The bartender wiped down the bar, scrubbing at an old stain on the polished wood and hoping today would be the day it finally came up out of the shine. But it didn't, and he sighed, moving down the bar with his damp rag. "Christie, you got the tables?" he asked his niece who was on the other side of the restaurant putting mugs onto a plastic tray. "Yeah, uncle Vic. I got 'em."
"Thank ya, sweety."
The door opened and Vic looked up, smiling at Alison and tossing the rag over his shoulder as she smiled back and walked up to the bar. "Hey Vic." She said in her whiskey roughened but still honey sweet voice. "Can I get a Nuka, please?"
"Sure thing." He replied and went through the double doors behind the bar. He appeared a short time later with an ice cold Nuka Cola and a smile. He put it on the counter then turned and began cleaning off and reorganizing bottles of assorted alcohol on the shelves. "So, how's the morning treating you?"
She took a sip of the cold pop, then shrugged. Reaching up she ran her fingers threw the pony-tail that held her dirty blonde hair. "I haven't slept well in years, Vic, you know that." She groaned as she settled even more down on the old bar-stool. "I'm waiting for everyone to wake up so we can get some more work done."
Vic huffed out a breath in obvious disagreement. "You need to rest." he glanced over his shoulder. "You run a well oiled machine here, you need a break."
She gently shook her head in protest. Mumbling "Not if I want the machine to stay well oiled." then taking another sip.
The front door opened behind her, causing her and Vic to look. A familiar face stood in the doorway. "Hey Carter." Alice said with a smile. The silver eyed ghoul smirked and nodded, skeletal hand gripping the edge of the door. Vic nudged his head towards Carter's direction. "Would you mind leaving that door open? The place needs aired out."
"Sure thing." He said in a voice that was as rough as sandpaper and bitter as medicine. He walked up and sat a stool away from Alison, his leather armor creaking as he rested his arms on the counter.
Vic turned around and smiled. "The usual?" He asked, to which Carter simply nodded. It was some what of a ritual for him to come to the diner every morning and order a Sunset Sarsaparilla and a rye breaded ham sandwich. He grabbed the pouch off his hip and pulled out five bottle caps from it, laying them on the counter in a stack.
Alison took another swig, feeling the soda fizzle in her mouth and throat. "Already got your armor on? You're an early riser." She took another small sip, almost out of nervousness.
He glanced at her. Carter was usually a man of few words, especially around people he didn't know, like, or trust. And after all his years here he was still not sure if she'd protect him from the town if they decided they didn't want a Ghoul living among them. "Yeah, well, I feel like I should sleep in this armor some days."
She kept a blank expression for a moment before frowning slightly and wrinkling her brow. "You know I would never let that happen, right?"
He looked at her and stared into her deep, dark-blue eyes for a minuet, saying nothing. Then looked forward at Vic coming through with a plate and a cold beverage. "Here ya go. Enjoy." Vic said laying them both down in-front of him. Carter smiled and gave a nod, picking up his sandwich and biting into it as Vic scooped up his caps.
For most of Alison's adult life, Carter had been in the town. She would love to say time hadn't changed him a bit, that he was still the same old rotting skeleton he had always been. But that sadly wasn't true. Time had made him harder, and a lot more stressed. The town had grown up and become mature and bitter. In his experience, it was a town filled with bigots. Even if he was no different then any human, besides harder on the eyes.
His skin was torn and flaked off leaving red and grey mixed with a little yellow on what was left of his withering body. His nose was gone, his eyes were silvered. He'd become skeletal with wrinkling and dissipating muscle. Said it didn't hurt, be he also said 'I dunno if I'll ever get used to the glowing piss.' She didn't know if he was joking or not, or if he even still had everything down there.
His fingernails had long sense gone, and what was left of his blonde hair was thin, wispy and receding into some form of a widow's peak. He had a crude sense of humor, and often kept to himself. Over the years, he found that to be best. Less attention drawn to 'the freak' and more to keeping the town alive.
"Carter," she sighed and looked at him. "Everyone in the town is grateful for your service. If it wasn't for you, a lot of us wouldn't be here."
Carter was silent. Simply contempt eating his sandwich and drinking his soft-drink. Vic looked at him for a moment then smiled. "Yeah, I mean, I still haven't forgotten that time Trudy got sick and you ran around the desert looking for some damned flower. Only to find it, bring it back, and-."
