Fandom Long Hard Road Out Of Hell

[kevintheradioguy]

I wanna live, I wanna love,
But it's a long hard road, out of hell.
You never said forever
Could ever hurt like this!
(Long Hard Road Out Of Hell)​

​

The bullets rattled once more. An elderly woman, the proprietor of the diner under a terribly rotten, bleached and barely readable sign "Mustang Sally's" screamed, falling on the floor. Blood gushed, the woman howled, rolling in the floor, the dark-haired teenager in blue overalls darted to her - probably his mother - as she wailed, sticking his fingers between her hands to pull out a long piece of glass sticking from her face. And then - another scream, and another RATATAT! of lead over the diner's walls, now hitting old dirty cups, sending cutlery flying.

There were just a handful farmers here, owning no more than old, rusted guns and a few hoes they dragged with them by accident. The owner and her two sons. And just two well-armed drifters, one of which, all pale and sweaty, was not in the best shape. He rocked back and forth behind a turned over table, reeking of cheap alcohol, obviously hungover. "Ohgodohgodohgod..." he kept whispering, almost tearing his hair out at every sound from the outside.

"Just give us what we want..." A rough male voice was heard from the road. "...and nobody will get hurt!" This was an obvious lie, as right after that an obvious chuckle was hared, and another click of another trigger, and another clunk of another bullet. They didn't even tell what they wanted, this gang. They just yelled something about getting the kicks. Maybe they wanted to rob the diner. Maybe they got their kicks from killing people. But for now they had the upper hand. There was a handful of farmers in the diner, barely armed, and there was almost a dozen of them: armed, angry, dangerous. Odds were in the favor of an attack than defence.

"Oh, I think I'm going to be sick..." The pale man, like a chameleon, switched his colour from white to greenish, endangering a woman hiding besides him of getting to be the victim of his putrid act. Things were not good.

 

[iiv]

Maya much preferred to talk her way out of a fight, but it didn't seem that would be an option this time. If the gang was out for her or someone else, she couldn't be sure. At that point, it didn't matter any longer. She shifted, pulling her pistol from the holster and checking her ammo. "If you're going to throw up, please don't do it on me." She shot a glance at the only other armed patron of the diner. The booze reeked off of him and Maya was unsure if the man was simply hungover or still drunk, but he was all the backup she had aside from the farmers. "I hope those guns aren't for show, because we have to shoot our way out of here. If they are, give them to someone who knows how to use 'em." It was harsh, but they had no other choice.

Before the stranger could react, Maya moved onto her hands and knees, crawling forwards towards the bar. Bullets whizzed about her head dangerously close, but she had somewhat of a plan. Grabbing a bottle of Sunset Sarsaparilla from the bar, she went to work. Prying it open took a few seconds, but she finally got it open. Maya took a quick swig of the drink before taking a dirty rag from the counter. The owner had been using it to clean it up, but with the shard of glass in her face, Maya was almost sure that she wouldn't be cleaning anything soon if she didn't get to a doctor fast. Wasn't her problem.

Maya dumped the alcohol onto the rag. letting it soak in. A little spilled on her dark colored jeans, ripped from her previous travels. After stuffing the makeshift wick down the neck of the bottle, Maya took one last look at the others in the bar. A mom and her son, some farmers, and a skinny man that looked like he was about to puke his guts out. Though quick with her tongue, the drifter was never one for inspiring speeches. She wasn't exactly rallying impressive troops anyway. The group was probably fucked no matter what they did, but after pissing off half of New Vegas, Maya wasn't going to die in some run down diner. "If you have a gun and can use one, do it. If you can't, make molotovs." It took a few moments of digging through her worn coat's pockets before she pulled out her lighter. It was small and silver, ornately carved and too nice for a normal drifter to have. Maya would never part with it. venturing closer to a window, still on her hands and knees, Maya took only a moment of hesitation before she lit the rag and left her cover, tossing the firebomb over the windowsill.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

The bottle drew a long, flaming arch through the window and into the skies. It almost stayed there, hanging for a second over the road, allowing for a quiet "What the actual..." echo find its way into the diner, before falling down. The sound was high, and almost cheery, as a half-full bottle was broken, fire gushing out on a wave, leaving the smouldering, bright spot on the old, cracked asphalt. A raspy female voice yelped, and there was a sound of falling. Someone was taking by surprise it seemed. It allowed for a few farmhands to pop pout of already broken windows, make a few shots into the attackers' general direction, and hide behind low walls again. There was a scream, and an unintelligible flow of curses. "Getting gutsy, huh!?" Was heard from the same man with the same gruff voice as before.

The pale man looked down at his belt. A very nice-looking pistol hang there. Polished, newly modified, green glow betraying it as a plasma gun. In these parts people would tear his arms off for that. And that not to mention a few rifles, and what looked like a butt of a shotgun popping out of his full backpack. He almost looked like a commando. He did not, however, behave like one. His eyes were more flabbergasted than scared, as if he had no idea what was going on... or if time was slowing for him, brain unable to perceive information, world smudging as he looked around. "No." He said in a low, hoarse voice. "No, it doesn't work like..."

