Doroschuk
02-16-2012, 04:22 PM
Chapter 1: Resurrection
The patient opened his eyes slowly, groaning at the soreness in his chest. Walking over beside the table, the Doctor bent down and felt the patients head. The patient sat up in the table, and rested on his elbows, breathing heavily from the pain in his chest. The doctor leaned back in his wooden rolling chair, and supported his head on his right hand.
“Good morning sleeping beauty,” he said, smiling under his gray mustache, “it’s good to see you amongst the living my friend.”
“Where am I?” the patient asked, unable to recognize the make-shift surgery room he was in, and the small home that housed it.
“217 Burkeley Avenue,” was the reply, “or to be less specific, the old city of Boulder Colorado.” He stroked his mustache as he watched the patient slowly mull that name over in his head.
“Does the name Denver mean anything to you?” the patient asked, massaging his aching head.
“Denver,” the Doctor replied, “Yes, that’s the old capital of Colorado, where my assistant found you, lying half-dead in the dust, with nary a bullet but the one in your chest.” The patient clutched his chest.
“I was shot?” he asked, a little shocked.
“Indeed,” the Doctor replied, “right in the middle of the chest. When my assistant found you, most of your clothes were gone, and whatever supplies you had had been taken…Everything except that thing around your neck.” The patient felt his necklace, unsure what it was himself. He saw that it was a metallic thing, a key of sorts, but different than he remembered ever seeing. But he thought little of it, instead returning his attention to his current situation.
“Where’s this assistant of yours?” the patient asked.
“Out patrolling the country-side.” the Doctor replied, “We have three horses, and he takes his out every day and watches the outlying region. He happened to have gone down I-20, towards Denver when he heard the gunfire. When he arrived, he found your body lying stripped on the cracked asphalt. Lucky for you, he felt a pulse, and couldn’t bring himself to just leave you out in the cold. So he brought you back… He’s a good kid, Christopher, he tries hard, you know?”
“No, I don’t really.” The patient laid back down on the surgery table. The Doctor leaned forward in his chair.
“I never got your name. Mine’s Doc Harrison, by the way.”
The patient, staring at the ceiling fan, brushed a hand through his brown hair.
“I can’t remember,” he replied, saying it as much to himself as he was to the doctor, “I really can’t.”
“Well,” Doc Harrison scratched his head, “you look like a strong fellow, so until we can figure out your name, I’ll just call you John.” The patient nodded his head.
“John’ll do, for now at least,” He sighed deeply and massaged his temples, “I can’t remember anything from before…” he tapered off, laying back down and groaning from the sharp pain still present in his chest. There was a long pause as the doctor waited to see if anything came to his patient’s mind.
“It’s good you’re up now,” the doctor said, realizing John couldn’t recall anything, “I was praying I wouldn’t have to leave you.” The patient sat up.
“Leave me?” he asked quickly, a look of confusion on his tanned face.
“Yes,” Doctor Harrison replied, “a scavenger came through town not but two days ago. He was ranting about some settlements he’d seen up north, in Wyoming, said there’s an army coming down, aiming to take Denver. Looking for something important, he said. Now I don’t want nothing to do with nobody looking for nothing, you hear? I’m a humble doctor trying to survive out in these wastes. I’ve heard about these fellas; technology hoarders or somethin’. I’ve heard a few things about ‘em, and I know for one they don’t take too kind to us wasteland folk. They think they’re better than others, kinda like most bunker-borns, but they terminate any wastelanders they find with extreme prejudice.”
“Bunker-born,” John scratched his head, “what’s that mean?”
“Oh,” the doctor seemed a little surprised, “well a bunker-born is literally someone who is born in one of the old war bunkers.”
“War bunkers?”
“A lot of people had built underground bunkers during the cold war of the twentieth century, and even more were built during the paranoia years of the late twenty-first. But these bunkers were organized, much bigger. Families could fit in the older bunkers; the new ones were built to house whole communities. So when the sky fell, a hell of a lot of people moved into those bunkers real quick-like.”
