Goodsprings looked like most small towns out in the wastes. A mix of pre and postwar buildings, some crops in the center of town next to a central water tank, and some livestock. Jessie noted that, the local livestock here was some kind of horned, furry, single headed animal, very different from the brahmin that most of the NCR relied on. Looked a lot healthier and more appetizing too.
Spying the general store, Jessie made a beeline for it. She’d already noted that every one of the locals she saw was armed, and acutely reminded her she was not, which was a profoundly uncomfortable feeling. No one went unarmed out in the wastes, and Jesse couldn’t remember the last time she’d been without the familiar weight of a gun at her hip....of course, she couldn’t remember a lot of things.
She squelched that particular line of thought as she entered the store. There will be time to sort that out later, just focus on the here and now.
The guy behind the counter, presumable Chet, was in conversation with another customer, so Jesse browsed the rest of the store’s goods while they talked. Weapons were obviously not kept out in front, but there was a small supply of armor and other bits of gear. It was in decent condition, but Jesse spotted a fair bit of dust in several small, hard to reach spots on the armor, or faint dusty outlines on the shelves. As the previous customer left, she walked over to the counter and caught Chet’s eye.
“Evening. You’re Chet, right?”
He nodded. “You must be the one Doc Mitchell was patching up. The way I heard it, I didn't think you'd be walking out of that office. You looking to buy some supplies?”
“You got it. The guys who jumped me stole my gun, so I’m looking for a replacement. Do you have a .45 auto?”
He shook his head. “We’re a long way from New Canaan, ma’am. I’m surprised you got ahold of one the first time.” He gestured toward the glass display case built into the counter. “I’ve got a couple .357s, a .44, if you’re looking for a handgun, all in working order with plenty of ammo, if you’ve got the caps. A hundred each for the 357s, the .44 is 500.”
“What about those hi-powers, how much for one of them?”
“Same as the 357, but you’re not gonna get much use out of one. Both of them are in good enough shape, but I’ve only got one spare mag for each.”
She winced. “Yeah, that’s not really going to work. How about 60 for one of the .357s?”
“60? I’ve got a business to run here lady.”
“And how many caps are you making with them just sitting there in a case? Judging by the dust building up in the creases of those leather suits over there and how long those holsters have just been sitting on the shelf, firearms aren’t a big seller here.”
“You have a point, but I’ve still got to make money here. I’ll knock it down to 75, but no lower.”
“I’ll do 80, if you toss in the hostler and that pair of binoculars.”
“Deal. Ammo is 50 caps a box, no haggling.” Chet said. “People here don’t buy guns all that often, but they do need to keep those guns loaded.” He put three of the revolvers out on the glass. “As for those guns, you have a choice of three. From left to right you’ve got a trigger pull that’s too heavy, an extractor rod that’s a bit sticky, and a missing front sight.”
“I’ll take a box of ammo, a the heavy trigger pull.” Perfectly functioning firearms were rare in the wastes, with only a handful of places able to manufacture new weapons. The best most people could get were relics from before the war suffering from hundreds of years of limited maintenance, but more typically it’d be something cobbled together from the best parts of broken weapons, combined with badly done maintenance by people without the knowledge to do it properly. “I’ll also want a backpack and a few days’ worth of food and water,” she said, counting out the caps. “I’ve got caps enough for the gun, for the rest, do you take NCR dollars?”
Chet grimaced. “I guess. Not at face value, though.” He counted out the cash. “This’ll cover the food and pack, but if you want water, it’ll be a bit dirty.”
“That won’t be an issue, I wasn’t planning on getting purified water anyway.” She said.
Stepping outside with her purchases made, and the familiar, comforting weight of a gun back on her hip, Jesse finally felt more at ease. That ease faded somewhat as she walked toward the saloon, and spotted the thin column of smoke out to the east. Something else to ask about, I suppose.
The saloon had weathered the past few hundred years quite well, with nearly all the lights working, windows mostly intact, and judging by the cool air that a few fans were slowly circulating, even the AC unit was intact. A large wall divided the interior into two sections, one half of which was dominated by a pool and card table, the other half the bar, with a short row of single seat dinning booths along the wall. It had an entirely different atmosphere to most of the bar Jesse had been in, very calm and homey.
It was also entirely silent, devoid of the usual conversation or radio music that would fill such a space. As she stepped toward the bar, she saw the reason for both. There was a radio, but it was dark, with a large dent along the top of the casing. The patron’s silence, however, was likely due to the massive bloodstain the floor, soaked into the broken floorboards and centered on an equally massive bullet hole. The women mopping it up briefly glanced up at Jesse.
“Sorry, bar’s closed. You and your friend are causing quite a stir, and I’m a bit busy trying to clean up after it, on top of everything else.” She said.
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. Trudy, right? I’m Jessie. What happened?”
“What happened is that your friend wandered in here and murdered Joe Cobb right in the middle of my bar. The man might have been a convict, a powder ganger, and scum to boot, but he was just blustering, it’s not our way to just murder people like that.”
“Uh....can you take that from the top, I don’t know want that means, and for the record whoever did this isn’t with me. I think.”
Trudy sighed as she set the mop down. “You see that big prison to the east? NCR used to run it, brought them in from California to work on the rail lines. Chain gangs, really. Problem is, it turns out that giving convicts a bunch of dynamite and blasting powder isn't the best idea. Was a big escape not too long ago. Some of 'em stuck together so they could make trouble.
