Hello. I'd like to share a short story with you that I just finished. A shout out goes out to the +Fallout Fan Club Community on G+. The full story is 6,600 words.

***************FULL STORY***************

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6,600 words, 435kb
***************FULL STORY***************

Please let me know what you think in the comments! And, if you really like it, please share!!!!!! (sixtuple "!" is for emphasis). On G+, via mail, forums, whatever. Maybe someone else will like it too.

Thanks, and have an awesome day.

FALLOUT: PRIMAL SCREAM

A Game of Chess

By Tyro Vogel

A landmine, Tom thinks.

He's blind, he's deaf, the car is on fire. A steering wheel, attached to nothing, fixed in a madman's grip. The mine rips the engine apart. Adrenaline pumps through his body, slowing everything down.

He's in the driver's seat, looking at the world scroll past. He's upside down. Eyes closed.

Impact.

Full dark, no stars.

#

One by one, his senses return.

Smell: oil and sweat. Touch: he's on a bed. Everything hurts. Thought: the mine, the explosion. The sound of Jet capsules popping, melting in his trunk.

Holy [censored], he thinks, I'm a dead man.

Vinnie Mordino's goons will be coming after him, sure as the apocalypse, and in the middle of the desert, a crowd of bloodthirsty gangsters are the worst company to have. He has to get as far away from new New Reno as possible, pronto. On foot.

Tom decides that things can't possibly get any worse and opens his eyes.

"Hey, look, he's alive," says one of the three men in the small shack with him. One's leaning on a locker, the other two are sitting by the only table. Combat armor, combat boots, they don't look like desert raiders. Their faces are wrapped in rags, with a slit for the eyes below the helmets. The insignias on their chest plates show a bear, paws raised protectively over a red star, the word RANGER printed at its feet.

"Are you the Steel Brotherhood?" he asks. It hurts to talk.

They look at each other.

"They're called the Brotherhood of Steel, lad," says the one by the locker, "And no, we're not with them."

"What the [censored] happened?"

"Oye," says the Ranger at the table, "We saved your life. Show a little gratitude."

"Excuse him," says the first, "He's still high on all the Jet that melted in your trunk."

"My Jet! [censored]! Look, thanks and all, but I got to go."

"Not so fast, cowboy," says the other, "We're not in the habit of dragging half-dead drug dealers out of burning automobiles for no good reason, you dig? Tell him, Captain."

"I'm not a drug dealer!"

"Evidently, not anymore," says the Ranger sitting on the other side of the table. A woman's voice! Red hair fall on her shoulders as she removes her helmet and slides the rag off her face. Tom is mesmerized.

She's not beautiful, not exactly, but there's something in her, something in the lines of her nose, in the wrinkles at the edges of her lips, that holds Tom in a trance he can't explain. Love is a harsh mistress, he thinks, wondering how many men she's had to kill to prove that she had what it took to command them.

"My name is Captain Reynolds," she says, "These here are Sergeant Ryan and Private Brooks." She nods at the Ranger by the locker. "We're with the N.C.R."

"The what?"

"Don't tell me you've never heard of the N.C.R. before."

"Can't say I have."

"You're from New Reno, for God's sake. The New California Republic's just South of here. Did you live under a rock for the past twenty years?"

"Ehm, no?"

"Then try to get your [censored] together. Like the Sergeant dully noted, we're not in the habit of risking our necks for nothing. We need somebody local, which makes you the lucky winner who's going to get us inside."

"Inside the city? You mean New Reno? Reno's the scum den of the North, pretty girls like you don't need permission to get inside. You can walk right in. How's that for advise? Can I go now please?"

Sergeant Ryan gets up from his chair and towers over Tom's bunk bed.

"Can I hit him now, Captain?"

"Not yet. You, drug dealer, what's your name?"

"Tom Walema, at your service. Look, you have to let me go. Some bad men are going to be after me, and you don't want me to be here when they come knocking. In fact, you don't want to be here at all."

"Why not?" asks the Seargeant, "Figure we can get a pretty good deal. How bad do they want you?"

Somebody knocks on the door. Thrice. The Rangers get on their feet, rifles at the ready, safeties off.

"Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait," Tom says, "For how long was I out?"

"Who's there?" shouts Captain Reynolds.