“Now the government,” he continued, “had announced that in the case of nuclear war, one-hundred years would be the minimum amount of time before the land would be habitable again. Of course, nobody knows exactly what it was that came down from the sky and crushed the world’s nations, but we know it didn’t use nuclear devices. All the fallout from that Cataclysm came from America and nations like its attempts to fight back. Most of the older wasters know all this, but the young’ns, they don’t pay much heed to what happened; they care about what is. And I don’t blame ‘em. It’s a tough world out there; you’re a shining example of that.”
“How can you tell a bunker-born from a regular wastelander?” John asked inquisitively.
“Well to finish my story, after about a hundred years people started coming out of those giant bunkers. The smaller ones had been vacated years before when the supplies had run low, the newer bunkers had a much greater capacity for supplies, so they lasted a lot longer even though they had much more people. When they came out into the wasteland, they saw that everyone had become darker-skinned genetically, and they seemed like a cruel, barbaric folk to the bunker-born. Well the bunker-folk, seeing their pale skin and light hair compared to the wastelanders, were quick to segregate themselves from their new-found neighbors. Almost universally they developed farming communities outside of their old bunkers, and were quick to wall of their new settlements.”
“So in essence,” he began to conclude, “the bunker-borns are, as a rule, introverts, who hate the wasteland and its people. They’re easily recognizable by their light complexion and hair color. Wastelanders hate ‘em, and the feeling is mutual, but they leave each other well alone. Now this army up north, those fellas aren’t so friendly with the wastelanders either, but they’re much more trigger-happy than the bunker-folk.”
“So if they’re coming here,” John said, “then we need to leave soon.”
“Yes,” the doctor replied, “they’ll be in Boulder by week’s end, and soon enough they’ll clear out Denver. And I ain’t gonna be here when that happens…Now come on, we should get you dressed for dinner, Christopher will be back soon,” he looked at his wrist-watch, “real soon.” He turned towards the kitchen as John got up from the surgery table and walked awkwardly behind him.
Just then, in all coincidence, the sound of hooves became noticeable outside. Only one horse; it was Christopher. Dr. Harrison turned around quickly and walked back towards John, who had found some undergarments lain out for him. The doctor leaned in closely.
“Just a heads-up,” he said, in a loud whisper, “Christopher is a bunker-born, but he ain’t like the usual ones. He’s a good kid, just don’t look at him too much, it’s pretty…noticeable.”
John put on a white t-shirt and a pair of brown slacks. He saw the doctor unlock the door, and soon afterwards Christopher entered the small-house, he saw what the doctor had meant by “noticeable”. Underneath a cowboy hat and a thick, weathered duster, fingerless gloves, dusty jeans, long boots, and a revolver, there was a small young man whose skin was almost white, and whose hair, peeking out from under the wide-brimmed hat, was a light blonde. Behind dark sunglasses and an intelligent smirk were light gray eyes, young and vibrant, but haunted by a sort of harshness, almost anger, though kept in check by the young man’s skillful poker-face.
“Looks like our boy’s awake, Doc,” he said, whipping off his sunglasses and turning towards the doctor, “can we leave now?” Dr. Harrison snorted and walked over to the kitchen shaking his head.
“Our guest,” he said, pulling out dishes from the cabinet, “needs some time to recover. He needs food and rest.” Then the doctor gave his assistant a harsh look, “We’re staying the night; we’ll move out tomorrow.” Christopher walked over to the table, clearly annoyed.
“Dammit, Doc, if I hadn’t brought him here we’d have been gone three days ago.”
“But now we have a new hand, if he’ll stick around.” John turned towards the doctor.
“It’s the least I could do, Doc,” he said, “for all you’ve done for me.” He brushed his hand across his chest. Christopher noticed this movement.
“Doc’s the best in the land,” he said, “mostly by default, but he’s one of the best anyway of he can keep your *** alive.” He leaned up against the wall, putting his hat on a peg and removing his duster, and hanging it up on the coat-rack.
