Whatever Happened To Candy Cane? Part 2 - Ubi Est Ea?
Days, weeks and months passed and Max heard nothing of sister Cindy, known better by her ominous gang moniker "Candy Cane". Her son Fury was now 6 years old and the apple of his grandparents' eyes, singing songs of praise at temple with his mother and displaying a keen eagerness with the wooden practice sword his father had carved him for his birthday. The loss of their daughter no doubt weighed heavy on their hearts but they did not speak of her, although Max later discovered his father had organised a search party to look for her around the cove area in which they lived, though they were looking for a body and did not expect to find her alive.
It was completely by chance that Max discovered a clue to the direction she might have travelled, as a young male acquaintance remarked of seeing a striking golden dagger for sale among a travelling vendor's inventory, its handle carved in Caesar's Legion's distinctive bull insignia; he would have purchased it as a gift for Max if only it wasn't 2000 caps. Abandoning everything, Max headed for the last known location of the vendor in south-west Oregon and for the first time in his life, Max left the state of Nevada.
To say he was afraid was an understatement; Max was petrified, he was leaving his family behind and wandering through unknown territory, his combat skills probably on par with 6-year-old Fury's. He carried with him two handguns and two blades, and although he hoped never to have to use any of them, an encounter early on with a group of bloatflies drew the first fire of his experience and bloodied his hands, inducting him into the violent kill-or-be-killed nature of the wasteland, teaching him the valuable lesson of being quick on the trigger as even the slightest moment's hesitation can be costly.
This lesson was all the more evident in a dying man he encountered laying sprawled in the street outside a saloon, the shotgun blast in his abdomen attracting insects before he was even dead yet. The sight was shocking and Max was too afraid to approach him whether to render aid or mercy and the memory of the man with his long, grey hair spattered with blood and his high-pitched whimper stayed with Max for the longest time, making regular appearances in nightmares should sleep ever find him.
.
Rest was possible on dirty mattresses and makeshift bedding, but the level of relaxation required for sleep was hard to find when danger lurked all around and sounds and shapes both unfamiliar and unfriendly perforated the darkness. Drinking dirty water had begun to give him a constant throbbing headache and he lay awake for hours missing the relatively comfortable lifestyle he had enjoyed back at Cottonwood Cove, obsessing over what his parents must think of him; the note he left behind had been reworked and reworded countless times, ultimately reading: "I've gone to find her - Maximillius". Once he had missed morning prayers his mother would start to look for him, she would be angry, disappointed. Father wouldn't find out until a few days later when his squad returned from rotation at The Fort. He had abandoned them just like Cindy had and the guilt ate away at him like maggots in a gunshot wound.
Continuing north through Oregon he sought out the merchant, asking in bars and stores for clues to her whereabouts, meanwhile drawing wary glances for the crimson cape he wore, a colour associating him with the Legion - something that could be equally as advantageous as disadvantageous.
Finally picking up on her trail, he followed the tracks of her pack Brahmin (a useful skill taught by his father from a young age) before finally locating her just outside the ghost town of Cherry Falls which was currently nothing more than a smoking crater. Her accompanying mercenary seemed anxious on the trigger of his assault weapon as Max shouted and ran towards them, arms waving frantically in the air, unable to contain his excitement at finally tracking her down. An excitement that was short-lived however, as she had sold the dagger some days ago and was "unable" to remember how she had acquired it until Max had given her every cap he carried plus one of his blades. Only then did she reveal that much of her inventory comes from a group of raiders based in Pennsylvania, but who often travel out to trade and Max's other blade bought him the location of this trading port and the opportunity to accompany the merchant on her journey there tomorrow. And although she did not recall seeing Candy Cane or even recognise her name, Max's hopes that he would find her could not be dissuaded.
And so he followed behind her the next morning treading very wearily on the back of yet another sleepless night, two weapons lighter and on an empty stomach jittering with nerves, excitement and stress. His crimson cape was the last valuable item he could afford to part with but he saved the notion of selling it for the journey back when there would be two mouths to feed. Hopefully.
His cape was promptly stripped from him however, as well as every other item he carried when the merchant and her mercenary turned on him and marched him naked at gunpoint towards a waiting group of raiders who hooted and cackled before tossing him a tattered slave outfit and clamping his wrists and ankles with iron chains. Max had learned his second important lesson of the wasteland a little too late - trust no one.