"Just fellow travellers, ma'am," says a man's hoarse voice from behind the door. "Mind if we come in?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. We're N.C.R. Rangers, there's five of us, and we know our way around a firefight. Now identify yourself or we start shooting."

"There's no need for unpleasantries, ma'am. We're with the Mordino family. Me and my friends are looking for a scrawny looking fella, goes by the name of Tom Walema."

"What do you want with him?"

"Well, that's our business, ma'am, isn't it? Is he there with you?"

"No."

"Then you wouldn't mind if we have a look, would you now? You said there's five of you. A real Ranger, huh. I say you're just some farmer [censored] who doesn't know what's good for her. Now open that door before I kick it down and stick my Magnum up your [censored]!"

The Captain gestures her men to go prone. Tom climbs off the bed and joins them on the floor. He'd kill for a hit of Jet right now.

"I'm not opening [censored]. Now leave peacefully. This is your final warning."

The door swings open. Reynolds shoots, full auto. The gangster's chest bursts like a human pi?ata under a bullet barrage. Nobody can hear him scream over the gunfire; his buddies hit the shack with everything they've got. The walls disintegrate into splinters.

Tom covers his ears. He's afraid he'll go deaf.

The gunfire does not stop. Something in the shack gives. A support column. Tom glances upwards. He barely has time to shield himself as the roof comes crashing down onto their heads.

It's not as bad as he thought it'd be. He can still move.

Tom crawls under the debris towards the door, towards the dead gangster's Magnum. He looks behind him. Captain Reynolds is staying low, pushing planks off the Private's chest. She cringes and pulls a pin out of a cylindric grenade. It hisses, spitting streams of green smoke every which way.

Suddenly, Tom's inside a cloud so thick he can't see past his elbows.

He crawls on, eyes burning, tears pouring down his cheeks, searching the floor for a weapon, anything to help defend himself, until his fingers finally meet the much-welcome texture of the Magnum's grip. He grabs the heavy revolver and stands up. The smoke is everywhere. He wouldn't know where to shoot if he wanted to.

"For the Republic!" somebody shouts, running past him. He can hardly breathe. A single gunshot rings out, then another one. The [censored] did I get myself into. He rushes out of the smoke; some guy in a leather jacket has the Captain pinned to the ground. They grunt, rolling in the dust, wrestling for her rifle. Tom waits until the gangster's back on top, grabs him by the hair and sticks the Magnum in the man's temple. I've done this before.

He pulls the trigger.

#

When the smoke clears, they line the four corpses on the ground. Private Brooks gets busy emptying the pockets of the dead. Tom joins him. He finds more bullets for his new Magnum on Captain Reynolds' first victim – or what's left of him, anyway. Only dead for ten minutes and he already stinks like bad meat. No wonder the Rangers wrap their faces in rags, he thinks, frisking the man's bloodied suit. Something is in the inside pocket. Can it be? Two capsules of Jet. If love is harsh, then fate is wonderful, he thinks, smiling as he hides the Jet in his satchel.

"Hey, look what I found," Captain Reynolds says. Tom turns around. She's standing in the remains of the roofless shack, holding up a folded chessboard. She rattles the pieces inside, then points the board at the corpses. "So, these must be the bad, bad men you've warned us about, huh?"

"Yes. Some of them. Look, can you please tell me, for how long was I out?"

"About twenty four hours. Must've hit your head pretty hard in that explosion. You're a damn lucky son of a [censored], you know that? Was barely a scratch on you when Sarge pulled you out."

Tom looks at Seargant Ryan. A lit cigarette is pressed between his motionless lips. "Thanks, Sarge."

The Seargant nods.

"So, Tom Walema," says Reynolds, "How about a game of chess?"

What the [censored] is wrong with this people. Tom hadn't rolled with the violent types in years. His usual company were New Reno junkies, pot-heads, toothless alcoholics and other vermin of the streets. But that was before Vinnie Mordino. Before everything turned to [censored].

"Did you just say what I think you said?"

"Yes, I said what you thought I said. I mean, don't get me wrong, I did appreciate the assist back there, but I know how to take care of myself. Thing is, you seem like a decent kind of guy, and these dudes look like they really have a bone to pick with you. So I'm giving you a chance. Win this game, and you don't have to come to New Reno with us. Lose, and you're doing exactly what we tell you. I think that's fair enough. How does that sound?"

