Chapter 14: Don't Thank Me
Outside the Trinity Inn, many refugees, mostly women and children, were rushing or stumbling hurridly away from something we couldn't see. Guards from other detachments were moving swiftly towards something that Carl was leading me to. Above the crowds, the towers beside the gate were occupied by the frames of men all aiming their rifles towards that same something we approached. Around the groups of destitute refugees we went until John, Nathan, and Ramos collided with Carl and I from out of nowhere. Without a word, the three others seized the glasses from the crate in my hands, and all at once they gulped the contents they were intended to enjoy before John moved us along saying to me;
"Thank God you're here, Paul. These people won't stop."
I didn't have time to ask for clarification because just then we stepped through a gap in the crowd where guards were formed along the line of charity stalls in the central junction of the open market. Some guards were pushing some of the charity workers towards the safety of the gates while others hid behind the line of stalls waiting for an escort, disturbed by the whole scene. Some of the other charity stalls and carts in the open space were overturned, items from rolls of cloth to blankets to tools, to cans of food, and even simple toys for children were scattered about while angry, desperate, and daring refugees scrambled to grab what they could. The scene spoke for itself, especially when I saw the congregated mass formed amidst and around the overturned charity stalls. Although there was no leader, the mass didn't need one, and I unslung the submachinegun from my shoulder, placing it in my hands and leaving the crate of glasses beside a lamp post as I approached the line of enforcers who kept the angry crowd at bay by their appearance alone. Strangely enough, the most vocal members in the mob didn't appear like refugees but random wasters in all sorts of apparel, but mostly full of men. It was too noisy to make out all that was being said, and even though the words of Lieutenant Michael Camden would tell me, the boys and I took our place in the line of guards and I was already sick.
Once there was a large enough show of force and once the remainder of our charity workers were safely away from the situation, Lt. Camden spoke to the crowd. His speech was short, and although I won't recount it verbatim, it confirmed what I suspected upon sight and the ramifications for failing to comply with the orders of the guard.
The charity supplies had run out, or were dwindling, causing the workers to announce the problem. What normally would have caused only a few grumbles with faith that there would be more to dole out tomorrow caused a small riot evidently spurred on by wasteland visitors and travelers who thought they could get some free stuff if they blended into the refugee masses. There wasn't enough, even if the wastelanders didn't skim from the pool of charity resources, and this inability to obtain the "free stuff" made the volatile situation go off. The wastelanders and refugees took what they could after the outburst of chaos, but the guard soon arrived and the sight of so many men with shotguns and automatic weapons showed them that our home's charitable nature would Not be abused. The use of a few batons on the knees and backs of certain individuals in the initial quelling of the violence showed the seriousness and called for an all hands on deck amongst the guard.
Lt. Camden was done speaking, and the mass of roughly 40 angry wasters and refugees slowly dispersed.
Although this sort of thing has happened before, it always sickened me. There was no reason for our community to be charitable the way it was other than our faith. We had an obligation, and a love for helping those who come to our community in need, but seeing the anger and outbursts in people who we simply didn't have the resources to support was always heartbreaking. This was made even more tragic when there were those who didn't even need what we offered and only sought to benefit themselves in the midst of something as unfortunate as a refugee crisis.
As the remainder of the scattered items were picked over by refugees in need as well as the scum of the earth, the remainder of the crowd dispersed. It might not have been noticed by everyone, but as the men under Lt. Camden and those of the other detachments left the line to assist the continuation of daily business, the crowds who ran gradually began to flow through the area, and I saw that many of those in the violent crowd only left to take their lingering anger out elsewhere. More people moved into the area, men, women, and children picking over and around the empty stalls in search of scraps when I saw a group of around eight or nine from the violent crowd of men pushing and shoving people as they approached the well just across from the Trinity Inn.
I motioned for my men to follow, and they silently did so as more guards patrolled the grounds and the site of the incident disappeared by the flowing of the masses. The merchant stalls and caravans congregated along the roads, saw the easing tension, their guards relaxed, and some even resumed shouting to bring attention to their wares as the seconds passed. All the while, I followed the group of violent wasters and rioters with my men at a distance until they reached the well. Once there, they dispersed, driving wandering people away with violent shoves or taking up spots against the walls of the nearby shacks to smoke and glare at the passersby when something caught my eye.
