February 2277, local time: 09:55
Gradually, in fragments, my awareness returned, accompanied by the pulsating ache in my skull. Attempting to raise my hand to assess the damage, I discovered I was restrained, bound by coarse rope. A man's voice emerged from behind me.
"He's awake," the man's movement echoed through creaking floorboards. "Looks like you nearly did him in, Kelly." The amusement in his tone overshadowed any concern while beams of light pierced the room from a boarded-up window. Dust hung thick in the air, and the peeling paint on the walls added to the atmosphere of dread.
"See, he's fine!" someone else grunted. "I didn't cave his skull in, told you," a woman's voice echoed from afar. "I'll tell John he's conscious now." Clarity settled in as I realized I occupied a worn blue office chair. It protested softly as I shifted, and with a croaked voice, I questioned, "Who are you, and where am I?" The rough ropes gnawed into my flesh.
"Take it easy, partner. You took a serious blow to the head. My name is Lawrence. Not too long ago, I was a pharmacist," he reassured, stepping into view. Short in stature, well-tanned, and with graying hair now turning white, he would have appeared friendly without the stained leather armour. In his hand, he extended a piece of root. "This should ease your pain."
With nothing better to do and knowing I couldn't stop him if I tried, I parted my lips and accepted the bitter root; it tasted of dirt and, oddly, sweetness. The man named Lawrence hummed, looking me up and down. I wasn't always the best at reading people; he looked confused and hopeful at that exact moment. The sound of boots on hardwood interrupts his musings. He looked over my shoulder and nodded, walking out of sight; he doesn't go far.
I felt a weight placed on the back of my chair, and with a rusty creak, I was turned about. The sunlight was less harsh as my eyes adjusted. Four people stood before me: a young woman in her mid-twenties at most, with bright red hair chopped short at the shoulders, a repeater rifle slung over her shoulder. A kid no older than fifteen, pistol at the low ready, eyes filled with hate and anger, his hair short and coloured like chestnut. Behind the two, Lawrence looked almost friendly now. The one who caught my attention the most was the tall man standing beside the older man.
A long leather jacket, almost a duster, hugged his solid frame. The bunk of a ballistic vest peeked out from underneath. A black-felt ranched hat cast shadows across his dark eyes. His visage was skeletal, flesh-mottled and decayed; his sickly grin could almost be mistaken for a smile. He moved in front of the others, pushing the kid's gun down as he moved.
His raspy voice cut through the room, "You had quite the run-in with our friends outside. Managed to kill two of them. Impressive." He tilted slightly, studying me as if trying to decipher a puzzle. "Name's John. Welcome to New Boulder, stranger."
I blinked in bewilderment, my mind racing to comprehend the surreal situation. "What... what happened out there? Giant scorpions, and..." I trailed off, realizing the absurdity of my own words.
John chuckled, a sound devoid of joy. "Scorpions are the least of your worries here. New Boulder isn't a place for the faint-hearted. You stumbled into our territory, and Kelly, don't take kindly to trespassers." He gestured towards the young woman, "This is Kelly, the kid's Jake. You already met Lawrence, the man with a penchant for roots."
Kelly nodded in acknowledgment, her eyes sharp and assessing. "You handled yourself well against those scorpions. Not many idiots make it this far."
I shifted uncomfortably in the chair, the ropes biting into my wrists. "I appreciate the help, but why the third degree? And why am I tied up?"
John's grin widened, revealing yellowed teeth. "Survival ain't a solo venture, my friend. We're cautious about any stranger, but nothing about you makes sense: healthy skin, ill-equipped and wandering around in the middle of nowhere." He chuckled mirthlessly.
Jake scowled, his grip tightening on the pistol. "I don't trust him, John. He could be one of them, leading them here."
John's gaze bore into me, weighing the possibilities. "We'll find out soon enough. But first, let's talk. Lawrence found you with a fancy revolver. It's not the kind of weapon folks around here usually carry. Where did you get it?"
"I found it... in a skeleton. Out in the desert."
My answer sounded lame to my ears.
John's eyes gleamed with interest. "A relic from the old world, then. You're not from around here, that's for sure. What's your story, stranger?"
As I began recounting the hazy memories leading to my awakening in the desert, the room seemed to hold its breath. The tales of an unknown world, giant scorpions, and amnesia unfolded, leaving the small group captivated by the surreal narrative.
John leaned against a weathered table, his expression thoughtful. "Your tale is strange, but the Mojave has a way of making the bizarre feel commonplace. If you're telling the truth, you're in for a rough ride. If not, well..." He let the sentence hang in the air. In one swift motion, a large knife appeared in his hand, lingering ominously.
The room fell into a heavy silence as the shadows danced across the worn walls, each member contemplating the enigma that had stumbled into their midst. John cut the rope, binding the stranger. "You get one chance. Don't ruin it," John advised with a stern look. I nodded in understanding, and he offered me his hand.