Book 1 - Beyond the Grave
Chapter I:
A kick in the Head
Gideon
Am I dead? My brain was starting to regain some of its functions, but I was feeling the worst ax splitting head ache I had ever experienced. I knew I had been shot, but here I was still breathing and still thinking. My body felt cold and gritty, and then I realized why; I had been stripped down to my underpants and was lying on an operating table. I opened my eyes and tried to sit up, but my body betrayed me and I fell back down. My entire body felt dizzy, and I was shivering badly.
"Whoa there! You've been out cold for a couple of days now. Why don't you relax a second? Get your bearings. Let's see what the damage is," said an older, gentle voice over to my right. I looked over and my suspicions were confirmed. He was old, balding with pure white hair and a thin straight mustache across his lips. He had the look of an experienced traveler, and his eyes reflected a great, but hidden sadness. But they were kind eyes, who looked upon me with a mixture of compassion, and strangely relief.
"Glad to see that you're finally awake. I'm Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings."
He then paused a moment, looking me over and then he asked me my name.
"My name… my name is…" I mused, my voiced utterly cracked. I searched the confound of my mind, desperate for an answer. Slowly, I repeated my words over and over again; a panic growing steadily within my voice as I realized I didn't remember my name.
"I don't know," I finally replied, heavy in depression.
"It's alright, son," he comforted my hand, "It'll come back to you eventually. Here have some of this."
He then handed me a flask of water which I drank down in a heartbeat, my throat relishing the familiar feeling. It was warm, and had a slight taste of sand. I didn't care though; it best tasted water I ever had. He quickly stayed my hand, which was probably a good thing since I would've probably choked on it.
"Whoa, easy there son. You just survived being shot twice; I don't think you want to die from drowning!"
"I got shot twice?"I asked, slightly surprised.
"Yeah two right next to each other."
It was at this that I finally felt the bandages. They were wrapped around my head and down over my left eye. My hand felt them, trembling. Yet, the feeling of only one side of vision somehow did not feel surprising. How and why?
"I need to ask you something," the Old Man's voice broke my sudden moment of confusion and despair, "when I start fixin' you up, I found that…"
"What?"
His eyes drifted over the entire stretch of my body. I didn't know why, and it began to terrify me. Finally he asked.
"What happened to your left eye?"
"Why do you…?"
"The bullet didn't destroy it. Near as I can tell, something else already did that for you. Do you remember?"
At first, I knew nothing. Then something seized my mind: memories of pain. A tidal wave poured over my senses, drowning me in its boiling waters as the current began to drag me down. I started to scream!
"Easy, easy! Come back to me kid! It's alright!"
Then my mind's eye focused on something specific. It was a figure; big as a mountain that covered me in its shadow. I couldn't make him out though it, he was took dark and it seemed like he was in motion. Suddenly, the side of my head was seized by a giant hand, its thumb set against my eye. I was hoisted above the ground, I could feel my feet dangling.
Then the hand spoke:
"It shall be paid in blood… Gideon."
Then the side of my head was lit aflame. The pain was too much; I gripped the sides of the bed in a frenzy. I tried to scream, but it was as though my voice had lost its power. I did however feel a needle jam into my arm. A soothing aurora soon came over my battered body, and mind. A minute later, I blacked out.
"Well, your motor functions and mindset are surprisingly well developed."
I laughed at this.
"So I got doubled tapped and I'm still able speak like a human being?"
"Yeah, you're probably the luckiest son of a gun who ever lived, and it seems your sense of humor hasn't been affected either," the older man said with a chuckle, then it softened, "what did you see, kid?"
"Gideon. I think my name is Gideon."
"Gideon, eh?" he asked with a smile, "An odd name, but this is good news. But what did you see?"
"Pain," I replied softly, almost as if I was in shock, "nothing but pain… suffering… and death. The memory… it felt so real… it felt as though it was going to drown me."
"Easy, don't go back just yet. Focus your mind. Clear it," he ordered gently, placing his hand on my arm to ease me back to reality, "now, let's see if we can get you back on your feet."
At that, my body instinctively slid off the table, but I immediately slammed into the hard floor with a loud thump. The doctor reached down and started to pull me to my feet, but I brushed away his hand. I grabbed hold of the operating table, and wrenched myself up with all my might until I was standing on my own two feet. Minutes passed, and eventually I managed a painful hobble, with Doc close behind with his hand on my shoulder
"Take it slow now! It ain't a race!"
I couldn't help but laugh. I sure as hell wasn't going to outrun anybody. For over an hour, we walked the length of the room, over and over until I could eventually walk with my own two feet. Albeit slowly. Then, Doc helped me into a chair in front of what I could only describe it as an old Arcade machine.
"This is a Vigor Tester Machine. It'll help see what your faculties are and such."
He then removed a series of medical pads attached by radiotransparent wires, and placed them throughout my body.
"Now just close your eyes… eye… and just relax. Just let the machine do its thing."
And so I did. I felt a sudden rush of electricity running through my veins. Minutes passed, and through my eyelid I could see a series of fast flashing lights moving continuously. Finally, the energy abated, and I opened my eye. It was all black, except for this smiling boy who stood at the center of screen and was giving me a thumbs up.