Lucindius and Maximillius Laetorius (known as Cindy and Max) a pair of fraternal twins, were born in 2260 in Reno, Nevada. Their mother Augusta was a priestess of The Holy Order of Jupiter, a church dedicated to the worship of the Roman God Jupiter and their father, Ignatius, was a centurion in Caesar's Legion.
Cindy and Max in 2267
Both children received a religious upbringing in strict adherence to the rules and values of both the church and Legion, and were well behaved and polite, a result of a highly disciplined home life, where disobedience was punished with the belt. Virtuous and honourable, the Laetorius family was very well respected within the community.
By the age of 15 however, Cindy had begun to resist the devout lifestyle forced upon her and rebelled; initially through her appearance (wearing increasingly outlandish and provocative outfits and cutting and dying her hair) and then through a series of unsavoury boyfriends and bad habits such as smoking and drinking.
Max on the otherhand became devoutly religious, drifting towards a chaste life of reverence, despite pressure from his father to join the legion or at least to become proficient in combat.
Max in 2279
By age 17 Cindy had further shamed the family by becoming a member of a local raider gang known as "Eighth Youth", adopting the name "Candy Cane" and despite many attempts from her parents to bring her back home, she grew more distant, increasingly becoming involved in crime and eventually falling pregnant to the gang leader Krackskull.
Cindy in 2281 as "Candy Cane"
Receiving little support from her fellow gang members during her pregnancy, she briefly returned to her parents' home, giving birth to a baby boy whom she named Fury before disappearing again, leaving her parents to raise him.
Krackskull showed no interest in his son, and even less in Candy Cane, who began to drift northwards, flitting from gang to gang and developing a nasty Jet habit along the way that she funded through gambling and prostitution, sometimes spending 72 waking hours in a viscous cycle of the three.
Meanwhile at home and at age 22, Max faced increasing inner turmoil, plagued by the suppression of his own homosexuality (which was strictly forbidden by both church and legion) an unwillingness to follow in his father's footsteps and a longing to see his sister again, whom he had remained in touch with until the past year or so, whereupon she had seemingly vanished without a trace. Afraid of the reaction his parents, Max remained at home, performing his religious duties during the day and partaking in combat lessons in the evening, becoming reasonably proficient in various small arms, all the while sneaking out at nighttime in search of information regarding the whereabouts of his sister, the notorious Candy Cane, no longer recognised as "daughter" by her parents.
Tales of her exploits were difficult to hear, as a trail of bar patrons leading north out of state described her as cruel and unforgiving and given to mad fits of jealousy; a series of scar-faced women paying testament to the gold-plated dagger she carried, a gift her father had once received for bravery in service to the legion. Her path was easy enough to follow, as every major casino had a debt in her name, with a client of hers at the Lightning Bolt claiming she left the premises with two broken hands after failing to pay up. From here her trail went cold as no doctor Max spoke to had treated her wounds and no local Jet dealers had sold to her; no more scarred women or bar tabs or casino blacklists and Max became fearful that a fate far worse than broken hands had befallen her. Where was she? And was she even still alive?
Estimates of Cassandra McKeown's year of birth vary from 2230 to 2240, with her place of birth similarly ambiguous, thought to be somewhere East possibly Maryland. As a member of the travelling sideshow: "Mr Yammy's Marvellous Mysteries", the details of her birth and upbringing were deliberately obscured to add to the mystery and intrigue surrounding her life and her journey to becoming Squid Lady.
Not much is known about her childhood or family, save that she had a brother who was recruited to The Brotherhood of Steel and that she was married in 2259, giving birth to twin girls 4 years later. Tragically her husband and babies were all killed in the escalating violence in the area between The Brotherhood of Steel and Enclave when the roof of their house collapsed after being hit with several rounds from a Tesla Cannon. Mentally crushed, but physically unscathed, Cassandra entered a catatonic state, refusing to leave the ruins of her home, barely eating, barely sleeping, barely surviving.
Several months later and she was a shadow of her former self, her hair was grey and matted and her body weight had plummeted; her face once rosy and plump was now pale, gaunt and haunted. However, the worst of her troubles was still to come and they arrived with a bang one day when yet another firefight erupted between the Brotherhood of Steel and the Enclave and an errant grenade rolled into the cracked foundations of her family home and exploded beside her, shattering the bones in her legs, ripping the flesh and tearing the muscle to bloody shreds.