“You gotta name?” he said, looking as tough as he could.
“Call me John,” was the reply. John was a bigger man than the assistant, older too, but not by much. Christopher looked to be an older teenager, maybe in his early twenties, while John was about twenty-six. He was a tall man, not as tall as Christopher, but better built, while the other was thin and lanky. John felt his chin, and though he expected a beard, he felt no hair. He must have been shaven by the doctor. He smiled.
“You must be Christopher,” he said, walking towards the cowboy, extending his hand politely.
“You haven’t earned a handshake, John,” Christopher said scathingly, “and it’s Chris.”
John put his hand down, returning the look with a serious one, and they both eyed each other for a few moments. Finally the doctor broke the engagement.
“Dinner’s ready, kids,” he said, “take a seat.” The two broke eye-contact and went over to the table. Sitting down, the doctor brought them their dinner, buttered toast and assorted fruits.
“No meat?” Christopher asked.
“No,” the doctor replied, “I didn’t want the smoke to attract any new guests. There’s a lot of men moving in soon and I don’t want any scouts to catch whiff of us.”
“Now,” the doctor said, noticing that John had begun reaching for food, “let’s say grace.”
John, feeling both confused and slightly embarrassed, put the apple he had grabbed down. The doctor closed his eyes and bowed his head.
“Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed by Thy name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. And give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory. Amen.”
“Oh, and Lord,” he added, “grant us safe passage along the hard road tomorrow and the days to come. Amen.”
Then he opened his eyes and began to eat his light meal. The other two followed. The meal was quick, and shared in relative silence. Following dinner, the doctor put all of the locks on the door and checked the bars across the windows. After completing his inspection, Dr. Harrison looked over at the two men who sat at the table, finishing their meals.
“It’s time to get some shut-eye fellas. Big day tomorrow, we’ll be rising early.”
The two at the table finished their dinner, and prepared for bed. The doctor went over to this desk in the corner, where he kept an oil lamp and his journal. He stayed there for a long time as the others slowly crept towards bed.
“Sleep there,” Christopher said, pointing to a dingy mattress on the floor, “Here’s some sheets and a pillow. Get healthy; we need you ready for anything tomorrow.” He then retreated to his hammock in the other corner, and promptly fell asleep. The red sun slowly fell over the mountains, and night fell upon the wastes. John, lying beneath his sheets on the mattress, watched the Doctor writing in that journal for what felt like hours before sleep finally overtook him.
The sun came up in the early morning, and John awoke to the doctor and his assistant both finishing packing up the house’s valuables. He rose from his bed, and walked over towards the window. Dr. Harrison, seeing his patient was awake, tossed him an apple.
“Breakfast,” he said, and walked back to his work. As John finished the apple, the other two finished the packing. Seeing that everything was done, the doctor went over to John and offered him some new clothing. He handed him some blue jeans, socks, boots, a brown leather jacket, a holster, and finally, a 9 millimeter pistol. John inspected it, counting the bullets and placing them back in the magazine. He then sheathed the gun in his holster, and followed the doctor and his assistant as they walked out the back door.
Outside was a covered wagon filled with items both of the survival and trinket sort. John shielded his eyes from that bloody sun as his partners went to the makeshift stables, and brought out two large mustangs, one chestnut and the other a darker brown. They brought them over to the wagon and tied them out front. Everything was ready, and the doctor got up on his seat.
“John,” he shouted, “you ride shotgun.” John followed the order and sat next to the man who had saved his life just the day before. He saw that the doctor was carrying a long rifle, he didn’t know what kind. Christopher walked around the front and readied his own steed for the journey. As the wagon rounded the corner of the house, Christopher saw something on the horizon.
“Doc!” he yelled, “I think we’ve got visitors.” He took out his gun as John and the doctor followed him. Walking in a jagged line, the three crossed the field towards their “visitors”. Closing in on them, they saw that there were three men, lightly armed, coming towards them.