"Have the doc burn the goddamned thing and have her breath it in, I know." Carter said, his voice growling a little more then he'd meant for it too. "I still haven't forgiven that white haired son-of-a-bitch for that."
Vic chuckled and patted the bar near Carter's arm. "Look, ain't nuthin' gonna come to what you're thinking." He said, causing Carter to look up from his meal. "And, god forbid, it does...you come here. I'll keep ya safe."
Carter grabbed his drink and brought the bottle to his lips. "I feel so fuckin' reassured." he mumbled and took a swig, causing Vic to laugh.
Vic's eyes suddenly shot up to the doorway and his smile faded. Alison kept hers as she looked over her shoulder, but it too faded when she saw the mysterious figure in the doorway. Carter saw him in the reflection of the cracked mirror behind the bottles in-front of him.
The figure was no more then a black silhouette against the bright sunlight behind him. His left hand was pressed to his ribs, and a ratty old hat covered his eyes. His right hand seemed to be draping down to the gun on his side. It made the whole room nervous. "What can I get for ya, stranger?" Vic said wearily, not sure if he wanted to serve possible trouble running into town.
Alison's eyes traced him up and down. Looking over the length of his duster she noticed that from the tip of it and off the ankle of his jeans, blood was dripping down onto the dirty wooden floor. The stranger dryly mumbled something no one could hear. "What was that?" Vic asked, turning his head slightly to hear the man.
Christie came around the corner, brushing her hands off on her plaid, button up shirt. She patted Carter on the back, then noticed the air in the room was thicker and tenser then usual. She looked over and saw The Man standing in the doorway, clutching his side. Her heart began to race as she knew she was the closest to him.
"I..." The man managed the mutter and take a step. A step which he instantly regretted. The ragged and dirty man fell forward, and Christie reached out and grabbed him, softening his fall to the ground. Carter sprang up, one hand grasping the mans arm to help him down and the other resting on the .44 magnum holstered to his hip.
"Son of a bitch...!" Carter mumbled seeing the hole in the mans side. He and Christie looked at each-other, a look of pure fear swept across her eyes. He laid there, chest barely rising and dried, cracked lips mumbling softly and incoherently. "Go get the doctor, tell him to get ready for a serious gunshot wound, now!" she wasted no time leaping up and running out the door. Alison took command, walking up and kneeling where Christie formerly was.
She grabbed the brim of the mans hat and pulled it off him, laying it beside his head. It barely helped to identify him. His hair was curly and down to shoulder-length. Dirty, greasy and brown. And his beard was the exact same, down to the middle of his chest and matted to all hell. What she could see of his face was covered in dirt and sweat. "What's your name?" She asked as she took his hand in hers.
He squeezed it weakly as his eyes slowly shut and opened again. He mumbled something inaudible, so she leaned in closer to hear. "Star...Ran...ger...ra..." It took her a moment to piece together his breathy and faint whispering. But when she did, it hit her like a bag of bricks. Her eyes widened a little and her heart felt as if it had stopped beating for a moment. She looked at the man who's eyes were half open and breathing was faint when the doc walked in.
"Is he still breathing!?" the old man demanded an answer as he walked up and knelt down, putting two fingers on the man's wrist. "His heartbeat is faint, there's a damn good chance he's not going to make it." he looked up at Alison who was simply staring at the man's face with bewilderment and confusion. "Do you want us to use medical supplies on this stranger? Or just make him comfortable for his departure?"
She looked up at the doctor with shock in her eyes. "Give him everything." She mumbled. "Do everything. See to it this man survives, doctor. Please."
He simply gave a nod and grabbed the end of the portable gurney that Christie had wheeled in with him. He pulled it over to him and Carter helped lift the stranger up and place him on it, then Christie and the doc disappeared out the door. Alison was left on her knees on the dirty floor, staring down at a pool of blood. Vic sighed and bowed his head, leaning against the counter. Carter was staring out the door with a sense of confusion about him. He looked down at Alison and reached down, offering a hand. She didn't look. Didn't even notice. She simply stared down and looked into the blood.
Carter and Alison entered the clinic and felt it's silent panic as soon as they walked through the door. There was quick movements in one of the private rooms and the clanking of utensils.
Going against her better judgement, Alison forced herself forward and slowly turned the door knob to the private room and opened it. The doctor already had the man laid out with his shirt undone. He grabbed a stimpack off the table behind him and jabbed into the man's side, near where the bullet hole was. "Doc..." Alison said somberly.