When friends and neighbours rushed to her aid she was found slumped in a corner staring unblinkingly at her foot that had been blown across the room towards the broken crib where her babies had once slept, clutching something desperately in her hand which was later found to be her left kneecap which she would only release after receiving several doses of Stimpak administered by a Brotherhood of Steel medic.
A makeshift stretcher was cobbled together from the scraps of her old bedding and she was carried from the house (under her own weak, sedated protest) and taken to a Brotherhood of Steel aid station where her pain was managed and bleeding stopped and the dead flesh was stripped away from the living, however no doctor or surgeon could be found to amputate her legs. Patient waiting turned from days into weeks and finally months and the aid station swelled with sick and injured people, with no medical personnel around to help them and aid supplies rapidly dwindling.
Tired of waiting around to either spontaneously heal or die, those patients able to get out of bed decided their best chance of survival was to leave the station in search of somewhere safer. Still catatonic and regarded as a terminal case, Cassandra was initially left behind until her screaming protests grew so loud a handful of sympathetic citizens and soldiers turned back to help her. The true extent of her injuries had been unknown to the other patients and they struggled to conceal their horror upon seeing her tragically mangled legs which looked like they had been sliced into ribbons. Unable to bear her weight, the most they could do was help her out of bed, whereupon she was surprisingly able to move by dragging herself along the ground with her arms that although weak were bolstered by her sheer determination to move. A steel plate affixed below her pelvis helped prevent the ground eroding any more of her flesh away, though thankfully most of her nerves had seemingly been burnt away in the blast as she did not complain of pain, a rope affixed around her midriff allowed her to be pulled along when the strength in her arms failed.
The group wandered together in safety for many miles before members began to defect and break away and upon reaching the town of Pennydrift only Cassandra and Patrick Donnahue, a blind soldier remained in the group.
Dehydrated and starving, the pair were desperate for food but had no money to pay, and little in the way of services to offer and instead had to go round together looting junk from garbage cans and old cabinets to trade for caps, becoming the subject of much ridicule from many of the townsfolk who treated them with scorn and contempt. Unbeknownst to both of them, Patrick had been suffering from a slow bleeding in his brain and one day passed away peacefully in his sleep.
Left alone again and unable to physically fend for herself, Cassandra took to begging on the street, drawing considerable attention from onlookers both fascinated and horrified by her appearance where she acquired various nicknames including "The Half Woman", and "Tentacle Queen".
Becoming both a curiosity and object of ridicule, she again struggled to sustain herself and took the offer of a travelling merchant to accompany him to the new Vegas strip for a chance at making some decent coin, stopping at various towns along the way to showcase herself.
She settled at the strip for a good year and though she had to pay a good cut of her earnings to Mr House, she still made a living, despite having to suffer ridicule, violence and verbal abuse on a daily basis.
One day a dwarf in a power helmet entered the strip handing out fliers for a traveling freak show heading to town called "Mr Yammy's Marvellous Mysteries" and in the coming days a big tent spectacular popped up just outside the gate in Freeside, showcasing disfigured human beings and animals alongside skilled performers and entertainers.
Upon hearing of the famous half woman beggar, Mr Yammy himself came to visit her and she was enticed to join his show and rebranded as "Squid Lady - twisted creature from the deep blue sea" signing a binding and highly dubious contract, committing her to at least 10 years of loyal service.
Joining the show provided Cassandra with a bed every night and up to 3 square meals a day - luxuries she hadn't known in years, but even better than that, Mr Yammy's armed guards (a particularly brutal outfit known as Squadron Sigma)
provided her with protection from unruly spectators and the obscenities they would often yell. And so she settled into life with the sideshow, travelling all over the country in a Brahmin-drawn carriage, showcasing her injuries to shocked crowds and curious onlookers.
In late 2280, a story began to circulate that an alien spaceship had visited planet Earth and abducted a human baby, leaving behind an alien baby in its place. This wasn't the case.
The truth of the matter is that in 2279, a human baby was carried into an orphanage in Jackpot, Nevada, in the arms of his human father and promptly left there crying on the floor as his father fled out the door, never to return again. He was no alien, but rather a child suffering from advanced radiation sickness - he was drastically underweight and undersized and his entire body was completely hairless; his head and eyes were swollen and puffy and his limbs were short and thin.
