Two urns sat atop the highest shelf inside the corner curio-cabinet. Two little wood boxes that, for as long as Lawrence could remember, he only saw the sealed lids peeking out over chestnut rows. As he grew, the cabinet shrank. By twelve, he could almost reach the top shelf. Now on the cusp of eighteen he could look them in the eye; read their dates; their names carved in wood; pink and blue enamel paint chipping away; David and Ashley.
"Lawrence," his mother called from the kitchen. She came waddling out, wood spoon covered in green mash still in her hand. "Your father's walking up now. Go, go, go."
Lawrence looked out the window to his left. Brows narrowed and lips flattened to a frown at seeing a man through lopsided blinds. Once shut in his bedroom, he turned off the lights. Stood in the silence until his ears rang in desperation to hear something. Muffled hinges squealed on the other side. The rusty doorframe slapped shut.
He pressed his ear to his door.
Margaret greeted him the same way every night when he came home from work. A timid, "hello, dear," in a tone that bare-footedly stepped around a billion shards of glass.
"What did you make for dinner?" He'd ask, but never sounded like a question. Of course, she'd always have a plate warmed and sitting on a placemat to protect the beat-up tabletop that was usually his first victim. The safest times were the ones when he was occupied with something. Either food, listening to the radio, or reading the papers. Work was the best distraction because he wasn't home. Margaret didn't ask or say anything during his quiet time. That would just rile him up. She'd sit patiently with him. Refill his glass if it was empty or clean up in the kitchen but she was always nearby.
Waiting on him…
"—says you were talking to the neighbors."
"Y-yes. I needed to borrow flour—"
He thumped the table. Through the second of silence, Lawrence could almost hear him turning his head to Margaret. Crane his neck further and stare right into her bulging eyes as she holds her breath. He grumbled, "I told you not to talk to the neighbors."
Their voices hushed. Silverware clinked on the plate. Lawrence's eyes unfocused on the yellow light slipping underneath his bedroom door. He pressed his body to the wood and held his breath. Thrumming beats quickened in his chest. Pounding loud enough to muffle the murmurs beyond the hallway—His mother's voice; the pitch was high, but her words never left the kitchen table. His stomach dropped. His mouth dried. Lawrence pushed harder against the door, vying to hear over his thrashing heart. It was too quiet out there. Not the good kind of silence. This was the calm before the storm.
She yelped.
Margaret whimpered at a growling threat. Lawrence ripped open the door. Nails digging in his palms as he trampled through the living room. Both his parents' heads shot up to him. Jacob glared at the young man. Margaret raised her hands pleadingly, but her son saw nothing beyond the red mark added to her cheek.
"Get back in your room."
"Lawrence, it's okay—"
His ears rang by now. The high-pitched squeal muted his father's demands. Eyes narrowed their scopes on the old man. Riding the adrenaline high, Lawrence passed a point of no return, and he knew it.
Jacob bolted up from his seat. Fists clenched at his sides until one threw the chair slamming a wall. Nostrils flared. Mouth twitched to a sneer. Hooded eyes warned Lawrence to back down, but those threats didn't meet his son eye-to-eye anymore. Sagging lips shaped words then twisted up under a bare-knuckled fist. Jacob spun. Legs fumbled underneath him.
"Jacob!" Margaret's cries pierced the ringing in Lawrence's ears. Palms pressed to her shocked expression as she stared wide-eyed at her husband clinging to the countertop corner.
Jacob pushed himself up. Father and son locked eyes with one another. He raised a weathered hand to his face and glanced at the blood smeared on callused fingertips. He grumbled through gritting teeth, "you fucking punk—"
Lawrence swung again. Then again. Each blow punched out a groan from the old man. Energized by years of beatings, Lawrence didn't stop. The strength to fight back was beaten out of Jacob slouched up against the lower cabinets. Margaret's hysteric cries echoed every hit. Paralyzed in the corner, she winced at crack after crack. Blood sprinkled tile floors. Wood drawers. Countertops. When sprinkles became splatters, she regained her grasp on reality.
"Stop it! stop it!"
She pulled Lawrence by his shirt, popping seams and mangling the collar's form. Burning muscles barely shrugged her off. His throat was dry laboring for air. His back ached. Wrists stiffened and sore knuckles throbbed. Legs were stuck bent still feeling hard tile pressed against his knees.
"Get out!" She shoved Lawrence off his father. The boy stumbled into the corner and rattled the backdoor. Damp streams caught Margaret's loose hair. Dark strands curved and curled on glistening red cheeks, twisted and hectic like the look on her face. Margaret's lips quivered gawking at her husband, then eyes trailed over to her son. Awaiting praise or punishment, he wasn't entirely sure. She came at him. The rag in her hand went flying, whipping Lawrence as she screamed, "Get out! Get out! Get out!"
Shaking legs struggled to get him standing. Even once they did, feet twisted at the second step of the back porch. He tumbled down the short flight and floundered on the ground as the back door slammed shut behind him. The lock turned and his mother's shadow flashed across the curtain. Rough, cold cement chilled his soles. Knees shook under his weight. He gaped at the kitchen window. Waiting for his mother to appear again and quickly make things right because after all those years of beatings, she should have had enough by now. They could move on. Leave that monster behind and start anew with the great news he was waiting to tell her.
Soft foot pads were numb by the time he realized she wasn't coming back.
Legs eventually found their strength. His head cleared at the end of a dirt lawn where old roots tore up the sidewalk. He took one look back at his home and knew he would never return. Gravel embedded in his heels but still he kept going, venturing across vacant lots, empty shells of homes and shops picked clean by scavengers long ago, to one place he knew of that was better than home.
Lawrence plucked up the collar of his shirt and covered his mouth and nose. The ash hung thick in the air. Little flakes sparkled in moonlight peeking through the sunken roof. The fire was put out days ago but still choked his lungs. "Eve?" He called from the foot of the stairs. Feet depressed a bed of ash under his first step. Scorched planks croaked. The brittle banister crumbled at his touch. One door remained solid upon its hinges at the top of the stairs. It was once white like the rest of the home's trim, now soot powdered its edges and clouded the panels. Flickering light peeked from the cracks. He turned the knob, catching charcoal dust which hadn't been wiped away by the dainty fingers that opened it before him.
She sat bedside on the floor, in the company of a lantern and a knitted two-headed bear singed on one round leg.
"Evelyn?"
She jerked. Tearing eyes grew wide on the lanky boy lurching in the doorway. Eve jumped up. "Lawrence!" Blood-stained his shirt. Black dust coated the bottoms of bare feet and the cuffs of his pants. Reddish brown splotches painted bruised knuckles, seeping into the cracks of broken skin. "What happened?"
Eve brought Lawrence to her bed without resistance. She sat him down and crossed her room to a blackened wall. Floral paper curled around the crater in the center. Disintegrated beams left jagged stumps behind as if to frame the void that was once her parents' room on the other side. She returned to him, a rag and tinted glass bottle in hand. He winced at the lightest touch. Tender bruises throbbed. Alcohol seeped into his stiff knuckles like liquid knives poking his delicate flesh. Gouging deeper, the searing cold dredged up the source of his pain and played it on repeat in his head.
"She just kept screaming at me to get out." Eve's delicate hand paused. Lantern light flickered in Lawrence's dull down-turned gaze. Dainty fingers stroked the back of his hands. "And he was…"
"Did he hurt you again?"
"No." Lawrence slowly shook his head. "He hit her. I hit him once, and he went down. Then I couldn't stop.'
Eve pulled Lawrence into a tight hug. His head rested against her stomach, buried in the folds of her oversized sweater. Light fingers combed through his hair and coaxed eyes to rest. Weak arms loosely wrapped around her. Sore hands refused to conform to the curve of her back. Sweet perfume flooded him with the warm memories buried under ash and charcoal wood.
"Let's run away together." Lawrence's voice fought to break through her comforting pullover. Eve moved next to him on the bed, doughy eyes glistened, puffy and red from endless tears. "I signed up to join the rangers. They accepted me," he said. "I'll start training next week. We can make our own home. You can open your own dress shop, and you'll have a girlfriend. Maybe I'll find somebody too and we can all live together and be our own family. We'll all be happy."
Eve's lips quivered. She sniffled, wiping away the oncoming waterfall. Lawrence caught her and rocked away the sobs while promising her, "You'll be happy again."
—
"Popular today aren't you?" Lawrence looked at the stranger that seemed to have just appeared there next to him in the hallway. Not a guard nor inmate, and frankly Lawrence wasn't sure if he was even an adult. A weak grin rounded pock-marked cheeks as he adjusted a blazer a few sizes too big for him. "I'm next with you after them, by the way."
"What?"
"You ought to talk to them." The stranger raised his hand along with the hot coffee mug in his grip. One finger pointed at the scratched window to the visiting room. "Looks important."
"Why are you here to see me?"
The kid looked at Lawrence rather stupidly and said, "Don't worry about that." He started down the hallway, then stopped at the guard's door and looked back at Lawrence. "Name's Anderson, by the way."
A red light buzzed overhead and the fledgling monkey-suit pushed through. Lawrence flinched at the shuddering echo galloping down the barren corridor. Beyond that, and the window peeking in on the guard's station, was freedom. Light so bright he couldn't see beyond it lay at the far end. He found himself staring at it until it left iridescent rings in his eyes. Or until a baton would nudge him along.
The beaming ray vanished when Anderson's head popped into the window. He was chatting with the guard and caught Lawrence still watching from where he left the former ranger. "Go," he mouthed while hands swept the prisoner along.
Damp must accosted his nose first. Monotonous yellow painted the walls. The ceiling. The floors. Long overhead tubes washed it all in fluorescent buzzing white. Guards stuck to the perimeter, taking their task of watching three rows of tables and chairs too seriously. Two tables were already taken by conversations kept hushed. The third was occupied by an elderly couple. Bundled up in warm clothes, but they still shivered. Wrinkled and spotted hands clasped each other on the cold tabletop. The lines on their faces were canyons now. Crows' feet winked from the corners of their eyes and crept down their jowls. Laugh lines traced sagging cheeks and framed thinning lips. The old woman still had streaks of brown in mostly gray hair that hinted it was once wavy. The old man didn't seem to fare much better than her.
