Six bullets for four friends, the math of the Mojave.
A soft mechanical hum and distant roaring laughter of men swirling in drugs and luck were all that could permeate the thick fog of smoke and steam bubbling up from the basement of the old pre-war office building. The air had just begun to cool, and the cracked brickwork had already faded into evening shadow.
Johnny’s laughter broke through the mist and the mechanical rhythms, bursting like a ruptured pipe across the building. He was finally going to win enough to get on the Strip. They met up every Friday for drinks and Caravan. This was the last game of the evening. The table was almost overflowing with chips, caps, denarii, and even stacks of NCR dollars. Precious jewels shimmering just within hand’s reach.
The pot had never been this large, with tension in the room peaking. Juan, Jim, and Carlos watched on with a bitter mix of jealousy and regret. Tommy sat reclined, ready to win and caught up in visions of Psycho and women.
Johnny flicked his weathered deck across the table. The king of spades, hidden up his left sleeve, rested between skin and cloth. If he doubled the 10 in his middle lane, the game would be over, and he’d win. During Tommy’s turn, as carefully as he’d ever done anything, he glided the needed card out from his sleeve, and it fell snugly into his hand with the rest of the cards. His eyes darted back and forth, looking to see if anyone caught notice, but he was in the clear. “You fellas play a good game, but I play a better one,” he declared with a smile, throwing down the cheating card.
He swiftly lunged to collect the enormous hoard of treasure in front of him. Mid-laughter, his wrist was twisted back, and a flash of pain shot up his arm. Tommy angrily tore off his entire sleeve, and a half-dozen more face cards exploded out and formed a small puddle of spades and hearts around him. “I always knew you were a fucking cheat,” Tommy grunted out before throwing Johnny out of his chair and a few feet away. He landed with a squeak and a thud into the back wall.
He blinked. Four 10mm pistol barrels stared him down. “Johnny, give us one good reason not to kill you right now.” Beads of sweat dripped down his lean face and pasty neck. He threw both of his palms out to show surrender. “Hey guys, let’s put the guns away and talk this out. There’s no need to make a mess of such a sacred place,” gesturing to the booze-stained table and worn-out chairs. The eyes of Carlos softened, “You honestly thought you could walk in here and rob us blind? How many games have we played together? How many times have I covered for you?”
He looked away and, for a brief moment, considered asking for forgiveness, but the metal butt of the worn-out revolver stabbing into his back gave him a plan. There was no coming back from this; he just needed to create the opportunity. “No disrespect, Kings, I’m in a bad spot, and those thugs at the Atomic Wrangler have put out a hit on me,” he lied. “I needed the money. I’m sorry, guys, truly. Go ahead and keep everything. Just don’t kill me,” he pleaded.
If they’d just lower their guard, he’d be able to get out of this mess, and with the money, too. “Ey, what’d’ya think Jim?” Jim spent a long second giving the cheater a mean and gnarled look, then replied, “You’re fucking street trash, Johnny. Your father was a good man—so for his sake—Get the fuck out of here and never come back. Pathetic loser sack of shit. The King’s gonna hear about this!”
The other three took Jim’s lead and lowered their guns. Jim and Carlos looked towards the fortune on the table, and Tommy stumbled either from the release of tension or perhaps from the booze and Med-X. Johnny’s eyes and nostrils flared, his teeth clenching at the mention of his father. His father was killed, and being a good man didn’t save him. These Kings would never accept him; he knew this was his best chance to get what belonged to him.
Scrambling for his pockets, he felt the cool metallic handle of his .357 “Jackpot”. He had six in the cylinder and four targets, so he had to make them count. With one quick motion, Jackpot rang out, and Tommy’s head exploded. He crumpled onto the cracked concrete slab. The other Kings turned on a dime and quickly repositioned their own weapons, but it was too late. Juan went down just as easily, and with him, “Hermano!” Carlos screamed and darted towards his brother’s body, only narrowly avoiding the third round from Jackpot. “You ain’t been better than anyone, and The King won’t be hearing nothing, not if you’re dead, you son-of-a-bitch,” he snapped with years of pent-up angst.
Jim was the only one sober enough to take cover, and it protected him from the 4th round, which ricocheted deep into Juan’s dead body. Jim’s muzzle flashed, but instead of finding flesh, it only shattered an empty jet bottle inside Johnny’s jacket. Johnny’s 5th shot embedded itself deep into his shoulder, though. There was the clatter of Jim’s gun as it fell to the floor, and the scent of gunpowder and blood swept over the entire room.
He used the last bullet to finish off the grieving Carlos, still weeping over his brother’s corpse. The bullet gave a short crack before splashing through the soft body and landing in a cold thud on the concrete. He took a deep breath, regaining some composure.
He walked up to Jim, blood still visibly gushing down his ragged clothing. With haggard breath, Jim spoke: “The Kings will kill you for this, you know that, right? Your father raised a punk.” Each breath grew weaker and more strained than the last. “Was it worth it? For a bag of caps?” Johnny knelt down to pocket the 10mm. “Dad’s dead, and even your little gang can’t get to me on the Strip. Those robots, this money, and Jackpot are the only protection I need.”
Jim was left to bleed out, and he went to clear the table, making sure to stuff every last valuable into his undersized satchel. After packing up, he took one last look back at the mayhem and death he created. His eyes began to water, and he clenched his fists. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen; nobody was supposed to die. Last week, Carlos had offered him the last few chunks of squirrel meat. Juan was even younger than he was, a good kid. He didn’t deserve it, none of them did.
He sighed and muttered to himself without conviction, barely able to get the words out. “They would’ve done me in eventually.” He turned away from the ghastly scene. He mindlessly played with the heavy sack of wealth, the weight nearly choking him. The stench hung heavily in the air as he made his exit. He tried to focus on the narrow hallways. The groaning pipes. Every sense seemed to take him back to where he had just left. Jim must be dead by now. A few minutes later, the hollow stairway was behind him, and he was under the setting twilight sky.
He needed a drink and maybe some sleep before he tried approaching the Strip. On the short walk to the Wrangler, a small gang of kids was hunting giant rodents for dinner. They were street rats just like him; childhood memories of them together struck him like a bat. It took all he had just to stand. “What have I done?” He rustled around his bag for a moment to avoid the blood-stained bottle caps and partially loaded 10mm. He separated out a hundred relatively clean caps and split them amongst the children. “Go get something good to eat, something cooked, and don’t buy drugs,” he warned while the whole lot ran off down the maze of lopsided buildings and built-up trash.
The rest of his walk was marked by a special kind of peace. The Freeside lights seemed brighter, and he could just make out the comforting sounds of gunshots from over the walls. The warm allure of the Atomic Wrangler had cast aside any wayward feelings, and the hazy memories of that basement were already beginning to fade. Regret was a useless thing, and tomorrow he’d have a new life.
Check out Johnny’s Character Sheet.