“Then about a week ago, this trader, Ringo, comes into town. Survivor of an attack, he says. Bad men after him, needs a place to hide. We figured he was just in shock, so we gave him a place to lie low. We didn't actually expect anyone to come after him. But someone did, the powder gangers that hit his caravan, lead by a man named Joe Cobb. He was lurking around in here, blustering and threatening, when that Brother Fullerton came in. He asks what’s going on, Cobb mouthed off to him. And then Fullerton picked him up, threw him down into my floor, yanked that big iron off his hip and blew a hole through him.
“Then he walked off, leaving us to clean up the mess. And this is after that khan broke my radio.” She finished. “I like it when Goodsprings is nice and quiet, and for the past few days it’s been anything but.”
“If I take a look at your radio, would you be willing to tell me more about that khan and his friends? I think that might be the same group of people that attacked me, and I’m trying to track them down.”
“I appreciate the offer, but it’s not needed, I’ll tell you want I saw, though if you’re willing to take a look at the radio there’d be caps in it for you.”
“Alright, shoot.” Said Jessie as she hopped over the bar and picked up the radio. “What can you tell me about the people that attacked me?” she said as she unscrewed the radio’s back plate.
“Not much, other than they're a bunch of freeloaders who expected a few rounds on the house. I was able to get them to pay up, though. They were having some kind of argument about where they were going, but the guy in the checkered coat kept shushing them. Sounded like they came in from the north through Quarry Junction. If that's the case I can't say I blame them for not wanting to go back. That whole area's overrun with the kind of critters that just get mad if you shoot 'em. I didn't hear exactly what they decided, but the leader was talking about the Strip. Fella wants to get there and avoid the 15, he'd have to go east. Take Highway 93 up.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. I got a pretty good luck at the suited guy, he couldn’t have looked more Vegas if he tried.” She snapped a few parts of the radio back into place. “Looks like the damage isn’t too bad, just a couple of vacuum tubes got knocked around. One of them’s busted, but I think I can rig up a bypass. What was that about critters at Quarry Junction?”
“From what the workers were saying, it sounds like they ran into a nest of deathclaws. Had to clear out of there before they got ripped apart, and the ‘claws have been spotting wandering the road ever since.”
“Damn. I was planning on going that way too, thanks for the warning. I think I’ve almost got this fixed, hold on,” She spliced the last few wires together, and the voice of Mr New Vegas flowed out of the radio.
“The Sandy Shades sighting marks the third confirmed sighting of these strange aircraft, and the first where one of them has landed. NCR officials have been tight lipped about the ongoing discussion with the visitors, which has only feeding into speculation as to their intentions.
“In more local news, multiple sources report heavy fighting near the former NCR correctional facility earlier this morning, culminating in the annihilation of the escaped convict gang occupying the facility. Several witnesses report the facility was assaulted by a single individual clad in power armor, likely associated with the long absent brotherhood of steel. Travelers in the area should be aware of a large gang of survivors last seen fleeing to the south. Convicts in the area should be aware of a heavily armored soldier last seen hot on their trail.”
“Well, that explains where the big guy ran off too. I'm glad that business is over. Oh, and thanks for your help with the radio, I do like to hear what's going on in the world. And that Mr. New Vegas seems like such a gentleman. Here's some caps for the work.” Said Trudy.
“You’re welcome, it was no trouble.” Jesse replied. “Well, if that’s all, I think I’ll be on my way, and thank you so much for your help.”
“Be careful out there.”
“I’ll try my best.” She said. Jessie stepped out of the saloon and took a few paces toward the road, but only made it a few paces before she saw the blood. Just to the east of the town, a hill loomed over the town, topped with a dilapidated water tower. And along the slope leading down toward the town, soaked into the dirt, was a massive blood trail that stopped near the base of the hill. Jesse walked over.
Closer in, more details emerged. It wasn’t just a blood trail, there were drag marks along the trail as well, deep furrows dug into the dirt a few finger’s lengths apart. The trail ended at the base of the hill, where a set of massive bootprints intersected the trail and then spun toward town. Following the trail up, Jesse traced it to a small mound of freshly disturbed dirt. A grave. Her grave.
It felt unreal. People weren’t meant to look at their own gravesites. A part of her mind was just a numb, another bit drily observed that they’d been decent enough to dig a fairly large grave for her, shallow, but plenty wide and long, and another part seethed in fury that someone would do this to her, over a simple theft.
“Courier.” It was a single word, spoken in a deep, resonant baritone, from directly behind her. Instinct took over and she whirled around, but the sudden shock threw her off just a bit, and she stumbled mid-spin, tumbling to the ground.
Looking up from her sprawled position, her first thought was that describing him as a “big guy” was underselling it. He was at least 8 feet tall, maybe more, clad in a suit of steely armor. The massive chestplate bore a relief image of a winged skull, painted a stark black and intricately detailed, with every feather and tooth delicately engraved in lifelike detail. Massive golden pauldrons sat on his shoulders, trimmed in black, with more reliefs on each pad, of a design she couldn’t quite make out.
The helmets was the strangest part. It looked like a sharp, angular motorcycle helmet, dominated by a visor that stretched across it’s front. It was dark, heavily polarized, without only the faintest outlines of a head and face visible behind it, betraying no expression.
He just stood there. Staring. Waiting for a response, she realized.
“Holy shit, What in Atom’s name are you?” probably wasn’t what he expected.