That he even lived at all is something of a miracle (his mother likely either died in childbirth or shortly thereafter) but his life was saved by two doctors administering an aggressive course of RadAway and he was subsequently named Arthur Sardoski in their honour.
Supposed photograph of The Alien Baby
Word of his highly unusual appearance began to spread and soon people began to flock to the orphanage to see the "The Alien Baby" in his crib. Later that year a travelling sideshow named "Mr Yammy's Marvellous Mysteries" reached town after travelling through several states to see the baby behind the myth. Upon seeing him, Bill Goldman, the show's owner and front runner, instantly adopted little Arthur and he was exhibited as the show's star attraction: The Alien Baby.
Not only was his RadAway medication immediately halted but he was placed on a strict starvation diet in order to keep his body frail and skinny and was even fed plants and leaves in an attempt to dye his skin green (which didn't work but did succeed in giving him terrible diarrhoea).
Conditions for the show's performers were deplorable, not least for Arthur, as it became apparent that he was also blind due to his swollen eyes and he needed constant care. After a sorry period of downright neglect; another of the sideshow's more prominent performers took a maternal shine towards him and took on the responsibility of his care. Squid Lady had been recruited to the show and thusly named after she had fallen victim to a grenade thrown during a fiery altercation between the Enclave and the Brotherhood of Steel. It is unclear who threw the grenade, but the resulting blast mangled the entire lower half of her body leaving her legs shredded like tentacles and forcing her to move around by pulling herself along the ground in a squid-like manner. Life hadn't been kind to her, but bonding with little Artie gave her some fleeting moments of joy in an otherwise unbearable existence.
But fleeting it was as Arthur never lived to see his 3rd birthday, dying in 2282 from cerebral edema, with his passing marked by a lavish ceremony and funeral procession organised by Bill Goldman and attracting crowds from miles away. His body was initially buried in a Cemetery in Arlington, Virginia (his place of death) but was dug up several days later by grave robbers and sold on to an unscrupulous museum owner for what is speculated to be a handsome fee, where it was once again exhibited as the mummified body of The Alien Baby. However, since his death many museums and exhibitions have claimed ownership of his remains and to this day the true whereabouts of his body remains a mystery.
Notable Acts: Alien Baby, Headless Dog, The Serpent, Tin Man, Fireball, Squid Lady
Mr Yammy's Marvellous Mysteries was a travelling sideshow that toured The United States between 2268 and 2290. Founded and run by Bill Goldman (known professionally as Mr Yammy) until his death in 2290, the sideshow billed itself as "an exhibition of freaks and wonders" and largely consisted of humans and animals mutated through radiation poisoning or horrifically maimed through violence of some sort.
Traveling from town to town in wooden wagons pulled by Brahmin, the show attracted much controversy, particularly due to the ill treatment of most of its performers, but still remained popular and made Bill Goldman a wealthy man.
Inhabited by the notorious raider group "High Voltage", the Withered Pine Railway Station has long been avoided by local civilians, yet still sees a steady influx of unfortunate victims, be they unsuspecting travellers or residents dragged from their homes for the sick and twisted amusement of bored raiders.
Withered Pine Railway Station
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The most recent of these raids had been upon the small town of Foggy Lake, a town recently founded by a group of travellers beside a newly formed body of highly irradiated water. Those who weren't selected for abduction back to the raider camp were drowned in the lake, their bodies left floating in the mist atop the water, however those who resisted were brutalised and mutilated, chiefly by "Sick Pup" and "The Freak" who remained at the town long after the other raiders had left removing body parts and organs from still alive victims and nailing them to the walls of their houses.
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Word of this atrocity soon spread throughout the region, ultimately leading to the formation of an anti-raider group of vigilantes known as "Rough Justice" set on ousting High Voltage from their lair and lynching them on the spot. Less than one week after the events at Foggy Lake, 29 civilians set out towards Withered Pine Railway Station armed with rifles, handguns and energy weapons, intent on avenging the dead and rescuing the captured.