Just beside the well, still pulling on the rope to bring up the bucket, I saw a man with his back to me. The man wore light blue jeans, boots, and a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and only half tucked into his pants. I could not see his face or the back of his head, but I didn't need to when I saw that the arms pulling on the rope were wrapped in white cloth. I froze at this, not even registering it when the waster with dark brown hair and a brown padded jacket stepped away from his comrades with a gesture to the one working the well. The wrapped man lifted his head, showing it wrapped in the same cloth as his arms as he poured the water from the bucket into a metal pail. Just like that, the wrapped man placed the bucket back on the edge of the well, and with a bit of effort lifted the pail full of water off the edge of the well before he started to casually stroll away.
Almost in slow motion, I saw the burned man do his chore, and casually walk on towards the gap in the buildings towards his shack when suddenly he stopped. Graham hadn't gotten but four paces away from the well when he stopped in place, turned, and saw the waster in the padded jacket less than a foot from his face. I was too far to hear what was said, but the distance between the two and the intimidating nature of the waster was enough to show the intent and what was being said.
I took a step towards the well, a group of refugee women passed before me, and once I could see the burned man again, the waster had one hand on the pail. All at once, the waster shoved Graham who tripped over a rock behind him, the water pail spilled out onto the ground, and the waster began to kick Graham as he struggled to his feet. Each attempt to stand was prevented when two more of the wasters rushed over and joined the assault in less than a second. Not on my watch.
Immediately, me and my boys rushed forward, fanning out as we moved, but we hadn't taken more than a few steps across the path when the scene was another riot. Other wasters had rushed towards us and kept me and the others at bay shouting angry words into our faces that I couldn't even hear beyond my attention that was still fixated on the men pummeling Graham. I couldn't move forward. The long dark haired sunburnt-faced tribal before me was an immovable object shouting in my face. A glance to my side showed Carl and John had pulled out their batons and were pummeling the men preventing their advance as I returned to the face before me and felt my hand get closer to the grip of my pistol. Out of my peripherals, I could see Nathan, Ramos, Carl, and John all now resorting to their batons, threatening to be swarmed as each battered man gave way to another. I focused my attention on Graham who was now only dealing with two assailants while my mouth was being as cordial and demanding as possible to the shouting man before me. Seeing more guards rush upon the scene, I heard a howl pierce the shouting, and I recognized that howl as the one I heard the night we brought in the scorched man. I knew the pain that Graham was dealing with, I'd seen it, I heard it, and I felt it as I watched the two wasters continue to beat him with fists and kicks over nothing.
As this agonizing howl entered my ears, I had nothing else to say. I removed the pistol from my belt and cracked the tribal man across the jaw sending his confused, bleeding, and now disfigured face out of my sight and into the ground. I rushed forward, seeing Graham had managed to stand himself up in the second I looked away. He struck one of his assailants before he was driven into the wall by the man in the padded jacket who pinned him there as he delivered blow after blow. 15 steps from them, I was confronted with another man, hearing the violence of now over a dozen guards trying in vain to suppress this second riot, and hearing that scream as I imagined the bubbling skin of Graham bursting and bleeding at each blow from his attacker in the jacket.
Again more focused on the violence being done to Graham, I wasn't focused on suppressing or subduing the man preventing my advance. Still inching forward as more guards approached the scene and more wasters and even refugees involved themselves in the brawl, I came close enough to hear the odd word between the painful shouts of Graham's voice. "Couldn't just hand it over…" Seeing the wrapping on Graham's arms and neck unravel with more blows, I heard, "F*cking freak!" "Ghoul!" "Mutants don't need water!" more and more shouts at Graham were heard and even if the bigotry of the wasters for one they thought to be a ghoul or freak was the reason for the assault, it made no difference to anyone in the guard and the frenzy of the brawl brought in more people to take out the rest of what they hadn't during the first riot.
I'd had enough, just before I dealt with this last person preventing my advance, I saw Graham muster the strength to shove the man in the padded jacket off of him. Graham, his rags dangling from his arms and spattered in red, was immediately pushed back into the wall by two other wasters before he could take two steps forward, and once again he was pinned to the wall. I met the eyes of the screaming waster with the dirt-spattered face in front of me, and once again used my pistol to strike him across the face.
The waster before me fell to the ground and just when I thought I was free to close the distance between Graham and his assailants, I felt the grip of the man I felled on my leg. I went to beat him off once more, but before I could do that or beg him not to have me silence him by the true purpose of my pistol, I saw the hand of Graham reaching out to the side. A single arm reached steadily out while the two wasters continued to pummel him against the wall. Graham's original assailant, the man in the padded jacket, watched and laughed only three feet distance while more shouts of unbearable pain pierced the chaos of the brawl around the well. Then I saw what that blistered and bleeding arm was reaching for.
