Fear and Loathing in the Mojave:
Chapter 2: Road Warriors
My caravan was a small one. A couple had been scheduled to depart with me but there had been some foul up with their paperwork and now they were yelling their heads off at some poor desk jockey in the outpost so loud they could likely be heard in Necropolis. That just left me, a trader named Carlos and a guard named Mona to make the trip.
Carlos was a short fellow who looked to be in his mid-forties with weathered skin, a small mustache and a friendly smile. The plasma pistol on his belt was in excellent condition which I remarked on. "Ah, thank you," said Carlos. "It was a gift from an uncle of mind who took it from the body of an Enclave solider he killed during his military days. Uncle Jorge was the best shot I've ever seen and he always told me 'Carlos, you take good care of your gun and your gun will take good care of you.' I took his advice to heart and he was right. This pistol his saved my life many times. I'd have it buried with me if I hadn't already promised it to my son one day."
I gave Carlos a nod a flicked my eyes over to Mona. She was a tall woman, almost six feet if she was an inch with plenty of tone but not bulky muscles. Judging by her features I had her pegged as a mix of black and Hispanic and in her late twenties. Her reenforced leather armor, machete, hunting rifle and the cold look she gave me very clearly said this was a woman who was not to be trifled with.
Under her glare instinct almost made my hand fall to the hunting revolver hanging from my right hip but I stopped myself at the last moment. It is unwise to put your hands on a weapon around a trained fighter unless you mean business. Much to the amazement of most people who know me, I'd actually been an NCR soldier once. But I'd not meshed well with the military life and managed to wrangle myself an early honorable discharge from a colonel who was happy to just be rid of me since he couldn't have me shot. Though if I'd actually been caught doing some of the things I'd been up to in those days it would have been another story entirely.
I managed a weak smile for Mona who just rolled her eyes. "Ready when you are, Carlos. Let's get out of this hole."
"All right, we're heading out, my friend," Carlos said to me. "Stick close to us and keep your eyes open. Raider attacks have been on the downswing lately but there's still a lot of hijo de puta roaming around looking to rob, rape and kill anyone they can."
"You think NCR can take care of them?" I asked.
"Give them time and I imagine so," answered Carlos as he gave his packbrahmin a gentle smack on its flank to get it moving. He seemed to pause to think for a moment as we headed out of the outpost. "The NCR has kept the trade routes in California pretty safe. But even with the integration of the Mojave it's going to be years before things fully settle down out here.
"Still, the NCR did manage to take out the leaders of the Fiends. Well, some bounty hunter working for the NCR did anyway. In any case, the Fiends were as nasty as they come and without their leaders word is they're on the run from anyone they ever did wrong too. And that is a hell of a lot of people. If the NCR can break the Fiends then it's only a matter of time before they take out the other gangs and unaffiliated raiders."
I glanced at Mona to see if she any reaction to Carlos' words but her eyes were carefully flicking around us looking for any possible trouble. I'd learned that very skill in my time in the military and it still served me well. Mona moved with the swiftness and certainty of someone familiar with combat but not with the mechanical precision I've learned to spot in people with formal military training. I was curious as to what her story was but now didn't seem to be the time to ask. I filed my observations about her away in my head and turned back to Carlos.
"How long did you say it would take us to get to New Vegas again?"
"A few days. I need to stop to do some trading along the way. It's my job, after all. The way we're going is a bit roundabout but it's as safe as things get around here. There's a more direct way up past Primm and Goodsprings. But once you get to Sloan you're in deathclaw territory. I've heard that someone cleaned the deathclaws out of the quarry near Sloan but I'm not risking my life on a rumor. And even if they did, there's still more of those unholy things roaming around between the quarry and the Strip. Trust me, if you want to get to New Vegas in one piece this is the way to do it."
"Keep you eyes towards the north as we get out on the road. This area has a giant insect problem something fierce," said Mona. "Wasn't that long ago you couldn't set foot outside Mojave Outpost without finding radscorpians on your heels. NCR finally got them cleared out but there's giant ants just off the road ahead. You can see 'em in the dry lakebed from the road. But they rarely bother anyone who doesn't bother them first."
