Preface:
Okay, I actually started writing this long before I even considered posting it on these boards. It can't even be considered fan fiction. I just thought since it took place after the apocalypse, it would fit nicely here. It has no Fallout characters, or relation of any sort. It's not the best writing I've ever done.

It's not meant to be overly descriptive or ground-breaking, partly because I changed my writing style to match the story. It's flawed, unrealistic, and weird. It is what it is. This may just be an early build, or I may never pick up on it again. Overall, I had a lot of fun writing it and I just want a little feedback on it for fun.

There's no prologue because I didn't want to spoil everyone's imagination by saying WHY it's the apocalypse. I want you to come up with your own reason. For me, it makes it just a little bit scarier.

And be warned, it's quite long.

Thanks for the time,
AsteroidJuice

Hard pavement beneath me.
Wrists tied, rope gnawing into my skin, into the veins.
I'm crying.

On my stomach, chin raised high so the gravel doesn't cut into it. Pants scuffed, shirt torn. Hot, burning exhaust coming from the car before me. Nasty fumes breathing against my face. I blink my eyes and notice the long rope coiled from my wrists, tied to the bumper. That's when I realize where I am. In the middle of the road, no one in either direction for miles. Around me, barren landscape for ever and ever. A bird caws in the distance. I turn my head and rest my cheek on my arm. The bright sun burns with hot fury.

A foot hits the ground inches before my face. I follow up the boot, the pantleg, the jacket. The face is shaded and unintelligble, masked behind the light of the sun. But I already know who it is. "I took your stuff," he says. "I hope you don't mind."

I'm only wearing my thin undershirt and pants. He took my boots, my jacket, my gun. I would have done the same thing if I had gotten the better of him. Can't blame him. His boots kick up dust in my face. I cringe and spit. He does it again. I bury my face into the ground. I hear him walk away, open the car door, step in. I jerk my head up and pull at the ropes. They cut deep into my flesh. It's no use.

The car nudges forward and my belly skids across the ground. My shirt erodes a little bit. He presses the gas. I can imagine him sitting in the car, watching the needle quiver at three miles per hour. Even at the slow speed my entire body burns. My knees are on fire, my chin is split, my stomach is white-hot. He presses a little more and I cry out.

"No point in screaming," he calls out the window. "No one around here. I'm not even up to ten yet."

I lift my chin off the ground and he steps on the gas. We jerk forwards, twenty miles per hour. My arms nearly break out of socket; the rope becomes taut. I feel the rough stone sanding down my denim pants, feel my stomach hurt in ways I can't imagine. He twists the wheel and slings me into the sand, speeding as he does it.

The sand burns down the skin in my knee. I scream like I've never screamed before, begging him to stop.

That's when he goes through the cacti patch.

I don't even know what hurts the worst. I don't know how fast we're going. I'm sliding along, leaving a trail of agony behind me. I'm bleeding everywhere. All I know, all I've ever known is pain. The sand cuts away all the skin and saws down into the bone.

And then suddenly he turns and puts on the emergency break. Inertia slings me across the ground at an angle and that's when I see the gigantic chasm in the earth. I feel all the ground beneath me disappear and be replaced by the sickly feeling of falling. I drop for eons. The ground gets closer, bigger. Then the rope catches my fall and I hear a loud pop somewhere in my arm. I slam into the side of the cliff, smashing my nose.

I look up into the sun.
Light everywhere.
A shining orb.

The white heat. My arms are broken by the fall. My wrists are cut so deep, valleys of red tendons and bones. My nose is broken and three teeth are MIA. My knees and stomach don't even exist.
I stare into the great abyss above until a great figure blocks the sun.

"Hmm. Are you dead?"

I blink blood out of my eyes. "No. Please let me go. I'm sorry."

"Sorry, huh? Were you sorry when you sneaked up on me and tried to kill me? Tried to loot my stuff?"

"It's tough out there. You know it. I know it. It was nothing personal." I feel myself pleading, cold, pitiful words leaving a bad taste in my mouth.

