The sun was dead center in the blue sky, indicating that it was already midday. The puffy clouds rolled on by with the breeze of the Idahoan Wasteland. The people of the Mojave didn't know much about Idaho and the other states north of Nevada, but the Saratoga Caravan Company was determined to find out more. Over a period of twelve years, they scraped together enough caps to make the journey possible. Three pack Brahmin loaded with goods to sell, ten personnel, and a dream. The caravan had been in Idaho for only a few days and had not found much luck. To be blunt, Idaho was pretty empty. There was no luck in Utah due to brewing tensions between the White Legs and the Dead Horses in Zion. A detachment of the Happy Trails Caravan Company had gone missing in Zion, so Atticus decided to steer clear of that place. "Too dangerous," he said, "plus, we need to know more about the north. That's our goal!"
John was walking alongside the first Brahmin in the caravan train. Atticus always called him Gerald, the only bull Brahmin in the train. You could identify him by looking at the small NCR flag sticking out of his pack. The other two were Tabitha and Mayella. The caravan hadn't come across a settlement in the four days they had been in Idaho, and things were looking rather bleak. The water supply was beginning to run low and if they didn't find a settlement with a water supply they were willing to share, it could mean a long death by dehydration. Atticus was determined that they would find a town soon enough.
The good thing about Idaho was there weren't many threats. The only things that were ever seen were geckos, and they usually stood clear. If they got to close, well, a guard would put a slug in its skull. Done and done. Hopefully there wasn't any super deadly monster in Idaho that was responsible for the lack of settlements. John said a silent prayer that they would find a town soon. There seemed to be a hill in front of them, so they began climbing. The climb took a few minutes thanks to Tabitha's not wanting to go up the hill, but at the top, the whole caravan crew could see salvation. The hill swooped down into a small gulch, and at its center was a small settlement with fifteen or so buildings surrounded by a scrap metal wall. The caravaneers cheered with delight and began to make their descent.
Ryan stood on the lookout balcony above the entrance to the town. The sniper scope was pressed up against her eye, the breeze blowing her sandy blonde hair which came down to her ears. On her forehead were a pair of goggles which were trying to hide behind her bangs, but were still visible. She kept an eye on the group of people coming over Badger Hill. Though she was only fourteen, Ryan was one of the best shots in Blood Gulch. She was also the only person besides her dad who shot left handed in the small town of about thirty. The strangers coming over the hill had a few Brahmin with them, carrying a lot of stuff which Ryan couldn't make out. Many of the people were armed, carrying pistols, revolvers, repeaters, rifles, and shotguns. It almost looked like they were on a warpath, but Ryan didn't know for sure, so she didn't fire. Maybe they were curious travelers. But Ryan had to follow her orders: If anyone suspicious is heading towards the town, warn the sheriff. Ryan slung the rifle over her shoulder and began running across the rooftops of the houses until she reached a ladder leading to the thoroughfare. She slid down quickly and ran for her house.
"Pa! Pa!" Ryan pounded on the rusty door until it opened to a man with a dark brown moustache wearing a hat. "Pa, there are folks headin' for the town! They got over Badger Hill a few moments ago and they are armed heavily!"
"Really?" the sheriff asked, "Strange, we're not expecting any folks, and the caravans don't come 'til September." He stepped outside and yelled, "Alright, folks! Code yellow! Everyone get your weapons and take cover! We got suspicious folks comin' this way!" The sheriff yanked his .44 revolver out of its holster and ran to his code yellow position: a small alley between his house and their neighbor's. Ryan climbed to the top of the Johnson's house and laid low. She snickered at the thought of the looks on those strangers' faces when they realize they came to attack the wrong town. Hopefully it wouldn't end up being a gunfight, but if it did, Blood Gulch's militia wasn't afraid of killing folks. Ryan shut her mouth and was dead silent when she heard the rattling of one of the Brahmin's loads coming closer to the entrance of the town.
John and Jess were standing next to each other in the middle of the caravan. The town ahead was quiet. Too quiet. "I don't like this," John said faintly to his compatriot, "there should be people here. Where is everyone?"
"Maybe they're frightened. Maybe they're setting up an ambush. Maybe the town is abandoned. Maybe they're all dead. The possibilities are endless," Jess replied.
"Perhaps… if they are all dead or gone it would be a shame, but maybe their water supply would still be there and at least we'll have a place to stay with water instead of sleeping out in the wild wasteland dehydrated."
"Here's hoping they're willing to trade." Jess crossed her fingers. In no time, the caravan was heading inside the scrap metal gate. The town was dead silent. It was like a ghost town in one of those Pre-War movies about cowboys. Atticus knew something was up as well. These houses looked like they hadn't been damaged, so no one would have a reason for abandoning the town. He called John and Jess up to him. "I don't like this, not at all." Atticus whispered.
"Neither do I. This is all very suspicious," John replied. Jess nodded in agreement. Atticus made the executive decision that could either save or slay the group.
"Hello? Is anyone here? Hello?" Atticus began shouting. He turned towards John and shrugged. Suddenly a whistle blew. Fifteen men and women with guns popped out. Most were on the roof, some were on the ground. They held rifles, pistols, and repeaters. One boasted an impressive looking Chinese Assault Rifle. A man with a moustache and a cowboy hat walked towards Atticus and yelled "All of you, weapons down! Put 'em down and no one gets hurt!" Since the caravan was seemingly outnumbered, they all put their weapons down and put their hands up. The man with the hat had a badge on his coat in the shape of a star. It had "SHERIFF" in big print on it.
