The Lost Years

The neighborhood has about four ‘complete’ homes, all ranch-style houses. Scratch lives in the last home on the cul-de-sac, which appealed to him most. It’s also the one house that’s not falling apart as much. The area around is mostly barren, with remnants of construction from before the war.

Scratch has made some modifications to his home. He’s boarded up the windows, reinforcing them for better security. Inside, some of the original furniture remains, but in poor shape. The couch is comfortable enough. The house is connected to the electric grid, but wiring is unreliable. Scratch keeps a fridge, but there’s not much inside. He keeps some foodstuffs ( dried meats ) along with some water and beer.

Scratch’s room is pretty sparse, with just his mattress that he scavenged. He also keeps his guns there, plus some ‘light’ adult reading magazines.

Yet, by how he held his right arm he seemed wounded. The sleeve on his short was bloodied, with an old towel wrapped around it. A belt kept the bandage in place, but he needed real medical help.

Scratch needed help. As much as that sickened him.

May had just finished carrying a crate of medicine when she saw him from afar.

A bowed figure, limping and appeared to have a large bloodstain on his trousers.

She wasted no time and walked quickly towards him with a worried expression on her face.

«Good Lord...» she whispered as she approached the man.

She carried his good arm on her shoulders and supported him by holding a hand on his back with the intention of accompanying him to one of the tents to lie on a cot.

Some Followers made room for them to pass, two others stayed with her in case she needed assistance.

And she needed it, of course: in fact, she ordered them to prepare gauze, bandages and some instruments that could be useful but she had to first make sure of his condition.

Judging by his appearance, he didn't look like a portrait of health: he had old scars running through his face and, probably, more on his body.

After all, he walked here from the south. He should be able to walk himself into the tent.

Then again- he was feeling weak. The blood in his system felt thin, as his strength faded. Blood was already staining the old towel, even with the tight belt around it. So, he gritted his teeth and puts up with it.  

“How long is this gonna take?”

Not that she meant to scold him, but she became very serious and professional when it came to saving a life.

Her colleagues helped her place the stranger on the cot, and May asked to check if he had other injuries while she focused on his arm.

She unbuckled the belt, letting it fall to the floor, where the bloodstained towel soon joined it, then had to cut the fabric and carefully remove it, but the situation wasn't looking good at all.

«Fuck...»

At first, she couldn't tell if it was a gunshot wound or if he'd even been attacked by an animal, given how much blood he'd lost in that area. She needed to clean it, make sure it wasn't bleeding anymore, and stitch it up. He'd probably need a transfusion too.

The Fiend sneered drily as he winced in pain. The wound was nasty, but manageable given the bullet passed clean through the flesh and muscle. He was lucky, it could’ve taken his whole arm clean off. Still, being shot shocked his system pretty bad, plus losing all that blood.

Despite feeling dizzy and cold, he was keeping his wits about him.

Scratch’s eyes kept darting around the medical tent. Paranoid— even when being helped by the nicest people in Vegas.  Sure, he feared being found out. Then again, he doubted the followers would turn away him for being a Fiend. Then again, he’s worried about people outside the fort figuring out. Plenty of people in Freeside would want to 86ed a Fiend. They had plenty of good reasons, too.

Or worse, some bounty hunter would come along and just wait outside the fort. Scratch couldn’t stay here forever. God forbid it, they might try to get him clean.

“Look— just give me some stimpaks and some med-x. I got caps, I can pay you back.”

Yet, by how he held his right arm he seemed wounded. The sleeve on his short was bloodied, with an old towel wrapped around it. A belt kept the bandage in place, but he needed real medical help.

Scratch needed help. As much as that sickened him.

May had just finished carrying a crate of medicine when she saw him from afar.

A bowed figure, limping and appeared to have a large bloodstain on his trousers.

She wasted no time and walked quickly towards him with a worried expression on her face.

«Good Lord...» she whispered as she approached the man.

She carried his good arm on her shoulders and supported him by holding a hand on his back with the intention of accompanying him to one of the tents to lie on a cot.

Some Followers made room for them to pass, two others stayed with her in case she needed assistance.

And she needed it, of course: in fact, she ordered them to prepare gauze, bandages and some instruments that could be useful but she had to first make sure of his condition.

Judging by his appearance, he didn't look like a portrait of health: he had old scars running through his face and, probably, more on his body.

After all, he walked here from the south. He should be able to walk himself into the tent.

Then again- he was feeling weak. The blood in his system felt thin, as his strength faded. Blood was already staining the old towel, even with the tight belt around it. So, he gritted his teeth and puts up with it.  

“How long is this gonna take?”