Colt, Boone, and Veronica continued to walk down a few different streets in Freeside until they came to an old brick perimeter wall, the largest structure in this part of town. There was an old, wooden sign just a few yards from the wall in front of a wooden door. On the sign was a sheet of bronze nailed to the wood and there were some etchings in the bronze sheet; "Old Las Vegas Mormon State Historic Park" and right below it was the seal of the state of Nevada.
The entrance to the fort, a set of dark wooden doors, creaked and opened slowly. Boone, Colt, and Veronica were greeted by a small sandbag wall with two or three armed guards sitting behind it, weapons drawn. They motioned for the three to come in as they holstered their guns. Boone helped Colt hobble into the fort with Veronica following close behind.
The Follower's outpost in the Old Mormon Fort was nothing more that a half dozen tents set up around the courtyard. More armed guards, some patients, and a few doctors wandered around, going in and out of tents. One of the doctors approached the injured man and his two companions.
"Hello, I'm Julia Farkas," the woman said, greeting the travelers. This doctor was different from the others just because of the mohawk she sported. It was strange to Colt because, back in the NCR, he had never seen a doctor sporting that kind of hairdo. "Welcome to the Old Mormon Fort. Do you need any assistance?"
"Yeah, I need a doctor," Colt answered, looking down at his wound.
"My, my, my, yes you do," Julia bent down and examined the wound further, "I wish I could help you, but I need to head out and get medical supplies and, unfortunately, most of the other doctors are busy," she stood back up, "But, there is a doctor that may be able to help. He's in the last tent on the right." Julia turned and pointed to the mentioned tent.
"Thanks," Colt nodded to her and she nodded back.
Julia walked past the three and out of the fort with one of the guards. The doors closed slowly as Julia left and as Colt, with the help of Boone, hobbled to the tent Julia directed them to. Pain shot through Colt's body with every step he took. He hoped that the doctor would be able to ease the pain a little or stop it completely. It seemed like an eternity before they finally reached the tent. Veronica held the flap of the faded whit tent open as Colt and Boone entered.
On the opposite side of the tent was a table with a computer terminal. A man with bright blonde hair was sitting at the terminal, typing rapidly. Next to the table were a few filing cabinets and to the immediate left of the tent's entrance was a small operating table and a tray with medical utensils. The man turned at the three's entrance to the tent; the man was wearing sleek, black eye glasses.
"Who, might I ask, are you?" The man asked, standing up.
"Colt, Boone, and Veronica," Colt answered, "Who are you?"
"Arcade Gannon. Now, why…" Arcade Gannon trailed off as he looked at Colt's bleeding wound, "Ah, I see. Well, go ahead and have a seat on the table."
Boone helped Colt over to the table and helped him take a seat. The pain was getting worse and worse.
"Right, so tell me what happened," Arcade said as he removed the calf plating, cut a small hole in Colt's pants and the bandages around the wound and examined it further. The pain was unbearable while Arcade continued to prod Colt's sensitive bullet wound with a scalpel, moving around lose pieces of skin and flesh.
"I got shot," Colt answered bluntly through gritted teeth.
"How long have you had it?" Arcade further inquired.
"Not very long. Two days at the max."
"It'll be easy enough to fix with a Stimpak… maybe a Super Stimpak. But, here's a question," Arcade looked up at Colt, "Why didn't you use a Stimpak in the first place?"
"Because… I've seen a lot of people suffer from drugs. So, I try to stay away from them."
Colt thought back to when he was younger. A lot of junkies swung by his family's ranch when he was a kid and his family always took care of them... even though some of them would steal clothes, food, and other things. Colt's father would let the thievery slide, saying that "they need it more than we do".
Some of the junkies, due to withdrawal, were never, exactly nice. Many were violent and uncontrollable. One junkie even slapped Colt's mother for cooking his steak the wrong way. Colt's mother would always let it slide, saying "it's the drugs and other things that turned them that way".
Colt even remembered how the addict's health and physical appearance deteriorated from the constant use of drugs. They would always be coughing and wheezing, sometimes coughing up globs of blood. It always frightened Colt to see blood; he never did like it. He would also be frightened of the addict's physical appearance. Some of them had gaunt, sunken in faces with large black bags under their eyes. Their teeth would be a sickly yellow and their skin would sometimes match, either that or their skin would be a ghostly pale. The junkies would be walking skeletons, their skin tightened against their bones because of the lack or deterioration of their muscles.
"It's not their fault, son. Addiction is a terrible trait that most seem to take. We need to help them drop this trait so that they can live their lives the way they want and not the way their drugs want," Colt's father would always say that to him whenever a junkie or addict stopped by the ranch. He felt sorry for the addict and what the drugs did to them. So, to prevent that from ever happening himself, Colt swore that he'd never use the drugs.
"Well, it's not really good for you to avoid drugs completely," Arcade stuck the needle into Colt's calf, on the edge of his wound, and injected the drug into his body. Colt felt a slight pinch as the needle entered his leg and a flowing feeling as the drug entered his veins. Arcade removed the needle and threw it in a trash bin, "All done."
Colt looked down at the wound, it healed almost instantly. A new patch of white skin formed and generated over the bullet hole; it was almost indistinguishable from the rest of his skin. Colt jumped down from the table and stretched out his leg for it had become stiff and rigged.
"It's just a side effect," Arcade reassured Colt as he sat back down in the chair.
"How much?" Colt asked as he rubbed his leg, trying to soothe and loosen the muscles.
"Oh, nothing. I'm just here to help."
"No, I insist. How much?"
Arcade turned to answer, but he was interrupted by another voice saying, "That's him!" Colt, Boone, and Veronica turned to the tent's flap; the junkie, Colt had in an arm bar earlier, was standing, pointing at Colt, with five big burly men in leather jackets and stylized hair standing beind him. In fact, all the thugs looked the same, which kind of surprised Colt. They weren't Stallions gang members though… they were too well groomed and they didn't wear the rearing stallion patch.
"Are you 'Colt'?" One of the men asked, his voice sounding familiar to Colt. It sounded like a singer's voice that he heard once; The King of Rock n' Roll, Elvis Presley.
"Yes," Colt answered hesitantly. Two of the men walked into the tent and seized Colt by his arms. Another thug grabbed hold of Veronica by her arm and a third thug took Boone into custody. Colt struggled with the thugs who were holding him in place, "Hey, get your goons to back off before they get hurt."
"I don't think so," the leader of the thugs said with a grin. He had a partial impression of Elvis to go with his look.
"What's the meaning of this?" Boone asked, struggling with his captor.
"The King would like to have a word with you three," the leader pointed to Colt, "Especially you."