I squinted at the lakebed but there was too much dust blowing around in it to see clearly. In the far distance I could see ruins of something called a roller coaster than locals used to help guide them to Primm. Primm had officially become NCR territory even before the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. That was damn strange now that I thought about it. It seemed like something worth looking into later if possible.
It was then that I noticed Mona giving me a funny look. My woolgathering had not gone unnoticed. "I'll keep an eye out," I assured. Mona looked anything but assured and just shook her head.
There didn't seem to be anything else to say so the three of us headed down the road in silence. As we walked it occurred to me that my usual chem habits might not go over well with Carlos and Mona. They seemed the types who liked to keep a clear head while I functioned best when I was half out of my head. Still, I'd been able to continue my habits around straights before even if it did mean having to cut back on my normal goal of brutal excess. On the other hand, rarely had I met anyone so puritan that they hadn't appreciated a swig from a bottle of good whiskey at the end of a hard day. A willingness to share had earned me many friends in many places over the years.
I'd have to see how things went once we bedded down for the night. The chems I'd taken back at the outpost would be enough to keep my brain fairly entertained until evening and I could always pop something on the sly whenever we took a piss break.
As we continued down the road and moved along side the lakebed I could start to make out the giant ants moving about seemingly at random. I was about to ask Mona if they were the sort that was known to shoot fire when she suddenly shouted "Ambush!" In the same heartbeat she swung her rifle level and fired towards the ruins of a small building just off to the west side of the road.
My old military training kicked in instantly and I was already focusing on the building as I was drawing my hunting revolver. I was just able to catch a glimpse of a familiar pink spray around what had been a window when five men poured from the ruins. Four wore typical gang outfits. The other one was decked out in metal armor with an old motorcycle helmet which was likely a sign that he was the leader. The leader always having the best weapon and armor is a universal fact with every gang I've ever dealt with. It makes sense, after all. It is also very helpful in deciding who to kill first if things go to shit.
As powerful as it was my revolver wouldn't have an easy time punching through metal armor. So better then to take out the flunkies and then gang up on the leader. Ah, old tactics. Reminded me of my military days. And my childhood to be honest.
A bullet from the rifle of one of the gang members whistling past my ear brought me back to reality. All right, no more fucking around around. I was a doctor of journalism with a job to do. My particular brand of journalism demands that I make myself part of the story. Unsurprisingly, this has lead to gunplay on my part being a part of the final version of more than one article. It has also created at least a few widows and orphans.
I leveled my revolver, glanced through the scope and brought it to bead on the chest of one of the unarmored thugs. Headshots are all well and good but they're more difficult to pull off. Center of mass is many a fighting man's bread and butter and can kill someone just as easily if you know what you're doing.
Despite my years of chem and alcohol indulgence I have continued to practice with all manner of firearms regularly and diligently. I have not let the law, weather or being inside of a building interfere with my love of guns. And that is why, even with a brain swimming in booze and chems, I am still a damn fine shot.
I squeezed the trigger and after a moment that felt like a lifetime the thug I'd been aiming at jerked, several drops of his lifeblood spurting from his chest, and fell to the earth like a stone. A bullet in the pump did the job again.
Near me I heard Mona curse and from the sound of it I knew she'd been hit. I was starting to bring my gun around to take out the next thug when an explosion rocked the road. I whipped my head around in time to see the three thugs that had come out of the right side of the building flying through the air. Just a few steps away from me I could see Carlos holding a stick of dynamite and lighter. Carlos suddenly seemed to change his mind and before I could blink the lighter and dynamite were gone and he was drawing his beloved plasma pistol. He might not have been a big man but Carlos was as fast as any I'd ever seen.
The fight wasn't over yet so I turned back to focus on the man who'd shot Mona. I needn't have bothered. Just as I locked eyes on him I saw a shot catch him in the neck. He managed a wet gurgle somehow but was dead as soon as he hit the dirt.
I turned to Mona to see her grimacing as she brought her rifle around to focus on the last of the thugs. I saw that a bullet had gotten through the armor on her right arm, just below the elbow. It looked to me like a nasty graze but it wasn't enough to put Mona out of the fight which was what mattered.
I turned around again to see that the metal armor had saved the leader from the fall. He was on his feet but must have lost his gun in the explosion as he was trying to rush Carlos with just a knife. A bolt of green plasma hit the thug dead in the chest which caused him to stagger.
