All Who Wander

Chapter Two - Styx and Stones

When Charon returned from scouting the perimeter of the white-washed lean-to that would serve as the nights campsite, he found Digit sitting cross-legged in the dirt, counting out rounds for her SMGs magazine. She was working quietly - thoughtfully he guessed - so he decided to take it upon himself to begin preparing their evening meal.

As he gathered brush into a tarnished waste bin to start a fire, he managed to steal a few covert glances at his meditative employer. It was then he noted a behavior that disturbed him, if only because he'd seen it countless times before in ghouls that had reached the breaking point of going feral. Digit's lips twitched as if in speech, yet no sound escaped her and her eyes never left her loading. The sight sent a shuddering chill up his spine and called forth unpleasant memories of his time in Underworld.

Before Digit had declared his liberation, he'd sit in The Ninth Circle everyday, watching the locals retreat further and further into the oblivion of their own minds until they were too far gone to connect anymore. Once that happened, it didn't take long for the violence to start, or for the museums residents to force Ahzrukhal into action. He'd order Charon out into an unoccupied area of the museum with the unpleasant task of putting the mad ghoul out of his or her misery - just one quick shot to the back of the head without so much as a burial. It was why the people of Underworld avoided him. It was why they called him Charon. And as he watched Digit mimic the familiar motion, he realized it was part of why he was so careful around her.

She was a constant reminder of his condition, what with her smooth skin and soft hair. He hadn't seen a human in years before she came walking into Underworld's dingy dive bar, and he'd forgotten how different they looked - how fragile. There was no telling when or if he'd go feral as so many others of his kind did, and despite all her tactics and Tommy guns, he wasn't sure Digit could withstand him if he did.

He rubbed his temples and tried to force the negative thoughts from his mind. None of it mattered now; he didn't work for Ahzrukhal anymore. He worked for someone with a conscience, and even though Digit wasn't perfect - who in the Wasteland really was - she was honest. And she never made him do any dirty work. In fact, she barely made him do anything at all. His hand ran through what was left of his ragged hair and he sighed. He wasn't going to let his fears distract him from his duties. He couldn't.

Just as he managed to get a hold of himself, the smell of roasting meat brought Digit out of her reverie. Even from the other side of the crackling fire, the ghoul could hear the rumble of her stomach. She looked at him, blinked once, then set her ammo aside.

"What are we having?" she asked.

"Leftover mole rat," he answered.

"Oh goodie," Digit said sarcastically as she crept over to him with her pack in hand, "I'm starving."

She plopped down next to him in a cloud of dust and dug around in her much-mended satchel until she produced a can of beans and a badly damaged Swiss army knife. After several minutes of struggling with the two items, the woman finally gave up the knife and smashed the can against a rock with a annoyed grunt. The weakened lid split upon impact and Charon watched with amusement as Digit's mouth went wide in one of her trademark grins of supreme smugness. She removed the serrated lid from the can gingerly, then buried the bottom halfway into the hot ash at the edge of the fire to heat.

"There," she said with a self-satisfied sigh, "Now all we need is something to drink and we'll have a proper meal. What do you want, Charon? Water or cola?"

"Whatever you want is fine with me, Dij, but let me open the bottle this time okay?" he replied. The woman shrugged at his request and resumed fumbling around in her belongings. The ghoul shook his head in mild disbelief as she did so.

It never ceased to amaze him that despite nearly six months outside the vault she grew up in, Digit still clung to certain aspects of old-fashioned civility. She insisted that every dinner consist of a main dish, a side, and a beverage. Breakfast or lunch could run short or be skipped altogether, but dinner had to be just so. As luck would have it, they almost always managed to scrounge up enough food to meet her strict demands.

"Aww," Digit whined as she withdrew a Nuka-cola from her bag, "This is our last one�I guess we'll just have to share it, but don't you give me any crap about cooties!"

Charon's mottled face formed a frown at her outburst.

"Sorry," she apologized, "Bad memories of Butch DeLoria."

"One of your friends from the vault I take it?"

"Something like that," she said with a wave of her hand, "I broke one my knuckles punching him in the face once�"

The ghoul's frown instantly turned to a smirk.

"Have you always been such a tom-boy, Digit?" he asked.