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However the mission was compromised from the offset; an untimely encounter with a pack of coyotes trimmed their numbers down to 27 (with 2 group members limping back to base with serious bleeding leg wounds) and the group was thrown entirely off-course in the fracas, forcing them to double back on themselves to ensure they didn't approach the raider's encampment from the western entrance, lest they have to proceed through the Withered Pines tunnel or "Tunnel of Doom" as it had come to be known. This time delay saw the afternoon sun dwindle, and with it a vast majority of courage as darkness would surely favour the raiders on the land they knew so well.
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The raiders proved to be much better organised than anyone could have guessed (owing greatly to the military experience of a couple of former soldiers in the group) and a spotter positioned high on the Spalding overpass was able to signal back to camp about the impending attack, allowing the raiders to mobilise and prepare defences.
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The civilian group were allowed to advance straight into the heart of the raider encampment without resistance, carefully approaching 3 raiders playing caravan round a small, white table which to their abject horror discovered was no more than 3 mannequins dressed in raider clothing. Opening fire from every side, the raiders tore into the civilians in a manic flurry sending them scarpering in every direction. Initial losses for the civilians were high, with a high number of injured splayed on the ground, awaiting a crueler fate, but the impulsiveness and insanity of the raiders played to their disadvantage with raiders high on jet and psycho charging into battle brandishing no more than pool cues or police batons being cut down with laser beams or turned into piles of ash.
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A small group of civilians managed to capture 2 raiders and drag them screaming from the camp and were in the process of hoisting one by the neck from a high branch of a deciduous elm tree, too caught up in the moment to realise the remaining civilians inside the camp desperately required back-up. A horrific sound had begun to echo through the darkening sky and the terrifying outline of Sick Pup emerged atop a railway boxcar, howling towards the moon and drooling long strands of white saliva down a rapidly clenching jaw. Brandishing an Assault Rifle he opened fire on everyone below, panting like a dog with his tongue extended. With another wolf-like howl he reached into his pocket and produced a grenade which he unpinned with his teeth and lobbed into the mayhem below. The resulting blast sent an arm flying through the air so fast it struck him in the face and knocked him from the boxcar onto the ground below where he quickly abandoned the assault rifle and began to hack at combatants from a machete blade that had been strapped to his back.
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Meanwhile, and equipped with a black, spiked ball and chain, The Freak had begun to systematically exterminate any wounded left squirming on the ground (including fellow raiders) whilst howling out in answer to Sick Pup, the same dogged expression in his unblinking eyes.
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The two maimed and chopped their way through the carnage side-by-side until only a handful of civilians remained and reluctantly surrendered. Having incurred a fatal gun shot wound in the battle that ripped a hole in his stomach, The Freak's howls of joy became shrieks of terror as the chemicals running through his veins could no longer mask his pain and he died a slow, agonising death.
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Unsympathetic to his friend's suffering, Sick Pup had gathered the surrendered civilians and was holding them prisoner in a tiny room inside the Withered Pines Station building where he had taken a keen, personal interest in one particular member of the group - who was a young husband and new father to a little girl - and cracked his skull open with a machete only after many hours of brutality in full view of the other captives, taking time out now and then to gradually beat to death an older prisoner who strenuously objected to the dishonourable treatment of the young man.
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No captured civilians ever made it out of the station alive and of the entire group only 12 ever returned home. The raiders were temporarily ousted from Withered Pine Station but over time their numbers began to fill up and they retook the territory. Sick Pup left the camp however - probably grieving the loss of his brother-in-arms - and many say he now roams the wilderness alone howling at the moon in search of a new soul mate who can match his delight in violence.
A tale of the tragic upbringing of one of Canada's most notorious raiders "Sick Pup".
"Sick Pup" was born and subsequently abandoned on the floor of Charge 'n Go electro car station in Ronto, Canada in 2260 in the midst of a particularly wet fall that saw a rainfall of at least 4 inches per day. His mother was thought to be a prostitute working at a nearby brothel, his father; unknown. He would surely have perished on that garage floor had he not been discovered by an elderly, drunken prospector named Snuffy Clements, who had initially envisioned selling him to a slaver outfit but ultimately had a change of heart and decided to attempt to raise him as a son.
He was subsequently named Ricardo Clements but proved to be an extremely difficult child to raise (possibly because he was suffering from chem withdrawal after being born an addict) and Snuffy (short on cash) handed him off to Will Morano, the proprietor of the saloon where Snuffy spent most of his days, and Sick Pup became Ricardo Morano for a fee of 72 caps.
