Note: I do not own Trigun / Vash "the Stampede": he belongs to the incomparable Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow.
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WARNING: This chapter contains some seriously intense content, which makes it borderline between a "teen" rating or a "mature."
It includes references to how Vash may have been given some of his scars. No precise details are offered, but there is enough information to give a general idea of what he might have suffered.
If subject matter about "man's inhumanity toward man" is not a thing you wish to read, then please feel free to skip over this chapter and continue with Chapter 3. None of the other chapters contain such intense / dark content as this one does.
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"Broken Memories"
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Chapter 2: Last Known
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Date: Star year 0064
Location: Tonim Town and surrounding areas
He'd been thinking about how being a Plant came with both advantages and disadvantages. His senses were slightly keener than those of an ordinary human. His metabolism worked more swiftly, which meant that he healed faster and that he must work much harder to get truly drunk... and that he recovered from any drunkenness far more quickly (except for the headache and nausea). However, it also meant that he needed food and water oftener. Especially water.
He received some strength from sunlight and from fresh air, allowing him to endure when food was scarce, but his need for water slightly exceeded that of ordinary humans. Whether humans knew it or not, he was well aware that alcohol did not assist when one was in need of hydration. Water, juice or even milk was better.
In private, he sometimes chose milk over other beverages for its nutritional values. However, he grew weary of other men's insults, and sometimes even attacks, when he drank it in public. If he really needed hydration, though, and nothing wetter was available, he'd drink milk (even in public) and ignore the embarrassment as best he could. If hecklers insisted on escalating the situation into a fight, he'd dodge and run.
Food could be processed into small tablets or wafers that gave a body (either ordinary human or Plant) all the nutrients that were necessary for life. Such tablets or wafers might not do much for the palate or the digestive system, but they kept one's body functional at need. Water, however, could not be condensed so conveniently. Water had weight and bulk, and there was no known method for reducing either. This created limits to how many filled canteens any one lone man could carry.
Vash had been walking for weeks, and his supply of water had nearly run out. He'd been forced to ration it, only allowing himself to drink the bare minimum he needed to survive... which was far less than he craved. The summer heat was making his lack of water even more difficult to bear.
He was weary, and he'd begun stumbling. So, instead of walking straight for Tonim, he'd detoured to a rock formation located about two hours' journey (on foot) from that town. He knew those rocks contained a moderate-sized cave. He'd hoped to rest in the cooler shelter of its shade through the worst heat of the day, and then resume his journey when the external air grew cooler. He could use some sleep, anyway. Recently, he hadn't rested well. Between that and the shortage of water, he was far more weary than usual.
Unfortunately, when he entered that cave, all thoughts of rest were completely driven away. Thirteen untidy bedrolls, scattered around the cavern, clearly indicated that someone else had found the place and was using it. Worse, there were four shapes in the back which strongly suggested someone in need of help.
Vash hurried to the back of the cave, and then gasped and wept at what he saw.
"Oh no," he said softly.
A woman and three young children, all of whom were badly bruised from head to toe and even showed some open wounds, were lying on the ground. None of them was covered by as much as a single thread. Their hands were tied over their heads to metal spikes that had been driven into the cave's floor. Two more spikes were used to anchor ropes and bind the woman's ankles wide. The types of injuries that could be expected, from seeing how the woman was tied, were present in abundance... not only on her, but also on all three children.
Vash carefully began checking for their pulses, or any other signs of life. In his heart was a wordless silent prayer for their well-being. Sadly, for most of them, he came too late.
Three of the four were dead: the woman, a girl of about six or seven, and the boy who looked about five. The summer heat had prevented their bodies from cooling much, but that process had progressed far enough to be easily detectable to him.
Only the smaller girl, who looked about four, was still breathing shallowly. Her pulse was faint. She didn't react when he tried to wake her. He put down his bag, arranging it so that it was within his reach but not touching her.
With tears streaming down his cheeks, Vash quickly moved to the nearest bedroll and snatched a blanket. He shook it out, snapping it hard, to make it as clean as possible. He returned to the young survivor's side.
He untied the poor child's hands. She whimpered softly as he lifted her just enough to pass the blanket underneath her. He fished the too-nearly-empty canteen out of his bag. He gently, yet swiftly, washed most of her worst injuries using the smallest possible amounts of water from his canteen and a piece of clean bandaging. He spoke soothingly to her as he worked.