"Well, this isn't personal either. I understand not much is left. I know how hard it is to find shelter. It's hard to find food. I'm still running from The Cititzenship. But I would never, never, ever try to hurt someone who didn't deserve it, just to make life easier for myself."

I already know what he's going to do.

He opens up the trunk of the car and pulls out a knife.

"Oh no. Please, no."

He's going to cut the rope.

"Now wait a minute. This isn't what you think it is."

"It's not?" I bark. My voice is hoarse.

"I'm one of those people who believe in second chances."

"Thank you," I murmur.

He yanks up the rope a little at a time. The pain in my arms is unbelievable. He hauls me up over the edge of the canyon and sets me down on the dirt. He kneels down with the knife and cuts one of my hands free. It's cut wide open. I can't move my fingers, my hand, my lower arm.

"Here you go," he says, and places the knife by the handle in my hands. He squeezes my fingers into a grip around the blade.

"In ten seconds I'm going to get into this car and drive off," he explains. "I'm going to go a lot faster than I was before. Now, you have that much time to use the knife to cut the rope. Do you think you can do that?"

I can't. I can barely move.

"Yes," I answer, "then what?"

"That's it. Judging by your stomach, you have an hour until you bleed out and die. You won't have any of your stuff back. I won't come back for you. You'll be left for dead in this desert. But, that gives you a chance. There's a town about a mile or so from here."

"Please."

"What?"

"Please let me go."

"I am. As long as you cut that rope before I do any more damage. You have your second chance. I'm going to get in the car and count to ten. Then I take off."

He turns and and begins to walk back to the car.

This is my chance. He might have a medical kit in the trunk. All I have to do is--
I muster up all the strength I can. I raise up my arm and cry out from the pain. The knife is tight in my hand. I hurl it at him with all the force I have. The blade sails through the air, spinning, light glinting off it's silver edge. It buries itself into his shin.

The man cries out and yells and spits and curses. He jumps back and stumbles onto his rear, flailing. He grabs the knife and tears it from his leg. He throws it against the ground and stands up in anger.
I had failed.
"What is wrong with you? I'm a nice guy. I gave you a chance!" he screams.

I feel no shame. Only fear.

He stands in silence. I look up at him.

Suddenly, he steps into the car and closes the door. The engine starts. With my free hand, I tug at the ropes. They are far too tight. And then the tires screech and kick up the stones and dust into my face. The car lunges forward with fierce speed. All the pain intensifies. Everything goes black.

Get to Manchester. Shelter. No Citizenship. Family.

For a split second I pass out and then all the color floods into my eyes. I don't feel anymore pain, I'm going into shock. I've probably already lost too much blood.

I hear something else. Over the roar of the car I hear another vehicle getting closer. Riding alongside it. I see a man lean out of the window, hear the loud crack of a rifle. The bullet breaks the rope I'm tied to, separating me from the car. I slow, but he continues on. I spin. I grind to a halt. I hear another report from the rifle and see the man who had strung me up fall from his car. He doesn't get back up.

I pass out again.

"Boy, what did you do to have him that upset?" a voice asks from the darkness.

"Mmm," I mumble.

"Steal from him?"

"Yeah."

"No shame, my friend. Tough times, eh? I'll get ya cleaned up, but if you steal from me, let me make it clear: I won't hesitate. You mean nothing to me."

"The feeling is mutual," I whisper before slipping unconscious.

* * *

Pain is back.

I'm lying on my back now. My jacket, boots, gloves, and hat are all back on. I look down. My stomach has a series of stitches across it, running just above the belly button. My wrists are canyons of blood. My knees are barely pieced together. I feel inside my mouth: three teeth still missing. My nose is back in place.

I sit up, pain ripping through every fiber of my body.

"Well, good morning, sunshine."

The man is sitting by the campfire. Behind him I see the sun dipping just below the mountains. He stands up, his body a mask of shadow. As he approaches me I can make out features: hooked nose, nasty teeth. He's tall and thin. His hair is tied up in a pony tail.

"How are you feeling, huh?" he asks.

"Never better."

"You're lucky to be alive."

"Why did you save me?"

"Well, I've been taught to help whoever needs it."