They eagerly watched the prisoners' door open. The old woman lit up like a beacon, as if that gray jumpsuit shuffling inside the room wasn't a disheveled shadow of a man. Metal legs squealed as she hopped out of her chair with youthful vigor. Arms opened wide too many years too late. "My baby," she whispered to the man nearly three times her size.
"No touching," a guard bellowed.
She recoiled, saving face with a timid smile before rejoining hands with the old man next to her. Thin lips parted yet said nothing, content to just to be in the moment and let those eyes beaming like neon lights just look at her baby. The old man smiled too. Wary and missing some teeth, but still he smiled at the younger man on the other side of the table.
The look on Lawrence's face was unamused, however. The sigh he let audibly escape urged this to be over with. He languidly pulled out the chair and plopped down. "What are you doing here?"
"We came to see you!" Margaret said. "A nice fellow dropped by. Government man who told us you were here—We were shocked, but we're just happy to see you." Lawrence's scowl stabbed the old man. Curved to the right side of his head was a long, thick scar. Short white hair receded around the pale line. Frail and old now with eighteen years weighing him down. Jacob's eyes cowered on the table as his smile waned. "Last we heard about you was from Eve and that was two years ago—Didn't even know there was a trial. We would have come to that!"
"Margaret," Jacob finally spoke. The loud and strong-willed voice Lawrence used to flinch at was just a whisper now. Wispy like his frame had become. "Let's not get into that…" He braved his son's piercing frown. "We wanted to see you."
"Wanted to see me?" Lawrence echoed as if unconvinced by that motive. He leaned forward. Arms folded on the table. Eyes narrowed on his father. "Last time I saw you, I beat you within an inch of your life." He looked at his mother. "You kicked me out for standing up to him. There's a reason you only hear about me from Eve."
Margaret and Jacob shared a shameful look with each other. He nodded and, fighting a mild stutter, said. "I… I can never take back what I did to you and your mother. No apologizing could ever right my wrong—"
"It wasn't entirely Jacob's fault."
"But it still happened," Jacob quickly added. Heavy eyes flickered between Margaret and Lawrence. "I destroyed our family."
"The tumor destroyed our family—"
"Oh, so a tumor made a violent asshole?"
Jacob hesitated. He was ambivalent looking at Lawrence. "Yes, b-but it's not an excuse."
Margaret set her other hand atop Jacob's and squeezed. "We found out about it after… After I kicked you out. Your father underwent an experimental treatment to get rid of the brain tumor. The doctor said these things cause behavior changes and mood swings and can—"
"And what do you want me to do?" Lawrence shrugged. "Get over it?"
"Lawrence, please," Margaret begged. She reached across the table for him, and Lawrence retracted his hands to his lap. "We tried to talk to you. We sent letters. Gifts. Did Evie give you the letters?"
"I want to be a better father while I still can—"
"I got tattoos to cover up the scars you gave me," Lawrence announced. Jacob squeezed his eyes shut. Wrinkles deepened on a pained face hung in shame. Metal feet abraded the floor. Stuttering discord lingered in ears like the devil clinging to Lawrence's backside and sinking in its nails. "That's all this would ever be. Just covering it up."
Still loitering on the free side of the hallway and chatting up the prison's wandering admin was the fresh face in the monkey-suit. The guard's door buzzed. He pushed through and strutted over to Lawrence with a youthful swagger. "That probably could have gone better for them. Maybe you too…" Lips smiled but dark eyes didn't. No matter what the kid said, his tone skirted sarcasm a little too closely. "Let me be the sunshine in your day, Mr. Garrett."
Anderson stepped aside and opened one of several doors in the hallway that led to a private room. They were bland rooms. Somehow blander than the visiting area. It was like most of the prison was just given up on when it came to renovations. Unpainted walls. Musty. Bare ceilings showed the structure's inner workings. And plenty of cold hard surfaces like the one Lawrence sat at in the middle of the room. Or maybe it was just to remind the prisoners of where they were and the luxuries they would never have.
Anderson reached over and they shook hands. "Nice to finally meet you. I'm taking over your case—No applause necessary."
"My case ended with a life sentence. What's there to take over?"
Anderson pulled up the slack of his pant legs when he sat. Opening the large envelope he carried with him, he asked, "Been following the news?" He set four newspaper clippings in front of Lawrence. Four headlines. Four separate assassinations of state senators and congressmen. One this year so far. The others spanned last year. Aside from their political affiliation in common, was the fact their killer was never found.
Lawrence looked up from the prints, and as if reading his mind Anderson continued, "About a year ago some posters started popping up around the republic, even in the boonies. Manifestos too and, whew, those were quite a read. Talk about long-winded," he chuckled and fanned the stiff button down. "Anyway, the whole gist is for the people to rise up and take their blindfolds off because the New California Republic is lying to them. The posters and manifestos made wild claims about bribes, extortion, mismanagement of resources, that the war in the Mojave was a farce, and called for resignations and imprisonment of those involved by name. And if that didn't happen, well, four of those names are dead now, as you can see. And then last week this bombshell dropped."
Another clipping—the whole front page actually—slipped out of Anderson's folder and on top the previous ones. Black, bold typesetting burned their words in Lawrence's eyes as he muttered the headline quietly to himself; The Mojave Campaign: Lies, Bribes, and Blood. Dated from last week. Lawrence looked up at Anderson again and blinked. "What organization did you say you were from?"
"Bureau of Internal Affairs."
"Never heard of you."
"I'm not surprised since you jolly bunch can barely manage a working radio in here. We're new," Anderson said. "Established last year by President Carter—you do know there's a new president, right? Anyway, some things just weren't adding up about the war. Can't go into too much detail, being classified and all that jazz. I can tell you that everything the manifestos and propaganda posters claimed was just verified by a leak and plastered all over the republic for everyone to see."
"What does this have to do with me?"
"Well, Mr. Garrett, I think you have something to do with this."
Lawrence leaned back in his chair. Arms folded tightly against his chest. "Are you offering me something or accusing me of something?"
"Oh, I'm giving you a really juicy steak. See, I think you can help us. And I think you don't want to be locked in here either."
"What's the catch?"
"You're smart." Anderson smirked. He slouched in the stiff chair. "The catch is you're free as long as you give us your cooperation and loyalty. You just have to say the magic words and you're a free man right now, and still free when this clears up. I already made living arrangements with someone you know; Linda McBeale."
It felt strange leaving that dump. Like it was all a joke and guards would come rushing out, beat him into submission, and drag him back to a solitary cell all the while cackling maniacally. A pleasant day greeted him instead. The sky was clear. The temperature comfortable.
"Excuse the ride," Anderson said. Waiting curbside and held together by hope, rope, and brittle nails was a rickety buggy. Anderson's lips thinned, noticing the ghoul-patched horse's distinct odor. "We're not very high tech yet."
Towers congregated in the heart of the Boneyard, whispering the secrets of the old world soon to be covered by welders burning new skin upon steel bones. Ticking gears drug workers up the sides of the buildings in rickety lifts. Watching them ascend, vertigo washed Lawrence in waves of fire. Even higher up were long-necked cranes hoisting burdens to the very tops of stripped armatures. They whined and howled cautiously navigating crisscrossed webs of power lines as though it was a minefield. Hammers bang like war drums. He blinked at every thump and soon began to feel it in his stomach. Innards twisted by the baton pulling back, gearing up for the next hit to add fuel to the fire burning him alive. His heart raced. Synchronized to the beat getting louder and louder—too fast to keep up with.
Whistles screamed at the top of the hour and Lawrence jumped in his seat. Nails clawed the waxy bench just to keep steady on the jerky ride ahead. Piston fire shot like rifles. Roaring engines on four, three, or two wheels zipped around the buggy when they joined the inner-city chaos. Passenger car radios argued with opposing frequencies passing by. Delivery trucks coughed hot exhaust before coming to sudden stops or speeding back into the flow and firing up a protest of honks and beeps and squealing rubber. Drivers translated those machine noises to vulgar curses peeling around the roadblocks. Whistles bleated again and vehicles came to a halt. A blur of colors emerged from black smoke and clogged the sidewalks. Spilled on the streets. Mingled with self-propelled machines and the beast drawn wagons. Eyes gawked back at Lawrence from the sea of faces surrounding him on all sides. Their voices thundered in his head, yet mouths never opened.
"Hey buddy, you okay?" Anderson's face hovered next to Lawrence's ears for it was the only way one could hear anybody over the deafening noise. The former ranger didn't respond, however. He was stiff as stone. His eyes wide, trying to absorb the new, lightning-fast world. Anderson reached to the front bench and patted the driver's shoulder. "Let's get off the main streets."
The skyline dwindled. Patchwork squares of green fields took over the horizon. Ruins lay there decades ago; a scrapheap of metal, chunks of concrete and rusted rebar poking out blanketed by a thick dust vapor. He picked through those piles in his younger days. The first day sifting through jagged heaps left him with shredded palms. After that he layered on the gloves, added a pair of knee pads, and perfected trudging junk crags like a mountain goat that would be put to better use as a ranger. Now farms replaced those junkyards.
"I already briefed Linda about the situation," Anderson informed.
Lawrence rubbed his forehead and finally came up from the hunch keeping the rest of the world at bay. "How did she get involved in this?"
"She's nice and makes some good cookies." A warning glare met Anderson's glance. He reached up for an overhead handle and braced for the craters ahead. "Linda was contacted in the bureau's early days as a consultant. She has experience in…" Anderson shrugged as his hand flip-flopped around the real answer. "Things—And retirement is boring. Anyway, I approached her about the radical propaganda for a threat assessment and she said to take it seriously. So, here we are."
"There's a lot of important information left out of that."