He wept whenever she winced or cried out as he washed her. He could not bring himself to touch her where she had been the most severely abused. She had already received far too much contact there, from those who attacked her. He would let the doctors care for her more completely. He cast aside the piece of dampened bandage he'd used to wash her, which was no longer clean. He began pulling out rolls of clean bandaging from one of his coat's pockets.
Tears continued trickling down his face as he carefully applied strips of clean bandaging everywhere she was injured (including where he hadn't washed her). Then he tenderly wrapped her in the blanket, as one might wrap a newborn. Only her small, bruised face remained uncovered.
He gently eased her back onto the ground, and then quickly fetched another blanket. He used that second blanket to cover the three dead bodies. He wanted to do more for them, and he wanted to do something about the &*$#*^%s who had hurt her and the others. For the moment, however, his priority must be the survivor. If the townsfolk weren't coming to tend the dead and their killers by the time he left town, he would return here to bury the dead... and do something about their murderers.
He set aside the rage that threatened to take control when he thought of the ones who had attacked the woman and children, and returned to the surviving girl's side and knelt there. He gently lifted the child's upper body and cradled her in his left arm. Even with all his care, she whimpered again at the contact. He spoke soothingly to her again, and trickled a little of his precious remaining water into her mouth. She swallowed with difficulty, but drank all that he dared to offer her.
He knew that if anyone drank too much too quickly, when badly dehydrated (as seemed likely with his small patient, given all the other, more obvious, abuses she had suffered), it could sometimes harm instead of helping. So he was careful to give her only a little to drink. If her body didn't reject that, he could give more to her later.
He took only a small sip for himself before he closed the canteen, and returned it to his bag. The canteen had been low when he found her. After washing her and giving her a drink, it was nearly empty.
Without moving her, he carefully tied the drawstring of his bag into a loop, and slid that loop onto his right shoulder. Then he lifted the child in both of his arms. He lurched back to his feet, and turned toward the opening of the cave. Thankfully, none of its denizens had yet returned.
His weary muscles protested as he walked through the dry, slippery sands toward the town. He tried to walk carefully, mindful of the fragile burden he held in his arms. She was so weak! He tried to walk as smoothly as possible, to avoid jostling her and causing her any further pain. Yet his muscles threatened to rebel. His knees felt rubbery. He had to tread carefully, so that he did not stumble. His arm ached, and felt equally in danger of giving out as his legs did.
This child needed help, soon. He couldn't afford to wait until the suns set, when the air and the sands would be cooler. He needed to get her to town as swiftly as possible.
He prayed silently that neither arm nor legs would fail, for the child's sake.
His tears streamed unchecked, blurring the landscape. He knew that crying would dehydrate him further, but he couldn't make himself stop. When he thought of the poor child in his arms, and all that she had suffered at such a very young age... it made him cry harder.
Although the type of abuse had been different, its severity rivaled what had killed Tessla.
He blinked to clear his eyes of tears, and continued staggering toward the town. With nothing but his own determination to aid him, he slogged through the sand and made the best pace he could. Step by weary step, he worked his way toward Tonim.
He was occasionally compelled to pause and wet his mouth from his canteen. He also gave her a sip, each time he stopped. The water ran out before they reached the outskirts of the town.
Although the rocks were only about two hours' journey from the town if one walked briskly, he was unable to walk briskly. His weary footsteps moved more slowly. It took him nearly five hours, weary and burdened as he was, to reach the town.
Those were among the longest hours he had ever experienced, prior to that day.
When he finally reached the town, he approached the first person he saw.
"She's hurt," he said hoarsely. "Where's a doctor?"
"That way," the woman said, pointing. "Turn right after the saloon. There's a clinic about four buildings down that street, on the left."
"Thanks!" he said.
He wanted to run, but he feared that his leg muscles could not be trusted. He tried to walk faster. At least, there in the town, the streets were firm and reasonably flat. He followed the townswoman's directions and found the clinic.
"Help - emergency!" he said hoarsely to the nurse at the desk.
"What's the emergency?" the obviously bored nurse said. She was reading, and did not look up from her book when she spoke to him.