"And you don't care that I--"

"Heck, I steal too. Nothing's fair out here. But, that doesn't mean I'd forgive you for nabbing my stuff."

"I'm smart enough to know not to steal from a man with a gun. Especially not being able to run."

"Good, good."

He offers his hand to me and lifts me to my feet. I can barely breathe. He walks me over to the fire and lets me have a tin of sausage. It's the only thing I've eaten in two days. After dinner he puts some water over the fire and pours a packet of cocoa into it. He doesn't give me any, but I understand. I would do the same thing.

"Shouldn't have wasted your time trying to kill that man," he says.

"Really."

"Or at least I didn't find anything good on him."

"You have higher standards than me," I respond.

"Mmm. I am the independent type."

"I thought I was too."

"Did you have any supplies on you at the time?"

"The clothes on my back," I laugh. "Everything he had looked good."

"A pistol with no ammo, a baseball bat, a knife, a coat, no money, some water?"

"The Kevlar."

"True. If you were successful at all you'd already have it."

"I know."

"So... what happened to you?"

"Gathered up all my stuff. Took my car. Road that for a year or two until a month ago it quit on me."

"And then you walked?"

"Until I found someone with a car."

"How long did that go on?"

"Six, seven months. Thought I would live it out like that forever, until yesterday."

"Two days ago."

"I've been out for two days?"

"Doesn't surprise me. I'm amazed you're breathing."

"...Man, how long has it been?"

"Two days."

"No. When it all started. When they said it was okay to come outside."

"Three years."

"Mmm," I mumble and shake my head. "Seems like a century."

"Livin' like you did, I'm sure of it," he says and stands up. He pours water sparingly over the fire and stamps the dying flames with his boots. The sun is over the mountains now, a new day. The heat picks up. The sand crunches and sinks under my heavy boots.

"Name's Martin. Yours?"

"Blake."

"Well, Blake. This is where we part ways."

"Yes sir. I better be on my way."

He picks up his rifle and throws it in his car. He steps inside and starts the engine. He leans his head out the window, squints his eyes.

"I left that guy's supplies with you. You need them more than I do."

"And his car?"

"Siphoned out all the gas for myself."

"Mmm."

"And the Kevlar, too."

"Yeah."

For a moment I feel a surge of greed. He left the man's knife with me. I could do it. He had so much stuff. High grade armor, food, water, camp supplies. And a rifle. With a rifle I could be so accurate. I could take anything.

I could do it.

A twinge of guilt goes through my body. He was kind.

I raise my hand goodbye and watch him drive away. A cloud of gravel kicks up behind him. Within a minute he disappears over the horizon. I turn to look around the campsite. He had left a knapsack for me. In it is a pen and notebook. I make a note:

May 15
Supplies:
Notebook, pen, knapsack, hat, gloves, shoes, pants, undershirt, jacket, pair of socks, knife, baseball bat, two bottles of water, empty pistol, coat, fifty cents.

I set off into the empty desert.

* * *

In three hours I drink all my water.

I am so wasteful. But I am so thirsty. I walk. I walk with no direction, hoping something is ahead of me. Heat waves blur the air before, dancing above the sand like so many ballerinas. My feet sink deep into the sand. Somewhere, a bird reports with a loud caw. If only I had taken his rifle.

In another hour I see something.

It's just a little dot on the horizon. It sways with every step. Pain everywhere. My feet are nearly bleeding in the boots. The little dot grows a little bit. It takes shape. It's squarish, jagged. It may be a billboard. Just a useless billboard.
Then, behind that dot, is another dot.
It fades into view.
It's a sign.
In black letters, the sign says: "Welcome to Orlando. Safe haven. Food and drink."
More sand. I walk for five more minutes until I step into the opening stretch of Orlando City.

The street is faded and cracked. There's buildings all around, only a few thriving with life. I take a few more heavy steps and stop before the building emblazened with the word BAR. There's a man at the door.

"Twenty cents."

"I'm just cooling off. I don't want a drink."

"Maybe so. Twenty cents."

"To enter the building?"