For 6 years he lived at the Clashing Heads Saloon, subsisting on a diet of charred nuclo-moose, figs and watered down beer whilst chained to a bed in an upstairs room until one day Will threw him out, turning him loose on the streets after the boy but him so hard on the abdomen, the man almost died.
Sick Pup fled into the wilderness, finally happening upon an Ice Gecko cave, where he learned to kill baby geckos with his bare hands and eat their flesh raw. Over the passing years he became notorious to the nearby townsfolk, sneaking into the town at night at first to steal food but later progressing to taking weapons and ammo. When puberty hit he became especially dangerous and after seriously assaulting several of the town's young boys, a posse was dispatched to flush him out of the cave and end his reign of terror.
However, finding the cave booby trapped, several of the men were maimed and injured, with one man killed after a prolonged torture at the hands of Sick Pup, his body discovered days later, dismembered and mutilated and covered in deep bite marks, which also extended to his genitals and internal organs.
Sick Pup was never seen near the town again, but instead wandered the wastes before joining up with a raider gang known as "High Voltage" who camped in a railway boxcar inside Withered Pine Station but whose territory included at least two miles of railway track and the infamous Withered Pine tunnel where "anything goes".
Years of isolation in the Gecko cave had left him with a vocabulary consisting mostly of screams, grunts and mouth sounds, but nonetheless his actions spoke louder and the moniker "Sick Pup" was bestowed upon him along with a large chest tattoo of a crazed cartoon dog. Unstable and wild, and at the age of only 21, he is thought to be responsible for the deaths of around 30 men and the rape and torture of many more.
In 2318, following more than 200 years of post-war fallout, the world was plunged into nuclear winter; daylight diminished, temperatures froze and blankets of snow fell relentlessly across desert and tundra alike. Thousands perished as famine swept the globe and human beings found themselves once again scurrying underground into metal vaults in order to survive another apocalypse.
Vault 19 - Mojave desert, Nevada
Vault 19 saw an influx of inhabitants from nearby towns and encampments after weeks of continuous snowfall began to cover the bodies of people frozen upright in the street. Numbers inside rose and fell but after 2 months a small community had formed, concerned with sustaining numbers on dwindling food supplies. Hunting and foraging parties were dispatched daily with limited success and so strict guidelines were put in place for inhabitants to live by, otherwise be ejected from the vault with new arbitrary rules added to the charter daily.
A meeting has been convened on a particularly icy morning, the self-appointed vault elders have gathered to discuss an altercation occurring yesterday during the evening meal. The hunting and foraging parties have already departed and so the remaining vault dwellers have gathered in the common area to observe the proceedings.
A short, young man with jet black hair named Jason stands segregated from the group; the accused. After a lengthy discussion, chief elder Hanlon steps forward and hushes the small crowd into silence, Jason sighs impudently and folds his arms with a boyish pout as the elder begins to speak.
Elder Hanlon:
In these most frightening of times we have all found ourselves flocking to the comfort and safety of this underground vault in the hopes of waiting out the terrible storm that rumbles on overhead. And despite our hardships we have formed a thriving society for the mutual benefit of all...
Jason:
This is b.s!
(He interrupts with a stage whisper but Elder Hanlon continues).
Elder Hanlon:
But our society cannot continue to function amongst those who wish to undermine it. And so, Jason, it is with heavy heart that we ask you to leave the vault.
Jason:
(aghast) What?! Over a bowl of soup?!
Elder Hanlon:
You took a double helping of soup yesterday, as observed by Elder Wainwright, thievery cannot be forgiven in these critical times, that soup must sustain us all
Jason:
That's a death sentence! You're sentencing me to die out there over a bowl of soup?! If you can even call it soup, it's a bowl of hot water!
He looks around the room for support but eyes look away and downward, with one less mouth to feed they will all be better off; survival trumps friendship and loyalty every time, hunger sounds off in every stomach, a rumbling alarm that won't be silenced.
Jason had worked as a bartender in the Gomorrah casino on the New Vegas strip before the winter had arrived and had only just begun to carve for himself a respectable living dealing chems to patrons alongside their mutfruit and vodkas. He had hoped to integrate himself more into the family with a keen eagerness to do whatever was necessary when one summer's day an icy wind blew hard enough to lift grown men right off their feet and tear roofs and walls from wooden shacks. That night saw the first fluttering of snow flakes, a sight that brought awe-stricken residents out of their homes and into the cold, if only to witness the spectacle.