Seeing a water dispenser and disposable cups within reach, he quickly rested the child's lower body against the counter top and helped himself to a sip of the life-giving liquid. Satisfied that the taste yielded no cause for alarm, he gently pried the child's lips open and began slowly trickling water into her mouth.
"Please," he said, only slightly less hoarsely, "I found this child. She's hurt... help her!"
The nurse stood, and looked at the child. Her eyes widened when she saw the small bruised face.
"This way," she said firmly. She turned and walked through a door into a hallway.
He saw about one swallow's worth of water remaining in the cup. He downed it, threw away the empty water cup, and then followed the nurse toward an examination room.
"She needs more than bandages," he said, sadly, as they walked.
"We'll see about that," the nurse said frostily.
Perhaps the nurse hadn't liked having her reading interrupted. If so, he couldn't bring himself to care about that. The child's needs were far more urgent than the nurse's learning how the next paragraph in her book ended.
Where was the love for this poor, hurt child? Fresh tears welled up in his eyes at that thought.
When they entered the examination room, Vash obeyed her preemptory gesture and gently placed the child on the padded diagnostic table. He stepped back, compelled to lean against the wall. His body was beginning to tremble from being pushed so hard. Tears continued trickling down his face.
The nurse began unwrapping the blanket from around the little girl, who whimpered again.
When she saw the poor child more fully, the nurse snapped, "You get out of this room, now!"
"Okay," Vash said, puzzled by her sudden anger. "Please, take care of her. She didn't deserve this."
He staggered through the doorway, and then stumbled. Behind him, he could hear the nurse shouting for assistance. Her words began blurring together in his mind as more tears flowed. He pushed himself up (by leaning on the wall), and began slowly working his way back toward the front of the clinic.
He hadn't gotten very far before two burly men had roughly taken hold of his arms.
"What kind of a &*$#*^% are you?" one of them said. "Worried your plaything won't survive, so you can't have any more fun with her?"
"No!" Vash said, startled, "It's not like that at all! I found her, by a dead woman and two dead children, in a cave about two hours' foot-travel to the southwest. There were thirteen bedrolls, but no attackers."
"Yeah, sure you did," the other said in a threatening tone. "We'll just see what the Sheriff has to say about this..."
"Please, take care of her," Vash said wearily. "That's all that matters."
"Oh, we will... and we will also 'take care' of you."
He had prior experience with that tone of voice. He knew that he wouldn't enjoy what followed. However, his imagination had not anticipated the severity of their reactions. From the mistaken notion that he had been the one (or at least among the ones) who had harmed that poor child, they began to punish him with a level of cruelty that rivaled what had befallen the little girl.
They shouted questions at him, but Vash didn't know any answers. He continued trying to tell them that he'd only found the girl. He had discovered her by the dead bodies of three others who had been abused to death. He had only found her and then brought her to town, hoping they would give her the medical care that she needed.
It had taken all of Vash's remaining strength to contain his emotions, so that Knives would not sense anything of what was happening to him. If Knives ever sensed or suspected what was happening, he would come and slaughter everyone in the entire town without mercy... not just the ones who were hurting him. Knives would even kill that little girl whom Vash had labored to save.
Because of channeling all of his willpower into guarding his emotions, Vash had no energy that he could spend to resist when their methods caused screams to be wrenched from his throat.
They beat him, burned him, and cut at him, until he passed out. When he awoke, others were there to drag him off and do the same things again. And again. And again.
Vash lost all count of how much time was passing, while chained in that underground place. Its window was too small for him to see or feel the sunlight. He could tell if it was day or night, but not if it was the same day when he'd last passed out, or another.
When he lost consciousness and collapsed, they would unchain his wrists from the ceiling, re-chain his wrists together, wrap him in a sheet, and then throw him onto a bench in a small cell. Later, when they returned, they would tear the sheet off of him before dragging him out, swapping the chains, and starting at him again. He began to fake passing out, so that he could unwrap the sheet before his injuries bled into it and began to congeal.
Unfortunately, he couldn't quite prevent himself from groaning when he awoke. Thus, they always knew when he'd regained consciousness. With that one involuntary sound, he ended his own reprieve. They did not always wait for him to wake on his own.
Sometimes when he first awakened, before they started making him scream again, he managed to get out a question or two.