"To get in the shade," he explains. "It's twenty cents to cool off. This heat will kill you."

"Believe me, I know."

I grimace and feel my stomach. It feels like everything is going to fall out. I reach into my pocket and hand him the twenty cents. He opens the door for me. No air conditioning. In Vegas, they at least had air conditioning.

The hot sun ceases to burn my skin. Inside, there's a few men and women crowded around the bar. They're all drinking soda. What luxury. How did they manage? I pull out a barstool and rest. In the back of the room is a hallway with a curtain. A few rays of pale blue light leak out into the barroom.

"Anything to drink?" the bartender asks.

"How much?"

"Ten cents."

"No." I let out an exhausted laugh. "No, no."

"It's hot out there."

"And the drinks are warm too."

"Whatever."

"What's going on back there?" I motion to the darkened hallway.

"Showing the kids that old New United PSA."

"Really. I gotta see this."

"Go ahead. I won't charge you for that, my friend."

"I'd hope not."

I grunt as I get up and slowly shuffle to the makeshift theater. I push the veil out of the way and the light blinds me. As I round the corner I can see fifteen kids all sitting on the floor in two rows. A little television is before them. I remember it well. Little old animated movie, trying to teach the grim basics in some sort of innocent manner.

"Welcome to the New United. To prosper here, you'll need a few tips. And that's what I'm here to teach you today."

A cartoon character is illustrating all the information.

"First, you're going to need to know about our currency. Now, things have changed since before the Restored United. To make it simple, a dollar back then is roughly equal to one-point-one cents today. Why, you ask? Well, with the limited resources, it's a little hard to make money compared to when it was before. So, for example, if you have five cents, you can buy something that cost around five dollars back then. And based on calculations, the average person has around two hundred cents today. Do you understand?"

The kids let out a loud, "Yes!" I wish I had two hundred cents.

"Next, we'll talk about the Citizenship. The Citizenship is a very exclusive club that only a certain type of people can join. You must be between twenty and forty years old. You must weigh between one-hundred-fifty and two-hundred-forty pounds. The Citizenship is only available to those of higher class. You must have a clean criminal record. Lastly, you must pass the qualification test. Government officials have automatic rights to enter the Citizenship. The Citizenship is a band of people who agree to share everything equally between them, and take from the lawbreakers and non-Citizenship-enrolled people. It is a government-issued brotherhood, and currently consists of about two hundred members. Being in the Citizenship usually means safety, trust, and stability. However, if you break the Citizenship code, or betray the Citizenship, the punishment is great."

At this point the cartoon shows the character with great big X's for eyes.

"In response to the Citizenship, a small group of people have formed a rival faction called The Family, a group outraged with the government power of the Citizenship. They also share supplies, but kill and take only from the Citizenship. The members of the Family are mainly poor and have none of the qualifications to join the Citizenship. The Family is significantly less successful than the Citizenship, having only fifty-something members and being led by a man with little power. The Family is currently based in Manchester, New Hampshire. This PSA urges you to not join the Family."

Because the PSA is government-issued.

"Lastly, let's talk about the best way to do well in the New United. The best way to get around is a car or horse. The best thing to wear is something light, but still protective from injury. A hat may also be wanted to shield from the sun. Your arsenal to defend yourself with should be varied, but mainly consist of a knife, an automatic gun, and a ranged gun. Communication is by confrontation only, with the exception being Washington D.C. Washington has weak telephone lines to communicate across the land, although this method of communication should be used only as a last resort. And lastly, any thieves or looters will not be treated kindly. That's just common sense! Good luck out there!"

I step back into the barroom. All the pain floods back into my arms, knees, mouth, and stomach.

"Some video you have going in there."

"They're bored," the bartender shrugs.

"Don't you find it a little...dark?"

"Not for the circumstances."

"I guess."

"It's actually informative."

"I grew up with Sesame Street."

"And they grow up with the New United PSA. Things change."

"I'll take that drink."

"Ten cents for soda. Six for water."

"Phew. Six dollars."

"Cents."

"For a drink."

"Mmm."

"Water."

"Okay."