"Yeah," says the Sarge, "She can be weird like that. Take it or leave it, Tommy."

"Eh, what happens if I, em, leave it?"

"You come to New Reno with us."

"Why do you want me with you anyway? I'm just some random guy you pulled out of a burning car! If you would've left me to burn, I'd be just as dead as I'll be if I go to New Reno, and I'm not sure which one's worse! Can't you find a different random guy, for [censored]'s sake?"

"Maybe we can. But we've got you," says the Captain, "So, do we have a deal?"

"What the hell would you want me to do in Reno anyway?"

"You'll know when you have to know. Do we have a deal?"

"Doesn't seem like I have much of a choice. [censored]. Fine. Let's play chess."

The Captain sets the board down on a patch of colorless grass by the destroyed shack. She sits down, cross-legged, and starts to arrange the pieces. What the hell,Tom thinks, pulling a Jet capsule out of his satchel.

"Think it'll help?" the Captain asks.

Once again, Tom glances at the Mordino men. The Rangers had piled their newly acquired automatics into a heap.

"Hey, this one's shiny!"

"But look at the caliber on this one. It'll punch a hole through a deathclaw, look at this thing!"

Tom raises the Jet capsule to his lips and presses the release. Concentrated gas numbs his mouth. The hit is strong; his senses sharpen, the world gains focus. Tom knows this brand. It's MYRON LITE, named so after the whiz kid who allegedly inveted Jet in the first place. That dumb bastard. He feels his intellect go into overdrive, filling his head with thoughts too important to not think about. Everything in the world is branded, accounted for, belongs to somebody. All I ever wanted was to be a free man. Look where that got me.

"It might," he says, sitting down opposite to her. His heart pumps chemical courage through his veins.

She holds out her closed fists.

"Choose one."

Tom picks the fist on his left hand side. Reynolds opens her palm and places the white pawn next to its comrades on Tom's side of the board. He moves E2 to E4. A classic move if there ever was one.

The Captain moves. Tom responds. Everything around him is so vivid, so clear. He unholsters his Magnum and puts it by the chessboard. The Captain gives him a questioning look but says nothing. He examines the Mordino crest engraved on the exquisite grip: a stylized 'M' with two stars on its shoulders, like the stripes on a soldier. He shifts his attention back to the red star on his opponent's chestplate and smiles. Everything is branded. Belongs to somebody.

A real Ranger, huh. Maybe the gangster was right. Maybe the redhead is just some dumb [censored] who doesn't know what's good for her. After all, how could she know that nobody played chess with him in New Reno anymore? His first Master had taught him too well. "The lessons of the whip are the ones you don't forget," his saying went. It's Tom's move.

"So, if you're not Rangers, who are you, really?"

The Captain looks up for a moment before getting back to the board.

"What makes you think we're not Rangers? You said you've never even heard of the N.C.R. before, what the [censored] can you possibly know?"

The game is on. Tom moves quickly, but the Captain is not far behind. She is no amateur.

"Well, maybe I don't know much about this Republic of yours, but I've seen some military types in my life. Seen some raiders, traders, killers, rapists, you name them, I've seen them. Come to New Reno and you'll see them too."

"What's your point?"

"My point is that there's three of you. You saved my ass and then hauled up in this little shack for a day and night without ever bothering to get one of your boys to stand watch. You can shoot, that's a given, but military? Please."

"[censored] it, Ryan," says Brooks, "I told you, didn't I? Didn't I tell you to go out there and look for people coming this morning? [censored]'s sake, man. See? It's not just me saying. Un-pro-fessional, that's who you are."

"Sergeant" Ryan doesn't grace his buddy with a response. Instead, he leaves the gun pile and goes on to strip the corpses of their clothes.

Reynolds looks up at Tom again. So pretty in the afternoon sun. Tom figures if she'd wanted him dead, he'd be dead already. Besides, his Magnum is within hand's reach. He lets her take a bishop.

"Okay," she says, "A smart one, huh. Okay, maybe we're not exactly Rangers. What's it to you? Your situation don't change one bit one way or the other."

"Think I'd feel safer if you were real Rangers, ma'am."

She locks her eyes with his. "[censored] the Rangers," she says, "[censored] the Brotherhood and [censored] the Encalve and [censored] all the other [censored]ers trying to play army soldiers for the best of mankind."