"You might think this leak soaking all the newspapers and radio stations would be helpful, but it's actually muddied things up a bit." He squinted at the blurring field. Stopped in the middle of neat verdant rows were tan straw hats that popped up every so often. "We have effectively lost control of the investigation and being my first real important case, I'm screwed." Anderson exaggerated his nod and his face soured to a frown. "Yep. Screwed."
The overpass was the only part of the highway that stood for about a mile in both directions. Chunks of concrete flesh clung to rusted bones poking out, desperate to keep some semblance of better times. Fallen slabs remained where they landed centuries ago, leading on in a crooked line fencing off the fields' ends from the other side. The overpass was the arch at a town's beginning that proudly wore its name and welcomed newcomers, except this one was none of that. There was no name. Not even graffiti. Just one lonely and rust eaten highway sign clapping against the fossil's pitted, cracking skin like it was begging for the number 605 to be remembered.
Scrap lean-tos haphazardly slapped together greeted any roaming in its shade. Escaping the overpass's shadow revealed stands hawking salvaged trinkets and old-world baubles plucked out of the ruins. Farmers auctioned caged geckos and chickens; extra wings or legs caught a dollar more—two heads meant a fatter hen and those were two dollars on top the regular rate. Cooks turned grilling skewers and proudly fondled clanking ice cubes chilling glass bottles like a drunk flirt at last call. Brokers shilling extra produce barked over each other for their next customer. Bodegas, chop-shops, general supply stores, venues for bars and barely legal entertainment occupied patched structures that had been there longer than any generation of their workers. The buggy stopped about half-way down a side street in a neighborhood of modest homes. Brittle ivy crawled up its stucco walls. A broken fence guarded the weed patches out front. Hedges grew over the perimeter and kept the little lot private. Pots of all sizes and shapes vibrant succulents called home cluttered the porch around a swing bench gently croaking on corroded hinges to the tune of a lazy Thursday.
Anderson knocked on the screen door.
"Coming!" She called, her voice dark and airy. Bare feet tapped wood floors. Her silhouette came into focus behind cream colored and rust spackled grates. The door squealed open.
"Good morning, Ms. McBeale," Anderson said first because Lawrence was too busy gawking at the woman. Six years, and she was unrecognizable. "Are you making…" Anderson craned his head up and peeked inside. "Cookies?"
"I am indeed baking cookies," she eagerly waved her guests inside. "Come on in."
Sugary warmth flooded the cozy house. Antiques decorated nearly every surface—on top doilies—A lot of doilies. White doilies. Pink doilies. Multicolored and increasingly complex doilies. And then there was the owner at the center of it all wearing what could have very well been made from doilies. Sparse lines creased around caramel brown eyes beaming at Lawrence. Long brunette hair draped bare shoulders. Their licking ends turned black against her white sundress. She stood at the same height yet she was somehow smaller than he recalled, even a bit gaunt in the face but it gave her a glowing aura of wisdom she didn't have in a previous life.
"You're staring—Is my lipstick smudged?"
"What? No." Lawrence shook his head. "I'm sorry, I just… I barely recognized you, Linda."
She laughed. "That's the point."
"I mean that in a good way," Lawrence chuckled away his gaff. "You're stunning."
"I know you do." She smiled. Arms opened and Lawrence took her invitation for a long-awaited hug. "Now get comfortable. My home is your home."
Linda walked him to the kitchen. It was a snug corner made up of blue pastel countertops and matching appliances. Curious eyes wandered over to the contraptions. They were sleek. New. Shiny. Not kept functioning by a nest of fraying wires and duct tape. Thinking it was some kind of disguise, Lawrence picked up a baby-blue square object. He followed the wire plugged into the wall then peered down the two slits at the top of the lightweight metal square. Turning it around to gawk at it from every angle, the thing rattled in his hands, but its glossy shell never loosened. He set that down and glided across the tiles. An oven sat by the refrigerator. Stone grates were clean of time and wear. Steely dials matched the stove top's finish—Lawrence jumped back, confronted with his own reflection. He turned his attention to the refrigerator, and while he had the joy of one at his disposal in the Lucky 38, this was almost the same one albeit sky blue. That piece of machinery a couple hundred miles east was a miracle itself. Preserved through the ages only because the casino was a time capsule, but to find one here? It kept its contents chilly inside the lower cabinet. Frozen solid in the upper one—
The light tap on his shoulder guided the discombobulated man over to the table as he blurted out, "Where did you find these?"
"Find what?"
"The fridge, the oven, that thing over there—"
"At the store that sells them," Linda said.
"You doing alright, caveman?" Lawrence looked at Anderson. The young man made himself comfortable at a table set by the kitchen window; a plate of cookies lay defenseless in front of him. Lawrence took a seat before he made an even bigger dunce of himself. "I gotta lay down some ground rules," Anderson announced while mashing cookies in his mouth. Thankfully, he swallowed before continuing, "I hope you're a homebody, Mr. Garrett, because this is your square-footage of freedom."
"So, I'm on house arrest."
"For now. We gotta build a repertoire, y'know? I don't want to hear 'I told you so' from my boss." Anderson paused briefly for another bite. "Don't worry though, you'll have plenty to do." He pushed a thick envelope across the table. "All of that is the case you're helping me with. Work your magic."
Once Anderson left with a generous helping of sugar cookies at Linda's urgence, Lawrence collapsed on the sofa. He looked at the documents that he organized into neat stacks on the coffee table as if it would somehow give him the control over his own life he desperately needed back. "I thought I knew what I was going to do the moment I got out. Kept a list in my head, but now…" Lawrence sighed. Sinking in the sofa, he let his head hang on the hard spine and stared at the ceiling, the only bare surface in Linda's home.
The floral cushion next to him depressed. An aura of patience resonated from the woman. She was always like that though, even when she tried to hide it as a mud painted, everyman-ranger. Now, that glow was unchained, as it ought to be.
"I saw my parents today for the first time in eighteen years."
Linda patted his knee. "I'm gonna get the whiskey."
Glass clinked. A cupboard opened then quietly shut. Liquid splashed ice rocks and she reappeared next to him on the sofa, two glasses in hand for something he'd been dying to sip for far too long. He downed it in one gulp. Linda suppressed a smile that recalled their ranger days and the stories best kept between them.
"That's better." Lawrence hissed away the sting and set the short glass on a doily coaster. "My mother and father showed up at the detention center. Told me they wanted to make amends because a tumor in Jacob's head is what made him abuse me and my mother for nine years."
"Oh gosh…" Linda sighed. Her shoulders slumped and gracile collarbones revealed themselves. "What did you say?"
"I made it clear that was never happening, and… I'm wonderin' if I was an asshole."
"Well," she started in a tactful tone. That tone coupled with that specific word was a tell. A tell that preceded truth, advice, or revelations staring you in the face yet couldn't see. Lawrence recognized that tick belonged to Rob, but with this new voice, it fit Linda better. "As a parent, I know how difficult it is to not have your children in your life so, you already know what I'd want. However, where you are coming from is completely justified. That kind of hurt doesn't go away."
"I thought so too, but…" Sinking deeper in the sofa, pink and white flowered cushions absorbed his heavy burdens. "He seemed sincere. It's like I saw my dad again before he turned into a monster. He wasn't always like that. Maybe he isn't anymore."
"That could be true, but what you need is more important. Maybe that is reconnecting, or never seeing him again."
"Your kids haven't talked to you?"
"No." She sipped her whiskey. "They don't visit. Or write. That's a very different situation than yours."
"What about Mary?"
"I don't bother her."
"Well, for what it's worth, this was the best mom talk I've had in a long time."
Linda unfolded legs from under her. She squeezed Lawrence's hand and smiled but it didn't hide the pain the subject brought up. "Let me show you around. I never thought I'd actually get to put the second room to use."
That was new for Lawrence. What she said. How she said it. It was cheery. Not that Linda was a downer before she was Linda, but reserved with emotional tells and expression as expected of a man. Following her to the short hallway revealed four doors. Two bedrooms—the larger being Linda's and a smaller guest bedroom. The third door was the bathroom and the fourth, a glass door that stood at the end of the hall staring down a sun-warmed patch of dirt and dead weeds. "I also host a book club once a week—"
He didn't even know Linda was a big reader, and now he couldn't help but notice all the bookshelves. "I've been working on the home since Mary and I separated… Honestly, I think it's the only thing that keeps me sane," Linda said. She led him back to the guest room and pushed open the creaking door. "Just about all the woodwork is mine. The decorating was the fun part."
Lawrence peaked inside. Afternoon glow poured in through a single window facing a side alley dividing property lines with the next house. Vintage photos were preserved on an odd pattern of wallpaper he wasn't sure was a choice made in good faith. The bed sat in the center of the room, outfitted with an elegantly webbed throw that matched the doilies on the nightstands. The gears in Lawrence's head jammed up the more he followed her around the house, listening to plans to turn the front and back yard into gardens, and start propagating succulents and flower cacti, and do all these things he had trouble recalling if she was always interested in or even hinted that she might have had an inclination for. Lawrence knew this person before him as Linda for, technically four years, however in another life she was Robert, or just Rob to those closest—the only reason Lawrence was ever a ranger; the one he idolized going through training; endured the Mojave side-by-side for some close calls, and he couldn't remember this person ever being so passionate.
Coming back to the kitchen, Lawrence felt lightheaded. He pulled a chair out while Linda answered a prior question and then collapsed in it before he'd hit the floor. Linda spun around. "What's wrong?"
"I'm sorry. I—I had a hard time when we got downtown from…" Lawrence folded his arms on the table and closed spinning eyes. When the dizziness faded, he looked up to Linda and felt it coming back. "I didn't really know where I was, if that makes sense."
She walked over to him, heels clicking on the tile, then sat. "Things are very different than when you were last here. I know, I'm different. You're different. The whole world feels like it's going faster and faster and you can't keep up." A manicured hand sat gingerly atop Lawrence's forearm. Pink nail polish gleamed white when she gave a gentle squeeze. "I'm here to help."
