“We haven’t decided,” Eve confessed. “We still need caps for rent, and then a caravan home and…” Her voice trailed off while she picked invisible fuzzies off her latest creation fitted on a mannequin’s form. “Jackie and I agreed we’d talk more about it once we have her stipend. I’ve been doing good making dresses, doing alterations in the meantime.” She shrugged. Cheeks dimpled from an optimistic smile. “Keeps me occupied too.”
Vincent fidgeted with his hands under the table. “Have you got any news about the, uh…”
Eve looked at the young man. Neatly prune brows bunch together at a dreadful thought. “No. Nothing new. I haven’t been given a reason why they suspended his pay. No confirmation of his…” Pink lips pressed together. Eyes batted away tears wrung out by a terrible image mustered up in her imagination. Hands went back to work, this time stripping the dress from the form. “They haven’t declared him dead. Just M.I.A.”
The front door creaked open. Jackie slipped inside, stopping when she turned to see Vincent.
“He sweetie,” Eve interrupted the silence. Jackie murmured a weak hello crossing the tiny kitchen. She disappeared around the corner and the bathroom door shut behind her.
Vincent rubbed the back of his neck. “What can I do to help?”
Eve hummed as she wrapped the now folded dress in last week’s newspaper. “You could deliver this for me.”
Vincent jumped up from the chair. “Yes!”
Eve put the bundle inside a box. A recycled mishmash of cardboard sides—the good sides—bounded together by a generous blanket of tape and string for extra assurance. “It’s going to the McCormick ranch on the west side.”
Vincent’s shoulders slumped. He discreetly gauged the tag and its eloquent script. “I know exactly where it is. But, Eve, I mean help you two not struggle. If you can’t make rent, let me help—”
“We don’t need your help.”
“Jackie,” Eve hissed. Jackie ignored her and plopped down on the foot of the bed. Looking back at Vincent, a smile masked Eve’s frustration. “Thank you. I appreciate your help, Vincent.”
He lingered in the hall. The door to one of hundreds of rooms closed behind him. However, it was the only one with the beginning of an argument brewing. The main ingredient of which was him. Vincent looked at the package in his hand. Some days, he wished he could just be a courier again.
It would have been better if he never crawled out of that grave at all.
—
Thrust against a burning steel wall, any lingering remnant of a pleasant dream was knocked out of him. Exhaust seeped through welded seams. Pistons thumped. The muffler coughed out black smoke. Riveted walls trembled on thinning rubber feet.
They stopped.
Daylight sprayed through the bullet holes dotting the sweatbox’s sides. Peering out of one hole, he studied the town square. The sun hung at high noon in a cloudless sky. Lean-tos of desert-sanded wood and rusted sheet metal roofs lined cratered asphalt. Scant wind barely jostled severed cords hanging between old power lines. Wanderers in shoes of tire tread and tattered linens passed by. Tin cans and scavenged metal trinkets clinked with each step. Tanned to a crisp all but where eyes squinted at the steel box on wheels. He sighed. He never cared much for passing through Barstow. It was just another mile marker to him.
Beyond the huddle of old shacks and crumbling brick facades was nothingness as far as the eye could see.
Twisting around, soaked clothes clung to him better than his own skin. Musty enough even his own smell offended him. Across from him, a guard sat clutching a rifle. A stone face glistened with droplets. His glare flashed on the prisoner eyeing the canteen strapped to his belt.
He tried to swallow but nothing was left. Imaginary cotton wadded between his teeth. “I need water.”
The guard stood up, a sneer on his face and hunching under a low ceiling. “Shut up.” The rifle stock flung forward, and everything went black again.
—
Vincent sat on his bike and stared at the ranch house he’d been avoiding. Not so much the house itself or even the family that occupied it. Rather, an employee of the family. A certain mercenary captain left tied to his own bed a few nights ago. And he was successful up until now. He plotted his delivery on the way over. Visualized his every step, all to avoid an awkward encounter with the man.
Approach the front door. Listen for inhabitants. Infiltrate when clear. Leave the goods on the table in the foyer and, lastly, disappear before anyone would try to talk to him—
“Oh, Mr. Vincent—Is that Jeaney’s dress?”
Vincent froze. He looked up to the matriarch. Clutching the skirt of her dress, one foot on the first step of the stairs and halfway turned to him. “Y-yes.”
“Well, come on in,” Dorothea sang. Her beckoning wave pulled the young man inside. “Jeaney is sitting on the back porch. She would love to see you. The door is just down the hall.”
As cheery and helpful as she was, Dorothea’s guidance wasn’t a suggestion.
Leaning out the back door, Vincent peered down one end of the long porch then to the other. Floor planks creaked under careful steps. He paused. Ears honed in on the voice carrying across the field. Squinting eyes focused on the pair of men leaning against a pasture’s fence in the distance. Chummy laughs went back and forth. A hand patted the others back at a joke.
Richard.
“Good morning,” a cheery lilt pulled Vincent back to his task. Her book, surprisingly, closed atop one knee hung over the other. A lacey parasol leaned on her shoulder glowed like a halo behind her. Jeaney patted the vacant cushion next to her.
“I’m sorry I can’t stay long,” Vincent said as shuffled to her. ‘I was dropping this off.”
“My new dress! Would you like to see?”
