He breathed in the hot and dusty air, looking about the dark room. Eyes scanning it to make sure no one-or thing- had crept into the room while he was sleeping. From his hazy, half asleep state, it looked all clear.
The sun was shining through the cracks in the boarded up windows into the dark room. The dust danced in the air, the light making it look like something out of a fairy tale. Reality was, it more akin to a nightmare.
He stood with a groan, stretching out his back. It was always nice to find a run down house with a bed in it to throw his sleeping-bag over and sleep. He had long sense stopped caring about where he slept, but still found sleeping in a house to have some resemblance of civility. Another thing he'd long sense forgotten.
He got dressed rather quickly, shaking the dust and dirt from his torn and ragged clothing. Once they were black. He was sure of it. Now they were greyed and faded. His button up shirt torn on the sleeves and one small tear on the ribs. His jeans were stiff with dirt and sweat, as was all his clothes. Faded so far they nearly looked a dirty white. The knees tearing out of them, the fray around the waist and the ankles ripping. His boots were dried and well worn, sun-cracked. They too used to be black. Once.
He fastened his stiff holster, now brown with wear, onto his hips. The only-thing worth a single damn, of any value what-so-ever, was the pair of six shooters in the holsters. Well oiled. Polished silver with floral engravings. Ivory handles. They'd seen much, much use, but still maintained a shine. A gift from an old man.
He threw on a hard, cracked and torn leather duster. A corner missing out of the collar, and one of the sleeves torn. The ends of the duster were split almost all the way up the calf in some places. It kept the dust off him, though.
The next to last thing he did was strap on a large, green, military duffel-bag around his torso and onto his back. It was loaded with supplies, including the rolled up sleeping-bag. He slid his tattered and flimsy cowboy hat off the ruined dresser he'd laid it on last night. Beat the dust off it, thinking to himself that the hat used to be black too, now it was decrepit and brown. Dark stains from old, dried blood spattered it in places. He put it on and fitted it to his head, then made for the door.
A little ways out he realized he may not have got as good of sleep as originally thought. The sound of cicada's was deafening, but at the same time hypnotizing. And with the sun blaring down and the constant rhythm of his footsteps, gravel and dirt crunching under his boots, he found he was already getting tired again. But there was simply no time for that.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept well. Actually slept. Must have weeks, months even. He didn't want to think about it. He never wanted to think about it, because deep down he knew the truth. Knew when he'd stopped sleeping. So he pushed it out of his mind, leaving it completely void, and kept walking.
Hours passed under the hot mid-day sun. His shoulders were getting heavy now, as were his eyes. The six-shooters strapped to his hips felt like thirty pound weights trapped to his sides. He slowly blinked, and at the worst time. His foot stepped on the edge of nothing but hardened dirt, and he slipped.
'Shit!' he mumbled and caught himself. The sound of gravel and a stone rolling down hill into a thorn-bush bellow caught his attention. He glanced down, then pushed himself back up. Pain shot through his left thigh and he groaned, realizing he pulled something. Didn't surprise him, neither. His right side had damn near fallen off the hill. He could have kissed his left knee if he wanted to, his leg was bent so. But it didn't matter. Pain was just pain. He touched his left thigh and limped forward, now at a slower pace.
Hours passed, and the pain in his leg was dull and hot. He found himself under the shade of a burned up crisp of a tree. He took his bag off and put his back to the tree, taking a seat on on a rock that laid next to it. The pain now seemed more prominent and he snarled. His thick, dirty and tangled beard moving slightly. He put his hands on his thigh and began to run it, hoping to massage the pain out. Just made it worse.
He opened up and reached into the bag, pulling out a nearly empty plastic bottle of water and a half full fifth of whiskey. He sipped the water, swirling it around in his mouth then swallowing it. A rare commodity to be had out in this desert. Then he cracked open his old friend and took a nice, long swig of it. It burned well. He had taken three more drinks like that before the pain in his leg numbed. He put the cap back on, then took another sip of the water and put them both back in the bag. He picked up his hat and said bag, and kept forging on.