"I can't thank you enough for doing this."
"Kindness asks for nothing in return," she smiled and like that, he recognized the ranger who left an indomitable mark on him was still there, just with a more appropriate look.
"I…" A weak grin managed to come, and Lawrence shrugged. "I don't know what you did in the last couple of years but it's working for you."
"There's been a lot of blood, sweat, and tears…" Sparkling eyes fell when a bashful smile took over her face. But there was pride hiding in that grin. "Thank you."
Lawrence's expression softened at a resounding hollowness ringing his form like a bell. "I hope it works for Vincent, too."
"Hope what works?"
"There's a Followers mission in New Vegas, and I asked a favor from the director," Lawrence said. "She told me she found someone that could help Vincent become a man, but I have no idea if it worked or anything."
"Was that before you left?"
"Yes," Lawrence confessed.
"Why did you leave?" She asked gently, head tilting at the emphasis of the question. "Y'know, I never got a follow up letter from you…"
A long exhale pushed Lawrence to the back of the chair. "I loved him, but—" Eyes blinked rapidly as he tried to find a word he did not know for a feeling he couldn't describe. "But I had my duties and what the fuck was I doing? Fallin' in love with someone ten years younger than me while I'm still hungover about a tragically killed lover who I had been with for six years solid, while I only knew Vincent for—What? Two months at most? This isn't some stupid romance novel. I had a job to do. I needed to be at Hoover Dam. Defend the republic. The rangers—That was my purpose."
Lawrence raised a hand to his brow and visored watery eyes. There was very little that made him cry anymore. Or, feel much of anything, anymore.
"You can have more than one purpose in life."
"Not when it conflicts with the first." Reddened eyes met Linda's and a nostalgic smile twitched when he said, "I did love him though. He made me feel a way I hadn't in years, and it was real. There was just something about being together that clicked for me. The way I didn't with Marcus, and then it started to scare me. I felt guilty."
"Guilty? Why did being happy make you feel guilty?"
"I still loved Marcus," Lawrence sighed. He set his chin on his palm and let eyes unfocused until the world around him was a vague blur. "I still missed him. We wanted a life together and we were planning that and then, it was suddenly over…"
"That's a trauma that's always going to stay with you. You lost someone suddenly and tragically. I still think about people that have been gone for twenty-three years and I only knew them for a couple days. They leave a mark on you."
"Vincent told me the same thing once, about my feelings when it came to Marcus, and there's irony in there." Lawrence chuckled. "It was so difficult to pretend nothing ever bothers you for the sake of someone else." His voice wandered off thinking about one night in Vegas. It wasn't really one night though. It was several nights up in the Lucky 38. Waking up in the throes of a night terror, and the boy he startled awake squeezing him with all his might until the ranger came back to reality. "He'd be twenty-five by now and me… I'm too late."
"Lawrence." Linda's tone recalled her days as a commanding officer and Lawrence nearly jumped out of his chair to attention. "It's never too late. I promise, it is never too late."
"It's been so long though. I told him I'd come back, but coming up on three years? He's moved on by now."
"Honey, you don't know that." Linda shook her head. "Even if you don't get back together, don't you think it's good closure? For the both of you?"
"Maybe. What if he loathes me? I'd loathe me."
"There's an equal chance he wants to see you, that he misses you, and still feels the mark you left on his heart too."
It didn't matter though. Lawrence wouldn't be going anywhere beyond the end of the front yard for a while. He had a new purpose now. A means to redemption and being useful as a ranger ought to be. Maybe one day he could find that boy again, but at least for now, he had Vincent in memories that couldn't be taken away for at least a couple more decades.
"Joining us live from the Crater Beach Studio is Mr. Edward Lowe, chairman of the Laborers Party, and Mr. Jensen Cooper, representative councilor of the Boneyard—Thanks for joining us gentlemen—"
Lawrence turned up the knob of the radio claiming a bare minimum of space on the coffee table's corner and listened to the level-headed host continue.
"Now, Mr. Lowe, I read your party's dissatisfaction with Kimball's administration, but why don't you tell us more about the division the working class is still feeling?"
Lawrence's butt was numb from sitting on the floor. Sitting on the sofa was too soft but the carpet was too hard. He was eye-balling the kitchen table, but during the day it was Linda's battle station. The war of which was wielding two crochet needles under a mounted magnifying glass to create the perfect doily.
"Thank you, Mr. Conway. During the Mojave campaign, which was paid for by citizen's taxes, military personnel were largely assigned to protect interest within the republic, and were better armed, supplied, and trained than counterparts in the Mojave. These special interests were brahmin ranches, farmland—"
Jensen Cooper cut in barely hiding his rhetorical tone, "And guarding those assets was a bad idea?"
"Look, guarding our assets makes sense, but using a taxpayer funded institution—"
"They pay taxes—"
"Using a taxpayer funded institution like a private army that ought to be focused on securing the entire republic's future raises a plethora of ethical questions."
Lawrence skimmed through a pile of loose papers. Reports detailed the murder of three men and one woman as concisely as their lives were cut short.
"That's a baseless claim—"
"Have you read the leak, Mr. Representative?"
The rap sheets of political careers read as the most honest obituaries because beneath the condolences and handshakes gathered in black to celebrate the idea of one's life, was the truth.
"The leak whose truth is still being investigated? We-we don't know if all of this is even factual let alone released in good faith—I mean are we dealing with Enclave misinformation tactics? Legion infiltration—"
"H-Hold on, Mr. Cooper," the host spoke, "and excuse me for interrupting, but do we have a reasonable doubt as to the origins of this leak?"
"I think it's reasonable to investigate the source and its claims."
Sat in the far pews or standing on the fringe of graves no longer visited and spoken in hushed whispers like gossip, were the last pages in the reports of each one's career. Backroom deals were sealed in the fine print of legislature. Lives were traded in capital offices far from the common rabble that was the currency. Brokered like cattle in a market with floors of trampled straw and brahmin shit, then shipped eastbound to a slaughterhouse.
"Look… The documents in the leak reveal why: money. It all comes down to money. Brahmin barons and agricultural lords lobbied our government and essentially paid them to use our military assets like mercenaries—"
"I don't—"
"—A public resource to personally guard them and their private assets. Kimball allowed private interest groups like the Stockmen's Association and the Republican Farmers Committee to pay for legislature, laws, and financial aid that only benefitted them—"
The radio switched off.
"You don't need to be getting worked up about that," Linda said. Hands cinched the pastel pink sun dress to her waist when Lawrence looked up to her. "And by you, I mean me. Come and get lunch."
Lawrence gathered the papers around him and shuffled the stack on the table to return to later. Noon already... His day started at seven along with Linda—Retirement was not wasted on the woman. A full day tended to patching walls, tightening leaky pipes, easing the squeak in the hinges, inspecting the porch-plants, tilling the dirt heap in the backyard to prepare for what would soon be more plants no doubt. The front yard was next. Lawrence dreaded thinking about that herculean task. The weeds had years to root in compact soil. The boxwood overgrown and browning. The ivy clinging to walls. The pair of eyes watching from under the shade of a fedora—
He snapped back to the window. The stranger turned his back, looked to his left, and disappeared beyond browning hedges.
"Do you think Anderson has people watching us?" Lawrence asked on the march to the kitchen.
Just like a sniper's nest, her doily battle station was packed up and disappeared without a trace. Lunch sat on two plates at the table, atop large doilies of course.
"Oh, absolutely," she said, adding two Nuka Cola bottles to the spread.
Lawrence stared at the plate set for him. Diced fruit took up half. Sharp brahmin cheese and sliced gecko salami filled the rest. For two years his stomach begged for food that wasn't going to cling like wet cement to his insides, but this… Fresh fruit? And not the bottom of the barrel pickings with lumpy tumors and rot coloring. Salami—Where can you get salami that wasn't pumped full of so many chemicals that left it vaguely edible one nuclear holocaust and two-centuries later? These were fresh slices. Not stiff like cardboard and tough like jerky.
"I really appreciate you doing all this Linda, but you don't have to pull out all the stops for me. Y'know I'll eat bugs and roadkill."
"We're not stranded in hostile territory waiting for a supply drop." Linda shot him a funny look and laughed, "And, what are you talking about?"
"Well, all the food you make, and the baking, it's all perfect. I haven't eaten this good since I was with Vincent…" Lawrence pinched a square of cheese. His tongue salivated for the savory taste and pulpy texture. "Just strikes me as something that'd cost a pretty penny."
Linda's rounded brows furrowed. "I'm buying for two now, but we're not eating like royalty by no means." She tilted her head on the other shoulder and her expression softened. "Things have changed a lot since you were last here. Even more so now the war's over. I'd say, at least here in the Boneyard, life's getting better. Did you see the new farms or development downtown on the way here?"
"Yeah. Things changed a lot…"
While the guest room wasn't the Lucky 38, it was better than the two–by-two broom closet he shared with a snoring menace. Daylight painted wood panel walls a chewy toffee color. Large doilies hung off the edges of the nightstands on both sides of a creaky bed. And on the vanity across from the bed. The tall dresser shoved in the corner too. All the doilies were set under vases, old-world antiques, and photographs yellowing in their frames. The curtains fluttered, ballooning up with a gentle gust funneling down by the side alley. Sunlight dappled swirling designs in sheer white. Pinching his recently pruned chin-hairs, Lawrence was beginning to wonder if the curtains were just even bigger doilies.
"Bakersfield Mayor Harold Ledecky is set to make appearances later this month to open the second manufactory in his city this year. The mayor has been under fire from his constituents lately for the controversial decision to—"
He inched the tuning dial and listened to the needle glide across warping frequencies. Waiting for him to get back to business was the thick stack of papers bound by three metal rings sitting in his lap. Identical stacks popped up all over the republic. Invaded news boxes, appeared on doorsteps, circulated political circles—None knew where they originated from. This one, however, looked like it was scavenged from a dumpster; faded blotches clouded the paper. Its corners maliciously curled and refused to ever be flat again. Pinching the spine and lifting it up, he checked the duvet for stains underneath. Lawrence grimaced catching a whiff of the dumpster-manifesto and let it hit the pastel floral pattern with a plop just as he sighed.