"Alright, strangers, what 'a you doin' in my town? You ain't welcome here, but you come anyways. Who do you think ya' are? Kings of the Wastes? Answer me, dammit!" The Sheriff was beginning to get impatient. Atticus was the first to speak.
"We're caravaneers."
"You're a caravan? The caravans don't come around 'til September, pard. Now, where you from?"
"Nevada."
"Nevada?"
"Nevada, yes."
"What the hell's Nevada?" The Sheriff asked, quieting down a little.
"South of here. We're from the Mojave Wasteland."
"Mojave? Now that sounds familiar. That's the desert, right?"
"Yeah, that's right."
"But how do I know you ain't lying to me?" the Sheriff raised his voice again, "How do I know you ain't raiders comin' here to burn down the town, kill the men and rape the women? How do I? Huh?"
Jess spoke this time. "Um… we're to pretty to be raiders?" In a short time, all the people were laughing. They started soft and ended up laughing out loud. Even the Sheriff began to laugh.
"Yeah, I guess you are a little too well-kept to be raiders, ain't ya'?" The Sheriff said after he had stopped chuckling, "Welcome to Blood Gulch, quaintest little town in Idaho! The name's Terrence Ewell, town sheriff and mayor. Just call me Sheriff."
"Atticus Finch Wilks. A pleasure, Sheriff." Atticus and Sheriff shook hands. "Would you be willing to do some trading, Sheriff?"
"Well, we don't have very many caps. But if ya' need water, we have a freshwater spring in a nearby cave that we get water from. We'll trade you water for supplies you may have. What we need is ammo for our guns."
"Well, you're in luck, friend. We have ammo! I'm sure we can make a deal…" Atticus began, but John decided to explore the town a little. He noticed a girl with a sniper rifle heading over to an observation balcony over the entrance. John climbed up the ladder and followed the rooftops to the balcony where the girl stood, keeping an eye on the land. "Quite a nice duster you have there, stranger," the girl said, still not looking at John.
"Thank you. I could say the same about that gun of yours," John said, looking at the gun. It was a military standard issue sniper rifle, but it had some adjustments. It looked smaller, lighter. The magazines were extended, a sling was attached to go over her shoulder, and a well-painted layer of desert camouflage was all over the weapon. On the butt of the gun there was something written in black paint: Blood Gulch, ID.
"It took me five years to get 'er back in working condition," the girl said, now looking at John, "Pa told me that I couldn't use his rifle no more, so I found this one in a junkyard and made all the modifications myself. I'm the best shot in this town, stranger. Thanks to this beauty."
"Best shot in town, huh?" John asked, "Alright then. Prove it. See that gecko out on the hill?" The girl looked and nodded. "Shoot it. Here, I'll even provide the ammo so you don't waste yours." He tossed her a .308 caliber cartridge with the bullets inside. She caught it and loaded it into her gun. She took aim and waited for a little while. "Center of mass," she said. *Boom!* the gecko fell. John looked though his binoculars to see if she had hit where she said. Surely enough, there was a bloody hole in the center of mass.
"Good shot. My turn. Looks like his friend has gotten curious." John unslung his scoped hunting rifle and took aim. A slightly smaller gecko was investigating the corpse of his reptilian comrade. "Left eye." *Boom!* the gecko's orange eye had become a bloody red mess.
"Where'd ya' learn to shoot like that, stranger?" the girl asked.
"NCR Military."
"NCR?"
"Oh, sorry," John apologized, "New California Republic. They're a group based in California, just southwest of here. They're trying to make the American wasteland like the Pre-War democracy it was. They have run into trouble though."
"How so?" The girl asked.
John began to explain to the girl the NCR's situation in the Mojave. He told her about how they annexed the wasteland, how they control the area, how they keep the factions underneath them in check, and the war with Caesar's Legion. He told her about the First Battle of Hoover Dam and his role in it, even showed her the machete gladius he got from a dead Centurion and the scar where shrapnel from a Legion grenade broke through his ranger helmet and cut his face. "How about you? What are you like?" John asked the girl.
Ryan was amazed by the stories of this stranger. Normally, strangers were a problem and were either killed or driven away. And how he was involved with this NCR of his and how he fought the Legion bad guys on the dam. Then he asked her about her life.
"Oh, nothin' special…" Ryan said. She told him about how her mother died when she was born, how she grew up learning to shoot. She told him about how she never fit in with what few kids there were. She was accustomed to start fights and she normally won them, but her father punished her afterwards. How she had this crush on a boy who didn't know she existed and how she had her heart broken by him. How her ordinary job was to go north to Boise and look for things that could help Blood Gulch: Food, ammo, scrap metal, weapons, etc. "…and that's my story. As I said, nothin' special."
"Well, thank you for sharing." John said, "I'm John Mercer." He stuck out his hand.
"Ryan Ewell." She shook his hand and expected him to begin laughing at her name, since it was a boy's name. Her father had wanted a boy, but when she was born, her middle name was Ryan, and her father always called her that. But he didn't laugh. He just silently shook her hand. She noticed the sun was low in the sky and she stood. "Well, Pa should be up here soon. He normally keeps lookout at night. I guess you and your caravan are staying here for the night. I'm sure nobody would mind letting some people sleep in their houses. You can stay in my house, if ya'd like. My brother's bed is empty ever since he left to explore the wastes, so you can sleep there." Ryan offered, dusting off her jeans.
"I think I'll do that. Thanks," John replied. This was a nice town. They at least ask people what they're doing before they shoot instead of just gunning the group down. Truly an example to all survivors anywhere. Maybe tomorrow, John would ask Ryan to take him to this "Boise" she spoke of. Maybe there are people there to trade with. Surely the next day would be a brilliant adventure.