Just beside Graham, one of the guards who I didn't recognize in the moment, was like me, trying to stop what was happening to Graham, only to be prevented by a large waster screaming and pushing him. Although the guard was much closer to Graham than I was, he must have arrived later than I, for his hand was holding a baton, hesitating to use it versus the weapon on his left hip.
Feeling the grip on my pistol and those hands on my leg, I looked down to see the waster I struck with a face covered in blood clawing at my leg and screaming curses at me. I felt my pistol move to the head of the man. Whether to fire, or strike him again, I don't remember in the heat of the moment. Only, I stopped when the hand of Graham had finally reached the handle of the nearby guard's pistol. Almost collapsing under the blows of so many punches and kicks in such a short time, the piercing shouts of pain from the throat of Graham ceased all at once when the pistol left the guard's holster. The weaponless guard froze, and so did his own assailant, and all in the blink of an eye, Graham had swatted both of his assailants in the face. Two blows in less than a second, and Graham was free. The men before him lay in the dirt, and he stood himself up so tall he appeared a giant and as if he hadn't been continuously beaten terribly by four men in half as many minutes.
I looked down, hit the man at my leg once more, and before his grip left my leg, I saw Graham stepping towards the man in the padded jacket like an unstoppable force while the man who started it all was backing up in desperate retreat at what he saw happen to his comrades. I was free. Nothing and no one else prevented my intervention, but before I could take a single step forward, the waster in the padded jacket had extended a hand of truce. Graham took the hand as if to shake it, only to pull the man closer and strike him in the face just as he'd done to the others. All in a single motion, the waster who started it was on the ground, backing up and leaving a few specks of blood in the dirt. My mind caught up to the present, and just as I began my charge forward to stop what was going to happen, the final moment arrived.
Graham had stepped on the groin of the man in the padded jacket, preventing him from crawling away further. The scorched arm with dangling tattered and bloody cloth leveled the pistol at the head of the waster, I shouted "NO!" at the top of my lungs, and the whole world seemed to freeze as the pistol was fired seven times before the audible click of the pistol's slide locking back.
I don't know why exactly I shouted "NO" in the moment. Every part of me at the time, and even in the present day told me his action was justified. I had cracked my weapon across the heads of two men during this second riot in the market that day. Although I don't believe I killed either men, wounds to the jaw or blows to the temple can often prove deadly or crippling to those who called the wastes their homes. I don't know what happened to those men, I didn't care, and I also didn't know what happened to the others in the brawl who fell. After the seven shots, the world remained still, and a brief survey of my surroundings in the ensuing calm showed a scene I hadn't witnessed before. Probably 15 guards, and at least twice as many wasters all turned at the gunfire while maybe a dozen more wasters and guards alike were scattered about the scene too wounded or not conscious enough to take notice of what had happened around that well. The violence had ended, and all eyes were on the lone figure standing over a still body only a few feet from the source of water.
Looking back, I think I shouted "NO" because of a fear inside that I hadn't bothered to contemplate further in the days and weeks leading up to the incident. As justified as Graham was in doing what he had done, or what I believed he had done, that fear inside was that the burned man who disgraced our community for so many years returned to us in need but had not changed. What I feared was that the moment he fired that pistol to kill the man who started the thing, whether justified or not, his killing of the man would show the community who welcomed him back that there was still just cause for keeping him outside the walls. If he killed the man, he would confirm what all those within the wall internally feared: Graham was still at heart and soul, the man of nightmare and atrocity who led the Legion, a nation of slavers, murderers, and rapists for decades.
My fear appeared to reign true as the seconds of silence passed and the dust settled to expose the still body on the ground before him. My fears were confirmed, Graham had not changed, and the monster inside was still present when the last of the smoke from the gun barrel disappeared into the cold breeze… I hadn't even noticed that the dirt around the head that gun was aimed at sat free of any indication of the deed I thought done… Then, beyond the smallest spattering of blood in the dirt around the waster's head the only truly noticeable puddle around the still body was not around the head of the waster, but around the groin.
The brawl around the well was still frozen in place with all eyes glued to the standing figure, and perhaps it was only a few seconds, but it felt as though hours had passed before the onlookers and I saw the chest of the body on the ground begin to rise and fall. Immediately my fears of Graham's reversion to the monster of legend were gone, but still sitting dormant as I could only watch what then unfolded.