"Did you find the cave? The others who died should be buried... Aaaaaaah!"
"Did anyone try to catch the attackers? If nobody stops them, they might hurt someone else... Aaaaaaaaaaah!"
They never answered any of his concerns. After Vash was certain he'd tried asking every deputy he'd seen, he stopped.
It must have been at least four days later, because he recalled four times when it was night-dark, before he began hearing screams and groans from others besides himself. The moans and groans might come from other bunks within the same cell, or from another cell nearby. More prisoners resulted in fewer men giving him their undivided attention, which was a relief. He couldn't tell, not for certain, if the periods of time when he was left unconscious grew longer. He suspected they might have.
He tried again to feign unconsciousness, to gain longer periods of rest. He would need his strength, when he found (or made) an opportunity to escape.
Unfortunately, even if they didn't see signs of consciousness, they would come and drag him off for more torture regularly. He gained a little time here, and a little time there, but it wasn't enough. He was losing ground physically, but he was far too well guarded to achieve escape. Yet.
He found it mildly surprising that they had never touched his face. He wondered about that, a few times. However, the combination of his weakened state, his exhaustion, and the need to keep his emotions and pain from reaching a volume level that Knives could "hear," prevented him from doing much thinking about other things.
More days and nights passed, filled with his own screams and those of others. He was given barely enough water to survive, along with very small bits of the foulest-tasting nutritional supplements in existence. It was enough to prevent his death, but not enough for true nourishment. He continued growing weaker, and not only from his wounds.
There was not yet any opportunity to attempt a quiet escape. A noisy escape was highly likely to fail. There were too many, and they were too careful. He resigned himself to endure the pain, patiently, until that changed.
Eventually, a day came when a reasonably clean shirt and trousers were put onto him. Before that, his captors had not even permitted him the dignity of underwear. They dragged him out of the jail and through the streets in his ill-fitting borrowed clothes. He was taken into a building, down hallways, and finally into a room.
He had become so weak that he could neither stand nor raise his head without assistance.
Someone took a fistful of his hair, and yanked his head up.
His eyes were blurry, from lack of sleep and from unshed tears caused by physical pain and weakness. He had to blink a few times before he could see reasonably clearly.
On a chair in front of him sat a woman holding a small girl. She held the child on her lap, with several thick towels between the girl's body and her lap. The girl's face and hands, the only parts of her body that were visible, showed many fading bruises.
The woman's face was similar to the girl's, suggesting a relative. Both had round faces and dark hair, with medium grayish eyes. It was difficult to tell, since she was sitting down, but it appeared as if the woman might be shorter than average. If so, he didn't know if she simply wasn't tall or if she was young and not yet grown into her full height.
As Vash recognized the little girl, he whispered, "Thank God you're better... ugh!"
The fierce punch to his gut would have doubled him over, if not for the fist still holding his head upright by his hair.
"Nobody gave you permission to talk, dirt bag," a threatening voice said in his ear.
Vash was silent. He tried to smile at the woman and child. His physical pain, and the mental strain to contain his emotions, took so much out of him... He had little left to use on reshaping his face into a smile for their benefit. He was sincere in his effort to smile, though he suspected that effort had imperfect results.
The little girl reacted much as any bashful child might, except for how tightly she and the woman held on to each other.
"Well, Meredith?" one of the deputies asked.
The woman shook her head.
Vash's pain-fogged mind slowly began to understand what was happening. They were trying to help the child identify her attackers. They had brought him before her as a suspect. That explained why his face was untouched. They had wanted him to remain recognizable, for this visit.
"Are you sure?" the other deputy said.
She looked thoughtful, and then she looked down at the little girl. She kissed the child's hair, and then looked back toward Vash and the deputies.
"I'm sure," she said softly. "She's not reacting to him like she did to the others."
They took him away, back to the jail. He considered attempting to escape, but he was simply not strong enough. Besides, there were too many townsfolk in the streets, including children. He knew he would fail, and other children might be hurt. So he allowed himself to be taken back to the jail without resisting. They tore off the clothes they had put on him, and put his wrists back into the suspended chains. He was beaten to unconsciousness again, but at least that time they didn't burn him or cut him as much.
To his surprise, sometimes when he awoke after that, they left him alone. He had become so weak that he was wavering in and out of consciousness, even without the torture.