"Yeah," says Brooks, "[censored] them."

Even the "Sergeant" chips in. "[censored] them all."

"Look around you, Tom. What do you see? Garden of [censored] Eden? We live in a nuclear [censored] wasteland. Dog eat dog. Everyone's out for themselves."

"Three anarchists wearing scary uniforms, pretending to be somebody they're not, walk into a New Reno bar. You want to finish the joke for me?"

"Damn, Tommy, you know a lot of words. Too bad you're dumb as [censored]."

The Jet's still in his bloodstream. He feels invincible. He is invinicible. Who the [censored] are you to tell me what to do. He took orders before. He took them, and he carried them out with precision, elegance and style befit to a man posessed.

Many of Mordino's foes fell by his hand. Bullets. Knives. Explosives. Anything that got the job done. He had paid for his freedom in cisterns of blood. And now, years later, here he is, stuck in a desert with three [censored] morons, owing Vinnie Mordino a Highwayman, a trunk full of Jet, and four of his men. Life is a [censored], and then you die. Tom goes for the Magnum.

His reflexes are elevated to a superhuman high; he barely registers himself move. Reynolds blinks and the gun's already in Tom's hand, cocked, the business end staring her in the forehead. Brooks and Ryan grab their rifles a fraction of a moment too late and take Tom in their sights.

"Drop the gun!" Ryan shouts, "Drop the gun or I swear to God I'm gonna shoot you in the head!"

"You shoot me, I shoot her. How about you put your guns down, huh, how does that sound?"

"You're even dumber than I thought," says Reynolds.

"Shut the [censored] up. Now answer me this. Who the [censored] are you, what the [censored] do you want in New Reno, and, more importantly, what the [censored] do you want with me?"

"Look, kid, you've had your fun, now put that weapon down before my boys fill you up with lead. You're not much use to me dead."

Rage explodes through Tom's body like a thermonuclear bomb. All rational thought dissolves in the acid of hate. [censored] you, [censored] you, [censored] you. He jumps up, grabs her by the hair and presses the gun under her nose, hard.

"Do I look like I give a [censored]?!" he screams, spit flying out of his mouth. He senses her fear like a rabid wolf, hungry for a fight. Any fight.

"Okay, okay, [censored], man, let go, let me go. Ryan, Brooks, drop your guns. He's [censored] crazy. Drop them."

"You sure, boss?"

"I said, DROP THE [censored] GUNS!"

Tom watches them obey with the corner of his eye. He pulls the Magnum away from Reynold's face and sits back down, the gun trained on her as he moves.

"Start with the who the [censored] you are part, please," he says, "It's your move, by the way."

The game resumes. Reynold avoids eye contact, pretends to concentrate on the game. Tom moves his pieces with his left hand, dreading the feeling of his weapon hand slowly going numb. The Jet is wearing off.

"Okay, you win, cowboy. You City types would call us Raiders, I guess, but we're no [censored] Raiders. We're robbers. Big difference, Raiders and robbers, you know. We don't raid [censored]. We make a plan, then we rob, then we're rich for a season. Pretty good life if you ask me."

"So what'd you want in New Reno?"

"Casinos."

"You want to rob New Reno casinos? Are you [censored] out of your mind?"

"Well, not all of them, no. Just one would do nicely. It's not like they need the money, you know. Also, we're not from around here and we sure as [censored] ain't planning to stay. That's why we got lucky to catch you on the way out of town. We needed somebody who knows the lay of the land."

"Catch me? Wait a minute, did you blow up my Highwayman?"

"No, no, it wasn't us. I swear. I haven't seen a working car for years, last thing I'd want to do is blow it up. We're no [censored] Raiders, I told you."

He's not sure why, but he believes her. Maybe it's the pretty face, he thinks. A landmine, why the [censored] did there have to be a landmine there. The question's rhetoric. The answers are [censored] knows and who the [censored] cares. Mine or no mine, he's now on the Mordino Hit List, and they will track him down to the end of the world until his debt is paid in full. Having been the debt collector one time too many, he knows this for a fact. Unless... Unless there is a different way.

"It's your move," he says.

The redhead looks at him in surprise.

"Are you sure?"

"Your move."

"Check... Checkmate."

Tom holsters his revolver.

"Well then, I guess it looks like I'm going to New Reno with you after all."

"Just like that?"

