Slashes of rain sliced down’s Sam’s exposed face, stinging in its radiated coldness. For a section of the country like the Irradiated West to have such a long burning section, it was amazing how much cold rain could pour from the dark and solemn clouds above. Yet, despite the weather and the mud on the ground, Sam was for the first time in a long time… happy?
Such a rare and unusual sensation, happiness. It wasn’t that he was still anxious over things and full of self-doubts. Those were ever present, hanging onto him like the dead weight it was. The voices were there too, cat-calling and teasing when seen in the best light and threatening and louder than the thunder around him at its worst. But, there was a spring in his step. He glanced around camp at his new friends and nodded slowly to himself.
“Yeah, things are still shitty but bearable.” Funny, how bearable could turn the tide of emotions and let someone experience happiness.
Sam walked around camp, checking on folks and grabbing the odd thing or two of his that was laying around. For a printer you would think he would be more organized. “There’s something ya’ll can bitch about,” he mumbled to the voices in his head. The voices obliged and tore into him with a force he wasn’t quite expecting. He stumbled for a minute, closed his eyes and balanced himself. Taking a deep breath, he forced a smile onto his face. “I got this.”
Picking up his practice sword, from the weapons rack he swung it a few times, getting the feel for it. He still had to learn to utilize it better but when he got back into Bravo with Jesse, he figured he would be ready to pass the basics at least. “Then, all I have to do is get rich overnight to afford the materials for a real sword and pay someone to craft it for me.” Undoubtedly, he knew that any of the Tinker’s in the caravan would do it for him, but he was gun shy about asking so much. It just wasn’t the sword. He had second non-working revolver that had to be fixed and was only missing a bit of scrap to have the pieces he needed for a Slug Thrower.
Chuckling to himself, he imagined all his newly acquired if not functioning gear and he walking around Bravo like some badass. Then quickly lost his smile.
“What, you think that because you have a weapon you won’t die again?,” the voices taunted.
“HA! You’re a laugh, what are you going to do? You are no warrior. Go hide.”
The voice of terror though rose up behind him, from the very ground and he shivered. “She’s going to get you.”
“Who?” Sam demanded.
“Yes?” a response shouted back.
“Nevermind Who, not you.”
Along with the statement a small vision encircled around him like mist. It was odd vision, like from an old timey children’s book. Hats, spinners, rabbits, hearts all swirling around him; his own personal tornado. He didn’t like what he was seeing, nor could put his finger on it. He got back to his pack and gripped the handle of the lantern he found in the ruins a few days back. Concentrating on it. “Whatever evil comes this way, I will stand against it”, he murmured. He wasn’t sure about the tenants or the prayers or rituals yet for the Sainthood but he knew the basic guiding principle and it lent him strength as he lit the lantern’s candle.
For a moment he thought back on his old foster dad, Remnant Remington. He never put it together before now, but the old man seemed to have a penchant for lanterns and symbols and he was good enough to take in a lost and rejected youth. Was Remnant Remington a member of the Sainthood of Ashes and he was just now putting this together? If, so did perhaps some of Remington’s goodness and strength of character finally rub off on himself?
“I’m ready for Bravo and whatever it is you are going to throw at me,” he said as he shouldered his pack and lifted the lantern ahead of him, like a guide leading him into the darkness.
“We’re all mad here,” the voice whispered. Behind him, unseen in the darkness a pair of sickly yellowish eyes blinked…
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