"Vault Boy," I commented with a smile. Then a long slot of paper slowly printed out, its contents out of focus. Almost methodically, Doc removed the paper and silently began to read. But it did not hide the results. I could see the expressions hidden away on his face; the raising of the eyebrows and perking of the lips. All in all, he was amazed.
"You ever hear the acronym SPECIAL?" he asked. I shook my head. He elaborated.
"Now, there is a lot of medical history I'll need to go over, but here is the most important. Your baseline is called SPECIAL or Strength, Perception, Endurance, Charisma, Intelligence, Agility and Luck."
He then tore off that section of the paper and handed it to me, then departed the room. I looked over its contents, my eyes tracing the words carefully. Slowly, they became clear to me. Each characteristic had a printed number; my guess was out of ten. Underneath this was a sort explanation, a summery if you will. This in particular I observed with the keenest interest.
Strength marked 6: subject appears to be in fit physical condition. Casual manner however is noted. Subject also appears to have gained such skill through previous studies hard labor, calisthenics and/or government training.
I nodded, the familiarity of the answer seemed right to me.
Perception marked 4: subject should be noted to have 20/20 vision in right eye. However, left eye is missing.
"No shit."
Endurance marked 7: subject's recorded pain tolerance is astounding. Physical conditioning also at a fit level. Please note; subject is reasoned to have had close combat and/or traumatic experiences.
"No doubt."
Charisma marked 6: subject's leadership knowledge is rated experienced. The subject also appears to have a natural personality that is also regarded as attractive and favorable.
"You mean I have a sense of humor?"
Intelligence marked 7: subjects IQ is rated 133. In addition, subject appears to have a photographic physical and mental memory. Error: brain trauma is however detected on the explicit memory lobe. Please advise.
The only things I truly cared for was the brain damage. I'm not a brain surgeon so I didn't know anything really. I did know three things: I was alive, I wasn't a vegetable but I didn't walk away unscathed. Great.
Agility marked 4; while subject is marked for exceptional physical ability, analyses conclude that both build and previous injuries have affected natural agility.
Previous injuries did make me wonder. What the hell had I gone through before?
Luck marked 6; subject survived a massive trauma to the forehead that has a 97% percent fatality statistic.
"So I survived being shot in the head?"
I had to laugh. Then Doc returned almost right after.
"As your doctor, I'd rate you as the luckiest piece of oak I have ever met."
"Well, it's either luck or some kind of divine providence."
"Ha! Well it's either one or the other! Can't have both!"
"Ah damn."
Then unconsciously, I reached my hand over the bandage feeling wounds on the left side of my forehead.
"You know only one of those rounds actually went through." the doctor stated calmly.
"Where did it end up?" I asked, remembering what it had said about my injury.
"Well the second hit you right through the left eye socket but got sent sideways when it hit bone. The first one though… that one got lodged in your frontal lobe, but it only damaged the spot where you keep explicit memory…"
"My what?"
"It's your life's memory, your childhood and such. I managed to get in there and get the bullet out, but I'm afraid it may have taken something out with it. Can you remember anything back in your childhood?"
I tried to think back, back some 24 years prior, to a time when I was a young lad of about 7 and I was… I was… Goddamn it.
"Come to think of it," I sighed, sitting down on the surgery table with a groan of despair, "I only remember bits and pieces of it all."
"Gideon," Doc Mitchell started, taking a seat in front of me, "I know what it feels like to have something taken away from you. To have your life's meaning ripped from you, but you cannot let that stop you. You have to keep pushing ahead, and hold onto the thing that'll keep you from burning yourself up. Eventually, you'll regain what you lost."
I turned to him, a sense of mission donning upon me: "What saved you from losing your way?"
"Love."
He then sat up, stretching his arms out then reaching over to a music sheet stand. He then pulled out a folder and sat back down. I shot him the 'do we have to do this?' look. He then chuckled darkly.
"Just need to see if your faculties are still up and running. And we need to go over your apparent medical history. Now let's begin…"
I had been confined to the house for two days more. Largely to run more tests on me and to make sure I could go out on my own without having some kind of a heart attack. Here though, I was looking long and hard into the fractured mirror in front of me. The face that stared back at me was… well, not my own. Maybe it never had been.
I looked at the untidy mop of black hair that flop above and slightly over the bandages. I had a heavy set jaw and check bones, the lower half of my face needed a good shaving. But when I looked into the eye… my eye… I did not recognize it. Hidden in the hazel pupil, I saw a cold and emotionless expression. Within, the flood of agony began to rush against the barriers of my mind; yet the expression did not change.
I then reached up and touched the bandage covering my forehead. Then my eyes met again. It was then I understood.
"We're not going to make any more mistakes," I said to my reflection, they eyes never once shifting, "Not any more. We're going to get the bastard who took our life. Who robbed us of our identity."
At last I tore my gaze from the mirror and began to don my older clothing which had been wrapped in a cloth wrap. I pulled out the dark brown jacket over my t-shirt, followed by the tan work pants. Then came the black steel toed combat boots. Then as I reached for the brown boonie hat, I felt something heavy in the cloth. I fully unwrapped it to see what was there.