He looks at the frozen endgame on the chessboard. Masterfully done,Tom, he thinks, Bravo.

"Yeah, just like that. Way I figure it, these Mordino boys won't back off until myself and their Jet are accounted for, so bringing the fight to them's not as crazy as it sounds. Except that you can't simply rob them. You'll have to wipe them out."

"Wipe them out? Who do you think we are, the Travelling Death Squad?" asks Ryan, finally managing to pull the bullet-riddled suit off the last gangster, "We don't do wet work."

"You're planning to rob a New Reno mafia outfit. Mordino's casino is the richest in town. Think they'll just let you walk? No, man, they'll find you, drag you to Golgotha and nail your balls to a cross. We have to kill them all. There's no other way."

Uncomfortable silence follows. Reynolds brushes her hand through her hair and leans forward, using the assault rifle for support. "We can do that. So, I take it you know these Mordino boys?"

"Used to run with them. I mean, even before this whole business with the Jet. I know them. They know me. I get you inside and then it's your time to shine."

"How can we know we can trust you?"

"Really? Wasn't your plan all along to let me get you on the inside? You don't have to trust me. You just have to do what I tell you."

"That wasn't the deal. Here's what we're going to do. You help Brooks and Ryan dress the corpses in our N.C.R. garb. We change into their [censored], then burn the bodies with the shack. Travel through the badlands, stay off the roads. We'll figure out the rest when we're in New Reno.

"Some plan."

"Thanks," she says, standing up. "And now, for a game well played, a little something from the winner." Tom is mesmerized, again. She's one of those girls who can smile with her eyes only. He knows that she knows he let her win that game.

She winks and unfastens her armor straps. The heavy plates fall to the ground. Her men stand still, savouring her moves like they're a glass of pre-war whiskey. Her shirt comes off next. Crossed brahmin leather straps push her briasts against tanned skin. Tom gulps. Reynolds waits for Ryan to pass her the bloodstained leather jacket. She puts it on. The show is over.

Tom can somewhat understand the two bastards following her to their certain doom. Combat boots, leather straps across her belly, the piercing in her navel, she looks her weight in caps. [censored] hell, he thinks, trying to subdue the involuntary movement in his pants.

He is the last man standing in the Dress-up-Like-a-Ganster game. There's only one article left: the suit of the man Reynolds reduced to a meat salad when the shooting first started.

"I'm not wearing this."

"Like hell you're not," Brooks says.

Tom touches the fabric, sticky with blood and guts. "I'm not wearing this. I'll look like a pet ghoul when we get to Reno, no [censored] way." Instead, he takes one of the discarded N.C.R. armors. It's not easy to put it on without help, but he manages. He wraps the rag over his face and pulls the helmet over his eyes.

"Let him wear whatever the [censored] he wants," says Reynolds, "One Ranger's not three, we should still be good. Ryan, are you done or what?"

"Almost," he says, dragging the fourth corpse to the shack's dry planks. He pulls out a flamer tank out of his backpack and sticks it under the dead man's armpit.

They put a hundred feet between themselves and the shack before Reynolds gets on one knee, aims for the tank and squeezes off a shot. She hits the corpse. Brooks takes aim, shoots, misses.

"Oh, for [censored]'s sake," says Ryan, raising his rifle.

The robbers switch to automatic fire. Cartridges fly. A shot connects and the gas tank explodes like an infernal fireball, sending gibs blazing across Nevada skies.

They turn and head off the road, a black pillar of smoke rising behind them. This is gonna be one long [censored] walk.

#

They reach the city by midnight. Electric lights flicker along the busy sidewalks; the neon sign over the main road reads, "Welcome to New Reno: The Biggest Little City in the World." Half-naked teenagers sit on the curbs, pupils dilated, lost forever in the chemical dreams that are their lives.

Two guards drag an unruly customer out of the Cat's Paw bordel and plummet him with crowbars until he stops making noise. Home, sweet home. Tom lowers his face wrap and takes a hit of Jet. The world slides back into focus.

He nods towards the building in the northern end of the street. Its lights glow brighter than the rest; it is the Desperado, the casino with the worst reputation across the known remnants of the U.S.A. "You know, the Followers of the Apocalypse even invented a mantra for anyone stupid enough to step inside," he says. "It goes, '[censored] me gently.'"

