Charon

My programming swims in my head, fights with my love for her.

She's gone. Gone forever.

Virgil has the contract now. I serve him.

My legs feel like they're made of lead. I can see the silhouette of Wendy in the distance, a lantern in her hand. I do not want to go back. I do not want to see the bed we shared, to sleep in it again. I do not want to stay in this house anymore, this place, haunted with memories of her.

I can feel the heat slowly drain out of her body; think about all the times I'd curled up next to her, basking in her warmth.

I know why she did it. I know why she did it this way. Virgil had to help her – she couldn't have found that syringe on her own. It's the type we use for the Brahmin, something that she'd had him prepare for just this situation. She left nothing to chance.

She didn't want me to try to save her. If it happened at home, I would have been compelled to seize the medical supplies to attempt to save her, even if it meant hurting Virgil or Wendy to do so. Even if it meant her continuing on, in terrible pain.

I know It's selfish– but in pain or not, I want her back.

Virgil

Wendy doesn't ask questions – she knows from our expressions.

I instruct dad to lay mom on the ground next to her grave – the grave that she had us dig, about a month ago. He kneels at her side, and starts to stroke her hair.

Wendy and I go inside, and I retrieve the package that mom had put together when she got the diagnosis. She said to open it when she died, that the instructions would be there.

Inside we find a blue suit – a vault suit – with a bright yellow 101 on the back. In a small envelope is a hair tie with several bobby pins, a small hairbrush, and a letter.

My son,

If you're reading this, then I'm gone. I want to be buried in this suit – I emerged from the ground in it, it's only fitting that I return in it.

Give your father the envelope with the hair stuff in it – he'll know what to do.

A funeral isn't necessary for me – but funerals are for the living, not the dead. Try to get me in the ground as soon as you can – the more Charon has to see me, the worse he'll get.

Take care of him, Virgil. He depends on you.

We stare at the contents, silent. Wendy puts a hand on my shoulder, as dark spots drop onto the paper.

"I'll wash her and get her ready. Call my family on the radio and have them spread the news," says Wendy. I'm overwhelmed by her strength. She has grown to love my mother, almost as much as I do. I turn to her, and her jaw is set, her eyes focused. "I'll take care of her. Call them." She collects the package, the sheet off of mom and dad's bed, a washcloth, and a pail.

I sit at the radio, tune it to the right frequency, and after a short pause, I begin to call.

Charon

Wendy comes outside, sits a bundle on the ground, and fills a pail at the hand pump.

"I'm going to need your help." She says.

I lift her as Wendy undresses her. She cleans her with a wet washcloth, shaking her head briefly at the cut under Mallie's breast. "I'll need another washcloth." She says. She looks into my eyes. "Can you get one for me?"

I comply.

She takes the dry washcloth and stuffs it in the cut.

"Let's dress her."

She holds up the vault suit, and I reach out for it. She allows me to take it. I ball it up and nuzzle into it, breathing in Mallie's scent. It's old – it smells like it's been in storage for a long time – but it's still there. A faint ghost of her.

I open my eyes, and Wendy is looking at me, quiet, face stony and practical, wet trails down her cheeks. She touches my hand, gently pries the suit from my grasp. I lift Mallie, and Wendy dresses her. She's getting stiff, hard to move.

I hear a rustle behind me. Virgil.

"They'll spread the word. The funeral will be at ten."

Wendy nods at him, and hands me a small envelope. "This is for you."

I open it.

A hairbrush. Hair tie. Bobby pins.

It's almost as if no time has passed. I prop her up, and begin to brush her thick silver hair. In minutes, there's a tight bun at the nape of her neck, just as it was so many years ago. I slowly lower her to the ground, kneel beside her, and take her hand in mine.

Virgil

We stand back, transfixed, and watch Dad fix mom's hair.

I knew he liked to brush it – but she never put it up in a bun, nothing more than a quick ponytail when there was work to be done, and she wanted it out of her eyes.

I feel special; privileged to see such an intimate moment.