"—discussing the Mojave campaign with me today is military advisor and former general Stewart Perry. Thank you for joining me, Mr, Perry. Why don't get down to the meat of your issue with the military's command because it's really like a perfectly barbecued rack of ribs in my opinion."
A husky chuckle replied to that, "Thanks for having me—"
The first page stared back at Lawrence. A blank flyleaf lazily protected the one underneath it. Faded black ink bore through seeping splotches stiffening the paper. Seeing its title for the first time he held his breath. Half of him jumped to conclusions and the other half needed to solve the puzzle that was titled Against All Tyrants. He flipped through the dense stack and was met with an attention grabber. The line, sink, and hook; a page with the bold claim, "these people are lying to you," hovering over a list of senators, mayors, congressmen, and at the bottom were two anyone could recognize—granted they could read—Aaron Kimball; Lee Oliver. The next pages wasted no space or time. Endless lines went on for miles. Tiny flaws in the print levitated or sunk beneath imaginary lines page after page. Lawrence's thumb paused. One image broke up the monotony.
"—General Oliver's incompetence during the Mojave campaign is staggering—"
He leaned back into a cloud of pillows piled up against the headboard and stared at a hand copied battle plan of Hoover Dam's layout. Added lines and arrows represented the NCR's last stand. Brows narrowed, scrutinizing the plans but nothing was inaccurate.
"—this appears to be a complete departure from the man who led the first battle to secure the Dam for the republic, but these leaks aside, go back farther into the first campaign and I can tell you this is just how he is. I, and others I won't name, knew Oliver should have never been promoted to general, and then to read the correspondence in that leak. Well, it just confirms Kimball gave him the job because they were old war buddies."
Bleeding ink drew heavy boundaries. A blackened, winding Colorado river divided Nevada and Arizona. Numbered labels marked precise locations in both territories. Some had names like Nelson, Cottonwood Cove, Forlorn Hope, but it was Fortification Hill that was circled and had the adjacent page dedicated entirely to explaining its significance.
"Oliver's plan to retain the dam was sheer brute force against the Legion. Seven years ago, we would not have claimed Hoover Dam without the help of the rangers, and he barely bothered to include them in his strategy at all to keep our hold on the dam. And just reading how they spoke of Hanlon—the bitterness is palpable and woefully unprofessional—It made me think he wanted to show that the NCRA didn't need the rangers, or that he was the superior strategist—It's a rivalry, is what I thought."
Lawrence's eyes fixed on the short and bitter summary in the form of a question and answer titling a chunk of exposition.
"However, it seems the General never stopped to consider the surmounting signs Mr. House was planning his own strategy. Oliver proved himself incompetent as a general, a strategist, and a leader. It cost the republic immensely."
Knives caressed his spine. Hair stood on end, and he was back in Caesar's tent. Charcoal smoke clouded the skies. Burning rubber and flesh tarred his throat. Clint stared down at Lawrence, his stone face red like the cloth canopy battling the wind. Accusatory eyes followed. Silence choked him. They waited for an explanation.
Lawrence shook his head. He tossed the ring binding aside and took a deep breath. The scene stuttered before his eyes and with each replay, Clint was a step closer. Eyes squeezed shut, but terror surged, feeling the fiery man may suddenly appear when Lawrence wasn't looking. Fear threw him off the bed and flung him out of the room. His heart racing, he turned and turned around in the hall as if he could outpace the specter hiding behind him. The radio chattered to an empty room. Hushed creaks echoed his pace as he muttered promises the ordeal over with.
Questions he began with were preferable to the answers he found.
The mesh screen door clicked. Bare feet scuffed the dusty cement porch and Linda looked over her shoulder to the wilted man keeping in the shade. The backyard was just a heap of dirt sectioned off by sun-bleached wood panels. Supplies piled next to the porch promised it would be more someday. Lawrence shoved his hands in his pockets. He peeked out from under the roof shade and up to the sky as if waiting for a storm to roll in any second. Not a single cloud marred the early morning day, yet it felt so small. Distant mountains were like a blanket of green velvet behind a sheer veil. Soft and rolling luxury he couldn't recall that was always there when he looked eastward.
Linda turned around, still watering little emerald sprouts poking up through rich soil. "How's the puzzle going?"
Lawrence rubbed the tension out of his neck with a strained wince. He avoided meeting the sun-spackled face smiling at him, and as to avoid the real question consuming his thoughts, Lawrence asked, "When did downtown start getting built up?"
Linda hummed as she made her way slowly to the slab of concrete. "About a year ago." She twirled in slow-motion, emptying the rust eaten watering can. "It's a part of a relief initiative," she continued, "employs veterans to get back on their feet coming home to no work, and probably no homes. I think it really sold Carter's votes."
"Who?"
Linda set the tin watering can by a support beam then joined Lawrence in the shade. "The president."
"Right…"
"I don't have many fond words about politicians, but Kimball was a general first, and generals are better at leading armies, not nations." She cocked her head and hips. Arms folded and she looked out on her humble domain. "I hate to say it, but losing Hoover Dam was a good thing. Seeing all these kids coming back home traumatized, missing limb and soul, or as ash in little boxes—It was the wake-up call people needed."
"Yeah, the city sure has changed."
The Boneyard, that is. It was the only city he really knew in the republic. Growing up in farming suburbs closer to the coast meant he seldom saw downtown proper, but it was still difficult to process. The skyline was taller. Shinier. Sprawl claimed the sea of rubble laid in rings like an echo of the shockwaves that wasted the city. Places he used to play in as a kid were fenced off and exhumed by laborers to make way for all the new luxuries. Luxuries people of all classes enjoyed. Even the radio wasn't only news anymore; silky smooth voices narrated thrilling adventures and introduced new music that flooded the airwaves and jukeboxes in diners and threw kids into a dancing fever. Theaters had a new definition as well. There were shows with actors on a stage, of course, but now cameras could capture the world in motion. Project them on blank walls and mesmerize audiences with elegant words printed on the cards between noir scenes.
It wasn't all fun though. There was unrest too. New laws, new regulations for citizens to abide by whether they liked them or not. Where the standard of living was closing between classes, a new divide was carving out a deep canyon through the city. He imagined the same was true for Dayglow or Bakersfield or Adytum or any other growing city... Little signs in windows or plaques mounted on walls designated who could go where and do what; Mutants not served here; Ghouls need not apply; Californians only.
Ghouls had their own neighborhoods and you didn't go there if you were a smooth-skin. Mutants made everyone uncomfortable, but you only found them behind the scenes doing the heavy lifting, literally and figuratively. They could never be citizens though—They weren't even human after all. Even among superior humans there was infighting. Refugees from Legion territory or wastelanders could be spotted from a mile away with their strange dialects and ignorance of the social contract of civilized societies. If you were a Californian, home grown, then it was your class that further divided you among your fellow ideal human citizens. The upper class didn't mingle with the middle class because they were the help, and the middle class didn't mingle with those below them because they were untouchables doing the dirty work that kept the city running.
It was simpler in the Mojave. You had allies and you had enemies. It didn't matter if your ally was a ghoul, or hailed from a farmstead out in the boondocks and couldn't read. Hell, you'd probably want the supermutant on your side tossing centurions around like rag dolls. The only thing you needed to know was the guy next to you had your back and you had his.
"Did you get to listen to the radio? Read the newspapers while you were in prison?"
"Barely—Did you ever get my letters?"
"When you were in Vegas?"
"When I was in prison."
Linda shook her head as slowly as she drew out, "No…" Her lips pursed as she squinted at those rolling mountains peeking over neighboring rooftops. "The last letter I sent you was to Forlorn Hope. Never received anything after. Gave me a scare."
She probably wasn't the only one he scared. A knife turned in his chest thinking about a boy a couple hundred miles east. Silence grew between them and let the finches' songs bloom. Whistles jumped between highs and lows. Lately, his song seemed stuck on the low notes. Generous rest between let the hollow notes resound like a dull ache and each toll echoing in his body was a reminder of everything he had done wrong.
"Did you think I was dead?"
"For a time, but then I saw who was on the campaign trail with Hanlon." Light pink nails shimmered when Linda combed fingers through long brunette tassels. "I sent a letter to Mordecai, and he actually wrote me back. Addressed me as Linda and didn't ask weird questions, so that was nice of him."
"Campaign?"
"Chief Hanlon is now a Shasta senator living in Redding. Mordecai was a part of his election campaign and stayed on to join his staff," Linda explained. "He's got a nice, cushy job to support his lovely family that's not going to get him killed—" Linda paused. One brow arched and her gaze unfocused. "Well, in light of certain events maybe not—Nevermind that. He also told me about Clint's little rebellion. Said you made him turn around because he would get in trouble while you stayed to figure out what was going on. And that was the end of that. See why I was scared?"
"He didn't know about the trial?"
"No, and I didn't either until a week before Anderson brought you here."
"There was nothing in the papers?"
Linda's expression darkened with her tone. "I didn't like that either. A decorated ranger veteran being tried for treason against the republic he served? And, not a peep?"
"Y'know, my mom said a 'government man' told them where I was." Lawrence's squint followed a duo of sparrows dancing on a blue stage to a scene from a couple of days ago. "They seemed eager to talk which makes me think if they knew where I was sooner, they would have visited sooner."
"Did you write to Evelyn?"
"Yes. Sent two letters but got nothin' back."
"She would have absolutely written back—I would have been there in a heartbeat if I knew."
"How trustworthy do you think Anderson is?"
"His loyalty is to his organization; he's young, but pragmatic. I asked him to look for any trace of you and he came through. Equally surprised to find out where you've been." Linda shook her head as a sigh marked budding suspicions. "Locked up. No contact. Not a trace you ever arrived..."
