CHAPTER ONE
Every fibre of his being burned with an indescribable agony that tore at his mind. It was all he could do to hold himself upright and that only brought fresh agony as the rough wood rubbed against his flayed back. The world was growing strangely dim but still the agony would not be numbed. He felt it all. From the ropes slicing into his wrists, to the wind throwing sand into his back like daggers to the sun scorching his bare skin. Every breath brought yet more pain as that automatic instinct kept him in his agony. How much longer would it be? Surely the next breath would be his last. When would it end?
You deserve this. You deserve to die here.
The voice was his only companion in the growing dimness. It taunted him replaying the shuddering sobbing and gurgling screams even as his mind struggled to hold onto consciousness. It conjured up shifting jeering spectres on the very edge of his fading awareness. It seemed intent on filling what were his last moments with yet more torment. As if the pain wasn't enough. But he couldn't deny the truth in what it said. This was what he deserved. He'd been too weak to save them. He'd been too slow. What right did he have to life when theirs had been taken from them? He loved them but he couldn't save them.
His heart beat was slowing. He could feel it growing weaker as the life drained out of him in the slick stickiness rolling down his torn back. It was become harder to focus and the haziness was closing in around him. How long would he have the strength to hold himself up? It wouldn't too much longer and his arms would give out leaving him to suffocate under the weight of his own body. Even the waves of pain were becoming fainter as his body gave up. At least that was some sort of reprieve. They'd been sure to inflict as much pain on him as they could. The ones who'd hung him on the cross so roughly so as to deepen his agony. The image of their sneering faces and that plumed helmet was burned into his mind. His mind focused on it even as it unravelled. Death would come soon.
You said you loved them. Yet you let them die.
His wrists burned as he pulled himself higher again. Then, in some cruel joke, his vision cleared so he could see his arm strapped to the rough wooden cross beam. A row of jagged cuts oozing with blood ran along the length of each arm. He dared not look down. The weight of that simple action could very well be enough to break the last of his strength. But he knew that the wounds on his chest were just as bad and that his back was little more than a bloody pulp. So he forced himself to look forward out into the desert. It wouldn't be long now. If the blood loss didn't kill him the sheer amount of pain would. But did he deserve anything better? At least he would die looking out at the hills as his vision faded into darkness. That hopeful little boy from Freeside left to die alone on a cross in a forgotten corner of the desert.
For a moment he could've sworn he'd seen a figure in the blur. He thought he'd seen the shape of a face moving across the light. But it had to be just another cruel pain-induced hallucination or a trick of a dying mind. Who would come to save him? Why would anyone take pity on a wretched excuse of a man like him? No, he deserved his fate. A man was supposed to be able to protect the ones he loved. A man was supposed to keep them from harm and provided something better for them. But all he'd done is lead them into the desert to die. It was only because he'd wanted to take a quicker route. He'd known that it wasn't safe and he hadn't listened to them. It was funny. His mind was battling to hold on even as his body was surrendering. Weren't dying thoughts supposed to be deep and profound? A reflection on the life you'd lived. Yet his were only bitter torment. It was rather fitting though.
Then came the darkness. What was it like to die? Was it a thing of fear full of agony and screaming? He'd seen scavvers go out that way out in the ruins. They'd clutched desperately at their wound with a trembling lip as the life faded from their eyes. Or was it a gentle release that saw you leave behind the pain? The way he'd watched his father die. How would he die? Would he go screaming in pain? Or would he slip away? Not that it mattered. There would be no one to sit with him and no one to care. Not that he deserved it. His Natalie and their little girl had. But not him.
"Just hold on," the faraway voice said "I'm going to get you some help."
They say that your life flashes before your eyes just before you die. A sort of summary of everything meaningful you've done. John saw himself as a tiny boy in the slums of Freeside. He was clothed in rags with a scrap of bread tightly gripped in his little hand. Then he saw himself as a teenager who had snuck out one night to see that pretty girl from the slum on the other side of Vegas. His father would've been furious if he'd caught him out so late. It wasn't safe in the ruins in the day let alone at night with the Fiends prowling around and the chem addicts lurking. But he hadn't been able to wait to see her any longer. Then he saw the moment their daughter had been born. He saw her lying in her cloth swaddling so perfect and beautiful. If these were the last memories he saw before he died he would've been happy. But he knew what was coming.
"He's alive," the faint voice said "but just barely. I don't know if he'll make it."
"I couldn't leave him there," a strangely familiar voice replied "do everything you can. We have to try."