As the puddle around the waster's groin grew steadily wider and the chest started to rise and fall, it had only fallen three or four times before Graham dropped the empty magazine out of the guardsman's .45, pulled another one out of his pocket, and my mind recalled my detachment's "gift bucket" a few weeks back as he pressed the lever and the slide sent another round into the chamber.
Silence continued its reign when he stepped over the man, dropping to one knee as he took the man's collar in one hand and pressed the muzzle of the gun to the man's head with his other. It was then that I noticed the disturbed dirt directly around the shaking head of the waster and now curious about the small puddle of blood where it rested. Graham pulled the collar, bringing the pistol-whipped face up, showing a broken nose streaming blood, a purple jaw, and a set of eyes widened in terror fixated on the half-wrapped face of the beast he thought he could destroy. With the head raised, I looked back at the disturbed dirt around the head and saw that although the burned man had shot directly around the head of the man, at least one shot had illustrated the point further. The bright red and dripping mess where the man's left ear should have been was only a clearer indication of what had truly happened when the gunshots subdued the whole scene. The ear on the waster's left side had been shot clean off, and I could only presume the same happened to his other ear when I saw the second little puddle of blood in the sand after the head was raised.
With everyone still stunned, the scorched and covered face of Graham hovered but a few inches from the terrified instigator when the silence ended by the piercing, croaking, pained, and enraged voice of Graham shouting;
"Anything else to say!?..."
The waster only shook, his eyes seemingly unable to look away from but also unable to look into those of the half-wrapped man. All the waster could do at the shock of losing his ears in a volley of gunfire from the beast holding him mercy was stutter something unintelligible. At that, a moment passed, and the face of Graham grew neither further nor closer from that of the waster before Graham screamed;
"… Nothing else!? Not even an apology!? Not a 'Thanks for sparing my useless life'!?..."
Graham paused once more, and the mouth of the waster stuttered again something indecipherable before the eyes widened and the waster sputtered out, "T-Thaks- Thanks…"
The ears of the man were sheered off but still he could hear through the coagulating blood dripping down the sides of his head and Graham racked the gun again, sending the round that was already in the chamber flying out of the weapon into the dirt. The loud clack of the gun and gesture serving as a simple warning to indicate his intent as the waster's eyes widened even more to the point of nearly popping out his head as Graham screamed;
"Thanks!? Who are you thanking!?
Ever so slightly more collected, the waster's eyes went briefly to the cold steel pressed to his forehead before stuttering out once again;
"Th-Tha-Thank you s-s-sir for sp-spari-"
The words were stopped by the grip of Graham's pistol colliding terribly with the side of the waster's head. Right in the blood-pouring mess where his left ear was, the man let out the most horrific scream that morphed into awful sobs that Graham silenced by manually closing the jaw with one hand while placing the muzzle right back where it was previously. The waster's muffled sobs were silenced, giving way to hyperventilation as Graham continued to lord over the man. The waster cried and choked as the grip of Graham locked the mouth shut, and Graham let loose a snarl of pure rage before he screamed into the broken face;
"DON'T THANK ME!..." Graham stopped, releasing his grip on the waster's jaw, and an awful gurgling sound was made when the jaw fell open, releasing a torrent of blood. The waster sobbed hysterically, coughing, spitting, and frantically trying not to choke on the blood pooling in his mouth amidst his terror of the man completely in control of him.
For the life of me, I couldn't move an inch. I wanted to stop Graham, help the waster, help Graham, just stop this scene, but all I or anyone could do was quietly watch, waiting to see what the wrapped man would do with the one who started this whole thing.
Perhaps Graham was stirred by the sobs, and perhaps he did not want to see a man die in such a way, even though part of me felt he'd finished people off in this manner before. Graham stared silently at the mess before him, raising the collar and head higher once more, and the blood streamed from the man's mouth down his chest, coating his shirt and jacket. Although Graham might have allowed the man to not die from drowning in his own blood, he still had a point to make, and he had to ensure the waster knew that it wasn't the one holding the gun to be thanked. There was a reason Graham wouldn't accept the apology, a reason the waster was struck for his answer and reduced even more to that crippled, crying, and bloody state.
The waster looked nothing like a person as he collected himself and the streams of blood and tears poured endlessly. The gun remained pressed to the wasters head as Graham corrected the man, shouting into that bawling face;
"… Don't you Fucking DARE thank Me!..." more tears and blood flowed down the waster's face and Graham's tone stayed at its chilling intensity, "… You thank God, you thank the Lord Jesus Christ for His mercy upon you today because it certainly wasn't Mine that's letting you survive this Sh*t YOU couldn't finish!..."