He pulled the emptied needle out and threw it in the garbage. "You should leave." He grovelled, opening one of the cabinets and pulling out a bottle of peroxide, a sticky pad, and a roll of gauze. "This isn't going to be pretty. It never is, but especially not this time."
Christie squeezed past Alison with a cooler in her hands. She laid it on the counter and moved out of the doc's way. Alison inhaled sharply and spoke up "How bad is it?"
The dock sighed, cutting away what was left of his shirt. "I ran the scanner over him before you came in, see if their was any internal bleeding or bullet fragments left. The bullet went clean through, didn't hit anything vital, but he lost a lot of blood. On-top of that-and this is just my medical opinion-this man has more scar tissue then he has actual skin left. He has three or four fractured ribs, a hair-line-fractured femur and a cracked humerus in his left arm that's been healing a while. Did a brain scan and made sure there wasn't any swelling, thinking maybe he just had a nasty fall after whoever shot him. No swelling, no bruising, nothing."
He looked over at Alison as he put on latex gloves and a mask. "So what does that tell you? Because it tells me our mystery man has been in more wounding accidents then he's had time to rest and recover. He's a scrapper, and he's lucky he's not dead. Dehydration, blood loss, signs of heat stroke, sleep deprivation, and the beginning signs of starvation. He's about fify pounds lighter then he should be." He looked over at her. "You still want me to dump everything in him?"
She looked down at the dirty, mangy, and skinny man laying on the table. Maybe the good doctor was right, maybe this man wasn't worth saving. Maybe he was bullshitting her, heard the legends and figured his best shot was his silver tongue. But there was this feeling, deep inside her gut...this feeling of knowing there was more. Knowing that the picture was much larger then she knew she could see.
She looked up at the doc and nodded, and he gave one nod back. "Then I'm going to have to ask that everyone but Christie leave the room. I'll need an assistant, and you've helped me successfully before."
Alison turned, but never kept her eyes off the stranger. Even as she walked away. Carter closed the door and sighed, bowing his head and shaking it. "That was a damned essay on how much bad shit can happen to you out in the waste's, and you still want to save him?" He asked, turning his bowed head and looking at her.
She gave a moment of silence, then glanced behind her at the table, seeing the man's belongings. Including the hat Carter had thrown down when he came in. She backed up to the table and grabbed the handle of one of the six shooters in the holster, pulling it out and holding it up. The silver shinned, even in the dim light of the waiting area.
He looked on at it, straightening his posture and turning his body. Part of him thought the gun looked familiar. But it was the part that was unsure. Like he'd been told about it, or maybe seen it long ago.
He walked forward and got a closer look at it, seeing the fine craftsmanship that went into the piece. The engravings were graceful and elegant, but yet depicted something strong and forceful. The ivory handles were well worn, but still looked smooth to the touch. And the silver was polished to such a shine that you could bet money it would glow in the dark, and swear you were right. "I've seen that gun..." He mumbled as he squinted and tilted his head a little.
She lowered it and slid it back into it's holster. "We all have." She replied and strapped it down, turning towards the ghoul and looking him straight in the eyes. "That's Ranger Grey's six-shooters."
Carter's face went from wonder to shock and realization. She was right, that's were he had heard of them. In stories told in saloons and pubs everywhere he went. Drunken locals, drifters, and just hard-working men and women settling down in the evening. All talked about a mysterious man, dressed in all black, who carried two silver six-shooters and went around, righting wrongs. They all called him by one simple title.
"The Lone Star Ranger..." he muttered in awe. She nodded her head and patted the desk, signifying that those were his belongings. "I thought he was just a myth...something everyone told each-other so they wouldn't lose hope in humanity, in honor and dignity."
She shook her head. "Apparently he's not. Apparently he's very much real, and he's in our town, half dead. Now, I dunno about you, but as Mayor of this town I don't want to see Prosperous Springs became the next Deadwood. I'm not going to be the woman who lead the town in which the The Lone Star Ranger died."
He nodded and rubbed the back of his neck. "Now I see why you want to keep him alive so much...Jesus Christ..." Carter stood there in a daze, not knowing exactly what to do. And sense he didn't know, he figured he'd ask. "Okay, you've got my attention. What do you need me to do?"