“Oh, I saw it—Eve’s a friend of mine—It suits you,” Vincent added, noting the faint lapse in her smile. “Matches your, uh, color scheme. Very white. And the blue is… Like your eye color.” He rubbed the back of his neck while his gaze wandered off as if they’d find better words on the floor or banister. Instead, he found the problem he had been dodging marching across the field towards him. “Gotta go!”
Vincent burst through the front door. Ready to dart to his bike and speed back to Vegas—Lady Luck had different plans, however. There he was again. Sat backwards on Vincent’s bike. His sly smile stretched under the shade of a hat. The first two buttons of his shirt were left undone. Sweat slick glistened to the curves of his neck, reaching down to a chest the young man could see even under clothes dusted by the day’s work.
Vincent hid his scowl beneath black lenses and strode to his bike. Coolly maintaining an outward facade to mask the card shoe in his mind shuffling decks of excuses. Every card he pulled belonged to no suit but was identical to the last. A card he hated to draw, yet constantly did; the joker.
“I’m beginning to think you've been avoiding me,” Richard teased.
“No…” Vincent murmured. “Just been busy lately.”
“Good thing I got you now, cause we ought to talk.”
Those words just never sat well with Vincent. No matter how they were said. Nothing good ever came from those four words put together. Vincent knelt at the back wheel of his bike, silently chastising himself for putting the boot on in the first place.
“What about?”
Richard leaned forward on the storage box. “About something you didn’t tell me.”
Vincent hummed as he came to his feet. Inspecting the boot for something to evade looking at the captain. “Such as?”
“Oh, I don’t know…” Richard sighed, head tilted up to the sky. Those eyes came down like cold water on Vincent. “Maybe the lack of a certain something I’m used to in a guy.”
“What you see is what you get.” Vincent forced up the box’s lid and pushed Richard’s arms off the top. “Any assumption you have about me is your own problem not mine. You weren’t complaining then anyway.”
The boot dropped in with a heavy thud.
“Nah, nah, nah,” Richard shook his head as he stood up. “There’s some expectations that go without saying.”
“Maybe you—”
“I don’t care what snappy lil’ retort you gonna sling next.” Richard pointed a finger at Vincent like it was his sidearm. “You should’ve told me. Fact is, you lied by withholding that. Makes me wonder what other pertinent info you’re hiding.”
The captain stepped aside and marched off. A few steps away, he paused, turned around and said, “I don’t know what pisses me off more; sweet talking me like you did just to up and leave like I’m a two-cap whore or determining my thoughts and actions for me.”
Vincent groaned. He spun around and swiped his helmet off the throttle. Huffing, scoffing, and rolling his eyes to himself, and about himself.
“Excusi—”
Vincent spun around. “What.”
Bulging peepers sized up the young man as if he were radscorpion on the prowl. The hesitant ranch hand clutched a straw hat to his chest. Unarmed, unusually lanky, and possibly a few years too old for his profession. He took a step back.
“Sorry.” Vincent cleared his throat. “Did you need something?”
“I’m Willy,” he said, half-nodding to keep an eye on the wily young man. “One of the ranch hands here. I heard you know the Followers.”
“I do. Do you need medical attention?”
“No, not me, but the cattle. I was wonderin’ if any have some animal doctors? We got some problems with our cattle. Been gettin’ worse every day.”
“Oh, I was headed there anyway,” Vincent said. “I can ask if they have anyone to spare.”
The ranch hand cracked a cautious smile. “Thank ya. I’ll keep an eye out.”
—
“So…” Julie hesitated. She dabbed Vincent’s arm, leaving an orange tinge on his skin. “That show in Freeside…”
“You don’t approve of it.”
Salvaged fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in the silence.
“No, not really.” Vincent stilled himself at the sight of the long needle. “I think there’s better ways.”
Even in disagreement, her voice was like that of a brook. A gentle and soothing stream winding around a bend in Red Rock Canyon. Never overfilling to a deadly flash flood even when warranted.
She plucked out the needle. A fresh ball pressed to the seeping dot. “Lot of people showed up for it.” The two switched off. Vincent pressed harder on the cotton and massaged away the deep knot. “I think they enjoyed a little revenge. Seeing Legion soldiers as just people. People who can be killed.”
“There’s a saying,” Julie continued as she cleaned up her counter station. “An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.” She turned back to him. Two thin strips of tape secured the cotton ball to Vincent’s arm. She tugged down his sleeve to hide it.
“I figured if I could show there’s consequences for doing awful things, maybe people will think twice before becoming the next Caesar or the heinous things his soldiers did.”
“I can understand the reasoning.” Julie leaned against the counter. Hands clasped each other against her lap. “But what example does it set for the everyday folk? What if they start seeking revenge for the littlest slight from their neighbor?”
Vincent winced. With a sigh, he rubbed the scar that got him into so much trouble in the first place. “Just creates more problems—I seem to be adept with that.”
“Everyone makes mistakes.” He looked at the woman who was kind no matter what. Not like him. He’d lost that a long time ago. “Whether or not we learn from those mistakes is what defines us.”
“I don’t suppose you have a suggestion on how to deal with those people—The ones that don’t belong in civil society.”
Pursing her lips, Julie crossed her arms. Eyes glanced away to sterile white walls; the latest addition to renovations needed some color. “Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t think there’s one answer either, but looking at what creates bad people, why they do bad things, might lead the way.” A smile dimpled her cheeks and she added, “I might be biased anyway; Hippocratic oath, y’know?”