He was frequently wakened when someone else was screaming, or when the deputies dragged someone else into or out of a cell to the torture room. He always noticed when a cellmate was brought or taken, but also sometimes when it was someone in a neighboring cell. He noticed at least five others being dragged out of the jail as he had been, or else when they were brought back. Sometimes he noticed when the deputies walked past without dragging anyone between them.
Of course, he always noticed when they dragged him off to continue "taking care of him." Though he received less attention than formerly, they still beat, burned and cut his body with alarming regularity and thoroughness.
He was unable to regain enough strength to make any progress toward an escape... yet. As long as they wished to continue tormenting him, he didn't need to fear an execution.
Several days later, he was again taken before the woman and the recovering little girl. Her bruises were continuing to fade. Under the fading bruises, her skin was pale.
Again, the little girl looked bashful when she saw him.
"Do either of you know him?" one deputy asked.
Meredith whispered in the little girl's ear. Vash could hear her, though he knew her words were not intended for his ears.
"Meg, sweetie," Meredith whispered, "Do you know this man?"
Little Meg shook her head and buried her face against Meredith's shoulder.
Meredith looked up at the deputies and shook her head.
"All right," the deputy said gruffly. "Come on."
They dragged Vash back to the jail, grumbling.
"Kid doesn't remember you," one of the deputies said, as they locked Vash into a small single-occupant cell (after stripping him again). "She ain't backing your claim that you rescued her."
"How could she?" Vash said breathlessly, as he lay in (slightly exaggerated) weakness on the floor. "She was ... unconscious ... when I found her. She never ... woke up ... while I had her."
"Hmmph," the deputy said angrily.
He stood at the door while the other went and returned. Then, wordlessly, he unlocked the cell door just long enough for his fellow to throw in Vash's bag and set a bucket of water on the floor by the door.
"Thank you," Vash said sincerely.
The men only glared at him, and then walked away.
Vash crawled over to the bucket and examined the water. Satisfied that it showed no detectable signs of either significant impurities or poison, he drank a little. After that, he carefully scooted the bucket over to the bench that doubled as a bed. It felt farther than it was, mostly because of his weakened, malnourished condition. The pain from his many injuries exacerbated his exhaustion. He crawled back to drag his bag to the same place as the bucket.
Then he spent a very long time washing and bandaging himself, because he had to pause and rest so often during the process. Some of those pauses were for the benefit of deputies patrolling the hall outside his cell, but not all. He wrung out the dirty bandage scraps over the floor, or over himself (instead of the bucket), and cut fresh bits of bandaging to continue washing himself instead of re-immersing the dirty ones. He drank more clean water as he worked.
After applying bandages, he put on clothes. He drank more water, and then used most of the remaining water to refill his canteen. He put the lid on the canteen, and twisted it until it fit tightly. He put the canteen back in his bag, pulled the drawstring to close the mouth of his bag, and then crawled onto the bench. He lay there, awake but almost too exhausted to move except for breathing. He lay quietly and watched, through his cell's tiny window, as the sunlight began to fade from the sky outside. He couldn't help wincing every time he heard someone scream.
Just after dark, Meredith came. She stood outside of his cell, peering in and looking uncomfortable. She was indeed unusually short. But she didn't seem quite young enough to be so short only because she had not yet grown into her full height.
Vash managed to stand, briefly, by bracing himself with one hand against the wall. He stayed on his feet just long enough to nod politely. Then his knees gave way, and he half fell, half sat, back on the bench. He sagged backwards against the wall, hoping to drive home to another witness the idea that he was too weak to be any trouble. It wasn't entirely feigning, for he also hoped to avoid falling over until after she'd finished her visit.
He pushed aside feelings of frustration. He needed to rest and regain his strength, not spend what little strength he had on social pleasantries. Perhaps her visit would be brief.
The deputies passed by, dragging a prisoner toward the "interrogation" room. Vash couldn't help following their movements with his eyes. When they were out of sight, Meredith spoke.
"They tell me you're the one who brought little Meg back, and insisted that she get medical help," she said. "Is that true?"
"Yes," Vash replied. His voice felt raspy, but didn't sound as bad as it felt.
"Thank you," she said warmly.