These were new voices. It sounded like they were muffled and a thousand miles away. But they were new. They were far different to the other voice. Had they belonged to someone he'd met along the way? Were they another memory passing through his dying mind? He could've sworn that he heard them. Not in his mind like his thoughts or the other voice but with his ears. He should be dead by now. How was that even possible? Without realizing it he'd been focusing on these new voices. His mind was faint and hazy but he knew that he was hearing them.
Why don't you just give in? Do the world a favour.
The other voice returned with his slow faint heartbeat. Perhaps it sensed the tiny glimmer of life in him and had come to bring fresh torment. After all it wouldn't let him escape the torment. Perhaps it would be easier if he let go. At least then he would be with them again. He could see his Natalie and his little girl again. The unrelenting macabre slideshow in his head would stop. What right did he have to cling to life? They wouldn't be there. He'd failed them. It would be best if he died.
He didn't even try to resist the darkness. It swept over him and he lost himself in it. He dared not let himself feel the faint strength beginning to well up deep inside him. Nor would he let himself believe that his heartbeat was growing stronger. He had no right even though his body seemed to be defying his mind. Or was there a small weak part of his mind that clung to the idea of life? Such arrogance was surprising. How dare it pretend that he had any right to survive. He was John Reynolds. He'd failed to protect his family. What kind of man was he? Why should he live? It would be better to let himself drift in the abyss and eventually death would claim him.
"Can you hear me?"
There it was again. That voice in the darkness again. It sounded closer this time and he could pick up a note of urgency in it. But how could he tell such a thing? It took a moment for his mind to register the fact that it had awareness again. Awareness and a frail glimmer of life in its body. There was someone leaning over him. He could feel them the way that you didn't have to turn to look to know that someone was staring at you when your back was turned. Your mind just knew. But how was his mind still aware?
"You have to fight. Come on! Don't give up."
A muted flash of light startled him. It took him a few moments to realise that he'd opened his eyes and as they focused he could make out the shape of a face looking down at him. Then the wave of grogginess hit him and he felt his heart lurch in his chest. Was he making that faint groan? A sort of grating drawn out wail that cut through the dimness. He'd been trying his hardest to die but some small part of him seemed to be resisting him. No matter how hard he tried to shove it away that part of him fought to live. It clung to the idea of life like a bark scorpion to its prey. Death would've been welcome but it seemed he couldn't even do that right.
The face above him came into focus ever so slowly. It formed into a soft round oval with soft green eyes above a small button nose and thin lips that curved downwards in a frown. Then came the long curls of black hair and dark skin. The lips curved into a smile as the face recognized the beginning of awareness. It took a while for his mind to register that it was a young woman standing over him. Her smile broadened and a finger moved in front of his eyes. It seemed that, regrettably, death had lost its grip on him.
"I'd nearly given up hope," the soft voice said "you gave us one hell of a scare there."
John felt strength slowly trickling back into him. The faint memory of a sudden jabbing pain in his arm slowly came back to him. Now that his mind was beginning to clear the memory of it reminded him of a stimpak. The sharp sting of a needle's bite followed by a strange rushing feeling that filtered through him. Death should've taken him. It would've been better that way. It was no less than what he deserved. He should've died on the cross in that lonesome forgotten corner of the desert. At the very least he would've eventually been food for the bloatflies and geckos. In death he would've been able to do at least some good. What good could he do with life? What right did he have to be saved from the jaws of death? Natalie and their little girl should be the ones lying here recovering not him. It wasn't right. But it seemed that fate had other plans.
You're a pathetic excuse for a man. You let them die!
As life slowly returned so too did the voice. It taunted him even as his body and mind teetered on the very brink. He'd heard about people losing the will to live and dying. Yet he didn't even have the will yet it seemed he would be forced to live. The voice in his head reminded him just how unworthy he was to have that chance. Surely there were far worthier people. Why should a man like him have a second chance? A man who had led his family into danger, a man who had failed in his promise to keep them safe and a man who had hadn't been strong enough to save them. Though he wasn't sure he deserved to be called a man. The voice was right. He should've died on that cross. Perhaps there was still another way.
"W…where am…I?"
Was that his voice speaking? It sounded so far away and weak. A feeble stammer that barely made itself heard. But perhaps that was fitting. Such a weak voice suited a weak wretch like him. Why was he still breathing while his precious ones lay cold in the ground? Had they even been buried? He couldn't remember seeing what they had done with them. All he could remember were the screams, the pained retching sobbing and the agony. He'd seen the blood coursing from the gashes in their throats. The fear and pain in their eyes had torn into his soul. Then there was the laughter and the jeering faces. He felt his heart pounding in his chest as the memories came flooding back and heard his breathing quickening.