It's cold and delicious. My raw throat is soothed, if only for a moment.

"Hey, boy."

I look and see a man looking at me. He is young, but his face is like wrinkled leather. He has a white scar running under his chin to his ear. He looks at me with cold blue eyes. The brim of his hat is low, touching his eyebrows.

"I like your jacket."

"I do, too," I grunt. I take off my hat and run a hand through my long hair. It's greasy with sweat.

"I sure would like it if I had it."

"If only you had it."

"Well, that's what I was thinkin'," he says casually. "I was wondering if you could give me that jacket."

"Not gonna happen."

"You're right. That'd be unfair."

"Mmm."

"So, how 'bout you and me go at it?"

I look at the bartender. "Is that common around here?" I query.

He nods.

"Yeah," I mumble. "It was in Vegas too."

"I have a pistol with eight bullets, four bottles of water, forty cents, a buckknife, an empty shotgun, and everything I'm wearing. You?"

I tell him of all my supplies. I look him over. He has Kevlar on. Nice clothes. Big hat.

"Let's do it," he says loudly.

"I don't have any bullets."

"I'll give you one. I'll only need one to kill you anyways."

He tosses one to me. I load it into the pistol.

"Let's go outside. Bartender, you give us the count. Whoever wins gets the other's stuff. The loser will die. The winner will have enough money to sleep at the hotel tonight."

"Alright," I say.

* * *

The hotel room that night is expensive, thirty cents. But with the fourty I earned earlier, I made due, and was left with fourty-four cents. The hotel room is nice. The bed is large and the faucet actually drips a few times. I put a paper cup under the faucet and it is half full by morning. The water is warm, but it soothes the blisters in my dry mouth. My wounds are on fire, but I feel better, overall.

The breakfast is cheap at the hotel, surprisingly. I eat a loaf of bread and two strips of bacon, accompanied with milk, for only four cents.

I make a note in my notebook:



May 16
Supplies:
Notebook, pen, knapsack, hat, gloves, shoes, pants, undershirt, jacket, pair of socks, knife, baseball bat, four bottles of water, Kevlar, pistol with eight bullets, coat, and fourty cents.

That morning I leave the hotel satisfied. As I walk into the street I hear a car backfire. There's an auto shop around the corner. I shuffle tiredly over to the junkyard. A man is leaning over a car, trying to get it to work.

"Any working cars?" I ask.

"Got one right here. Nice, too."

"Willing to sell it?"

"Maybe. Make me an offer."

"I don't suppose I could haggle you down to fourty cents."

"No, I don't suppose so either." He laughs.

"Any horses?"

"There's a stable down the road. Not too expensive, I've found."

"Thank you."

I travel to the stables. There's a heavy, tall man feeding his horses. There's three horses. One is old and lame. The others look strong enough. The man will sell one to me for one-hundred-eighty cents. I don't have nearly enough money.

"How does a man make money around here?" I ask.

"Mostly through dueling. Judging by yesterday you're not too bad at that. You might be able to find a job or run some errands for the locals. I've never made more than twenty cents by doing that, though. It's all about choice."

"Do you have a job for me?"

"I might, in time. For right now, nothing. However, my tavern is open to you. You have a bed here for only one cent a night."

"Thank you."

"No problem."

In three weeks I have the money for a horse.

I take the black horse from the man. It is strong and tall. In another two weeks I buy a saddle and reins, and enough horse feed to last him for a week. I still have the four bottles of water. With my supplies I might be able to make it to Georgia in a week. For my last night in Orlando I go to the bar and buy a soda. The glass is tall and wide. Every sip is fizzy and cold and amazing. As good as it is, now I'm completely broke. Then the next morning I set off into the desert.

Traveling into nothingness induces paranoia and vertigo. My head spins as the barren landscape repeats for miles and miles. I pace the horse well, having it rest once an hour and going at a steady speed. Once a day I feed him. Traveling on a horse is much slower than a car, but I can't complain. I still ache from walking to Orlando. I'm grateful for the horse.