"We're just here to get kicks!" Same man - probably the leader - yelled once more. "If you won't stop throwing things at us, we'll have to instead kill you all!"

"You'll kill us all anyway!" The teen hanging over his mum yelled back. "Might as well go out fighting!"

There was a burst of laughter from outside, and the voice mocked: "Who is this talking? Are your parents home?"

"No." The pale man rolled over, staining on all fours, and looking straight at Maya. His eyes cleared for a moment, but he didn't notice he was poking dangerously far from his hiding spot, too close to the line of fire. "Oil. Look for oil. It burns longer. You should use... uh..." He gestured as much as he could with one hand, if you want it to explode, use... use..." His face twisted, as if suddenly sharp pain struck through him, and he hit himself on the forehead. "Damn it! I can't remember!" He yelled, making a few heads snap towards him. He obviously knew something important about bombs or Molotov cocktails, but his state didn't allow him to dig deep into his memory.

"Charlie, get the big guns." - The voice of the gang leader was heard, and then a high-pitched chuckle, and someone's steps running off into the distance. Few moments later - and other steps were heard. The rest of the group was spreading, probably going around the diner, trying to surround them.

 

[iiv]

"If you told us what the fuck you wanted, maybe you'd have better luck!" She couldn't help herself, yelling out the window towards the gang. Whatever cheap thrills they were getting by shooting into a diner, Maya couldn't be sure. She thought that she remembered the names of the gangs she scammed, or at least the voices. Maybe for once, they weren't after her. Her dark eyes turned to the stranger, observing him for the first time. The plasma weapon caught her eye. That could be useful in the right hands and this guy didn't look like he would be much help at all. A pistol was her weapon of choice.

"What, gasoline?" Maya turned to the struggling stranger. "We don't exactly have that around. Alcohol burns and you'd be surprised how efficient that can be." She held her hand to him, not offering assistance but asking for his weapon. "My gun's half broken. Gimme your pistol and I'll get you out of here alive." That wasn't the entire truth, but a weapon like that would be more than enough of a fee. That and the fact she didn't intend to pay for her meal. Maya hadn't intended to pay for it in the first place, but this time she could claim it as a protection fee.

"And get back, you're sticking out of cover like a moron!" Maya shifted, moving her pack towards the front of her body to dig through her supplies. It wasn't much - a few stimpaks, a half burnt book, a store of caps, and a small, practically threadbare stuffed rabbit. Aside from her gun, her lighter, and the clothes on her back, it was all Maya had in the world. It would be for long, though, once she got to the strip.

The gang made quick work of surrounding the bar. Fighting them all may not be an option. Maya's gaze turned back to the frantic man, her hand still expectantly waiting for his gun. If she refused, she would shoot herself, but she would last without the gun as long as possible. It added to the con.

A few of the farmers had taken up shooting out the windows when they could. One had knocked over a table and pushed it against the back door, a desperate attempt to lock the gang out. Maya reached up blindly at the table, moving her hands back and forth until she finally found what she was looking for. A knife, somewhat clean, for cutting meat. She didn't like getting close in combat, but she would if she had to.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

"No, not the fucking... gas..." The man groaned, backing away a little, as he realised that he, indeed, was on the line of fire. He could not remember what he wanted to say, what should've been added for the real explosion. He looked drunk. Hungover even. But in truth, he had a terrible withdrawal. His head pulsed, sounds echoed, and the moments of clarity were so rare and so small, he could barely form half-a-sentence.

He looked at the hand, as if not understanding what was needed from him. Then down on his belt. Then back up. A thought crawled slowly through his brain, like a distant whisper: you cannot shoot for the life of you, but what if someone comes close? You need that gun. "No." He said, looking up for a moment, before darting for the backpack. "No, better take the, uh... fuck! However the hell do you call it!" He just slid a military rifle over. A decent M16 he stole, half a magazine still in it. Why did he steal it? He had no idea. It was an impulse - or a drunken haze - but he knew that he could hit something with a pistol on short range, but rifle? "I can't shoot it!" He yelled, pressing his back to the turned over table, eyes closed shut, as if it would help him think. It did. "I broke my glasses!"

This was an impulsive man. His backpack was all filled to the brim with different things he acquired with various amounts of honesty, but he couldn't use most of them. He didn't know how. His 'military' training was no more than being able to do push-ups... well, not now, obviously, but few years back he was in a good physical form.

A farmer popped out to take a shot. He seemed to be lucky. There was a cry from the outside, and a sound of something heavy falling. "Max!" The voice yelled over the wailing. "You dirty fucker! That was his favourite knee!" As a response to shooting someone, another round of hard, military bullets littered the place - now from the opposite side; and like a full stop - a rock broke the last window, littering the place with glass shards. There was crying of a wounded woman inside, and howls of pain of the man outside.