Vincent almost chuckled. “Say, you have anyone who might know a thing or two about cattle?”
Despite avoiding the place, Vincent stared at the front porch of the ranch house. Same as he left it; guards playing caravan in the shade of the porch, the weather vane creaking on the roof's highest point, and the endless fields wrapping around the wealthy stead where brahmin and cows mingled together, wandering golden grass and lounging in the shade of rustling trees. Ranch hands walked the outskirts. Barely little blots on horses against a red stone backdrop. Any neighbors were unseen for miles beyond the crops and pastures bordered by marching ranges.
“Whew!” His passenger shimmied off the back seat. A young freckle-faced doctor-in-training that answered to Bridgette. She combed fingers through helmet hair then tied long brunette locks up in a ponytail. “I still feel like I’m vibrating. And y’know, that was a little fun. Don’t feel like I’m gonna die anymore! Now where’s the beef?” She erupted in laughter. Snorts joined in with her giggles as a limp hand attempted to wave off the fit. “Sorry—I read that on a window in some junked-up old building…”
Residual giggles met Vincent’s blank stare.
Inside a barn built some ways away from the ranch house, Bridgette hummed curiously marching down a dirt floor. Ten brahmin occupied beds of straw in individual stalls. Trembling. Shaking. Drooling. Looking as if they hadn’t eaten in months. She stopped to observe a cow. A two-headed beast of hairless and mottled skin. One head followed her while the other bobbed as if unable to steady.
Watching her nervously, Clyde McCormick wrung his hat. “Say, where did you learn about livestock?”
“Oh, I grew up on a farm,” she said. “Have no fear, Mr. McCormick! Your heifers are in good hands.”
“Careful,” Willy warned. “They been all sorts of ornery and skittish.”
“How about their appetite?”
“I’d say no different.”
“I’ve been watchin’ em to make sure they eatin’.” Another ranch hand joined in. “They all been eatin’ normal.”
Next to those two, a certain mercenary captain looked like he had something to say as his eyes shifted between characters. Richard’s gaze paused on the young man. Vincent stood out of the picture leaning against the open barn door, listening, and watching under tinted lenses.
“Oh, these girls don’t look good at all,” Bridgette shook her head. “These brahmin have some kind of wasting disease.”
“What’s that mean?” Clyde fretted. “They going to die?”
“No doubt about that,” she said. “Their behavior is due to their brain deteriorating.”
Clyde put his hat back on and took to pacing about the barn grumbling to himself. “We got to salvage the meat! Go fetch the—”
“Absolutely not!” She squeaked, marching over to the old man who stood a few heads taller than her.
“What?” A vein threatened to burst in Clyde’s neck. “There’s gotta be some cure, right? Something to fix them?”
“This can be contagious if consumed. People can develop the same problems,” she explained. “They need to be destroyed. Euthanized.”
“D-Destroy!” Clyde’s face burned red. Eyes widened watching all the glittering caps disappear. Sputtering and grumbling under his breath, he clutched his shirt as if it would stop his incoming heart attack.
“Clyde.” He looked at Vincent for a final blow. “Put sales and slaughter on hold for now. Keep the infected cattle quarantined and, in the meantime, I need to know who you’ve sold meat to.”
“W-wait a moment,” he chuckled. “Why don’t we talk about this privately for a moment.” Clyde gestured outside the barn, giving a big smile like the one he wore when he first convinced Vincent of an opportunity.
The business man led Vincent outside and along the pasture’s fence until they were out of earshot of the barn. Clyde continued, simmering below the surface as he strangled his hat. “You can’t be serious about burning thousands of caps—Are you?”
“New Vegas is in a delicate situation right now economically. I’m not risking—”
“I supply just about all the strip! I lose my whole herd or even half, we both lose millions.”
“I let this disaster happen and we’ll all lose a lot more than that.”
“B-but then Heck Gunderson is gonna swoop on in and snatch up my contracts. Y’know he’s been buying out herds left n’ right?”
“I know of him.” Vincent crossed his arms. “I don’t like him or how he operates. Look, Clyde—put meat sales and slaughter on hold temporarily. I’ll ask the Followers for help on this and I’ll see what I can do about lost profits and contracts alright?” The old man’s lips quivered. A weak nod acknowledged Vincent. “And if Heck ever comes knocking, you come to me.”
“Excuse me—” A little bird chirped as she butted in. Bridgette tugged Vincent’s sleeve. “Can we talk for a moment?”
As the two walked further down the fence, Bridgette looked over her shoulder and the group watching from the barn dissipated upon being noticed. “This is very bad.” A worrisome buck-toothed frown twisted up her freckles. Vincent glanced over Bridgette’s head. Nervous tingles crawled up and down Vincent’s limbs seeing who was coming up next. Richard. Waving on his nonchalant stroll over to them… “There is no cure for something like this and even worse, is not knowing how those brahmin got it. Well, not yet. I should talk to Julie...”
“Miss.” Bridgette threw her head up at the towering man. The captain tipped his hat. “I need to butt in.” Richard nodded to the younger man at his left. His curt smile told Vincent it wasn’t a suggestion.