That night I set up camp. I feed the horse and eat a tin of peaches I picked up before I left. I sleep well. The night is warm. Miles and miles and miles away, the moon glowers, giving off an orb of pale light. The darkness envelopes me.

The next morning I travel for many more miles. I limply sway with the horse's steps. I cannot believe my eyes when I see the little shack on the horizon. It's a broken down house, white paint cracked and old, the windows nearly falling out. I get off the horse and leave some feed for it. I approach the door and my hand tightens on the pistol. The house creaks with the wind. I unholster the pistol and kick the door open. It falls off the hinges and slides across the living room floor. Dust kicks up from the impact. The whole room is peppered with sand. All is silent.

To my left is a hallway. To my right is the kitchen. I enter the kitchen. Inside it is a broken countertop television. The fridge is empty. I open the cabinets. A can of tomatoes. Old, rotting loaves of bread. Hot sauce. A tin of beans. I take the beans and tomatoes. Under the sink are various cleaning supplies. On the stove is a pan and an unopened box of noodles.

Someone has raided this house before. They took everything.

I approach the hallway. There's four doors. One is a bathroom. No toilet paper. No running water. The next door is a bedroom. No jewelry, no sheets. No clothes. No gun in the closet. Nothing of any value.

The third door is the laundry room. There's a pair of pants and a white shirt hanging out of the dryer. The last door is a stairway to the basemant. It's incredibly dark. I feel around in the darkness. Something hard. It's round. My hands probe against the wall. I step into the basemant and stick my hands out blindly in front of me.
My hands touch something soft. Fleshy.

I scream loudly and it reverberates off the walls. It's so loud. I jerk backwards and turn. My palm is cut on something sharp. A garden rake. My hand goes very warm and moist. Startled, I fall down and scream again. My head slams against the wall. My back is against the wall. I reach out and feel a handle. Instinctively, I pull. The wall cracks and beautiful, white light pours in. I pull more and the light grows. I stand up. It's a door. It's a door.

It's a door.

I run and hurdle into the light, turning and closing the door behind me. My body goes cold. As I fall I see the stairway beneath me. I hear a sickening crack and everything vanishes.

* * *

Everything blurs.
I'm on the tile floor of a very pale room.
It's very tall. The light is so bright I'm nearly blind. On three sides of the room are shelves. Filled with something. Behind me, I suspect, is the stairway and door. I close my eyes and roll over on my back. I sit up. I scoot to a wall and lay my head on it. I take a few shuddering breaths. What happened?

I open my eyes.

In the corner opposite me, a man is slumped over. There's blood on his shirt. There's a gun in his lap. Across from him, his dog is dead, laying on its stomach. I can see it's ribs through the skin. It had to have starved to death. The man, I suspect, killed himself.

And above them are a series of shelves. Filled with supplies. Food. Drink. Guns. Knives. Money. Armor. Medical supplies.

Stunned, I slowly get to my feet. The room spins. The bridge of my nose aches. My eyes and forehead throb. I stumble forwards and lay a hand on the jars of food. Most of it is eaten. There are five cans of various foods left on the shelf. Dazed, I take them and put them in the knapsack. I take the jug of water and keep it as well. I unsheath my knife and replace it with a sharper one. There's twelve pistol bullets scattered on the shelf. I take them. I take a medical kit. I grimace with pain as the peroxide burns into my flesh. I shakily wrap the bandage across the cut on my hand. The dead man has an ammo belt on. I take it. The man has a rifle in his lap. It's an old repeater carbine. The Citizenship had repeater carbines, started making them when they ran out of supplies to make high-tech weaponry. Best rifles out there right now. This man was in the Citizenship.

He has the Citizenship armor, too. Strong Kevlar and metal over leather and cloth. I take off my clothes and take his. I keep my hat, socks, shoes, and gloves. I feel a bit heavier, so I drop the baseball bat. I check the ammunition in the repeater rifle. Loaded chamber. Thirty-four bullets total. I sling it over my shoulder. I put all the ammo in the ammo belt. There's eighty cents in the man's pocket.