"Dude, what do we do?" A voice was heard from the further corner of the diner. One of the farmers no less. "I am not prepared for this." No one answered him.

The pale man mumbled something under his breath about wanting everyone just to shut up, and needing a fix. He seemed to understand the importance of the situation, and that maybe... maybe this wasn't the best time to get stoned. A feeling of courtesy about the situation they were in was fighting in him with a need to get something in his system to be at least half-useful. And due to the withdrawal, this fight was long.

"If there's any pretty ladies in there who wanna live..." The leader's voice echoed again. "...I suggest lifting your hands and walking out. We don't wanna damage no goods!"

"What the fuck are they doing?" A whisper was heard from the same corner than before.

"Waiting 'till we run out of bullets." The pale man suddenly replied, gaining his moment of clarity - eyes glassy, gaze empty. Then, he lost it again.

 

[iiv]

Maya's eyes widened in realization. This man may have been a little drunk, but he was also high as shit. A scowl crossed her face when he slid over the M16 instead of the pistol. She would take what she could get though. After observing the gun for a few moments, the gang leader called out for pretty women to come out. Describing them as goods quickly revealed what they would likely do with these women. Maya wasn't sure she counted, but she would take her chances. She shifted and began to adjust her appearance. Her hair was long and black and - once she took it out of her ratty ponytail. A few moments of smoothing and her hair almost looked somewhat decent. Her skin was stained with dirt from the Mojave which she wiped off with her fingers, revealing the freckles covering her nose.

"These guys suck," She took his rifle and put it in her pack with the safety on. "But I can do some work on the outside so you aren't playing with nothing in here." Maya could have just left with the gang and tried to make her way out of whatever fate they would have for 'pretty women', but she wouldn't want to find out what it was. She took another look at the man, shaking her head. Why did she bother telling him about this when he was pretty much useless? God.

Cursing her own stupidity, Maya tucked her pistol in her coat and raised her hands before slowly crawling on her knees towards the front door.

"The hell are you doing?!" One of the farmers called to her, worried at the frankly stupid decision she was making. She was still somewhat in cover, so she allowed herself to rest.

"Well, something-!" Maya retorted, though she could be overwhelmed easily outside of the diner. "I'm not going to sit around here and die. But if anyone else has a better idea, be my fucking guest."

The farmer met her with silence. Maya sighed heavily, "We either waste all our ammo and get slaughtered, stop firing in hopes we can trick them and overpower them when they come in, or I can get out of here and actually have a chance."

 

[kevintheradioguy]

"The moment you're out of that door..." One of the men whispered. "...they are going to shoot you in the knees, drag you over, and sell in the first brothel they see! Or worse!"

"On, hut up!" The other one hissed. "You're just saying that because she has a chance to flee this way, and you don't! Just let 'er go, and hope she'll be okay!"

As if hearing their whispers, the leader's voice was heard from the desert: "No volunteers? Are you all blokes, or just ugly!?" A choir of laughter was heard from around the place.

"Believe me, honey, you better die here than to risk going through that." The old proprietor wheezed out, her face still bloodied and starting to swell.

"Mum!" Her son tried to make her shut up. He had no idea what the girl would do, but he thought that this wasn't her business. Besides, if they kidnap them a pretty woman, maybe they'll just leave the rest alone? Isn't a good-looking woman enough of the 'kicks' they were looking for here? They can take her, and just leave. There's nothing but booze and just a dozen or so caps here anyway. They'd waste more caps on ammo than they can earn via raiding this place. Unless there's a secret market for cheap aluminium cutlery.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, fuck you all!" The pale man murmured, shoving his hand into the backpack. While the bickering was unravelling, trying to decide the fate of a woman none of them even knew (for all he cared), he had decided that it's better to have a fix and get back to his senses. Soon, he fished out a small leather box - the ones one could find in army lockers, containing personal affects, grooming equipment and mirrors, and, opening it, quickly snitched a short, fat syringe from it. It was hard to tell what exactly it was, as it soon disappeared in his palm, just the needle visible - soon to be dug into his arm, piercing the vein, the substance hissing as it was forced into the blood flow, the vein swelling for a few seconds, and the man exhaling. A second passed, then - the other. His quick-pacing heart distributed the drug fast through the body. He looked up, in a short awe of how much light he started seeing, as his pupils dilated, turning his eyes - previously of such a light grey colour they almost looked milky-white - to black. The flesh became of a less sickly colour, and even a natural blush appeared.

He looked to be agitated, very much so, almost ready to dart out and into the shower of bullets. But only for a moment. "Goodness gracious." He breathed out, forcing himself to relax. His backpack, resting on his knee, fell to the side, and something rolled out of it. He turned his head, and focused his eyes on two simple grenades stopping at his feet. So did the closest farmers, lost for words of how differently this whole thing might've went. "I... had no idea I had those." He admitted in a steadier voice, now with chemical amphetamines coursing through his body. He genuinely didn't know that.