The sun was setting on his back before he knew it. It dawned on him that he'd once again walked all day. 'What the hell am I walking towards...?' he thought to himself. But no. Thoughts like that wont do, so he pushed them out of his head. He didn't need to think. He didn't need to care about those thoughts. He just needed to walk.
The device on his left arm suddenly gave him a jolt of vibration, letting him know it's scanners had picked up something near-by. Something alive. His hazy eyes cleared and his right hand shot down, pulling his revolver. He stayed perfectly still and listened. There was movement, a scuffing sound. Scuttling. Dirt and rocks being pushed.
In-front of him, to his left, an object emerged from behind a small hill. He looked and beheld a typical sized Radscorpion, it's dark shell even greyed by the sun. He sighed a little in relief as the radiation addled monster made it's way forward and down the hill that was to the man's right.
Despite the sigh of relief, he still found himself tense. Radscorpion's were nothing to take lightly. Their pincers could near sever a limb and their stingers pierce to the bone and inject enough venom to kill a Brahman.
It's dirt crusted legs scuttled one at a time across the ground, kicking up dust that was carried with a hot breeze into the setting sun. It's body's shell was scarred and scrapped up. Large gash marks in it from another animal, a fight he obviously won. The man holstered his gun and watched the warrior make it's way down the hill, possibly back to it's nest. He waited a moment, then made his way forward once more, the limp in his leg returning.
The sky was lit with a crimson and golden hue as the sun set behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to watch it slip further down, the rest of the sky darkening with a kind of blue and black that made you feel a little emptier inside. And a little bolder. It would set in the matter of minuets. He thought he'd had more time. The little slip up, break and Radscorpion had seen to it that his time had come and gone.
He laid his bag down in a small clearing on the side of the rocky and sand swept hill he was walking across. There was a rocky pass in-front of him, a upward slope to his left, a downward one to his right, and small path behind him. He listened closely, hearing the bugs and the howl of distant coyote's. They may be trouble, but they may also avoid him. All depended on how hungry they were.
He reached down to his left hand and pulled his torn and unbuttoned sleeve back, sliding his finger over a small dial on the side of the device attached to his arm. He turned it ever so slightly, brightening the screen to a dim but visible green glow. The image portrayed his skeleton, showing cracked bones and lacerations as well as the beginning of Radiation poisoning. He sighed, knowing he had maybe two bags of RadAway left in his bag. He'd have to scavenge, if he ever found anything man-made to scavenge. He slid his finger along the faded metal to a button and pressed it, turning on a bright yellowish light built into the device. He gave it one last look over, knowing he hadn't used it in a long while. He traced his finger over the "Pip-Boy 3000" trademarking at the top, wiping away the greasy soot and dust. Dried blood still clung to it's cracks.
He went around gathering necessary items for a fire. Stones were easy to come by, and he made small fire pit. He had to go into his bag and pull out the rusted but recently sharpened machete and hack down some dried, dead tree limbs for the fire. He broke them up and laid them in the center of the stones, stuffing the cracks with tumbleweed and lighting it all with a lighter that-by the grace of God-still had fuel in it. It went up rather quickly, but quick burning was better then not at all.
Stripping himself of his coat, he folded it and laid it on the ground, preparing to use it as a pillow, and even grabbing a dragging blanket out from his bag. With it fell out a paper baggie of beef jerky he'd dried from a kill a few weeks ago. He grabbed it up and treated himself to a piece of it, sitting and watching the flames dance and listening to the wood crackle and pop as embers rose up.
He finished up with the jerky and folded the bag back up, tossing it into his duffel-bag and zipping it shut again. He dusted off his hand then reached up, grabbing his hat and laying it beside him. It was at that moment, when the hat hit the ground, he heard a particular noise. Two sets of footsteps.