As the snow continued to fall, a beautiful white canvas soon became an eerie necropolis as frostbite and hypothermia began to claim lives and - with the ground too frozen to dig graves - bodies remained on the surface frozen in place like sculptures.
The implications of his expulsion began to quickly flicker through Jason's brain and anxiety fluttered in with a cold breeze.
Elder Hanlon:
Please gather your things...
Jason:
At least wait until midday when the morning ice has broken!
(He interrupts but Elder Hanlon continues)
Elder Hanlon:
And leave the vault. Now
Jason:
(Flummoxed) And what things?!
(He finds his arms involuntarily flapping and brings them back under control)
Jason:
Ok wait a minute here, you don't own this vault, ok? I ain't going anywhere
(Another elder steps forward with a visible pistol hanging from his belt)
Elder Marr:
Remove yourself from the vault or you will be removed
(Jason eyes him for a moment with boyish impudence, he was strong once but months of watery soup twice a day has taken its toll on his body)
It's true that the soup constituted 80% melted snow - the one thing they had in abundance anymore. Sometimes a radroach would thicken the broth, giving it a black, oily appearance and bitter taste. It had even been suggested that they breed radroaches for this purpose since sightings of the creatures had begun to dwindle and soup was thus becoming more watery and a lot less filling. Sawdust had recently become an undisclosed ingredient, along with anything else close to hand and some in the group began to suspect that 2 pots were made every day; one with edible ingredients for the elders and one with whatever detritus came to hand for everyone else (in order to thin down the numbers by death or otherwise). Nevertheless, everyone knew they couldn't last indefinitely in the vault, sooner or later they would have to venture out.
Jason:
Yeah fuck all of you!
He storms off towards his bedroom, a pistol-wearing elder his shadow and rips open the door to the dresser, removing the vault suit inside, stripping naked before slipping it on and putting his own clothes back on over the top. His eyes scower the room but there is nothing else to take; he had entered with nothing 2 weeks into winter, frozen from the waist down after plowing through 3 feet of snow and they had welcomed him as a friend then, a refugee. But people change under stress, particularly the stress of starvation. Eyeing the bedspread he pulls it from the bed and wraps it around himself, the elder is perturbed:
Elder Marr:
You can't take that
Jason:
Fuck you, it ain't yours
He storms past him out the room and through the small crowd outside; there were no final farewells to make, no tearful goodbyes. He strides past them to the vault door and fiddles with the buttons but fails to open it.
Jason:
Someone open this god-damn door!
No one moves at first, a crowd of starving statues; then an older man steps forward, his skin complexion almost as grey as his hair. A clunking mechanical sound echoes through the chamber and the vault door swings open, a cold, icy gust of wind rushing in at once and peppering Jason's hair with large, white snowdrops. He responds by pulling the bedspread up over his head.
Girl:
Good luck Jason!
A female voice breaks the silence, a girl he had once stolen an extra helping of soup for but hadn't been caught that time - he was usually quite adept, increasing hunger must have turned him sloppy.
Part 1 - https://coolwolfvegas.tumblr.com/post/175317719487/one-for-the-money-part-1
Part 2 -https://coolwolfvegas.tumblr.com/post/175324039217/one-for-the-money-part-2
Part 3 - https://coolwolfvegas.tumblr.com/post/175324173187/one-for-the-money-part-3
Part 4 - https://coolwolfvegas.tumblr.com/post/175324319177/one-for-the-money-part-4
My shoulder aches and there is sand in my boot, it drives me berserk. I feel it between my toes, gritty and rough, taking up space and compressing my feet; I walk on mini sand dunes with every step and shape them into compact briquettes. I'd curse my luck if I thought anyone was listening.
Despite the late hour, the sun still beats down relentlessly, charring my flesh, evaporating every drop of moisture from my body. I remember to be thirsty and suddenly every kind of liquid appeals and seems cool, refreshing and quenching. Doc Mitchell surely has a fridge stacked with ice cold beer that awaits my return, cool beads of condensation collecting on slender bottlenecks and cascading down frosted brown glass. Crisp, carbonated fluid waits to be released with a hiss and a pop, foaming over the firm, glass rim and down onto weary fingers before being gulped down keenly in one triumphant upward thrust. Saliva collects in a dry mouth in desperate anticipation and a sticky tongue licks dry lips.