She ran her hands over her face as she thought for a moment, then gave an exaggerated sigh. "Well," She started out. "For one you don't tell anyone about this. If the town knew, I got a feeling there would be asshole's willing to test the legend. And two, you need to find out exactly what the hell happened to him. Ask the guards on the tower what they saw, where he came from. Then take a hike out to where they saw him come from and see what you can find. You're a good tracker, and I only trust you with this."
He nodded and took a step forward, only to stop himself and look at her. "And what about you? What are you going to do?"
She gave him a glance, a look of determination mixed with worry in her eyes. Eyes which settled back on the door which the man was behind. "I'm gonna stay here." She mumbled her reply. "Make sure he doesn't die. And keep everyone back if he's really as...explosive... as they say he is."
Carter nodded. "You got it, boss." he replied and made for the door. He stopped at the table she was standing by and looked over at his gear. Reaching out, he grabbed the brim of the ragged and flimsy cowboy hat and picked it up. Carefully he placed it on his head, feeling it fit him perfectly. It had nearly lost his form, had many pieces taken out of the brim and a few holes in it, but he knew he was wearing a piece of new-age-history. He looked at Alison and shrugged. "It's for the sun, it's hot out there."
She smirked and shook her head, her one blonde bang that hung down moving in-front of her eye. "Sure." She chuckled. Then her head nudged towards the door and Carter was on his way out, without another word. But Alison was left with an unsavory feeling. Like their trouble with this legendary dead man was just the beginning of a much bigger pit-fall.
The Strider's hooves thundered across the ground, kicking up dirt in it's wake. It's skin was hot and like stiff leather, a dirty shade of brown and wrinkly. It's yellow eyes kept focused on the horizon ahead.
Carter looked up from his somewhat relaxed riding stance on the saddle and saw crows circling a ridge on a nearby hill. He pulled back on the reins in his hands, the horse pulling it's withered head back and let out a growling, raspy whinny. It galloped to a stop, allowing Carter to get better view of aerial, swarming mass of buzzards and crows.
He reached to his side and pulled a walkie-talkie off his belt. Pressing the button he spoke up with a grovel and dry voice. "Hey Alison, I think I found something." there was a short pause and he whipped the reins, causing the strider the whinny again and start a gentle sprint forward. "What did you find?" Alison's voice finally came through.
He kept his eyes moving on the distance ahead, looking for anything suspicious. If that man was really The Ranger, then whoever shot him was either dead on that hilltop or was still around and angry as hell. "A mass feeding frenzy of bugs, buzzards and ravens. My caps are on something being dead as hell on-top of that hill. I'm going to check it out."
The Strider was already there by the time she replied. He swung his leg off the saddle and slid down off the saddled beast. He pulled the reins forward and lead it up to a dead tree where he tied it down so it wouldn't run off and leave him. "Roger," Alison suddenly said through the slight static of the walkie-talkie, making Carter jump and reach for his gun. He sighed afterwords. "Just keep an eye out, please."
He cautiously made his way up the hill, seeing skid marks on the ground where it looked like someone had half slid and half tumbled down the hill. His guess was the ranger, seeing how he had some fractured bones.
Carter couldn't help but to get an eerie feeling the closer he got to reaching the top. The sounds of insects and the cawing of crows had, for some reason, put him on edge. Perhaps it was because he had related the noises to death, and it was the thing that killed them that really put him on edge.
With the sun blaring down he had met the stench of death before he even got to the top. He reacted harshly, dry heaving then pulling out a red bandana from his back pocket to cover his nose and mouth with it as he got up to the top. There was no describing that old familiar stench. Other then to say that, if you believed in hell, you'd believe that's what it smelled of.
He stopped at the top to see two lumps of meat and cloth. Covered in fly's, ants and surrounded by bloody beaked vultures and crows. It was a natural feeding frenzy of the desert. Those scavengers ate better then the people did, with how many died out this way. He was disgusted to say the least, and it reflected in his rotting face.
His hand went down to his revolver and he pulled it, pulling the hammer back with a click as he raised the gun, his other hand still holding the bandana over the place where his nose used to be and his mouth. He fired once into the air and every crow there cawed and made a desperate attempt to fly away.
The vultures took their times, grabbing beak-fulls of flesh and tearing it away from the bodies. Carter pointed his gun forward and fired again, hitting a rock and sending shrapnel of rock flying in all directions. The buzzards made very little argument or surprise as they grabbed one last mouthful of what they could and flew off. He was tempted to shoot a few down, the disgusting hell-swarm they were.