Continuing down the fence line, Vincent muttered, “I’m going to be half-way to California at this rate…”
His eyes burned a hole in the back of Richard’s head the whole way, but the hat kept the man’s thoughts all his own. When he stopped, one boot raised up to the lowest plank on the fence—There he goes again. Another one of those poses that the rugged macho man on the cover of one of Jeaney’s novels would be in, gazing onward, deeply in thought and introspection—surely about matters of love.
“I told him this was real bad.” Fine lines creased around Richard’s squint on the open pastures. Little patches of green sprung up here and there. Shimmering in the breeze like his emerald eyes when they looked at Vincent. “My town had the same problem one huntin’ season. ‘Cept it was deer bashin’ their heads against trees, runnin’ around half their face missing n’ screaming. Thought they were a little too strange, so my pa and I avoided those ones, but they made easy food for the poorer folk who couldn't stock ammo or used old fashion bows. They started actin’ strange first. Forgettin’ things. Hurtin’ all the time. Anyone who ate them died. Slowly and in agony.”
Vincent stroked the darkening wisps on his chin. “Any idea what caused it?”
“Don’t know,” Richard shrugged. “But I know you can’t let people eat them.”
“Can you keep an eye on things here? Make sure Clyde doesn’t do anything stupid.”
Richard tipped his hat. He flashed Vincent a quick smile before turning back the way he came.
But the Vincent wasn’t off the hook so easily.
“The best and humane course of action would be euthanizing the infected cattle.” Julie leaned back in her chair. The canvas wall behind her fluttered with a breeze. “Other herds should be examined too, and any meat distributed should be disposed of. Then we need to find out how the cattle got infected in the first place.”
“What could’ve infected them?” Vincent asked, finally giving his pace a rest.
“Oh!” Bridgette’s hand shot up. “I talked with the ranch hands a bit more and they mentioned that the slaughter cattle get a different feed than the dairy cattle—specialized to fatten them up.” Bridgette smiled proudly holding a faded collection of loosely bound books of yellowing paper. “Oh, and more research suggests feed containing tainted nervous tissue can cause wasting diseases.”
“Nervous tissue?” Vincent’s brows furrowed. “The cows were being fed meat?”
“No, not entirely,” Julie said. “Feed for cattle often contains meat products from other animals to fluff up the protein content. Any tissue infected that winds up in there can pass on to the animal ingesting it.”
Vincent sighed. He leaned on the empty desk and ruminated on cannibal cows. “Well, at least I got a lead to look into.”
“Thanks for helping, Bridgette,” Julie gave her a warm smile. “You did good work.”
Still wearing her prideful grin, Bridgette excused herself from the office tent. Left to the silence, Julie’s smile faded. Eyes wandered back to the paperwork and books left open strewn about her desk.
“Vincent, I have some bad news.” Thin brows tightened over worried eyes. Julie took a paper from the pile and gave it to him. “I didn’t know how to tell you earlier and I still don’t, so I’ll just let you read this.”
Vincent unfolded the letter. Eyes scanned its length first then returned to the top. He resumed his nervous pace reading the words that quickened his heart. Breaths shallowed. Static narrowed his vision. Feeling light headed, he planted his hands on the cool metal table. “What-what is this?”
“Dr. Engel is ending your case study.”
A cap-filled tin can rattled. Vincent snapped out of his daydream and looked at the receptionist. Bright pink lips curled up like her drawn on brows. “Sir? Did you want the receipt? For the room.”
“Yes.” His hands tingled taking the receipt. He knew how Eve would feel about the surprise, but Jackie… “And can you send a copy to the room?”
“Of course.”
Sunlight trickled like water through the overhead canopy. Neon rays buzzed between Mr. New Vegas’s weather report and charming wit of the day's news. Vagabonds gathered in the shaded alleys. Solitary Vipers and Jackals and other silly-named gangs clung curbside like wind-blown trash. They had a sort of truce in the city because the only thing they hated more than each other was getting vaporized by the securitrons patrolling sweltering asphalt.
Locals and tourists drifted down the center of Freeside’s strip. Taking to the market’s stalls, the shiny trinkets, or breaking away to the air-conditioned havens of casinos. Sitting there at one casino’s entrance was a sidebar and taking in the life and color of Freeside’s strip, was an old cowboy Vincent owed lunch.
“Howdy,” Wayne greeted him as Vincent took his spot next to the old man just in time for a round of beer.
The first sigh of relief exhaled when Vincent’s palm met the chilled glass. He stared at the amber liquid, watching all its little bubbles spring to the top layer of foam. “Wayne, I got a problem. Two problems actually.”
“Gimme the lo-down.”
“I have to leave to take care of some business in California. Hopefully just a few days. While I’m gone, I need you to look into a potentially serious problem.”
Wayne took a sip. A quenched sigh exaggerated the beer’s goodness. “Name it, son.”
“McCormick has cattle infected with a wasting disease that can infect people if eaten. I need every beef supplier’s herd looked at. I already enlisted the help of a doctor from the Followers and Richard. Any infected brahmin or cow needs to be put down. Any possibly bad beef needs to be destroyed. Clyde already agreed to hand over a list of his sales.”
Wayne cocked his head. He looked at his glass and took another sip. “Brahmin barons ain’t the most agreeable types.”