The NCR doesn't use energy weapons much. Too expensive and too easy to break. But they still teach their troops just how dangerous such weapons can be. I'd been hellishly hung over the day I had to sit through that class so I couldn't recall the details on the physics of just why it was a shot from a laser or plasma weapon could sometimes burn a man to ash or melt him into a pile of goo. Only the facts that it could be done and could be done most easily with a sneak attack seemed important.
But sometimes a sneak attack isn't needed. All it takes is the shot hitting the right place at the right moment. "The golden BB" they called it in the army. I'd never seen it until now. The thug's whole body turned plasma green in an instant. Though I couldn't see his eyes clearly the way he gave a banshee's scream told me that somehow he knew being torn apart at the molecular level. Then, the grave's own cry still on his lips, the man just melted into a puddle no bigger than a spilled cup of coffee.
"Jesus Christ!" I shouted.
Carlos turned and gave me a little smile before giving his blaster a playful twirl. He then walked over to the puddle and spat on it. "¡Me cago en tu puta madre! ¡Me cago en tus muertos!"
My Spanish isn't bad and I certainly agreed with his sentiments. "¡Chupe mantequilla de mi culo!" I snarled, not wanting to be left out.
That got a good chuckle out of Carlos. "I try not to swear too much but when I do I like to do it in Spanish. It's more satisfying, I think!"
The moment was ruined by a loud groan from one of the thugs we'd thought had been killed by Carlos' dynamite. The survivor was a guy who couldn't have been more than twenty with a pockmarked face and dirty blond hair. He manged to haul himself halfway up on one elbow and reached towards us feebly. "Please...help...the outpost...I give up. Please...I don't wa-"
That was as far as he got before Mona shot him. The bullet caught him under his chin and went out the top of his skull in a spectacular display of bone, blood and brain matter left a gory trail a yard long from his body.
No one spoke. The air around us was oddly silent the way it is after a battle. The silence of the Grim Reaper's work having been done.
The three of us exchanged glances and then fanned out to check the other bodies. The sniper Mona had taken out only had half a head left but she helped herself to his ammo and rifle without battling an eye. In the end we ended up with a hunting rifle, varmint rifle, a .44 and a switchblade. We found the leader's gun which had been a single shotgun. The thug who'd futility begged for mercy had only had a rusty lead pipe.
Carlos looked at the guns and frowned at their condition. They were poorly maintained which offended my sensibilities as a gun lover as much as I'm sure they did Carlos'. "Well, I can still get a little something for them," he muttered.
We'd also turned up some psycho and jet which Carlos tossed on the ground and shot with his pistol before spitting on the ground again. I'd have to pin my hopes of intoxication on the two of them being up for enjoying a drink after a hard fight.
While I'd been watching Carlos Mona had been patching herself up. "Don't skimp on the healing powder," Carlos called to her as he was checking his blaster over. "I got a good deal from another trader at the outpost so we have extra."
"It was just a graze. One will be enough," Mona insisted as she sprinkled a brownish powder into the wound before wrapping it with a bandage.
Tribal medicine, no doubt. Not so long ago it had been nothing but tribals out here. Then Mr. House had emerged and soon New Vegas was open for business. Old World glory and decadence shining in the dessert night. The chance to change your life with just one roll of the dice in a world where surviving day to day was still a struggle for so many. No wonder Mr. House raked in the caps.
"Come on," urged Carlos. "Ranger Station Charlie isn't too far from here. They finally got it up and running again so we need to report this."
I reloaded as the three of us and Carlos' brahmin (which had somehow stayed rocksteady during the fight) fell into formation again and continued down the worn Old World road.
No thought was given to the bodies. In the Mojave, just as in California, the bodies of raiders and bandits were left to rot in the sun as a warning to others. "Don't fuck with us!" is the intended message. But as we walked I glanced back and saw a vulture swoop down towards our battlefield, no doubt delighted at the free meal. Seeing that bird made me realized we'd left another message behind as well: "We're all someone's meat in the end."
Author's note: The building were this fight happened was the Nipton Road Pit Stop, just for the record. When playing the game I like to fast travel near there and pick off raiders with my hunting rifle. It just never gets old.