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Jessie-ica Diaz · (02-14-2014)

A bloody arm, shards of glass still embedded in a few of the gashes that ran deeper than just slicing the epidermis. A heart racing at a pace that would put Usain Bolt to shame. Lastly, pupils dilated to a point that would make a habitual methamphetamine user do a double take. That was the physical state I was in upon entering the Goodsprings Saloon.

As could be expected, I found myself on the receiving end of many a concerned glance from the patrons of the bar; the reasons for which likely differ from person to person. It wasn't like they were out of earshot of the gunshots. One of the first people I saw upon stepping into the building was a woman dressed from neck to toe in a predominately brown getup. To me, it looked like a one piece suit, though the sheer impracticality of the design shied me away from that train of thought. She was pacing, that girl was. The wooden butt of her dirt speckled rifle stuck out from behind her right shoulder, her eyes darted up from the ground to me as soon as she heard the door close behind me. Behind a scowl and gritted teeth, she stared me down, seemingly oblivious to the gaping wounds on my arm.

"Who the hell are you?" she stated plainly, as if this was a common way of greeting people in her world.

"J-Jessie," I stammered out, dreading that I had stepped out of the frying pan and into the raging inferno of rash, hostile decisions made by people who somehow had access to firearms.

"That don't tell me nothin'!"

"For Pete's sake, Sunny!" exclaimed a woman from behind the bar counter on the other end of the room. The woman in front of me, Sunny I guessed was her name (though it seemed incredibly, incredibly ironic to me, given her initial demeanor), took a deep breath, and looked down at my mangled arm. She gasped, bringing her hand up to her mouth in a display of shock.

"Oh my God, are you okay?" she asked. I think if I had opened my mouth at that point, I would've said something that I would definitely regret, so I'm glad I managed to keep my mouth shut long enough for her to deduce the answer herself. Hesitantly, she made her way across the empty space that existed between where we both stood to get a closer look at the wound that really didn't require her to get as close as she did. It was pretty apparent. "That bastard Cobb did that to you, didn't he?"

That was the first time I heard the name - Cobb. If it was the last, I wouldn't have complained.

"Who?" I asked, letting my lack of familiarity with the place be known loud and clear.

"Joe Cobb, leader of those damn Powder Gangers!" shouted the woman behind the counter as her eyes gently drifted up from the wooden bar top that she was wiping down with a rag that looked to be more hole than cloth. "They busted out of that ol' Correctional Facility the NCR had set up a while back. Buncha no good bastards, that whole lot of 'em."

"You mean the guys wearing prison uniforms?"

"Yeah, them people," interjected Sunny, placing a hand on my shoulder. Caught off guard, I jumped as it happened, pulling my entire body away from her. She shrugged it off like nothing happened and backed up a few feet. "Why? You seen 'em or somethin'? Oh, I knew we shouldn't 'a let that Ringo fella hide out here!"

"Where else could he go?"

"Anywhere but here! Now we got ourselves in a fight that ain't ours, Trudy!"

"Sorry to interrupt this argument, but who's Ringo?"

"Some damn trader who made a break from a Powder Ganger shakedown and showed up here one day with an entire army of them convict motherfuckers on his tail. He's been hiding up at that ol' deserted gas station for a couple days now. I ain't sure how much longer he can stay in there, and they sure as shit ain't goin' nowhere."

"You won't have to worry about that anymore," I started with a shaky voice, recalling the first corpse I saw on this long, bloody road (and believe me, it only gets worse from here on out). "Ringo you said his name was? He's dead. One of those 'Powder Gangers' shot him down."

Sunny stared at me blankly for a moment, before letting out an angry groan. "Guess I shoulda figured that when I heard the shots."

"If it's any consolation, he managed to take down one of the thugs before he bit the bullet." Literally.

"Good fer him. Didn't do him too much good though, did it?"

"I guess not." At this point, my mind was clouded with conflicting thoughts and emotions. Repulsion, guilt and disgust at the display I was unlucky enough to witness moments prior, and a sense of relief that I'm to some extent away from it all. Sure, there was a severely pissed off thug who might happen to be the leader of this gang of miscreants waiting outside to make me into the next Ringo, but it seemed as long as I was in here, he couldn't get me. That thought alone put my mind at rest, with the exception of one memory of the incident that I wasn't sure whether or not to reveal.

That of course being the fact that whoever it was that was waiting outside for me - be it Joe Cobb or John Doe, killed one of his own in cold blood.

"You okay?" Sunny asked, snapping me out of that lapse. "You look like ya just saw a ghost."

"Yeah, I'm fine, all things considered." I said as I looked down at my still bleeding arm, and pulled on of the shards that stubbornly remained stuck in me out. After removing it, I tossed it on the floor and scraped the sole of my shoe over it, further shattering the fragment.

"You oughtta get that checked out by Doc Mitchell, he might be busy with that- oh my, you really don't have the best luck in the world, do ya?"

"Huh?"

"You're the girl Doc Mitchell was tryin' to rescue, ain't ya?"

"I would assume so."

"We know you got the girl in there. Give the bitch to us and we'll leave you all alone. If ya don't, shit's gonna get real ugly, real fast." screamed a familiar voice from behind the door I ran in through.

"Go to hell, Cobb!" She reached into the holster that accompanied her outfit and pulled out a pistol that appeared to be identical to the one I saw Ringo carrying and placed it into my open palm. Unsure of how to react, I instinctively took it and aimed the barrel toward the ground. "You know how to shoot?"

"Can't say I'm too well acquainted with the art."

"You'll learn. It ain't too hard."

"Great," I whispered. The man, Cobb, was pounding on the door and screaming nonsense to us on the inside before finally he said something that wasn't gibberish.

"Fuck this, someone get some dynamite on this door! We're comin' in you sons a bitches! Don't say we didn't warn ya!"

"You've gotta be..." Sunny muttered under her breath as she motioned for me to step away from the door, in fear that they were planning on going through with their threat. The pistol still felt heavy in my hand, my fingers awkwardly wrapped around the grip in a way that bent my pinky finger back against my shaking palm. Without a word, I kept on walking away from the door, and from what was now behind me, I heard Sunny shout:

"Aright folks, look alive!"

And this is the part where I tell you that I ran away.

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