Not animal, either, too big. Too noisy to be a predator. Untrained hunters, maybe. From a local clan, perhaps. He'd no idea how far inward he'd traveled. One was coming in-front of him, the sound of gavel lightly shuffling gave it away. The other from behind him, the sound of sand falling gently down the hillside. His hand slid over his chapped leather holster and up to the handle of his six-shooter. Been a while sense he'd drawn while sitting down.
To his surprise, a man came over the rocks in-front of him. He drew and the man's hands shot up, an expression of fear swept across his dirty face as he shook his head. "Don't shoot!" he begged quickly. Nothing ever good ever came from a stranger in the waste's walking up to you in the middle of the night. The man pulled the hammer back on his gun. "I's friendly, I swear!"
The man snarled and thought about standing up, but knew the one behind him hadn't moved an inch sense his partner started talking. Probably had a gun aimed at the back of his head. The man gritted his teeth in rage at the thought. "No one's friendly out here," He growled out-loud at the stranger. Thought about raising his voice louder so the friend could hear, but he'd thought it better to play the fool. "especially when they walk up on you in the dead of night. Who are you? Where'd you come from?"
The stranger gulped in fear. His legs had begun to shake a little and his dirty brow dampening with sweat. "My name's Timothy Barnell, I'm a farmer-or was-from the town just a few clicks up ahead! Mister, I ain't even got a blade on me! Them sons-of-bitches exiled me without a decent pare of shoes for cripes sakes!" He inhaled drastically after running out of breath on his last word.
The man analyzed him, not sure of what to think. He wasn't about to lower his gun. "Alright, Timothy Barnell, you wanna explain what the hell you're doing walking up on a strangers camp in the dead of night? You're getting my good graces of speech, I should of put one in your head and let the crows and coyote's have ya."
"Please don't!" he begged and nearly backed away, putting his hands forward in a stop motion as he arched over. "I saw the glow from your fire and figured what the hell, I have nothing to lose! It was a stupid idea, I know, but...dammit I'm desperate!"
The man squinted and bent his arm a little, playing as if he was starting to lower the gun. "Keep talking." He growled, still having the gun aimed at Timothy. "And if I think you're lying-."
"The town, Prosperous Springs, kicked me and my friend out because they said we'd stolen food and water for our selves. Said we'd taken it right out of their children's mouths and they'd starve and die of thirst because of us! Can you believe that?"
The man huffed out a breath. "And did you?"
The man's eyes widened. "And-and did I!?" He asked shocked with a hint of being offended. "You think I'm such a monster I'd feed myself over children? Innocent children? No I didn't steal their precious food and fucking water, their just a bunch of pent-up fucking liars who wanted the food I'd worked all year to grow! And my friends food too."
"He the one behind me?" The man asked, stilling the stranger. The stranger looked at him with a blank expression, lips parted and hands still up. But he could see it in his eyes. He was surprised. The stranger nodded, "Yes. That's him. Richard! Get your ass out here, he ain't no bandit!"
There was a rustle of a bush behind the man, but he didn't turn and look. Heavier footsteps then Timothy's came out and a burly fat-man with a brass plated and engraved lever-action rifle in his hands. He gave the man a wide birth, and tipped his hat to him. "How-do-ya-do, sir?"
"This here's my best friend, Richard Camry." Timothy said, a little relaxed to have his friend by his side. Richard seemed nervous tho, probably sense the barrel of The Man's six shooter was now aimed at his wide gut. "Been my best-friend sense I was in diapers."
It'd been true too. Timothy had known Richard ever sense he could think back. Thirty something odd years of living right across from each-other and they'd grown to think of one another as brothers. Richard was more sophisticated then Timothy, he'd gone out of his way to buy and salvage pre-war magazines and books for any knowledge that would be useful to his survival, and the towns. And Timothy was the best hunter. Never once did he go out and not come home with a gecko or another critter. The town ate well because of him, despite his slower ways.