It would probably look bizarre to most people – an enormous ghoul tenderly brushing an old woman's hair, and fixing it for her, in a neat bun.

When he kneels next to her and takes her hand, my heart almost breaks. Sensing my fragility, Wendy leads me inside, to the couch. Like my mom and dad had done months ago, I curl up, head in her lap, and begin to weep, as she strokes my hair.

Wendy

Someone has to be strong for them. I'll cry later.

When Virgil falls asleep, I carefully rise, placing a throw pillow under his head, and covering him with a blanket.

I sit on the back porch, watching my in-laws.

This is a very strange family. Then again, I'm also a little strange. It's amazing how well I fit in here. I was fond of her, and given time, we could have been close friends. I only had a mother in law for a month. No – twenty four days. I knew that Virgil and Mal were planning something, but I didn't ask. She was in so much pain, I found it easier to turn my head away, turn a deaf ear. She knew I knew, and I'm sure she appreciated me not saying anything.

Charon is a puzzle, though. Such a big man – in a split second he could become swift and deadly – and yet, his whole family kept things from him to protect him. To protect his feelings. There's something that they aren't telling me, but in all honesty, I suspect that it's none of my business.

We'll make it. I'll get them through.

Charon

I don't know how long I've knelt here.

Holding her cold hand, staring at her placid face.

I hear Wendy on the back porch. Watching me.

I close my eyes, hang my head.

I wish I could cry, although, I doubt it would make me feel any better.

Footsteps on the porch, the back door opens. A minute later, it closes again.

There's a hand on my shoulder. Wendy.

"Go shoot something. You'll feel better." She says, hands me my shotgun.

I go.

I do.

Wendy

He heads for the hills.

He'll take out some of his frustration on radscorpions, hopefully enough to remain quiet for the funeral.

I walk over to Mal, crouch beside her. I look at her. I wonder about her life, her secrets.

The pain she carried inside.

I wonder if she had any regrets.

"I wish I could've got to know you better, mom." I say, touching her shoulder.

I sit, knees to my chest, as tears stream down my face, quiet sobs wrack my throat.

I have to be strong. For them. They mustn't see me cry.

Charon returns shortly before sunrise, with gecko meat and his shotgun over his shoulder. I'd taken short naps on the porch, waiting for him, and guarding Mal, making sure no animals came for her.

I pat the seat of the chair beside me – a large one, specially made for him. He places his things in a neat little pile, and sits, obediently.

"Do you want to talk?" I ask.

I've never talked with him at length before. New territory.

He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, a lighter. He offers me one, and I refuse – I've never smoked, never cared much for it. I do like the smell, though. My dad smoked when I was little – it reminds me of him.

"How old are you, Wendy?"

"I'm nineteen. Same as Virgil." He smiles, shakes his head. "Nineteen going on forty. Thank you."

"For what?"

"Telling me to go."

"It's what you needed." We sit in silence for a minute, before my curiosity gets the best of me. "I don't know a lot about you…Dad." I say.

He smirks around his cigarette, glances at me. "What would you like to know?"

"Just…about you. And, of course, the burning question all of us have for ghouls…how old are you, really?"

"Well, lessee…I turned when I was twenty-four, found Mallie at about seventy-five, we've been together for about forty-five years. So, around a hundred and twenty."

"I was a soldier up in the Commonwealth. Made my way down to D.C. – that's where I met her. When we left, we were caravan guards for a while. When we found Virgil, we settled down here."

"Yeah, he told me about how you found him." He's silent for a few minutes. Then he murmurs, "I love her more than life itself."

My heart wrenches.

His hand shakes as he raises it to take a drag off his cigarette. His voice thickens. "I feel…empty."

I take his hand, and he squeezes it, painfully. His grief weighs heavy between us, almost palpable in the cool morning air. Gently, I say, "Go get dressed in your best. I'll wake up Virgil."

He rises, tosses his cigarette butt, and walks in the house, as if thankful for someone to give him direction.

I sigh, and then go in to wake Virgil and prepare for guests to arrive.