheyenne on the head.
"I see Doc patched you all up," Sunny said, nodding towards his arm.
"Yeah, sure did. Hey, where's Jess?"
"The brunette? She's playing Caravan with some strangers." Sunny pointed towards a booth near the bar. John thanked her and strode over. Jess was wearing her new brown leather jacket that she had found at an abandoned shack in the Wastes. She seemed to be winning, judging by the cards she had played. She was the only person who had ever beaten him at Caravan. The man across from her looked like trouble, but he was probably passing through.
"And… there! Two of spades. That's it, cowboy, I win!" Jess exclaimed.
"What? There's no way!" The man shouted, standing up, "you bitch! You'll pay!" The stranger pulled out a pistol and aimed it at her. John pulled out his Sequoia and pointed it at him.
"Leave me alone, stranger; this is between me and the broad!" The man exclaimed, looking at the revolver pointed at his skull.
"Given that the 'broad' is a friend of mine, I suggest you leave her alone," John replied. Sunny walked over with her varmint rifle in her hands.
"What's going on here?" She asked, looking at John then the stranger.
"This guy is angry that Jess beat him at Caravan. He pulled his pistol and got ready to shoot. Get him out of here," John ordered.
Sunny pulled the stranger over and prodded his back with the barrel of her rifle. "Alright, pal, get out and don't you come back."
"You don't know what you're doing, girlie. You kick me out, me and my friends will burn this town to the ground!" The stranger threatened.
"I'll take my chances. Now beat it!" Sunny yelled, prodding him again with the rifle.
"You've taken the wrong side, red-head. I'll be back! 24 hours!" He ran out of the door.
John noticed something about this man. He had seen his face somewhere before… a wanted poster. That was Vince Henson. He was the leader of a gang back in California until he was caught near Lake Tahoe and shipped off to the NCR Correctional Facility, or NCRCF. This man was a Powder Ganger. And when he said he would burn this town to the ground, he would do anything to make sure it was done. "Sunny… that was-"
"Yeah, I know," Sunny sighed, "Henson."
"We need to get this town ready for a fight," John suggested, "or those Powder Gangers will tear Goodsprings apart."
"Agreed. There's no telling what heat they'll be packing, but we have to fight. We have a day to prepare. We've beaten 'em before, we'll beat 'em again.