Reynolds smirks.

"So, what's your plan then?"

"We go in, pretend we're gambling. Hell, we don't even need to pretend, we waste all the chips we've got. We'll make up for it when we take the vault."

"The vault, huh? What makes you think they have a vault?"

"They're a mafia casino, Tom. They have a vault."

"Okay, let's say that they do have a vault. They don't allow weapons inside. What are you going to do with the guards? Show them your [censored]?"

Tom can tell the redhead doesn't like that one bit.

"Is this the part you tell me you have a better idea?"

"I have an idea. What you just said is like, the [censored] antithesis of an idea. Right. Yeah. I have an idea. You said you've got caps. How much you've got?"

"Why? Tell me what's your plan first, don't make this sound so fishy."

"Fishy my ass. Five hundred caps? A thousand?"

"Maybe..."

"Well, if you've got a thousand, we can blow their vault open, and all of them with it. You follow? Look, I know these people. I'll get us inside. Stall for time. Two of you will carry dynamite, one will head for the vault, the other two will hang around the gaming hall. I'll tell you where the vault is, but you'll need a distraction. Kill some random dude, I don't know. Get the customers to clear out. That's when the shooting might start, but, if we do it right, we'll retreat towards the vault and blow Desperado the [censored] up. Then we blow up the vault door. How does that sound?"

"Sounds [censored] crazy," says Ryan.

"Also, we don't have any dynamite," adds Brooks.

"Are you [censored] kidding me, guys? You're considering what he just said a plan?"

"Tell me a better one, Reynolds."

She makes a duck face with her lips. "Fine, fine, Mister Chess Grandmaster, you win again. It's a plan. But Brooks is right. We don't have any dynamite."

"Come on," Tom says, "Let's go see a man about a dog. Follow me."

He dives into an alleway.

They stop at a wooden house that contrasts its red brick neighbors like a rusty knife in a katana display. The inscription by the door reads, "One Eyed Joe's Trading Outpost FSMO".

"What does FSM stand for?" she asks.

"For Serious [censored]s Only."

He opens the door. Meatdog, Joe's mixed breed pet with a temper, greets them with a contemptuous bark.

"So, the old [censored]'s still alive, huh?" he asks.

One Eyed Joe leans forward behind the safety glass.

"Tommy? Tommy, can it be? You [censored] bastard!" He flashes his gold teeth in a smile. "Who are you friends?"

"They're friends."

"Well, never mind that, let's get straight to business, shall we? What do you want, Tommy? I heard you got in some [censored] with Vinnie again. The [censored] man, didn't you quit like years ago?"

"Old habits die hard. Straight to business, you said."

"Yeah, yeah, but, you know, business is business. Can't be seen selling you [censored] if you fell out of favor, you know? Nothing personal."

"Joe," Tom says, slowly, "If you're not going to sell me anything, I'll kill the mutt – frankly, I'll be doing the [censored] a service – and then, I'll kill you. And if you think that glass cage is going to stop me, you know better than that. Now think about it. You're a businessman. That is not a good deal for either of us."

Joe touches his eye patch, then gives his nose ring a squeeze.What's there to think about. Tom puts his hand on the revolver and stares the dog in the eyes. Meatdog starts to growl.

"Goddamit, Tommy, what do you want?"

"Jet." He can almost feel Reynolds' uncomfort behind him. "Lots and lots of Jet. And some dynamite."

"How much dynamite?"

"How much do you have?"

It takes some haggling, but Tom gets the price down to a thousand three hundred caps and a jammed Tommy gun (how ironic!) for two bundles of dynamite, twenty capsules of Jet, and a backpack that looks like some animal lived in. The way it smells, it probably died in it too.

"These timers," he says, pointing at the clocks rigged to the dynamite, "You sure they work fine?"

"Swear on my life."

"Your life's [censored] worthless, Joe. Swear on Meatdog's."

"Leave Meatdog out of this."

"Swear it, Joe."

"Man, you want the dynamite or not?"

"We take it. All the best, Joe."

"Yeah, whatever. Try not to die."

#

They wait until Wild Tornado, the Tribal-turned-boxing-star, starts his bouncer hours at the Desperado. The man has the intellegince of an amoeba, but he values friendship, honor, and other [censored] concepts for which Tom never had much patience for, which makes him a valuable asset. "Hey, Tornado," he says as they push their weapons through the deposit slot by the entrance. "They're with me."