"You're welcome," he said, blushing at the warmth in her voice, "though anyone else would do the same."
"Some would have run away," she said, "from being afraid of meeting the ones who hurt her." She paused, and then added more softly... and with a sideways glance, "Or they might run away from being afraid of how the local deputies might react."
"Did they catch the ones who hurt her?" Vash asked anxiously. "Others might get hurt, too, if those ... 'people' ... aren't caught."
"Most of them," she said. "Nine other suspects have been captured, and identified by Meg. But there were thirteen bedrolls. The Sheriff and deputies have taken turns waiting, so that the cave has never been unguarded since you brought Meg back. But nobody else has come near there. The other... four... might have realized something around the cave has changed, and left the area."
He could hear the clank and rattle of chains echoing up the hallway. He knew what that meant, but forced himself to focus his attention on his visitor. At the current moment, there was absolutely nothing he could do about the deputies' plans.
"Have they buried the others who were hurt, but didn't survive?" he said.
"They have," she said, her voice breaking. She cleared her throat and continued, "My sister, son and eldest daughter are all resting peacefully in the graveyard now. We had their funerals two weeks ago, after the coroner had learned everything she could from their bodies."
"I'm sorry," Vash said sincerely, as a tear spilled down his cheek. "I wish I could have arrived sooner and prevented it, or at least helped the others..."
She wiped a tear off her face, and then looked perplexed. "I heard the local 'lawmen' haven't exactly been gentle with you," she said, sounding confused. "Yet you sit there and say to me that you're sorry?"
Both winced as a scream was heard echoing from farther down the hallway.
"I can't blame them for being angry," Vash said softly. "If none had survived, I would have buried their bodies and then stayed by the cave and waited for the ones who did it."
He closed his eyes. His tone grew grim as his brows drew down into a frown. "I don't know if I would have been much gentler with them than the deputies have been with me. I hope that I would have brought them to the sheriff's office, but..."
Another scream echoed through the jail, interrupting his thoughts and causing his eyes to snap open again.
She quickly glanced in both directions, and then leaned forward until her face pressed against the bars. She was careful to keep her white blouse from touching the filthy bars.
"The deputies are still not convinced of your innocence," she said softly. "There has been talk of turning you loose, but then shooting you as 'an escaped prisoner'."
Vash looked at her more closely. "It almost sounds," he said slowly, "like you might believe me?"
"The deputies have shown a different suspect to Meg every other day," Meredith said, looking away from him, "ever since the doctors said she had recovered enough. The lawmen want her to identify her attackers. She won't speak of what happened, beyond saying that 'bad men hurt her.' But we know who they are, because she immediately has a physical reaction... sometimes getting very sick... every time when she sees one of them."
"The poor child," Vash said, beginning to cry harder. "She shouldn't have to see them again, or at least not so soon!"
"I think they're trying to get it done," she said, "so we can all put it behind us."
Vash nodded silently, as tears continued streaming down his face.
"Meg asked me why they brought you, and not another 'bad man' who had hurt her," Meredith said softly. "She said that both times when they brought you. After this many days, she's grown almost accustomed to being forced to see them again. When she saw you, it confused her. She says you are not one of the ones who hurt her."
Vash tried to calm down, so he wouldn't be sobbing too hard to speak clearly.
"At least she knows I didn't do it," he said wearily.
Another, longer scream echoed through the jail.
Vash winced.
"If they aren't careful," he said sadly, "they'll become like the ones who hurt Meg."
Meredith looked solemn for a moment. Then she said, "I'll be right back."
She returned bearing a ring laden with keys. She began trying the keys in his cell door's lock. She was careful, as she experimented, to prevent them from clanking.
Vash sat and blinked at her while she tried the first two keys. His mind was partially numbed from all that he had experienced since entering that cave... apparently, weeks ago. However, he still managed to connect the dots, even if those connections came together excessively slowly compared to what was usual for him.
"No," he said softly.
She shouldn't risk angering these men, he thought. I don't like to imagine what they might do to her.
"I'm getting you out of here," she half-whispered tensely through her teeth. "I'm not interested in arguing about it."
"I've been on short rations," he said softly. "I'm too weak to stand, walk or run. Please, don't risk getting yourself into trouble. Not for me."
"Can you crawl?" she said sharply, while trying yet another key.