Disappeared. That was one of those things rangers ought to be good at. Vanish without a trace—Except he had done it to just about every important person in his life. Not intentionally, however. He left the breadcrumbs to speak for him because the hardest thing was telling the truth, blunt and straightforward. To Evelyn. To Vincent. To himself…
Not even Clint could wring a lick of truth out of him.
Lawrence thrashed in his bindings—it was an instinctive reaction. He wouldn't be getting out of that chair anytime soon. Choking and convulsing was also expected when waterboarded. The cloth sack ripped off his head. His throat burned. He coughed. Fought to take in quick breaths before another plunge. Stagnant, hot air turned the dilapidated warehouse into a sauna for him, but they knew that. Reddened eyes narrowed at two men hovering above him. High noon poking through the holes in the roof obscured their faces, but he already knew these men. Used to call these rangers by their names, Walsh, and Guzman.
"Feel like talking yet?"
Guzman laughed and yanked Lawrence by his soaked mane. "I don't know…" He played into a mocking tone and leaned a bit closer. "He's lookin' parched—"
Lawrence spat in his eye.
"Fuckin' bitch!" Guzman recoiled, shutting his assaulted eye tightly. He tugged his duster's sleeve up and wiped the juicy spit wad away. The other pulled the sack over Lawrence's head and choked the collar.
"Stop!" Clint's growl resounded the old-world carcass squat in the middle of a desert. He snatched the cloth sack off Lawrence's head and let the man breathe.
"C'mon, man," Guzman whined. The junior ranger huffed with a melodramatic shrug. "He betrayed us." His hand dove for Lawrence's throat. "For pussy—" Lawrence jerked, mouth open wide like a rattler. He struck. Sunk his fangs in the fleshy mass between thumb and index finger. Muscle and tendon tore easier than thread. Hot blood gushed like the first bite of a fat mutfruit. "Fuck!"
Guzman howled. Veins burst in his neck. Eyes gawked at oozing punctures in his shaking hand. Now Lawrence was the one laughing.
Then came Clint's grip.
Not to strangle Lawrence to death with his bare hands. No, he let Lawrence breathe enough to stay conscious. Enough to linger in a state of panic. Let pressure swell behind his eyes. Dull his hearing. Savor feeling cartilage warp and bend. Just conscious enough to relish in a victory as bitter as the taste of blood on his tongue and seeping down his closing throat. In that position, Lawrence had no choice but to look at Clint; blood sprayed his face; black, hollow eyes blinked; dry lips curled to a malicious smile.
Adrenaline surged. Lawrence flung forward. Free of his bonds, he nearly flew off the bed. In a dark room, far, far away from that warehouse. They may have turned his body loose after that, but his head was still there. Trapped, trying to outrun the moon bathing glistening skin in silver. Heavy breaths eventually calmed. The nightmare lingered in waning shakes. He fanned his sweat-laden shirt before rolling out of bed and shambling into the kitchen. After stealthily perusing the fridge and collecting his feast like a raccoon hitting up alley dumpsters, Lawrence laid out his bounty on the table; a plate of cookies warmed in a magic box he had to open at the last second to avoid the alarm going off; an experimental batch of cornbread muffins with bits of jalapeno mixed in, but the melted cheese was his own addition; fruit cubes topped with a generous dollop of sugary, whipped brahmin milk was as close to heaven as one could get, and lastly were the assorted leftovers that ought to be eaten before turning, anyway.
"Lawrence?"
He froze, chipmunk cheeks plump with whatever left crumbs clinging to his stubble. Still in a haze of sleep, Linda seemed to take no notice of the feast laid out on the table. She sat across from him, smoothed out the long nightgown, and yawned widely before taking a cookie for herself.
"Needed a midnight snack?"
"Yeah," he muttered through the muffin stuffed in his mouth.
She perused the buffet then decided on a cornbread muffin. Spreading a light coat of butter on its top, she said, "Y'know, these were for the new neighbors that moved in."
Lawrence swallowed. "Oh, sorry…" Linda took a bite and hummed delightedly at her creation. "My mom used to make something similar. They weren't as moist as these. Had to wash 'em down with something to drink or choke, and a bit overpowering with the jalapenos, too. Coming to think of it, I never actually liked them that much. I think I just liked helping her cook."
Linda chuckled, dabbing a napkin to her lips. Lawrence looked at the half-eaten muffin in his hand. He found a distant memory nearly forgotten in the golden brown and green dotted bread. A memory when they were all happier. When she didn't have bruises mottling her skin. He wondered if she remembered those days helping her cook more clearly than he did.
"If I get up the courage to talk to my mom, could you find yours to talk to Mary?"
Linda looked up to him with a groaning sigh, but her smile agreed to take him up on the offer.
It would have been their thirtieth anniversary this year. Thirty years and three children. One son and two daughters, none of which acknowledged Linda. She wasn't even asking them to call her mother or any diminutive of that word. Just to not pretend she didn't exist. She couldn't fault them. It had to be difficult for them too, but maybe if they knew what she was going to do instead, her family would have been more accepting. Mary tried. Tried with all her best to just live with it. Accept that this is what her soulmate needed, but she was losing her husband after all. Linda couldn't imagine a life without Mary, yet here she was sighing nostalgically, fighting tears blurring her aim on the boundary stake and weighed down by years of regret neglecting her needs and for the consequences of acknowledging them, so much so, she could barely lift the damn hammer.
Time was supposed to heal all wounds, and while Linda had grown in the past six years, the pain that created the scar was never forgotten. It's merely locked in a safe in her closet with the rest of Robert's life. Sometimes she wondered if she could open that safe up. Pretend to be that man again, all for the sake of having them back. Bite her tongue, swallow her suffering, ignore her needs as she did for the better part of fifty years. It got easy after a while.
Ping!
Linda flinched. Pretending wasn't worth it. And there were those who still loved her. Like the groggy thirty-something lumbering through the back door, that was almost like a second son during their service together. She faded into obscurity for those in her past life, but something must have clicked with Lawrence. She chalked it up to him losing Marcus; the first real loss in that young man's life made Lawrence refuse to let the senior ranger go. Even if he didn't quite understand why she reintroduced herself as Linda and wore dresses and heels that pinched her toes. But he made an effort to learn, to accept her as she was, and that's all she wanted. Looking hungover from a sleep deeper than the Grand Canyon, mouth agape, yawning wide, as he scratched an itch on his side, deep down, Lawrence was still the teenage boy she whipped into the shape of a ranger. A rather extraordinary one even if he didn't believe so himself.
"Good morning," Linda chimed. With the stake snug in the ground, she tied a line around it, connecting it to the sharp angles making up the perimeter of soon-to-be flower beds. Lawrence wandered over to her, squinting at the sun and batting away bird songs like they were a vulgar insult.
"I overslept…" A sleepy haze dragged his voice lower than normal. Lawrence sighed then gathered together the words he could no longer keep to himself. "I had something I need to tell you about."
"What's that?" Linda stood up and shook the dirt off her bare knees. Lawrence's eyes darted away to the corner of the yard as she walked backwards along an invisible border and straightened the rope in her hands.
"Clint came to me one day and told me something odd," he said, picking up the hammer she left behind and slowly traced her steps. "He said the rangers' chain of command was disappearing overnight."
Linda cocked her head and gave him a perplexed look. "Rangers were disappearing?" she asked, dropping to a squat as an empty hand reached out for the hammer.
"People weren't disappearing." Again, Lawrence's eyes quickly peeled themselves off Linda. "More like the rangers who answered to him were no longer under his oversight. They were being shuffled around so much they may have had a new CO every few months with new orders."
Weak hits pinged the metal head in shallow and rapid succession. With the next one done, she peered up at Lawrence and, as she expected, he quickly averted eyes elsewhere. This time nervous back-of-the-neck-rubbing followed. "That's very unusual, and poor management…"
Too busy pretending he wasn't looking at Linda, Lawrence didn't even notice when stood up and moved on to the next point at the opposite end of the yard.
"Could you bring over a stake?" She wiped the sweat off her brow. Shoulders slumped feeling the peak of noon on exposed skin.
Lawrence jumped to attention and shuffled on over. Hammering the stake in one go and knotting the rope in her stead, he continued, "I was also put on involuntary leave, but I don't know if it had anything to do with what Clint was telling me."
"What did you do to get put on leave?"
"I—" Lawrence looked up at her, doing a double-take made him stumble coming up to his feet.
"Oh—Are you okay?"
"Yes." Lawrence shook the dirt off his jeans but couldn't shake the flustered look on his face.
"Are you sure?" Linda chuckled. "You seem a little off."
"I'm fine," he said, combing fingers through out-of-place hairs.
"Something is bothering you."
"I just—" Lawrence threw his hands up in defeat, then like channeling his inner child, he sneered, "I just don't like your outfit."
A snort snuck in Linda's laugh, and Lawrence finally looked at her, albeit scowling this time. "Yes, they're real."
"That is not what I was—"
She playfully patted his shoulder. "Then how did you know what I meant?"
"I'm not looking at you like that!" Lawrence's face burned red. He crossed his arms tightly. "You've practically been a mom to me lately—I'm just adjusting to you and all your changes."
"Aww." Linda's laughter retreated in lieu of a smile. She flung her arms out, "come here."
"No." Lawrence turned his back to her, and Linda's chuckles came back. He peaked over his shoulder, "you aren't sick though, are you? You look more gaunt than I remember…"
"Sick? Not at all," Linda said. "I've been a guinea pig, though. I'm thinner, weaker, and have a lot of work done just to resemble the old lady I am. Maybe that's what you're noticing."
Lawrence turned to face her, massaging the back of neck again and sheepishly said, "I don't mean to be weird."
"Did you really mean it when you said I've been like a mom to you?" Linda batted glistening eyes. Her lips thinned as she clasped hands together, eagerly awaiting his answer.