"Boss want to see you. Come in fast."

Tom gives Brooks a sign, Brooks opens up the bag. They did a good job. It looks packed to the brim with Jet. "That's what I'm here for."

Tornado stares at him with brahmin eyes. "Boss want to see you. Come in fast."

Desperado's stuffed tonight. It's hot, no air, the drunken clients each scream louder than the last. A blonde woman in metal armor's playing the knife game, poking holes in the poker table. Another girl, a scar on her cheek, is dancing with two Colts, akimbo style. She's wearing nothing but a bullet belt. Hello, old friend. The girl spots Tom in the crowd and points the guns at him. He knows they're loaded. They always are.

"Well, if it isn't Tommy Walema," she says, "The freed slave with a consciousness! Vinnie! Come on down Vinne, Tommy's here to see you!"

"No need for that, really, I can show myself up."

"You're not showing [censored]. Now shut up and stand still. Vinnie!"

The woman in the metal armor sticks her switchblade into the table and turns to face them, hand on the switchblade's grip. Nothing is going according to plan.

Vincent Mordino walks down the stairs with the dignity of the man who owns New Reno. He's wearing his famed striped suit, of course. Rumor has it that it cost him three thousand caps and a six slave, but only fools believe in rumors. Five years ago, Tom was in the room when Vinnie forced a made man foolish enough to cross him take it off. When he did take it off, Vinnie shot him and his three hokers point blank. He had made his message clear that day; he was not a man to be [censored] with.

"Mister Walema," he says, "And friends. I can't believe my luck. How nice of you to drop by. Grab him."

The two women take him in their grip. They're strong. No point to worry, Tom thinks, wincing as their fingers tighten around his arms,The shooting hasn't started yet. Half a dozen men unholster their weapons, surrounding Reynolds and her men in a circle of You're So [censored]. The smarter gambling addicts start to make for the exit.

"Mister Tornado, would you be so kind?"

The bouncer walks across the hall to join them. "Yes, Don Mordino?"

"Can you hit him for me please?"

"Yes, Don Mordino."

Tom tries to prepare for what's coming, but he's no match for Wild Tornado's speed. The punch strikes him in the stomach. Air escapes his lungs like from a popped baloon. He tries to double over, but the women hold him tight. He can't breathe. He can't talk. There is only pain.

"Now, Mister Walema, where is my Jet?"

He gulps for air. Opens his mouth. No words come out.

"Well? I've asked you a question. Mister Tornado, would you be so kind?"

"Yes, Don Mordino?"

"Hit him again, you dumb [censored]!"

"Yes, Don Mordino."

The second punch hits him in the jaw. Vinnie's domesticated [censored]es let go of him right when the hit connects. He's plants his face into the concrete floor. Tom groans, spitting out blood and teeth. He's surprised he still lives. Tornado must've pulled the punch back. Oxygen slowly starts to find its way back to his lungs.

"Let me repeat the question, Mister Walema. Where is my Jet?"

"I've... I've got it, Don Mordino, I've got everything." Nothing is going according to plan.

"Everything? What about my Highwayman? Huh? Where is my [censored] Highwayman? Burnt to [censored] on the side of the road, that's where! And Charlie, Jesus, Roland, and, and What-the-[censored]'s-His-Name, where are they? Burnt to [censored], on the side of the road! Do you begin to see a pattern here, Tom? Do you?"

"I... I can explain..."

"You've been good, Tom. You've been one of the best. And now look at you. A piece of [censored], wriggling on my floor like an overdozed worm! [censored], Tom, what have you done to yourself? Do you think I set you free so that you could become some lowlife junkie? No, Tom, I freed you because you were the best. You proved yourself. And what did you do? You left the Family. Became a junkie. When I told you I can help, you were kissing my hand taking the job. Kissing my [censored] hand! A [censored] courier job, Tom, and you couldn't handle it? And now you're telling me that you can explain?"

It all makes sense now. Even through the pain, it all makes sense. The landmine was no coincidence. Vinnie Mordino just wanted him dead.

"I don't think an explanation would suffice." Vinnie pulls out his revolver and points it at Tom's head. A Magnum.

"Do you," Tom says, each word an agony, "Do you feel yourself lucky, punk?"