He pulled the face closer, keeping the same pressure of the muzzle on the forehead and not lowering his volume one bit as he screamed full of rage and authority the rest of his demand;
"… It's only because of Him that your brains are still in your head and not splattered all over this f*cking ground! GOT IT!?..."
The waster's sobs choked to a slow halt, and I think everyone there, perhaps all of New Canaan and anyone who came to our home this day got the message. The waster nodded slowly, face covered in bruises, blood, dirt, and tears, seeming to know that now was his part. Another trickle of blood fell from his mouth, and with his eyes shut at the terrible pain he knew he alone was responsible for, the waster stuttered;
"T-Th-Thank you God, Je-Jeezuz. I've Sahrry." He almost couldn't finish, his words distorted by more blood dripping out of his mouth and immediately when he was done giving his apology through that broken mouth and face, he burst into another torrent of tears.
Graham released his grip on the collar, the waster's head collapsed back into the dirt, and Graham in a voice completely devoid of his firey rage from seconds earlier, but still serious and menacing as it always was, said;
"Consider yourself forgiven…"
Then Graham stood himself up, looked down at the sobbing form in a puddle of blood from his ears and urine from his regretful choices, and then said calmer still; "… I'll forgive you tomorrow" before he silenced the form with one ruthless boot to the face.
The waster fell into unconsciousness, the kick sending several teeth into the dirt beside him, and Graham put another round from his pocket in the magazine of the weapon as the matter was formally ended.
The whole market still sat frozen in place, I saw that even the guards atop the distant gate towers were lined along the railing in stunned silence. Graham looked to the guard he borrowed the pistol from, tossed it towards him with a full fresh magazine. The guard caught it without even trying, and holstered it without word as Graham bent down to pick up his water pail. The ground around the overturned pail was now dry, the sun was setting, and upon standing himself back up, it appeared that this was the moment his pain from his burns and the pain from the beatings caught up to him. He clutched his stomach in one hand, empty pail in the other, and the bleeding broken body shuffled towards me of all people ever so slowly. I still could not move, but could only watch as more pain consumed him. Half his scorched skin was exposed to the world as the wrapping hung off his person in bloody tatters, but still he got closer.
At last, when he was but two paces from me, he shoved the empty pail into the hands of a waster beside me that I hadn't even noticed. The waster just at my right was evidently one of the ones who was friends with the one in the padded jacket who started it all. With the pail in the hands of the stunned waster beside me, Graham said, "You and your friends clearly need this more than I do… And take your friend to the clinic."
The waster beside me dropped the pail and ran to the still body of the one in the padded jacket, already beginning to drag him away by the arms, and Graham silently extended his hands toward me.
Without even thinking about it, and with a mind still flooding with thoughts and memories about all I'd seen, I bound his hands with my shackles, and walked him towards the gate to New Canaan as life resumed a little more behind us with each step. The cleanup after the storm was already underway, and the splash of such an event continued to ripple as the waves of people returned to their business and lives that afternoon.
Graham had changed. Our community's returned son had shown it in his own brutal way that afternoon. The incident also proved that the monster inside of him that created those terrible stories when he campaigned with the Legion was still very much alive. The fire that consumed his body, could not destroy that terrible monster within, but it matters not what we have inside, it matters what we do with it. Our Gospel holds peace and love for our fellow man above all else, but what's to be done when something so evil comes along it refuses to bow before love or simply won't leave? I don't believe I am theologically equipped enough to understand all the particulars, but even our Lord drove the wicked from His Father's Temple with a whip and by force when he saw the evil being done within. Although the incident that day would cause many mixed feelings within the community, there was no denying that mercy was shown, as brutal as that mercy was. The man lived, and was later removed from the clinic of Dr. Franklin, but some other truths about the incident were brought to light: Our brother still creates waves whether he tries to or not, and it's what we do with the things inside us that matters.
AN: I want to give thanks to Mr. Xcom-Andres for helping me locate the video I asked about in the previous chapter. Also: As I promised in the comment on YouTube, I want to give a special shout-out to "tsunami_sandwich903" for recommending my fic "The Edge of Glory" in a comment on the Youtube video "Legion vs. NCR Lands" by "TheNeoCypher." If you see this, thanks for the recommendation, and know I truly appreciate you and anyone who's enjoyed my works, especially those who enjoyed my works enough to spread the word about them! :D