"Yes," Lawrence said. "Which is why I don't understand why your kids don't talk to you—" Lawrence swallowed a knot in his throat. "I'd give anything to have this kind of relationship with my mother again."
When Linda opened her arms, Lawrence didn't hesitate. A congested sniffle flooded his ear and her embrace tightened. He didn't count the seconds that became minutes during their hug, and perhaps Linda didn't either because both knew how fleeting these moments were in life. How easy it was to take them for granted.
Linda's smile stretched wider than the Nevada sky. Proud and affectionate as only a mother knew how to wear, and as a mother would, she parsed the man's stray hairs in need of a trim. "Sorry, we got a little off topic."
"I owe you a bit more truth," Lawrence said. His gaze faltered at the flicker of shame he still felt for the matter. "Truth is, I was on leave because I assaulted a non-combatant—a civilian said he had information about Marcus's killers, legion movements, and kept stringing me along for money. I got impatient."
"Okay, the timeout was a tad reasonable," she squeaked. "Evidently it wasn't final since you were brought back in time to prepare for the legion assault." Linda cocked her head. Bronze eyes squinted, looking for something in the fine print. "Were you given a psych evaluation?"
"Yes." Lawrence picked up the rope where it fell. Following Linda further down the fence line, the shape of the flower bed came into focus. Lining up the next stake perfectly with the first one across the yard, Lawrence hammered it in the soil with one hit. "Clint told me to cool off and he would handle the heat. I know he did all he could, but I was out for a couple months."
"What about after you were reinstated?"
Lawrence paused where he knelt. He rested his elbow on his knee and shrugged before admitting, "Clint told me he took care of it."
"Did you sign off on anything? Was this ever brought up in your trial?"
"No." Lawrence stood up. "To both those questions.
"What? Your combat status was never brought into question, even to use against you?" Lawrence shook his head. His eyes lingered on the hard angles following the squared U-shaped rope line. "How long was this trial?"
"About two days."
Linda wasn't a gasper, but she wore a look like she had. "You were tried for conspiracy to commit treason in two days?" Shoulders hung in a shrug while upturned palms waited for a good explanation to land in them. "I get it was a military court but something like that isn't handled in two days without very damning evidence. That could have been a death sentence!"
"The focus of the trial was about… Essentially, my connection to Vincent, and by proxy his connection to House, and how that looked. Which wasn't good."
"Lawrence," Linda's voice fell to whisper. One of those motherly looks returned to her face, deepening the wrinkles she hid under makeup. "Please tell me the truth." She stole Lawrence's hand and sandwiched it between her palms. "I won't judge you. I won't berate you. I'm not your superior anymore. That's a past life. Please be honest with me as your friend. Were you hiding something?"
Lawrence hesitated. "Yes."
Linda nodded, but her worried look didn't smooth out.
"I knew what would happen at the dam," he blurted out. "I knew about House's machines under Fortification Hill. We never would have defeated the Legion without them. House had the means—"
"I get it, Lawrence."
"I'm sorry."
"What? What are you apologizing for?"
"I disappointed you."
"No," Linda shook her head. Her frown lightened to a smile. "I know you. You are not a bad man. I was in the Mojave from day one. You don't walk away from that place with clean hands or a clear conscience."
He tried to force a smile, but she was painfully accurate. How did anyone walk away from that? How did she leave it all behind?
"Do you think Anderson could get us those records?"
Lawrence's downward gaze finally looked up. "You think it has something to do with what's going on?"
"I've been out of the field a lot longer than you, honey." Linda chuckled. Arms crossed and she held her chin high. "What's a ranger's first task?"
"Get as much as information as possible."
"Exactly. I think it's relevant in some way."
Lawrence didn't like locking himself away in a room, especially after having the choice stripped away from him for the past two years. However, there were only a few occasions when he did. Either to force himself to work through the excruciating details of the manifesto and all the documents Anderson dumped on him he'd already been over a thousand times. Or it was Wednesday. When feminine mystique invaded the house and occupied the living room. They talked for hours like generals and colonels strategizing. Exchanged classified information gathered beyond the battlefield like spies plotting machinations. Linda warned him they were a ruthless bunch. Well, not exactly like that. It was more along the lines of, "I host my book club meeting on Wednesdays, so we'll take up the living room—but you're welcome to join!"
He knew a trap when he saw it.
Cracking the door, he winced at a piercing laugh. He'd been through a hell named the Mojave desert. Through irradiated wastelands where thunder rolled green. Deep in legion territory to rescue fallen rangers. Led settlers in the badlands of Baja, rationing food, and water for miles, and never gave in, but this… This was new territory. But a man's got to do what a man's got to do, and this man was dying for a cup of coffee.
He slipped out the door. Stealthily and quietly clung to hallway wall, freezing just in time to blend into his surroundings should an eye catch him. Continuing laughs and girly chatter confirmed the opportunity to tiptoe to the kitchen—The strong aroma pulled him by the nose to the steamy pot spelling his name out in water vapor beads.
"Hubba, hubba, who is he?"
"Oh, look at that jawline…"
His resolve fortified listening to the melody of a first pour. Breathing in its strong scent invigorated his soul and body.
"I wanna squeeze those shoulders," a listless sigh breathed.
"I want to squeeze that tight little butt—"
Lawrence paused. Ears noted a lack of feminine giggles and enthusiastic chatter.
"Shh! Shh! Shh! Act proper ladies. He's turning around."
Four women watched him from their fort of plush floral print sofa covers. Smiling, batting her eyes, twirling hair—Never had he felt so much dread.
Mission unsuccessful…
"Oh, you're scaring him!" Linda said. At least she was still on his side.
"Were you going to keep him to yourself?"
"What?" Linda squeaked. "I told you I had a guest."
"You didn't tell us he was handsome, Linda."
Lawrence sipped his coffee—Unfortunately Linda was going to be his cover as he slipped away. She'd understand though. Except one set her crosshairs on Lawrence. She hiked up a long green skirt crossing one leg over the other and patted the barely empty space next to her.
"Come, enjoy that over here, sweetie."
Oh, no… She was cute.
"Martha, you slut!"
She gasped. Looking the woman next to her up and down, the young lady could only sputter scoffs in lieu of a comeback. Another opportunity to escape! Yet, Lawrence didn't take it.
"Ladies."
The rambunctious lot quelled themselves at Linda's behest.
Linda stood up, poise and ladylike. "Lawrence, this is my book club. I'll introduce you to everyone—" She snapped backed to the group and her tone sharpened like the arched brow over one scrutinous eye. "As long as they behave."
Hubba-Hubba was Tiffany. A raspy-voiced, heavy set woman full of character as tall as her red hair and as clashing as her blue eyeshadow; her expressive hand gestures and flirty looks spoke more than her words. The jawline-admirer went by Leah and was the youngest—younger than Lawrence. She was an easily flustered, lanky, girly-girl that giggled at first hello with an awkward, yet charming sense of style wearing a long green dress like a coat hanger and a pair of combat boots that had never seen combat but weren't afraid if trouble came knocking. Shoulder-Squeezer settled on the name Martha recently—her grandmother's name. Closer in age to Leah, she was mellow like her shoulder-length blonde hair and had a wide smile that crinkled hazel eyes to little twinkles. Miss Grabby-Hands was easily pinned as an upper-class woman who may have fit the name of Sza Sza better than Ava. She knew what she wanted, and Lawrence could tell too by the way her throaty chuckle bubbled, holding out a limp wrist for a queen's handshake.
"I'll get everyone refreshments—Play nice," Linda said, but her book club was too busy letting out wistful sighs, flirty giggles, and asking questions whose only purpose was to steal Lawrence's attention for a moment. Like the rare flowers that bloomed on ancient saguaro, he had a natural charm that came out when it pleased—Frankly, it wasn't Lawrence Linda was worried about. Coming back with the platter of hot coffee in her hands, her concerns were justified. It only took a minute for Lawrence to be nestled between all four women and reliving younger days when Evelyn's little sisters used him as makeup-practice. The best part was making Eve laugh the way she did; gut-busting, snorting, and contagious. He never minded, honestly. Coming home and looking up at the two urns in the curio cabinet made him wonder what his older siblings could have been, and if his family could have been more like Evelyn's.
The chatter buzzing around him ceased and the book club looked at Linda. She stopped by the coffee table, straight faced, put her weight on one heel, and hummed thoughtfully. "I don't think red is your color."
The girls' laughs and clashing compliments almost silenced the knock on the door. Linda set the platter down and let them resume their fun while she answered.
"Hey—" Anderson's face bunched up at an excited squeal. He tried peeping around Linda at the party he wasn't invited to. "What's going on?"
"Come on in," Linda waved a hand to the beat of her stifled laughs.
"Oh, woah. Hope I'm not interrupting, or joining…"
Lawrence's face went blank meeting the young man's peculiar expression. He excused himself and carefully stepped around pointy-toed heels.
"Just checking in, but it looks like you're doing, uh," Anderson nodded as his voice trailed off. Dark eyes examined the makeover of sharp tipped eyeliner and bright red lipstick. "Doing pretty good for house-arrest."
"Just havin' a li'l fun," Lawrence said, averting eyes and squaring his shoulders as if to remind the agent they were still on the same team. "I actually had something I wanted to talk to you about."
"It might be a little hard to take you seriously like that," Anderson muttered. He squinted at Lawrence, noting a bit of glitter in his blush. "So shiny…"
"Do your best." Lawrence walked further into the hallway and Anderson followed. At the right distance from the living room and by the back door, he asked, "Could you pull records about my service history?"
"Yeah, I could probably get something." Anderson broadened his shoulders as hands hung on his belt. "Might take a while though. Not everything from the war has made its way home."
"What about my trial's documents?"
Anderson rubbed his fingers together and muttered, "You got to give me a little tit for tat."
"You're not dealing with some disgruntled civilians. This is a militia," Lawrence explained. "They are organized, well-armed, and well trained—Think about what kind of training someone who can get away with murdering four high-profile politicians and not be found has."