“Don’t come any closer!” Doc Harrison shouted, waving his rifle in the air. But the opposing group continued to advance. The doctor signaled to his companions to halt, and he walked a few paces ahead. Firing a warning shot in the air, he received one back, but much closer to his head.
“Get down!” he shouted, kneeling down and aiming his rifle. The other two followed suit.
“Don’t waste your ammo; wait for them to get close. One and done, got it?”
He looked back, and the other two nodded. As the men got closer, the doctor aimed downfield and took a shot. The man in the center fell backwards. Then the man on the right of the doctor pulled something off his belt, and chucked it towards the group.
“Grenade!” the doctor shouted, jumping towards his left. John did the same, and Christopher moved right. The grenade exploded, and John saw Christopher hit the ground hard, but he couldn’t stop to check on him. Moving closer, John got the man on the far left in his sights, and fired his gun, hitting the man in the forehead.
“Good shot!” the doctor shouted. John, seeing the last assailant attempting to finish the job, ran towards Christopher. The man prepared to shoot the assistant, but John squeezed his trigger first. The man went down, and John continuedrunning towards the man who had rescued him from the wastes.
“Christopher!” John shouted.
“Yeah?” came the weak reply. John slowed his pace, wiping the sweat from his head with a happy sigh. He bent over Christopher, and offered his hand. A grin slowly appeared on the young man’s face, and he grabbed his new companion’s hand. Lifting him off the ground, John patted Christopher on the back.
“Hey,” the blonde-headed man said quietly, “You earned that one.”
John grinned, and the two walked over towards the last body, following the doctor. The doctor was well ahead of them, but they saw that the man, bleeding from his shoulder, was begging for his life. Dr. Harrison kneeled down and whispered something into the man’s ear. The wounded man began to shout out an answer to whatever question the doctor posed, and Harrison stood up. He pointed his gun down, and the man began to scream, reaching for the gun, but the doctor pulled the trigger, ending his foe’s life.
He turned around to face his companions, who stopped short, seeing the cold hardness of the doctor’s eyes.
“Search the bodies, take anything useful.”
The two followed the orders without question.
The patient opened his eyes slowly, groaning at the soreness in his chest. Walking over beside the table, the Doctor bent down and felt the patients head. The patient sat up in the table, and rested on his elbows, breathing heavily from the pain in his chest. The doctor leaned back in his wooden rolling chair, and supported his head on his right hand.
“Good morning sleeping beauty,” he said, smiling under his gray mustache, “it’s good to see you amongst the living my friend.”
“Where am I?” the patient asked, unable to recognize the make-shift surgery room he was in, and the small home that housed it.
“217 Burkeley Avenue,” was the reply, “or to be less specific, the old city of Boulder Colorado.” He stroked his mustache as he watched the patient slowly mull that name over in his head.
“Does the name Denver mean anything to you?” the patient asked, massaging his aching head.
“Denver,” the Doctor replied, “Yes, that’s the old capital of Colorado, where my assistant found you, lying half-dead in the dust, with nary a bullet but the one in your chest.” The patient clutched his chest.
“I was shot?” he asked, a little shocked.
“Indeed,” the Doctor replied, “right in the middle of the chest. When my assistant found you, most of your clothes were gone, and whatever supplies you had had been taken…Everything except that thing around your neck.” The patient felt his necklace, unsure what it was himself. He saw that it was a metallic thing, a key of sorts, but different than he remembered ever seeing. But he thought little of it, instead returning his attention to his current situation.
“Where’s this assistant of yours?” the patient asked.
“Out patrolling the country-side.” the Doctor replied, “We have three horses, and he takes his out every day and watches the outlying region. He happened to have gone down I-20, towards Denver when he heard the gunfire. When he arrived, he found your body lying stripped on the cracked asphalt. Lucky for you, he felt a pulse, and couldn’t bring himself to just leave you out in the cold. So he brought you back… He’s a good kid, Christopher, he tries hard, you know?”
“No, I don’t really.” The patient laid back down on the surgery table. The Doctor leaned forward in his chair.