"NOBODY MOVE OR I BLOW THIS PLACE TO [censored]," Reynolds shouts behind him, pulling open the sides of her jacket. The guards stare at the leather straps across her briasts, then notice the dynamite sticks sewed to the jacket. "Drop your weapons, all of you. This is a hold up!"

Vincent Mordino raises his Magnum and fires. The bullet goes enters through the redhead's forehead and exits from the back of her head. Brain matter sprays across the people behind her. Her body hits the ground with a thump. Everybody starts screaming at the same time. Her boys blink once, twice, then leap on the gangsters.

Brooks sticks his index finger in a man's eye, takes a bullet to the gut, rips into another man's throat with his teeth. Ryan grabs somebody's gun hand, using them as a shield, and guns down Tom's old friend with the Colts.

Vinnie's aiming at him now. He decides to meet his fate eyes wide open.

Wild Tornado hits Vinnie in the face. Tom can hear the bones snap in the Don's neck as his head twists a way that heads don't twist. Chaos and panic reign supreme.

Tornado helps him up.

"We go," Tom says, "Now. Fast. Boom. Nine."

The boxer understands. He puts his arm under Tom's shoulder, starts dragging him towards the exit. Ryan is still alive. He's discarded his human human shield and took cover behind a roulette table.

"Hey, what the [censored], wait for me!" he shouts.

There is no time. "Eight," Tom counts as Wild Tornado pushes customers and gangsters aside on their way out, "Seven. Six. Five. Four." They're at the exit. He starts running. "Three, two." They're on Virgin Street, running. Tornado's not letting go, he's keeping Tom's pace. Good.

The shockwave throws them into the air. He's blind, he's deaf, he's covered in broken glass. But alive. Again, alive.

Tom rolls over onto his back. The effort takes the last wind out of him, but it's worth it. Virgin Street looks like World War Four: people lie torn in halves, body parts are scattered across the asphalt, dying men scream and beg their gods for a bullet's mercy.

He tries to remember the gods of his father. The gods of his tribe, the old gods. His childhood memories are a blur, but he remembers the words his father told him on the day he completed the Rite of Passage as if it was yesterday. "People would tell you that everything in the world is accounted for," his father had said, "Belongs to somebody. That is a lie. Today, my son, you became a man. You answer to yourself and to yourself alone." Slavers burnt down their village and took him and his sisters a month later. Every day since, Tom thought his dead father a lier. Except tonight. Tonight, everything changed. Tonight, he brought World War Four to the streets of New Reno. The old gods would be proud. He watches the flaming "M" of the Mordino crest detach itself from the casino's damaged wall, breaking apart against the pavement.

"Checkmate, [censored]s," he whispers.

Somebody in metal boots walks up to him from behind. He raises his eyes. It's the knife game blonde, her switchblade folded and tucked away behind her belt. Don't be fooled, he thinks, She's smarter than she looks.

"So, you're Tommy Walema."

"Tom Walema, at your service."

"Heard a lot about you."

He notices Tornado is too quiet. A severed crowbar is sticking out of his shoulder. Tom presses his knee into the small of Tornado's back and pulls.

"Good or bad?"

The steel slides out. Tornado doesn't move.

The woman throws him a stimpack syringe. Tom briefly considers using it on himself (its regenerative chems always give him a likeable buzz), then sticks the needle into Tornado's shoulder. The wound closes up before his eyes.

"Heard you're the best." She helps him up.

"Damn right. Mess with the best," he says, cringing. His jaw hurts like a shotgun surgery. "Die like the rest." He pulls out a Jet capsule from his satchel and takes a hit. The pain is no more. Back to business as usual. "You know, I think I'll write a book about this [censored] one day."

"What are you gonna call it?"

"Well... Hmm... 'Escape from New Reno' sounds about right. Maybe the Golden Globe will even make a porm flick out of it. That'd be something, wouldn't it?"

"It would be."

"Thanks for stim, lady. I got to go. I got to get the [censored] out of Reno, or it's gonna be the shortest book that never was."

"Hey, hold on," she says, taking out a bundle of rags from her bag. She unwraps them. It's Vinnie's Magnum .357.

"A parting gift. In case we meet again."

"Thanks." He takes the revolver. "Maybe we will. You know what I wish I had right now?"

"What?"

"A [censored] Highwayman."

-- THE END --