“If there’s opposition…” Vincent stretched out on the stool to shove a hand in his pocket. He handed the list over to Wayne; a lengthy paper of names and locations. “I don’t expect everything to be done by the time I get back, but… Do what you can to make sure nobody eats that meat. I don’t need another crisis on top of the ones Vegas already has. People might get crazy. Start hoarding old-world money and then nobody’s gonna have anything left to wipe their ass with.”
—
“Get up.”
The prisoner jumped awake. Stinging flood lights slapped his eyes shut again. Chained hands rose to shield his eyes as black figures gathered by the open door. Squinting his eyes made out six uniformed men.
A guard plucked him out of the sweatbox and into a chilly night. The city’s lights scared away any stars. Replaced with white and yellow squares embedded in towers reaching into a black sky. Weaving between those buildings were crumbling highways shantytowns built themselves on when there was no more land to develop or afford.
“Keep moving.” The entourage pushed him along. Six guards for one man? It was almost a compliment. But the place they walked him to was anything but. Searing white lights stared down on him like a judging spotlight. The sign above the doors announced his fate. Years of dust, grime, and the sun wearing on paint smudged the decree; Detention Center.
Planted in the heart of the Boneyard, gated off by cement, chain link, and barbed wire was his new home.
For how long though, only a Judge would tell him.
—
“Name?”
“Barry McCockiner.” Vincent watched the clerks pen swoop over the ledger. Bushy white eyebrows obscured the old man’s eyes. His beak was buried in the ledger the moment Vincent walked in. Or maybe that was from the hump on his back. Despite passing through the city so many times, Vincent never got to stay in any of its hotels. Rather it was the alleys. The parks. Anywhere but a safe and comfortable place every man ought to have. “Can I get a room with a window facing the alley?”
Wrinkles bunched the old man’s forehead when he finally glanced up to Vincent. Two beady, black little eyes bore through the young man. “Those rooms aren’t discounted.”
After getting his key, Vincent returned to his bike stowed in the alley and behind the cover of a putrid dumpster. He unloaded his bike of his belongings, booted it, and covered it with a tarp then added the final touches of knots to keep the thing in place. Lastly, sticky fingers snatched up his load; his satchel, bag of water and rations, and three full canisters of gas. It took a few moments to get his grip right but with a number of foul-mouthed curses his mother would slap him if she could hear, he made it to his room in one trip.
His stubbornness always got its way. And this trip would be no different. Vincent parted the curtains at the only window in the modest room. A perfect view of his precious machine, and to the towering city surrounding him. Storefronts flipped over their signs at sundown and wrapped up the day's work. When the little shops lights flicked off, a neon sunset washed over the Boneyard. Trollies jingled along on the street. Soft yellow lights glimmered as they ventured into the encroaching night. Occasionally they stopped to pick up passengers. Somewhere in that dense forest of steel, glass, and concrete, was his destination.
By the way his heart thrummed, the nervous sensations tickling twitchy fingers, the paranoid alertness, he may as well be walking straight into raider infested ruins. Or the Fort. Surrounded by Legionnaires, all wanting revenge. Surrounded by enemies wanting to take something from him. Maybe it was caps, but some people stole lives for fun. And that was exactly being stolen from him. His life.
Himself.
Vincent tore himself away from the window. Well, he wouldn’t be dead if he lost his chemical help. But he surely wouldn’t feel alive. Wouldn’t feel the same. Reorganizing his things brought a false sense of control even as he thought of all possible scenarios. His wispy little beard hairs falling out—even as pathetic as they were compared to Wayne’s manly mane, they were still his. And some were just beginning to thicken. To say it was nice not having to deal with the dreaded monthly pains was an understatement. He had never felt so free not having to fear it. Or his voice! Would it tighten again? Crawl up his throat and come back even higher than before? What of his shape he had worked so hard for?
He caught himself clutching shoulders. Feeling the muscles underneath that he never imagined he would have. Not even a few days ago they weren’t square enough; broad enough; his arms not strong enough; his shape not male enough.
But for it to all just go away…
He couldn’t bear being stuffed back into that little box labeled womanhood. But now, it seems that that box sprouted legs and was coming after him with a vengeance.
—
If there was one thing the strip and the Old Angel’s Boneyard had in common, it was the ivory towers Lawrence glared at from a tiny square punched in a brick wall. Towers where the privileged, the wealthy, the elite watched their little peons toiling to make ends meet for them. The same elite that funneled money into a war they never fought in. No, that was what the peasants were for. Drafted and shipped off to the depths of hell to die. If those boys did return, they came back men, missing chunks of themselves. Body and soul.
He wished an earthquake would shake those towers down. Shake them down their lords did the people of the republic—
The cell door swung open. An entourage of uniformed guards poured in. Five men. Armed by an equal number of batons, revolvers, and one old pair of buzzing clippers rusted around the screws. Lawrence took his stance. Dry chuckles circled him. He had fought off Legionnaires and mangy beasts more intimidating than these bullies, but still his heart quickened. It was just a habit at this point. Rangers only stop fighting when they’re dead.
—
Dr. Seymour Engel. Doctor of what? Vincent wasn’t sure of that yet, but what he did know is that the man was painfully boring. Mid-fifties. Well off with a comfy position in the Office of Science and Industry’s Agricultural department. One wife and one kid, a girl of six years. Following Engel home after the day’s work, Vincent even found his home. Nestled inside a winding neighborhood on the better side of town where weeds didn’t grow and people were so wealthy, they grew useless grass patches in front of their not crumbling, not termite ridden, nor roach infested, not-a-shingle-out-place-completely-roofed homes. A quiet place. Eerie even. So quiet it made Vincent rather uncomfortable.