Richard was obsessed with his books and Timothy was obsessed with the notion of one day, perhaps, starting a family with his childhood-sweetheart, Loretta May. She was a cute young thing, short with long blonde hair she almost always pulled up into a bun. She was the towns mid-wife, and was really quite friendly and well mannered. And any books Richard had already read or found but didn't need, he gave to Timothy so Timothy could give them to her and have something to talk about. She always seemed grateful, even kissed him on the cheek once out of excitement when he brought her a medical journal with a complete section on childbirth, natural and drugged. Timothy felt mighty special after that, and knew that with Richard anything was possible. But now, they were here.
The man nudged his head towards the repeating-rifle. "Thought you said you were unarmed." He growled in anger, straightening his arm. Richard and Timothy both tensed.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! That thing? Hell, that's empty! We found it on a corpse in the desert on our way through, figured we could find or make bullets for it or sell it or...I dunno, use it as a bat or something."
"Here..." Richard said and pointed the gun up, pressing the butt to his shoulder. He pulled the trigger and it dry fired twice. He lowered it and looked at The Man. "See?"
The Man squinted again, but bent his arm again. The gun, it was someone's baby. It was way too well maintained, well taken care of, to be found in the desert on a corpse. It reminded him of his six shooters. He'd taken precious care with them, as had someone with that gun. "Where'd you say that town was?"
Timothy balled his fist and pointed his thumb over his shoulder, looking behind it. "About a days walk that-a-way. I dunno if they'd welcome strangers, we rarely got any. Me and Richard were local boys, pillars of the community. Ain't that right?"
Richard nodded, his double chin behind smashed every-time he did. "That's right, I'm a agricultural researcher and Timothy here's a damned fine hunter."
Timothy smiled at Richard. "Why thank ya, Rich." He said gleefully, hands still up. His expression morphed drastically when he looked back at The Man. It went to a somber and worried tone in a heartbeat. The Man gripped his gun. "Okay then..." He stated, lowering it completely and making the two relax. "Why don't ya take a seat. Plenty of room and plenty of fire."
"Oh, gladly." Timothy said with a happy chuckle as he moved closer with Richard. Richard diverged to the right and faced the edge of the cliff, undoing his fly and pulling his frank out to relieve himself over the edge. Timothy sat on a rock in-front of The Man, but it was a little off to his left. The Man looked slowly between the two. "So, sense were fast friends now, what's your story? You ain't no bandit or you woulda shot us by now. I'd...think."
The man looked at him but kept silent. Slowly Timothy's smile faded. The sound of urine hitting the dry ground and the crackling of the fire was all that remained. He knew he had to think of something believable, and quick, so he looked at the fire-pit and said in a low tone, "I'm...a mercenary. From New Reno. Traveled out here to start fresh."
"Wow." Timothy chuckled with impression and a smile, his green eyes gleaming. "You're a hell of a long way from home. Hey, if you're a merc, are you for hire? We'd sure as hell like the protection getting to Sandy Meadows. An empty gun ain't gonna get us far."
"Sure ain't." Richard said finishing up. He tucked it back in and zipped up, all with one hand while the other held the rifle. He wasn't putting it down, wasn't letting it out of his sight. But he was holding it all wrong, like he'd never even fired a gun in his life. Or like he was afraid of it going off, despite it's obvious superior craftsmanship. He moved over a little and looked off into the distance, back still turned to The Man.
"I dunno." The Man stated. "I kinda...wander alone lately. Trying to find something." He glanced from Richard to Timothy to see they were both a little too calm. Hell, Richard had his back turned to The Man. If the positions had been swapped, he'd never turn his back to a stranger, especially an armed one.
Timothy nodded, hands folded into each-other and arms resting on his knees. The fire illuminated his hands, and The Man took notice. They weren't completely hardened, cracked, and callused with dirt clinging to them. Not like a farmers. But his thumbs and index fingers had calluses. His trigger fingers and hammer fingers. "That's a nice hat you got there. Seen some ware tho." Timothy chuckled. He was just...staring. At the hat, like it was about the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. He glanced at The Man then down at the hat again. The Man squinted briefly, knowing something was wrong. It felt like Timothy wanted him to look at his own hat.