The first was the shoulder holster. I felt the smooth brown fabrics, its feel familiar over my fingertips. Then I pulled the pistol out, and hefted in both of my hands. It was a 9mm Browning Hi-Power, which looked as though it had seen plenty of action before. It felt comfortable in either hand, its cold steel a familiar comfort as I checked the barrel, then locked and loaded it.
I placed it back in its holster and set it to the side. Then I looked at the pistol belt. It had multiple pouches. One contained a medical pouch; another for a canteen on the back. A larger, longer one held a twin of rope. The rest were for magazines. I had a total of six.
Two contained 13 rounds of 9mm's. The others though were for .45's. At the right side of the belt was a clip for an attached holster, of which was missing. Well then, where had it gone? I shrug it off, eventually searching the last bag and I finding a leather bag full of clinking bottlecaps.
Well at least I wasn't broke.
"Well now what do we have here?"
It was a knife sheath. At this I stop and stared at it for a time. Then I drew it in a smooth, honed motion and stared at the blade. It was a venerable, but well honed eight inch combat knife with a sharp clip point. The hilt was well padded and made of worn leather, but was still in good condition. I felt its sharpness, its excellent balance. There was writing engraved upon it too: Latin. Si vis pacem, para bellum…
"If you want peace, prepare for war."
I knew the quote all too well. Memories began to filter into my consciousness. An old man skinning a coyote, a little girl bleeding and screaming, a red flash of anger, a crimsoned blade… I looked at it one more time, seeing my reflection in the blade. I shook my head, and attached the scabbard onto my right boot.
After this I donned the hat and pulled on a pair of sand goggles. I then wrapped my gray shemagh scarf around my neck. It was still the Mojave after all. I moved into the hallway and found Doc Mitchell waiting for me.
"You also had this on you."
He then handed me a leather notebook, with yellow sheets of paper sticking out from it. As I took it, almost by touch I knew what it was. As I opened it up, the first thing I found was a hastily stamped MOJAVE EXPRESS COURIER. Moving further, past the many dozens of pages which were jotted down with past delivery information, I came across what I was looking for. There I was, about two years younger, but there it was.
There was a grainy picture located in the upper right corner. I looked about the same, except I had two eyes then. One was hazel, but the other was gray pupil and blind. Then my gaze rolled down to the handwritten information. It was my handwriting. I then began to read it slowly and carefully:
GIDEON MADDOX, DOB: FEB. 28, 2246, POB: BILLINGS, MONTANA
CURRENT OCCUPATION: MOJAVE EXPRESS PRIMM
PREVIOUS OCCUPATION: INDEPENDENT
COURIER RATING: EXPERIENCED
DATE ADMITTED: OCT. 13TH, 2279
"My name is Gabriel Maddox," I said with relief, and began saying it over and over as in a trance. Then my eyes moved up to Doc, who stood across from me with his arms folded. I then fixed him with an interrogative stare:
"Did you know?"
"Why wouldn't I have Gideon? It was the first thing I looked at when I stabilized you. But I needed to know if you could remember on your own."
"I understand, Doc. Thank you for patching me up."
"There's one other thing."
He then pulled out a folded note and handed it to me. As I read it over, I realized what it was. It was my current Courier contract. As I read over it, the memory of my death appeared like a flash in my mind. I breathed in deeply, and slowly the searing pain went away. When it did, I knew where I had to go: Primm.
"Gideon," Mitchell said interrupting my thoughts, "When venturing out on revenge, dig two graves."
"I'll only need one." I replied darkly.
Doc Mitchell nodded, understanding. He then reached into a cabinet and pulled out a battered metal gadget, one that I had no idea what it was supposed to do. Then that's when I saw the "Vault-Tec" painted on its side. Mitchell then grabbed my left arm and attached it onto my limb.
"It's a pipboy," Doc Mitchell explained, "I grew up in one of them vaults they made before the war. We all got one."
I remembered that Vaults were pre-war underground shelters. There should be atleast 4 or 5 in this area.
"How's it worked?"
"Here I'll show you…"
A minute passed. As I was heading out, Doc called from behind me;"Hey Gideon, before you go, talk to Sunny Smiles. She might be able to re-teach a thing or two to you. Also, talk to Trudy, she always likes to see new faces. And lastly, keep a lookout for a metal feller named Victor; he's the one who dug you out."
"Right, so look for Sunny Smiles, Trudy and a robot?"
"Yeah, he's built like a giant pre-war television with wheels. Should be easy to spot."
Right, now I've experienced everything. I then shook hands with the old man, who respectfully requested I wouldn't get shot again. That was something I just couldn't guarantee. But I answered his request with a smile, and nodded. He then turned and walked back into the confounds of his home, and as he walked out of sight I myself turned and walked to the door.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my old pair of shades and covered my eyes. I took a long breath and finally rested my hands on the doorknob. I slowly opened it letting the bright morning light seep on through the gab, chasing away the shadows of that dreary home. Even with my shades on the light was still intense, but I shook it off and moved on through the doorway… and took my first step into the Mojave Desert.