Vincent groaned watching Dr. Engel yet again stroll into work. One of several smaller towers bordering downtown. He smiled and waved to every coworker he passed, the armed guns walking the premise, and even stopped to admire the new blooms sprouting on the manicured landscape to which Vincent rolled his eyes. He fell from his squat into the grass. The guy was a saint compared to the average strip denizen. Strip-bougies never made him work this hard for dirt on them. So far the only thing he gained on this mission was a newfound respect for how classless those classy folks of Vegas were. But it was only day two of spying on the doctor.
Maybe a direct approach was warranted…
Vincent left his hiding hole in the bushes, trekked across the street, pretended like he belonged, and hitched a ride inside with a group of suits. Some wandering around later, he found himself closing a lobby door behind him. It was a modest place. Not much bigger than a broom closet with a few chairs and another door off a short hallway. And occupied by one woman. A young brunette with big brown eyes and pouty lips middle-aged men bored with married life couldn’t ignore. Ah-hah!
Vincent suppressed his smile. Now he just needed proof they were having an affair and—
“Can I help you?” Cat-eye glasses slid down her dainty nose.
“Yes!” Vincent marched over to the woman.
Nervous eyes glossed over him and fixed on his sidearm. “A-are you with security?”
“Uh, no, I’m here to see Dr. Engel.”
The second door opened. “Who is it, Deanne?”
Vincent turned around to Dr. Engel standing in the door-way. Vincent held out his hand, “Dr. Engel, my name is Vincent.”
Engel cocked his head. He blinked then remembered to shake Vincent’s hand. “That name is familiar…”
“We have a mutual friend. Julie Farkas.”
“Oh.” His friendly smile disappeared. Wrinkles moistened on his forehead as his complexion lightened. He glanced at the secretary then stepped aside and waved Vincent in. The door shut behind him. “Yes, Vincent I remember now…”
Engel’s office was nearly twice as big as the tiny lobby. Shelves lined the walls. Fancy papers in frames adorned the gaps in between. His desk sat in the center of it all, illuminated by a sunny and clear day beaming through the window.
“What-what can I do for you?”
Vincent turned back to him. “You are supplying Julie with what I need.”
“Uh…” Engel cleared his throat. A finger scratched behind his ear as he walked to his desk. “Yes, I can’t continue that case study.”
“Why?”
Engel slowly took a seat as if careful not to spook a beast. “Well, that’s more a bureaucratic matter. You see, my job here is to manufacture hormones for cattle to increase product yield. Your case-study was temporary. Interesting and valuable to my preferred work in human endocrinology and medical science, but temporary.” The doctor folded his hands on the desk and looked up to Vincent. “The money just isn’t there.”
Money.
It was always about money.
“I-I need this though,” Vincent finally spoke. “I can’t live without it. It’s medicine.”
“Yes, Julie mentioned… some things about you.” The doctor shrugged, “don’t you think it’s in your best interest to just accept reality?”
When Vincent blinked, his hands clutched the doctor by his collar. Frightened blue eyes stared at the young man; studying the scar, the concerningly vacant, and unblinking expression. The doctor was scared stiff. But Vincent would need him. Engel took a deep breath when Vincent backed away.
“The reality is, doctor, we aren’t done yet.”
Every man had a price. The most obvious choice was money. But some wanted power, people, cushy positions where they didn’t need to see people struggling to survive. Hell, even garden gnomes were a hot commodity for some. Stalking the doctor only did so much to reveal this. Engel projected the facade of normality well, but every man was hiding something. A vulnerability. Something exploitable. Breaking into his office was much more straight-forward, and exciting.
Vincent had his nighthawks to thank for keeping him up and making it to the office later the same night. Hiding once more in the bushes, he studied a night guard for half-an-hour before making his move. The cattle prod in one hand, and just in case, his pistol was in the other. The guard’s patrol took him around the building to a parking lot again. Light steps mirrored the guard’s. Vincent closed the distance between them. He stretched out his arm. Steady. Not close enough. Almost…
Lightning arced. The flash nearly blinded both. Seized by electricity, the guard froze in place. Vincent jumped back and the man fell to the ground. Not dead. No, he would be stunned for a bit then come to, and maybe realize his keys were missing. Rushing back to the main door, Vincent fumbled with the key ring. Clammy hands shook. Ears listened for the rousing guard and any unseen companions. He looked over his shoulder as he picked out a new key.
Click.
Vincent barged in then locked the doors. He clung to the walls, keeping far from the windows watching the parking lot and the buzzing lights outside. Coming to a gap in the wall, he turned the corner. Vincent slapped the elevator button as he stole a glance out the windows. The guard stirred. Feeling stiff and buzzy, it would take a few minutes for him to get up.
Finally inside Engel’s office, it was time for the real fun. Now he knew how Lawrence felt walking into the Shooting Gallery. Giddy and excited. Except, Vincent was here for dirty laundry. A currency that never lost value. He perused the shelves. The cabinets. Glossed over files, papers, and books recently moved as noted by disturbed dust. The man had a level of organization Vincent ought to have taken notes from, but when he tore through the desk and found the letter, he realized being disorganized was an advantage.