"That rifle," The Man spoke up, drawing Timothy's attention upward. "Sure is mighty fine. If you found some bullets for it, I'm sure it'd take a Gecko's head clean off, at a good distance too." There was silence, but Timothy was smiling. The Man couldn't see what Richard was doing. "I have a question, Timothy."
"Ask away, friend." Timothy stated, sitting up straighter and laying his hands to his sides, palms flat on the rock near his ass, as if he was holding himself up.
"You said you were farmers, you and Richard...but Richard said he was a water scientist and you were a hunter. Which explains why you have calluses on your trigger fingers."
Timothy maintained a smile and nodded. "We did a little of both." he stated. "Got to have water to farm, got to have meat to eat while you're waiting. Can't specialize now-a-days."
"Right, right..." The Man said nodding, looking down at the fireplace. There was another moment of silence before The Man deeply inhaled and looked up. "I have another question."
"Then please, ask." Timothy retorted in a very well mannered way.
The man looked up at him and paused yet again. "Did you think I was just gonna believe you and not put the obvious facts together, or were you two just hoping to get an easy target?" Timothy kept his smirk bur narrowed his eyes to a beady quality. "Your friend doesn't know the barrel of that gun from the stock, a gun which you possibly did take off a corpse. A new one, tho, not a skeleton in the sands. And you have a piece tucked somewhere on you too. So think about this...how fast do you two limp-cocked morons think you can draw to beat me? Because, I promise you, even if it's three seconds or two...you ain't gonna beat me."
There was pure silence. It felt as if even the insects and animals had stopped making sound. Timothy wasn't smiling anymore, his heart was racing and there was a serious look about his face. Richard was ever so slowly raising the rifle, silently praying The Man didn't see it. All while The Man's finger-tips caressed the grips of his six-shooters.
Then, all in one quick flash, Timothy's hand shot behind his back and grasped the handle of a 9mm handgun, while Richard spun around and cocked the rifle. Timothy swung his gun out, and Richard raised his. Then two shots rang out into the night sky, filling the air and voiding it of it's deafening silence.
Timothy instantly fell back onto the rocks, a splash of blood across the rock and onto the dirt behind him. His body slumped over it, limp, a hole directly through his heart. Richard stumbled and spat blood, rifle still in hand. The man pulled back his hammer, but as soon as he did Richard fell to his knees. Then collapsed forward, a hole directly through his chest as well. Silence filled the air, with the smell of gun-smoke and coppery blood.
The Man stood and holstered both his guns at the same time, then reached down and picked up his hat and his coat. He shook the dust off and swung it around him, slipping on the duster. He shook the blanket off and folded it up, stuffing it back in the bag then zipping it up and tossing it over his shoulder.
He walked over to Timothy and grabbed up his 9mm, putting it in a spare pocket in the bag. He felt up his pockets, but there was nothing. He turned and started walking towards the dead lump of fat and pool of blood underneath that was Richard. He got closer, setting his eyes on the prized rifle that Richard had collapsed on.
He grasped the fat-man's meaty shoulder and grunted as he rolled him over. Suddenly the barrel of the gun thrust forward and fired. The bullet tore through The Man's side and made him stumble back, but pull his six-shooter at the same time and fire. The bullet hit Richards forehead and split it open like a sledgehammer hitting a watermelon.
The man caught his balance and groaned, touching his side with his left hand. He held it out and gazed at the crimson red that coated it. He had no Stimpacks, no gauze, no pain-killers. Just a bottle of whiskey. He holstered the gun and shuffled forward with a groan, grabbing the rifle off the now-dead-man, and begun shuffling on his way. Into the dark, dark night. Blood running down his tattered cloths, and pain coursing through him. "One...day's...walk." he told himself as he forged on. "One...day's...walk."