“I never got your name. Mine’s Doc Harrison, by the way.”
The patient, staring at the ceiling fan, brushed a hand through his brown hair.
“I can’t remember,” he replied, saying it as much to himself as he was to the doctor, “I really can’t.”
“Well,” Doc Harrison scratched his head, “you look like a strong fellow, so until we can figure out your name, I’ll just call you John.” The patient nodded his head.
“John’ll do, for now at least,” He sighed deeply and massaged his temples, “I can’t remember anything from before…” he tapered off, laying back down and groaning from the sharp pain still present in his chest. There was a long pause as the doctor waited to see if anything came to his patient’s mind.
“It’s good you’re up now,” the doctor said, realizing John couldn’t recall anything, “I was praying I wouldn’t have to leave you.” The patient sat up.
“Leave me?” he asked quickly, a look of confusion on his tanned face.
“Yes,” Doctor Harrison replied, “a scavenger came through town not but two days ago. He was ranting about some settlements he’d seen up north, in Wyoming, said there’s an army coming down, aiming to take Denver. Looking for something important, he said. Now I don’t want nothing to do with nobody looking for nothing, you hear? I’m a humble doctor trying to survive out in these wastes. I’ve heard about these fellas; technology hoarders or somethin’. I’ve heard a few things about ‘em, and I know for one they don’t take too kind to us wasteland folk. They think they’re better than others, kinda like most bunker-borns, but they terminate any wastelanders they find with extreme prejudice.”
“Bunker-born,” John scratched his head, “what’s that mean?”
“Oh,” the doctor seemed a little surprised, “well a bunker-born is literally someone who is born in one of the old war bunkers.”
“War bunkers?”
“A lot of people had built underground bunkers during the cold war of the twentieth century, and even more were built during the paranoia years of the late twenty-first. But these bunkers were organized, much bigger. Families could fit in the older bunkers; the new ones were built to house whole communities. So when the sky fell, a hell of a lot of people moved into those bunkers real quick-like.”
“Now the government,” he continued, “had announced that in the case of nuclear war, one-hundred years would be the minimum amount of time before the land would be habitable again. Of course, nobody knows exactly what it was that came down from the sky and crushed the world’s nations, but we know it didn’t use nuclear devices. All the fallout from that Cataclysm came from America and nations like its attempts to fight back. Most of the older wasters know all this, but the young’ns, they don’t pay much heed to what happened; they care about what is. And I don’t blame ‘em. It’s a tough world out there; you’re a shining example of that.”
“How can you tell a bunker-born from a regular wastelander?” John asked inquisitively.
“Well to finish my story, after about a hundred years people started coming out of those giant bunkers. The smaller ones had been vacated years before when the supplies had run low, the newer bunkers had a much greater capacity for supplies, so they lasted a lot longer even though they had much more people. When they came out into the wasteland, they saw that everyone had become darker-skinned genetically, and they seemed like a cruel, barbaric folk to the bunker-born. Well the bunker-folk, seeing their pale skin and light hair compared to the wastelanders, were quick to segregate themselves from their new-found neighbors. Almost universally they developed farming communities outside of their old bunkers, and were quick to wall of their new settlements.”
“So in essence,” he began to conclude, “the bunker-borns are, as a rule, introverts, who hate the wasteland and its people. They’re easily recognizable by their light complexion and hair color. Wastelanders hate ‘em, and the feeling is mutual, but they leave each other well alone. Now this army up north, those fellas aren’t so friendly with the wastelanders either, but they’re much more trigger-happy than the bunker-folk.”
“So if they’re coming here,” John said, “then we need to leave soon.”
“Yes,” the doctor replied, “they’ll be in Boulder by week’s end, and soon enough they’ll clear out Denver. And I ain’t gonna be here when that happens…Now come on, we should get you dressed for dinner, Christopher will be back soon,” he looked at his wrist-watch, “real soon.” He turned towards the kitchen as John got up from the surgery table and walked awkwardly behind him.