“Your son’s ailments trouble me deeply," Vincent muttered it's contents. "Being so young and confined to a bed. However, the Office of Science and Industry cannot afford to approve a raise at this time…”
A son? Engel had a son? A bastard son his wife didn’t know about. A sick son he desperately requested a raise for. To funnel money into. Money he wouldn’t tell his wife about. Money he needed and wouldn’t get. Perhaps money was what it would take to persuade the good doctor, or just good old fashioned black mail.
Perfect, almost.
If anything the letter was a lead. A good start, but not enough information to leverage against Engel. So, it was back to stalking, but this time more diligently. On the fifth day of his stay, Vincent found himself at the doctor’s home. Loitering from afar. Bored out of his mind. Thankfully, Engel and his family eventually left their dull abode mid-morning. A large door on the side of the house opened up and out rolled a four-wheeled contraption. A loud thing shaped like a carriage with shooting pistons springing up and down from its exposed engine. Engel guided the machine down the driveway with a wheel and lever. It shimmied on a dip then rolled down the street, sputtering out black smoke behind it.
Vincent stared at the carriage shrinking on the horizon with only a trail of puffs left behind. He bolted from overgrown hedges. Boots slapped pavement. Skidding around the block corner and ignoring the sudden splint in his ankle, Vincent jumped on his bike and followed after the machine.
When his trail ended, he found himself in the heart of the Boneyard. More of those old-world cars that dodged crowds, trollies, and other cars sped around him. Roaming boxes on wheels made pit stops curbside to unload at storefronts lining the sidewalk that bustled with activity. Their goods stood front and center in window displays. Food. Clothes. Accouterments those who needed for nothing wanted. Signs beckoned for hires exclaimed war vets have priority. Vincent blended in behind the chaos, following Engel all the way to the man’s destination.
A hospital.
Vincent pulled over to the curb. He sat on his bike and stared at the building from down the block. Shoulders slumped and a perplexed look crossed his face. Engel was just a man. A husband. A father. Not one intriguing, dirty little secret to be found over the last few days. Just a man making ends meet to support his family.
It annoyed him.
But just when he thought his hand was a bust, he remembered the ace up his sleeve.
—
“Yikes…” The door shut behind the stranger. He was a chubby man dressed in a pressed suit and tie. Not one of the staff. Far too jumpy and soft. He’d be eaten alive. The small room shrunk with the two of them in there. The stranger took a seat at the metal table between them. Peculiar glances flickered between his papers and the inmate across from him. “So that, uh, the new thing they’re doing?”
The inmate sighed and leaned back in his chair. He caught his warped reflection in a scratched mirror behind the stranger—not that he wanted to look at himself again with a quarter of one eyebrow left. The other was gone. His carefully pruned sideburns and beard: gone—Replaced with a few knicks. The bruises he felt rather than saw; on his gut, under one eye. On the bright side, some of his hair was still left. In patches.
The stranger cleared his throat. “Anyway, my name is Anton Webber. I’m going to be your representative.” He held out his hand.
“For what?”
Anton jumped at the echo. He quickly retracted his hand. “Welp, Mr. Garrett, you’re, what we call in my business, in deep shit—pardon my language.” Anton pulled out a few papers from his jumbled stack. “You’re being court martialed. Possibly tried for treason, which would put you in civilian courts. A life sentence would be lenient at this point, so that’s what I’m here to help you get. Let’s get started!”
—
Pink lips frowned when she saw the young man slipping inside the lobby. Glassy eyes watched the wastelander nervously from behind the secretary’s desk. Vincent looked at her and they held each other's stare, but she relented first.
“C-can I help you?”
“Is the doctor here?”
“Yes. Wait—”
Vincent already twisted the doorknob before she could get up. He pushed inside the doctor’s office, then locked the door behind him. Engel paused his work. Color drained away when he saw Vincent. His mouth opened for words, but nothing came out as the young man calmly took a seat across from Engel at the desk. He reclined on the tasteful cushions. Rested one foot atop his opposite knee. Hands clasped in his lap. He forced a smile and suddenly little sweat droplets appeared on Engel’s forehead.
“How long have you worked for the OSI, Dr. Engel?”
“Twelve years.”
“Twelve years? And they didn’t want to give such a hard-working, qualified man a raise?”
“How do you know about that?”
“I also know your son is sick.”
A trembling hand dropped his pen. “I beg your pardon.” Peppered brows furrowed as a hint of anger broke through the calm demeanor. “That is none of your concern.”
“Oh, but you see I am concerned. The Followers are miracle workers. Healing everyone just out of the kindness of their hearts, but that kind of cuts into how much healing they can do, don’t you think? I imagine the private hospitals have plenty more resources to go around, having the money n’ all. But, since you’re not getting that raise and your wife is so busy caring for your son and daughter, I guess you can’t get him the help he deserves, can you?”
The last bit of color drained from the man’s face. He swallowed. “What are you getting at?”
Vincent’s fake smile turned genuine. “You already know what I want. Supply that, and I can make sure your son gets what he needs.”