Now nothing remained but the fly's and some ants, but there was nothing he could do about those. He loosely holstered his gun and made his way forward, giving glances to his left and right out of paranoia. Because the closer he got, the more he was assured those lumps of meat and tattered cloth were indeed people.
The doc came out of the private room, and Alison looked over at him with her brow raised. He was wiping his wet hands off on a rag. "He's stable. Though out cold." he replied, giving her a breath of relief. "He's going to need a lot of bed-rest and a lot of time to recover. I've sewn him up, stopped any internal bleeding. We went through a good deal of supplies and time for this man. I hope he was worth it, Alison."
She nodded and stood up. The Doc went to his own room, probably to drink from that bottle of whiskey he kept in his drawer. And Alison went into the strangers room, closing the door behind her. There was a stagnant silence in that room, the kind you rarely heard. Nothing but his breathing and the low hum of electricity from the machines he was hooked up too.
She slowly moved over to the bed, then took a seat in the comfy-chair beside it, looking over at him with analyzing eyes. He was a broad and somewhat muscular man, but rail thin. He probably hadn't had a decent meal in ages. His hair was long, dirty and shaggy. Bangs clear down past his chin and the rest just a little past his shoulders. It was a tangled mess, just like the beard that hung down below his chest.
Scars; small and large, thin and thick, deep and shallow. All lined his body. Claw marks, stab wounds, bullet holes. He'd seen his fare share of fights. She wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. If he was who she truly believed he was, and the stories were right, then they were right about him having a nasty temper and cold demeanor.
The walkie-talkie suddenly burst with static and a gravely voice. "Hey Alison, I've got good news, great news, and bad news." Carter spoke up, the sound of gravel crunching with his footsteps.
She grabbed her walkie and raised it up. "Go in order then." She replied, looking over at the man who truly was out cold.
"So I'm at the ridge, and the good news is I found our mystery man's attackers. There more dead then dead can be. A heart shot a piece and one of them has one in his head, or what's left of it. I'm guess that one was alive enough to get a shot off, and lucky enough to hit his target. Before his target got pissed and burst his head like a grape."
Her eyes went down to the gauze wrapped wound on his side. The cleanest thing about him. "The great news?"
He chuckled, and she could just picture that big yellow toothed grin. "The two guys are Timothy Barnell and Richard fuckin' Camry."
Her eyes got large and a burst of excitement hit her as she straightened up in the chair. "Are you serious!? Y-You're sure!?"
"I'm positive, Aly." Carter said with confidence. "Fuckers got what they deserved, and I'm leaving 'em for the birds. I didn't see your rifle though. They may have pawned it in one of the towns nearby or stashed it somewhere. Sorry."
She shook her head with a smile. "Don't worry about it. That damned thing always turns up one way or the other. But...what's the bad news?"
Carter got onto his strider and made it turn around, then gallop forward. He pressed the button and the sound of it's hooves thundering across the ground rang through. "There was footprints and strider tracks all around there. They were recent, but I can't tell how recent. Either they saw the birds like I did, or they were close enough to hear the gunshots. Either way, I doubt anything good is going to come from this. If I were you I'd double the guard for the next week or two."
She bowed her head, blonde bangs hanging in-front of her eyes. "Shit..." she mumbled then raised her head. "Will do, Carter. Just get your flaky ass back here in one piece, we're closing down for the night."
"Already on my way. See you soon."
She threw the walkie-talkie down on a table and run her hands over her face. Thoughts of worry for the town flooded into her mind as she sat there. They weren't a big town by any means, last they checked it was maybe two hundred and fifty or three hundred people. If there were raiders or bandits about, that didn't exactly bode well for them.
Suddenly the mystery man's body jolted in the bed beside her, causing her to look over at him. The scale on his heartbeat monitor was fluctuating fast and his breathing was faster. With her eyes glued onto him she started to get up to get the doc, thinking maybe he was having some sort of heart attack. But as she started to, his lips moved and his deep voice grovelled out a name. "Jenny..." and he twitched some more. It dawned on her suddenly that he was having a nightmare or dream. And she settled back into her seat, still staring at him with a peculiar look of bewilderment. With every instance, this man became more of a mystery to her.
She got up and turned out the lights, then settled back into the chair. Laying on her side and watching him twitch every now and then, she slowly dazed off into a sleep that overcame her. Her last thoughts were of wonderment. One thing that echoed through her darkened mind. "What is he dreaming of, I wonder?"