I sit and write a note:

May 17
Supplies:
Notebook, pen, knapsack, pistol with twenty bullets, seven cans of food, jug of water, knife, repeater with thirty-four bullets, Citizenship armor, ammo belt, hat, gloves, shoes, socks, eighty-cents.

I had everything I needed.

I trudge back up the stairs. I open the door, and light shoots through the darkness and illuminates the entire room. There's a man dead in the basemant. He has a bullet hole in his stomach. He must've been what I had bumped into upon entering the basemant. He is also wearing Citizenship armor.

However, if you break the Citizenship code, or betray the Citizenship, the punishment is great.

The man in the secret armory was a traitor. I suspect they shot each other, and later died from bleeding out.

I walk up into the hallway, into the living room, and out of the house. My horse is weak. I must have been knocked out for a few hours. I feed him some oats and let him drink some water. Then I saddle back up and ride into the desert.

* * *

Not long after that I come upon a little outpost. Like a miniature city, it's just two or three shops scattered within a half-mile's distance of each other. The first one I come up to sells gas. Nothing of value there. The second shop sells weapons and ammo. I unsaddle and approach the counter. The man inside is reading a magazine and drinking some water.

"Hello there," I greet.

"Pleasure to meet you, fella."

"The feeling is mutual."

"What can I do for you today?"

"This repeater rifle. What model is it?"

"How'd you get your hands on one of these?"

"Stole it from a dead Citizen."

"Stole, huh?" The man becomes a little tense.

"Settle down, now," I say.

"Oh, I'm calm. I have a shotgun under this counter."

"I'm not looking for a fight."

"Mmm."

"Now, what model is this here weapon?"

"This is a fine piece of machinery, friend. This is a Golden Boy. .22 Caliber. Old Henry rifle."

"Mmm. How much do these go for?"

"I'd buy it for four-hundred-cents."

"Phew. Thank you for that opinion."

"I have it in the register, sir."

"Not for sale. However--" I unholster the pistol and set it on the counter, "--this is."

"A hundred cents."

"And the ammo?"

"Twenty five."

"Make the gun one-fifty and we have a deal," I bargain.

"Alright then."

I slide him the pistol and he hands me the money. I have two-hundred-fifty-five cents. I have the average amount of money.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he says.

"The same. Hey, how long do you sit here?"

"Five hours. Then I pack up and head to the next station."

"And how many customers do you get in that time?" I query.

"About twenty."

"Is the pay good?"

"Fifty cents a day."

"And how does a fella go about getting one of these jobs?"

"Government issued. I have friends in high places."

"Mmm."

"Well, goodbye."

"Goodbye."

The third shop sells horse feed and water. I buy some more horse feed for five cents.

I travel until it gets dark and then I set up camp. I feed the horse and eat half a can of food. I drink some water. The cut across my palm is not too deep and is healing quickly. That night a weak sandstorm passes through. I cover the horse with my jacket, but it still whinnies and squeals as the sand whips across its flanks. After the storm I fall asleep immediately.

The next morning I set off towards Georgia, my direction and bearing being determined only by the position of the sun. My horse is tired and slow. I stop every half hour to let it drink. Its breathing is quick and shallow.

I travel until noon and let the horse rest.

I pick up again at two and travel until eight.

The next two days I do the same.

The day after that I travel until eleven at night to pick up distance. Along the way my horse steps on a sharp rock and nearly splits his hoof. On the last day I stop just outside of Brunswick and take out the Golden Boy, and put the horse out of its misery. I take the skin and sell it, along with half of the meat. I eat the other half over the next three days.

On the last day in Brunswick I buy another, cheaper horse for fifty cents.

It's a long way to Manchester, New Hampshire.

....aaaand that's it. I may finish it, I may not.

Pretty good. Got your spelling down. It was a nice short read, one problem I had was the dialogue though. Putting spaces in between each line makes it much easier to read, much. Like so:



Turns into:

"Hello there," I greet.

"Pleasure to meet you, fella."

"The feeling is mutual."

"What can I do for you today?"

Just makes it easier to read. Finish it or not, I could care less, but I will continue to read if you do.

Thank you kindly, sir.
I'll edit the dialogue.