"You're safe," the young woman replied "you're with friends. But you're damn lucky to be alive. It looks like whoever did this to you did their best to be as vicious as possible."
He tried to sit up and was met by a wave of stabbing pain. She clucked disapprovingly and shook her head. She was at his bedside in a matter of moments with a small jar of water which she pressed to his lips insistently. The concept of thirst hadn't occurred to him in the blackness. Though why would it have? Such mundane things as eating and drinking faded away when you hung on the very edge of death. His body needed them but he'd sought the sweetly alluring embrace of death instead. It was what he deserved. It was what he still deserved. Had he been conscious to be aware of his parched lips and aching thirst he would've refused that base yearning. He had no right to such life sustaining things.
Why don't you just give up! It would be better for everyone.
The accuser in his head was hard to resist. He spoke in a sneer that cut to the core of his being. A small part of him tried to resist but it was hard not to believe him. After all he'd argued with them. It had been his insistence that had put them in that cursed part of the desert. She'd wanted to go to Primm instead. But he'd insisted that there would be more opportunities for them in Vault City and New Reno. She'd suggested they at least take the main routes but he hadn't wanted to put up with the NCR patrols and their tolls for the safe roads. The thought of a few checkpoints and inspections had been more unpleasant to him than putting them in danger on the unguarded roads. It really had been entirely his fault. A real man would've taken their safety and their thoughts into consideration. But he'd only thought of extra hassle and the endless bureaucracy the NCR were so fond of. It was all his fault. What right did he have to try and pretend otherwise? If he'd just listened to her they would still be alive. A bit of NCR paperwork and a few inspections would've been a very small price to pay to have them still with him. But he'd made his choice. Because of him they'd been butchered like animals in the desert. Their blood cried out accusing him. If only he'd listened.
His body slowly began to heal even as his mind fractured. He wanted to let himself die but it seemed that life was intent on flowing back into him. He wasn't sure how long it had been. The lady with the black hair told him that it'd been three weeks but the concept of time still eluded him. There was nothing but that black hole and the accuser with his constant barrages. He managed to sit up on the side of his bed. Then he took a few wobbly steps around the strange little room. The all-consuming pain was gone. But he could still feel its biting progeny. He slowly grew stronger even though he still wanted to let himself die. The two wills clashed violently within him. He knew that he didn't deserve the first and he was trying his best for the second.
"You are doing well my friend," Mathias said with a smile "but I'll be honest with y0ou. For a while there I thought you were done for. I've never seen anyone torn up like you were."
The woman's husband had introduced himself in the second week. Mathias and his wife Eliza were a Paiute couple who'd settled on the edge of what they'd called Pahranagat Lake. He'd explained that they had once been traders but the local raiders had made it unsafe to keep up that line of work. So they had settled down on the banks of the lake where the soil was fertile and the fresh water flowed freely. John wasn't sure why Mathias had told him this. The man knew nothing about this stranger in his home yet was immediately kind and hospitable. Not only that but he also helped his young wife nurse this potentially dangerous stranger back to health. It didn't make sense to him.
"But I see a different kind of pain in you," Mathias continued "your body is healing yes. But there is a darkness and a pain in your spirit. A torment I have seen before. It's a journey that is not going to be easy John."
"I'm not sure I should've lived," John said weakly "I don't deserve to."
Mathias watched him silently for a few moments. Those dark eyes seemed to peer directly into his very soul with an intensity that would unnerve most people. He was a man with a silent intensity and watchfulness that belied his gentle good-naturedness. He wore his long dark hair in a braid over one shoulder and seemed to habitually dress in woven clothes unlike any John had seen out in the wastes. Both his appearance and his clothes were far better cared for than the average Wastelander.
"Sometimes fate decides otherwise," he answered thoughtfully "we don't always get to decide when our time has come. You may wish to die but perhaps there is something more for you to do."
What use could he possibly be? The blood of his wife and child was on his hands. If he hadn't been able to save them what use would he be to anyone else? Or for anything else? If he hadn't been so selfish they'd still be alive. He should've fought harder to save them. But he'd been overpowered so easily and forced to watch as they were slaughtered. A man was supposed to be strong enough to save his family from danger or at least to die trying.