Just then, in all coincidence, the sound of hooves became noticeable outside. Only one horse; it was Christopher. Dr. Harrison turned around quickly and walked back towards John, who had found some undergarments lain out for him. The doctor leaned in closely.
“Just a heads-up,” he said, in a loud whisper, “Christopher is a bunker-born, but he ain’t like the usual ones. He’s a good kid, just don’t look at him too much, it’s pretty…noticeable.”
John put on a white t-shirt and a pair of brown slacks. He saw the doctor unlock the door, and soon afterwards Christopher entered the small-house, he saw what the doctor had meant by “noticeable”. Underneath a cowboy hat and a thick, weathered duster, fingerless gloves, dusty jeans, long boots, and a revolver, there was a small young man whose skin was almost white, and whose hair, peeking out from under the wide-brimmed hat, was a light blonde. Behind dark sunglasses and an intelligent smirk were light gray eyes, young and vibrant, but haunted by a sort of harshness, almost anger, though kept in check by the young man’s skillful poker-face.
“Looks like our boy’s awake, Doc,” he said, whipping off his sunglasses and turning towards the doctor, “can we leave now?” Dr. Harrison snorted and walked over to the kitchen shaking his head.
“Our guest,” he said, pulling out dishes from the cabinet, “needs some time to recover. He needs food and rest.” Then the doctor gave his assistant a harsh look, “We’re staying the night; we’ll move out tomorrow.” Christopher walked over to the table, clearly annoyed.
“Dammit, Doc, if I hadn’t brought him here we’d have been gone three days ago.”
“But now we have a new hand, if he’ll stick around.” John turned towards the doctor.
“It’s the least I could do, Doc,” he said, “for all you’ve done for me.” He brushed his hand across his chest. Christopher noticed this movement.
“Doc’s the best in the land,” he said, “mostly by default, but he’s one of the best anyway of he can keep your *** alive.” He leaned up against the wall, putting his hat on a peg and removing his duster, and hanging it up on the coat-rack.
“You gotta name?” he said, looking as tough as he could.
“Call me John,” was the reply. John was a bigger man than the assistant, older too, but not by much. Christopher looked to be an older teenager, maybe in his early twenties, while John was about twenty-six. He was a tall man, not as tall as Christopher, but better built, while the other was thin and lanky. John felt his chin, and though he expected a beard, he felt no hair. He must have been shaven by the doctor. He smiled.
“You must be Christopher,” he said, walking towards the cowboy, extending his hand politely.
“You haven’t earned a handshake, John,” Christopher said scathingly, “and it’s Chris.”
John put his hand down, returning the look with a serious one, and they both eyed each other for a few moments. Finally the doctor broke the engagement.
“Dinner’s ready, kids,” he said, “take a seat.” The two broke eye-contact and went over to the table. Sitting down, the doctor brought them their dinner, buttered toast and assorted fruits.
“No meat?” Christopher asked.
“No,” the doctor replied, “I didn’t want the smoke to attract any new guests. There’s a lot of men moving in soon and I don’t want any scouts to catch whiff of us.”
“Now,” the doctor said, noticing that John had begun reaching for food, “let’s say grace.”
John, feeling both confused and slightly embarrassed, put the apple he had grabbed down. The doctor closed his eyes and bowed his head.
“Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed by Thy name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. And give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory. Amen.”
“Oh, and Lord,” he added, “grant us safe passage along the hard road tomorrow and the days to come. Amen.”
Then he opened his eyes and began to eat his light meal. The other two followed. The meal was quick, and shared in relative silence. Following dinner, the doctor put all of the locks on the door and checked the bars across the windows. After completing his inspection, Dr. Harrison looked over at the two men who sat at the table, finishing their meals.
“It’s time to get some shut-eye fellas. Big day tomorrow, we’ll be rising early.”
The two at the table finished their dinner, and prepared for bed. The doctor went over to this desk in the corner, where he kept an oil lamp and his journal. He stayed there for a long time as the others slowly crept towards bed.