Anderson's dark eyes fell to the floor processing that. He nodded slowly as the gears turned in his head, "I presumed that much. The real question is who are these people? I got theories up the wazoo. The republic's got a lot of enemies, y'know—Of course you know that."
Lawrence hesitated to speak his mind. Unsure if it was his gut-feeling or spite, he lowered his voice. "I think these people are from the republic, not outside of it."
The lights went on in Anderson's eyes. "Why's that?"
"You've read the manifesto right? There's an important piece of information in here only I, and a handful of other people know about; what was waiting in the bunker under Fortification Hill."
"I see…" Anderson brought a hand to his face and wiped non-existent crumbs from the corner of his mouth. "And, they knew this because they were there." The monkey-suit started a slow pace Lawrence could tell wasn't entirely to facilitate ideas. "I was hoping it wasn't true…"
"Did you suspect this already?"
"I promise I'm not as dumb as I look. I had suspicions somebody with your kind of background could be involved."
"Whoever did this, the only thing they got wrong was advertising their hit list like this and thinking it can't be used against them. Could be a ranger, could be people who were trained by rangers, or former army… Or maybe it is just some really pissed off civilians."
—
"I think the biggest takeaway is how much Californians were lied to and manipulated. Of course, support for the war was waning before 2281, but now we are at an all-time low of confidence in our public officials."
Lawrence pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. Reopening them, his vision came back into focus. There wasn't a lot of bureaucratic work when it came to being a ranger, but it was easily his least favorite part of the job; recording, documenting, explaining unimportant details ad nauseam.
"They can come out of the woodworks condemning misuse of tax-payer money all they want, but the fact is, our children were drafted to fight this war with no intention of properly training or outfitting them—"
"I don't think that's a fair assessment, but I agree with the sentiment. There was training, but it clearly fell short, and maybe—Maybe that comes back to the fact the NCRA was so short staffed due to mismanagement?"
"Oh, absolutely—"
He looked over his shoulder and out the living room window to another day in sunny California. Where the birds sang. Where the mountains were like green velvet blankets in the spring. Where the blue expanse crashed on golden shores—sometimes he thought he could smell the ocean, but it was miles away from Linda's humble abode. He'd much rather be out there. Not specifically here, in the Boneyard, or even California, but outside. Free. In the wild, trekking mountains and highways. Exploring, like he did with Vincent when they had these lazy days…
The doorbell stole him from a daydream. Lawrence looked to Linda and before she could say anything or wipe clean her hands of batter, he switched off the radio, jumped to his feet, and answered the door. Anderson welcomed himself inside wearing a look somehow more serious than his unusual deadpan expression.
"We got a problem," was the first thing out of his mouth. He handed a manila envelope to Lawrence. "Those are the records you asked for—Couldn't get anything from the trial because it's classified. You must be really interesting to get that big ol' red stamp."
"What's the problem?" Linda asked, shuffling a rag in damp hands.
"Mayor Harold Ledecky."
"Ledecky?" Lawrence squinted, muttering the name. Before he could open the envelope, Linda already took it from him while he was distracted. "Why does that sound familiar?"
"He was on the shit list for taking bribes by agriculture barons to get military personnel to guard farmlands," Anderson explained. "Also accused of some other uncouth behavior…"
"Did you catch the killer?"
"Oh, Ledecky isn't dead." Anderson craned his neck and went on, "got some lead in him, but not dead yet. And no, didn't catch whoever tried to kill him." He clapped hands together and bore a cheeky smile, "Now whether that's the same people responsible for the other murders or angry ghouls is the latest puzzle on my hands, or should I say our hands?"
"Angry ghouls?" Lawrence stepped back to the sofa.
"Wow, you still haven't caught up?" Anderson gave Lawrence a stupid look, with a stupid little squint. "What year do you think it is?"
"Ledecky is unpopular with the ghoul demographic in his city, and rightfully so," Linda said as she took a seat on the sofa with Lawrence and parsed the documents stuffed in the envelope.
"The whole thing with scrapping Necropolis instead of building the memorial they requested kind of pissed 'em off." Anderson exaggerated a shrug, "I mean they're definitely not treated good to begin with…"
"Here I was thinking everything's so different… Glad to see Bakersfield is still California's swampy taint."
"I brought a souvenir though," Anderson announced. He pulled out a wadded cloth from his coat pocket, unwrapped it, and revealed to Lawrence a casing.
Lawrence's brows narrowed. He leaned forward and took the brass cylinder. "This looks like a .308 casing. Ledecky survived this?
"That's still up for debate, but he's in good care," Anderson reminded. "Still processing all the info so, I'll be back probably next week to add to your li'l pile here—oh, and I'll need that back." Anderson bunched up the casing and shoved it back in his pocket, muttering, "technically evidence n' whatnot…"
When the front door shut behind Anderson, it was about five minutes of Linda shuffling papers before she finally spoke and put a stop to the nervous tingles taking over Lawrence's limbs.
"We need to address the yao guai in the room," she said, and those tingles revved up like thrumming static.
Lawrence wrung his hands. "What's on your mind?"
"This isn't the frontier, Lawrence. People can't carry around firearms in public anymore. Most regulations are up to the states, but federal law allows for private ownership of small firearms and bolt-action rifles only," she explained and set the bulk of Lawrence's records on the table, tilted to note it did not belong to the papers scattered under it. "Of course, there's always black markets, but what I'm getting at is who do you think has the training, the resourcefulness, and the know-how to get a long-range rifle, use it with the kind of accuracy we've seen, and not be caught?"
Lawrence clenched his jaw. He swallowed. Eyes locked on the paper she held; one picked out of a stack of at least fifty in his career's record.
"Lawrence, I know this isn't going to be easy to hear, but what you told me about Clint… It's raising some alarms." She scooted closer to him and showed what she kept. "There's enough red flags here to make a praetorian kowtow."
It wasn't the first time he'd seen that questionnaire and not because it was his own writing on the paper. The first time he met that specific form was after an incident in Laughlin. Filling it out a second time though, he defied Marcus's voice whispering from the grave urging him to lie again.
"That's not to say there's anything wrong with you and you are not crazy." Linda set a warm palm on his tense forearm. "I'm so sorry, Lawrence. Your card should have never been put back in the deck until you got the help you needed. Even more suspicious is this is where your record ends. There's nothing here that says you were at Forlorn Hope, Camp Golf, Hoover Dam. Not even liberal use of black-out to suggest you were ever enlisted for a confidential mission to gather intel on House. But there's concern about your connection to House and some extracurricular activities with Vincent."
"You don't think…" His mouth was dry. His ears deafened a bit and vision refused to focus even when he looked at Linda. "Clint?"
"I can't tell you much about Clint. He stopped talking to me long before my ex-wife did. I'm not going to bad mouth him either—I don't know," Linda shrugged. Bony shoulders hung, caught on the right words to say and how to say them. "He said he dealt with the bureaucracy when he asked you to come back, right?"
"Yeah," Lawrence nodded. His hands locked their fingers together and took turns squeezing the other. "That's when he told me about the rangers being shuffled around."
"And he defies orders at Hoover Dam along with a significant number of other rangers."
"One," Lawrence sat up straight, "Swanson. He had to have been talking to Clint ahead of that. It was planned, not some spur-of-the-moment patriotism."
"I can think of a lot of rangers I knew that would have eagerly joined him," Linda said. "Which leads to another hypothesis: he intentionally did not go through proper channels to get you reinstated or outright ignored them—I'm sorry. I shouldn't—"
"No, no." Lawrence unwound his hands and beckoned her to stay. "I want to hear your thoughts. I always valued your input."
"Clint trusted you," she continued. Her voice calmed to a whisper like they were speaking blasphemy. "He knew you were capable. He knew you would join him because you trusted him."
"He manipulated me." Lawrence massaged his brows. Bobbing legs finally pushed him up and waltzed him around the room. "And he's still manipulating me. Reading everything in that—" Lawrence halted. Lips twitched, baring a gnashing frown as he pointed at the crinkled and stained manifesto on the table. "Fucking thing tells me it's him! And… It can't be him." Clenched fists loosened. His shoulders slumped and his scowl weakened, feeling something he hadn't since the first time his father laid hands on him. "But it is him, isn't it?"
Well this took a while! This was going to be longer, but I decided to cut this chapter short seeing that word count getting a bit too high, but will resume along with coinciding events in New Vegas.
Explaining some things about the NCR: Since it's modeled after the old world and using established lore, the New California Republic is made up of a states such as Shasta where Redding is; Los Angeles which would be the Los Angeles (Boneyard) basin and extending into Orange County, I would presume (what happened to Disney Land? Knotts? Hm..) Maybe San Bernardino County? Bakersfield I figured would be all of Kern county, and manage to be even more of a dump than the rest of the post-apocalypse; Shady; Dayglow; Maxson; the Hub, etc,. I have something special in mind for the desert cities on the I-10 (Palm Springs, Indio, Desert Hot Springs, etc). States are represented by elected Senators. Congress functions the same, and of course there's a president. Local government would probably be similar in structure as well but I'll leave that vague and throw own titles like mayor, councilor...
The vision I had for the current state of the republic is founded in post-WW2 era boom—I know, too optimistic for the fallout universe. However, not everything's peachy. I'm planning on covering more of the repercussions of the Mojave Campaign through Lawrence's scope here in the next chapter. Anyway, the republic isn't homogeneous; I could only see the kind of lifestyle described for the Boneyard as something in metropolitan cities with large populations, large work forces, generally a city that would receive the most benefits+attention from federal government. Out in the boonies, I'd imagine California is still largely frontier. Vincent is mentioned as being from Yucca Valley which would be closer to a frontier town sustained on agriculture, recycling salvage/old world resources, and trade. Closer to the Arizona border I bet people living there are still struggling with safety from legion remnants and highwaymen/raiders as well.
I'm estimating two more chapters before I conclude Wheel in the Sky. Will I finally move one and start revisions on my original works? Probably not :/