Walking out of that office for the last time, his confidence diminished with every step. Some blunt force jabbed his gut. Shook him up when he was alone in the elevator. Made him sweat as nervously as he made Engel with just a look. This was the same crap Lawrence and him whined about to exhaustion after dinner in a spinning cocktail lounge. Corruption. Greed. Listening to the sultry whispers on money and all its promises. He spat on it all thinking himself impervious yet here he was, with a plot mapped out in his mind to extract a little bit of caps here and there out from under House’s nose, or the casinos, or from his donations meant for Julie. Just to benefit himself.
No.
This was different. It wasn’t a bribe to bend the rules. Not a payoff to some crooked senator for legislation that would benefit the fat cats and their business while undermining real, vulnerable people. And it wouldn’t be a lot. Barely a drop in Lake Mead! Not noticeable—if he stayed smart about it. It was a good temporary solution. He just needed to get the resources and equipment to produce it himself! He could do that. He’s done a lot of things he thought he could never do. How hard could it be?
He deserved it after everything he’s done and will do in the future. For New Vegas. For the regular folks. He worked hard! And now, it was a necessity for his own well being.
Just for a bit. Figure out all that and he won't need to steal the caps anymore. Eventually…
Vincent plucked off his helmet. A twilight breeze chilled sweat-dampened hair. He set it on his lap, unable to stand up because he was still deciding whether or not he wanted to talk to the man he’d been avoiding. He had a lot of people he had to talk to. Wrote out a whole imaginary list on the ride back to New Vegas. Richard was just the closest. Apologies should come first anyway. Yet when he stood at the cabin’s door, his rehearsed script disappeared like caps at a slot machine.
He flung his head back and sighed. Quietly, he pleaded with himself to get it together. Twinkling stars overhead wouldn’t grant his wish though. Look down the way he came, the McCormick’s ranch house lit up. Vague shapes passed by the downstairs windows. Maybe if he had any luck left, Richard wasn’t home—
A draft brushed his hair. Both of them jumped, staring wide eyed at each other then quickly recollected their senses.
“So, what you doin’ here?” Richard broke the awkward silence.
“I just got back from the Boneyard…” Vincent wrung his hands. Knees shook, ready to collapse or send him running, he wouldn’t know until either happened. “You were right. I should have told you… I’m different. I’m different in a way I have no control over. l can’t expect anyone to understand or treat me the same after because that’s been my experience one too many times. I ran—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat as if it would save face then continued. “I ran away from home. I lost my friends, family. The one person I thought who really did love me abandoned me. And then I have an opportunity to be a little less lonely, but-”
With the captain just gawking at him, Vincent locked up. He turned away and sprinted for his bike.
“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!” He hissed under his breath. Why would he care? Richard was just a fling. That’s all that happened in this city. Flings. Nothing important. Nothing special—
Feet tangled on themselves like the thoughts flooding his head, and like the reality of it all, he planted face-first in the dirt.
Richard stifled his chuckle. “You alright there?” He lent a hand to Vincent and brought him back to his feet. The young man dusted himself off while avoiding Richard’s eyes.
“Yeah, I guess…”
“It takes some kind of man to admit when he’s wrong,” Richard said. Vincent glanced up at him. Richard pulled off his tattered hat, revealing a kind smile underneath. “I can’t even get that out of my guys most days. And, Y’know when you go around thinkin’ the worst of people, you’re gonna find just that.”
“You’re…” Vincent swallowed his pride and looked up to Richard. “I thought mercenary types were supposed to be gruff and super macho. Not insightful or even willing to talk. Well, not with words, but rather bullets.”
Richard laughed. “Brash men don’t live long. The one’s willin’ to adapt and learn do.”
“I’m not trying to make excuses,” Vincent said. “I know you might not want to… get together again, and that’s fine.”
“You’re alright,” Richard said as he gave a firm pat on Vincent’s shoulder. His hand lingered, gently squeezing as the man’s smile grew and wrinkled his eyes to a wink. “I need time to think about that though.”
“I should take time to think about some things too.”
By the time he reached Freeside, the sun was wholly gone. New Vegas’s glow shooed away the stars in favor of neon dreams. Music mingled with ambient buzz. Feather boas teased and whistled at passersby. Torches spit fire from either side of a stage where two Kings danced in perfect unison to the soothing tunes of the one and only supreme King. Nearly naked tribals bound in leather thongs and nothing else gathered at the market stalls. Raiders tamed for a moment just to get back alley tattoos. Junkies on another planet entirely parted the crowds with gibberish prophecies.
When he stepped through the flashing lights of the Baron’s Bull the roulette table cheered. Slots sang as their virtual wheels spun. Chips clicked and cards expertly snapped on green felt. He sat at the bar with Wayne and the old man promptly greeted him with a pat on his back and a tip of his hat. Inhaling the smoke stale and fresh, booze and artificial mixers spilt on the waxy bar top, beer poured into a glass just for him, and all the clashing perfumes of the floor-girls, Vincent never felt more at home.
“Well how was the trip?”
Vincent shrugged. “Boneyard is boring as hell. But I got what I needed to accomplish, done. What’s the status on the cattle problem?”
“All in apple-pie order,” Wayne enthused with a knock on the bar top.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Bad meat taken care of?”
“Yessiree!”
“What about the sick brahmin?”
“Won’t be a problem no more! Some of them cattle-mindin’ folk might be.”
“They give you a hard time?”
“No, they just didn’t take too kindly to watching their cows get blown up.”
Vincent choked on his gulp. “What.”