“Sleep there,” Christopher said, pointing to a dingy mattress on the floor, “Here’s some sheets and a pillow. Get healthy; we need you ready for anything tomorrow.” He then retreated to his hammock in the other corner, and promptly fell asleep. The red sun slowly fell over the mountains, and night fell upon the wastes. John, lying beneath his sheets on the mattress, watched the Doctor writing in that journal for what felt like hours before sleep finally overtook him.
The sun came up in the early morning, and John awoke to the doctor and his assistant both finishing packing up the house’s valuables. He rose from his bed, and walked over towards the window. Dr. Harrison, seeing his patient was awake, tossed him an apple.
“Breakfast,” he said, and walked back to his work. As John finished the apple, the other two finished the packing. Seeing that everything was done, the doctor went over to John and offered him some new clothing. He handed him some blue jeans, socks, boots, a brown leather jacket, a holster, and finally, a 9 millimeter pistol. John inspected it, counting the bullets and placing them back in the magazine. He then sheathed the gun in his holster, and followed the doctor and his assistant as they walked out the back door.
Outside was a covered wagon filled with items both of the survival and trinket sort. John shielded his eyes from that bloody sun as his partners went to the makeshift stables, and brought out two large mustangs, one chestnut and the other a darker brown. They brought them over to the wagon and tied them out front. Everything was ready, and the doctor got up on his seat.
“John,” he shouted, “you ride shotgun.” John followed the order and sat next to the man who had saved his life just the day before. He saw that the doctor was carrying a long rifle, he didn’t know what kind. Christopher walked around the front and readied his own steed for the journey. As the wagon rounded the corner of the house, Christopher saw something on the horizon.
“Doc!” he yelled, “I think we’ve got visitors.” He took out his gun as John and the doctor followed him. Walking in a jagged line, the three crossed the field towards their “visitors”. Closing in on them, they saw that there were three men, lightly armed, coming towards them.
“Don’t come any closer!” Doc Harrison shouted, waving his rifle in the air. But the opposing group continued to advance. The doctor signaled to his companions to halt, and he walked a few paces ahead. Firing a warning shot in the air, he received one back, but much closer to his head.
“Get down!” he shouted, kneeling down and aiming his rifle. The other two followed suit.
“Don’t waste your ammo; wait for them to get close. One and done, got it?”
He looked back, and the other two nodded. As the men got closer, the doctor aimed downfield and took a shot. The man in the center fell backwards. Then the man on the right of the doctor pulled something off his belt, and chucked it towards the group.
“Grenade!” the doctor shouted, jumping towards his left. John did the same, and Christopher moved right. The grenade exploded, and John saw Christopher hit the ground hard, but he couldn’t stop to check on him. Moving closer, John got the man on the far left in his sights, and fired his gun, hitting the man in the forehead.
“Good shot!” the doctor shouted. John, seeing the last assailant attempting to finish the job, ran towards Christopher. The man prepared to shoot the assistant, but John squeezed his trigger first. The man went down, and John continuedrunning towards the man who had rescued him from the wastes.
“Christopher!” John shouted.
“Yeah?” came the weak reply. John slowed his pace, wiping the sweat from his head with a happy sigh. He bent over Christopher, and offered his hand. A grin slowly appeared on the young man’s face, and he grabbed his new companion’s hand. Lifting him off the ground, John patted Christopher on the back.
“Hey,” the blonde-headed man said quietly, “You earned that one.”
John grinned, and the two walked over towards the last body, following the doctor. The doctor was well ahead of them, but they saw that the man, bleeding from his shoulder, was begging for his life. Dr. Harrison kneeled down and whispered something into the man’s ear. The wounded man began to shout out an answer to whatever question the doctor posed, and Harrison stood up. He pointed his gun down, and the man began to scream, reaching for the gun, but the doctor pulled the trigger, ending his foe’s life.
He turned around to face his companions, who stopped short, seeing the cold hardness of the doctor’s eyes.
“Search the bodies, take anything useful.”
The two followed the orders without question.