"Yes," he said slowly.
"That should do," she said, barely above a whisper, "provided that you crawl in a direction away from both the town and the cave."
"They'll see us," he said.
"No," she said. "Right now, they're all very busy working over some of the ones Meg recognized. The room where they do their dirty work is in the other direction, not between this cell and the way out."
She found the key that worked in his door, and opened it. He quickly drank the last of the water in the bucket, and picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. He tried twice to stand, but his knees betrayed him each time. He'd gone too long without enough food and water. He was simply too weak. He looked up at her, blushing.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I appreciate your effort, but..."
She pulled at his hand. "Lean on me, then," she said. "If I don't get you out of here, they may kill you. I don't mind them killing the others, but Meg thinks that you aren't part of the problem. I believe her."
He didn't like the idea of anyone being killed, but he was far too weak to do a thing about it anytime soon. Unfortunately, after seeing their handiwork, he thought that the ones who hurt the woman and children had earned their own deaths. He felt guilty for thinking and feeling like that. What would Rem think? However, none of that changed anything. He couldn't do anything about it, not today... or tomorrow. After that, it might be too late.
Besides, he still had a responsibility to deal with Knives. His brother would certainly kill far more than these deputies could, if someone didn't stop him. Sighing inwardly, Vash decided there was nothing to be gained by staying there... and possibly much to lose, pointlessly.
He was still concerned about Meredith's safety, but she had gotten the door open. If anyone came by, they would see her with him. The best thing he could do to protect her, now, was to get far away from this sheriff's office - as fast as possible.
"I'll need my gun," he said, barely above a whisper.
"It will be upstairs," she said, equally softly. "We'll get it on the way out. If we're quick enough, nobody will know anything until you're long gone."
Vash tried again. He discovered that once he was on his feet, if he locked his knees as he walked, he could manage by leaning on her only a little.
As she had predicted, there wasn't anyone between his cell and the upstairs office. Nor was there anyone in that office. She unlocked the gun cabinet and he helped her identify which was his gun. She gave his gun to him, relocked the cabinet, replaced the keys, and then helped him out of the office. Then she took him to a different edge of town from the one where he'd entered.
"If you go this way," she said, pointing east, "there's another town about a day and a half's journey. If you can make it that far, you should be free and clear. Then you can find a hotel, or something like that, where you can rest, eat, and recover."
"Thank you," he said, letting go of her shoulders to lean against a signpost. "You'd best get back to Meg. She will need you near, while she heals."
"I will," she said.
She turned and began walking up the street, but then she stopped and turned back.
"Wait," she said, hurrying back to where he was still standing propped against the signpost. "I don't even know your name."
"I'm just a Samaritan," he said, "who tried to do something good." He shrugged.
She shook her head. "I know that parable," she said. Then she sighed. "Okay, so you don't want to say your name, is that it? Well... I guess I can't blame you for not wanting your name entangled with this mess. All right, Mr. Samaritan, go away and keep your identity a secret. But take care of yourself, you hear?"
"I'll try," he said, and this time he managed a sunnier smile.
"You'd better," she said, and punched his arm. Then she turned and hurried away.
As he caught at the signpost, to avoid losing his balance and falling over, he was briefly amused... and even more grateful... that the feisty small woman had chanced to punch his left arm, instead of his right.
Watching her go away, leaving him alone again, was difficult. He glanced toward the vast, barren, lonely emptiness of the desert and sighed. He looked again toward her receding back, and watched until she was out of sight.
Vash took a deep breath, and experimentally tried standing without leaning on the signpost. He locked his knees again, and began carefully walking into the desert. It only worked for 38 steps. After that, he fell down. Then he was compelled to crawl.
And crawl he did, for approximately five hours. Then, in spite of his best efforts to resist the blackness gathering at the edges of his vision and continue crawling, he collapsed. Unconsciousness claimed him, and he knew no more.
.
.
Author's Note: Meg would be about 50 in the star year 110 (when the manga begins). She would be about 30 in star year 90 (when Meryl was born). Perhaps, around star year 84-87 or so, a dashing young Bernadelli insurance agent came along and swept young Meg off her feet. Perhaps they moved to somewhere in or near December after they married... and, because of that, there was a little more Stryfe on Gunsmoke... ;P