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Goodsprings again, and I wonder what's so good about it. A dry, dusty town that has seen its share of hardship, just like the rest of the Mojave, yet retains an aura of peace and quiet, optimism even - perhaps it's the name. Yet somehow I always seem to approach it grimacing with someone's blood in tow as if to warn the residents to stay indoors which they always seem to do.
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Throb, ache; the cool box begs to be sat down and I indulge, taking a moment to breathe in some hot dust that I cough back out with a dry splutter. I sit down - just for a moment:
"Nearly there, nearly there."
My shoulder hates me and growls at me with varying intensity. I try my best to ignore it, along with the dizzy spells that come and go; feculent boots and grainy toes; insatiable thirst and dry mouth; pulsating, twitching fingers - I try to remember a period of time free from suffering and cannot.
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Getting back on my feet requires much persuasion and picking up the cool box even more. Easy Pete sits on the porch of the saloon as always and acknowledges me trudging past with a gentle but confident chin-bob which I return with a weary grimace conveying a small slice of the mental trauma and anguish below the grizzly surface. If he noticed me bleeding he didn't show it and went right back to minding his business, whatever that may be. Doc Mitchell's house is now visible and I eye it determinedly with unblinking focus as though the distance could somehow diminish through willpower alone.
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I reach the bottom of the hill and the door does not fly open nor does the doctor rush out and take the box from me as per my fantasy, the door looks cobbled shut and reinforced after I had shoulder-charged it open some time ago. It still bears telltale marks of the damage with splintered wood still jutting out around the doorframe and a little cloud of shame forms above my head as I reach it and rap on it with bloody knuckles.
"Just a minute."
Oh thank god, he's there, I had already pictured fourteen scenarios where the doctor was missing and Aaron was dead, his corpse the only thing I'd find after beating down the door a second time. The sound of shuffling wood as Doc Mitchell unbarricades his door and lets a thug back inside, he opens the door cautiously and eyes fall straight to the heavy white box.
"You got it!"
He opens the door fully and I make my way inside and note with sudden panic that Aaron is not lying outstretched on the patient bed where I left him, flitting to joyous elation when I see him sitting upright on the couch, a little pale and clammy looking but otherwise healthy. Words again escape me but I make a sigh sound communicative. The doc silently notes my apparent damage.
"Let's start with you."
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Surrendering myself to the doctor's care another stimpak eases the pain and gently dials back my anxiety back a few clicks so I'm able to fall into a deep and restful sleep once my wound has been cleaned and stitched shut becoming just another landmark on the roadmap of my body that might make an interesting conversation starter with a curious lover should I ever have the good fortune to find one. Aaron's surgery begins whilst I lay still in dreamless slumber however I waken before it is complete and of course have to worry about his welfare. The kid pulls through and Doc Mitchell celebrates a job well done in solitude, retiring to the couch with a bottle of scotch and Jingle, Jangle, Jingle humming quietly on the radio. Appreciating the doctor's unspoken request for privacy I opt to sit by the bedside of softly snoring Aaron, applying a cold compress now and then to his warm forehead and carefully scrutinising his bandages for signs of infection or other medical emergency.
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He finally awakens groggy and disorientated but once assured of the success of his surgery becomes calm and coherent and we talk through the night forming a closer bond than is ever wise to make in these vastly unstable wastelands in which we live. Expressing tearful gratitude for my troubles he offers his services as a companion which I initially politely decline, wishing to keep him far from the peril I usually find myself in but later reconsider, allowing myself to indulge in a brief fantasy where I don't have to be alone, where I have someone at my side, someone who might even get to know me; a friend I think they call it. Allowing him to return to sleep I quietly ponder possibilities of teaching him to shoot and hunt, to pick locks and hack computer terminals, to haggle with merchants and even perform first aid that he might be capable of performing his own amputations one day. In essence to be a father him, and pass down all the skills I had to learn the hard way and acquire through pain and tears. The idea appeals and yet I find myself getting up in the darkness and leaving the cabin, quietly closing the door at my back so that no bitter goodbyes need be uttered. The thought of his death in my service would pain me more than any bodily harm and would leave a much less intriguing scar. Perhaps I shall find him again one day and follow where adventure leads us but for now I turn my back on him and let him sleep.