The woman laughed and stamped her combat boots against the ground a few times. When her fit of mirth subsided, she leaned over to him with that disarming grin of hers.

"What do you think?" she countered.

Charon's smile faded and he turned away to poke at the fire quietly.

"I think you're something else, Digit," he said softly after a short span of silence, "Something else entirely�"

"Yeah? Like what?"

He continued to tend the fire, pretending he hadn't heard her. The small lump rising in his throat told him he might have said too much already. Digit was either fooled or unbothered by his act, because the next thing out of her mouth went in a decidedly different direction than the rest of their discussion.

"Will you tell me something about yourself Charon?"

"If you wish�"

"Were you really brainwashed as a kid? 'cause Ahzrukhal said you were, but I think he's full of [censored]. Of course, I think everyone is full of [censored] so coming from me that doesn't necessarily mean anything. It's just that you seem too smart and independent to have spent your whole life as a slave."

Charon considered what she was asking in silence as the fire threw warped shadows across the walls of the small shack. His past wasn't something he normally talked about, but as his current employer, Digit was entitled to know. Besides, if he refused to answer on his own, she could compel him to do so anyway. He cleared his throat in resignation and had just opened his mouth to speak when he heard a sound from somewhere outside their camp. Dogmeat must have heard it too, because he suddenly lifted his head from where he'd been resting on the opposite side of the fire.

"What's the matter?" Digit asked in concern.

"There's something out there," Charon warned as he reached for his shotgun. Digit made for her own weapon as he glanced out of the sizeable hole in the shacks crumbling eastern wall. He couldn't see anything among the debris of what was once a small town center, but when Dogmeat took to his feet with a growl and dashed out, the ghoul followed him cautiously. About halfway down the east-west avenue of the nearest intersection, Charon spotted the cause of the ruckus and dropped his weapon to his side. Dogmeat, too, had a change of heart, and began sniffing the wandering Brahmin excitedly.

"Goddamnit, cow," the ghoul hissed, "You couldn't have wandered into somebody else's camp tonight?"

The ghoul heard Digit coming up behind him, and he turned to her with an indignant look on his face. When she glanced over his shoulder to see what had Dogmeat's attention, she broke out into laughter.

"Oh Charon�you heard something alright," she goaded, "A heifer in heat! Hah!"

She bounded up to the lost animal and walked a circle around it.

"She's not hurt at all," Digit called out to Charon, "Probably just hungry."

The woman shooed Dogmeat away and stroked the cows head a few times.

"Look lady," she said to it, "All we've got is week-old mole rat, so you better skiddaddle before you start looking good to me, 'kay? And get a cowbell so next time we run into you Charon'll know you're coming. Hah!"

She led the animal away by its tattered harness and freed it at the edge of the town remains. It continued in the appointed direction mindlessly, and she turned back towards the camp in triumph. As usual, Charon wasn't far behind her so she gave him a fat grin.

"See? Who says you have to solve all your problems with guns?" she joked.

"Look who's talking Miss Fully-Automatic," he shot back.

"Hah," she laughed, "You're right, I have the happy trigger fingers, but no shooting poor innocent Brahmin okay? I'll tell you what though, if that guy with the Magnum ever pops out from nearby rocks again, feel free to fill him full of buckshot. He damn near gave me a heart attack last time�"

.oO-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Oo.

Cold - it was the way the dream always began; with rivers of icy water crashing down from somewhere so high up in the gloom that engulfed him that he couldn't spot the source. It would rush around his ankles, numbing his feet, and continue to rise until it flooded up to his knees. His breath formed fog in front of his face, and no matter how far he trudged through the murky water, there was no land. Sometimes he thought he saw a dark, narrow craft bobbing on the surface of the water ahead of him, but no amount of effort drew it any closer. It was forever in the distance, just at the edge of his eyesight.

He would wander in that watery grave for what seemed like an eternity before the grotesque monument at the center of Underworld would suddenly appear in his path from out of nowhere. It would emerge from the dark river in stages; rivulets of water running down the writhing human forms like blood. The stone was living flesh in his dream, and the tormented always wore the faces of those he had slain. They stared at him with empty eye sockets - accusing, mocking and hating him. Their lips formed strangled curses. And then the bodies would arrive�

Bloated and decaying corpses would begin to drift towards him, heedless of the rivers tide. An endless stream of them kept coming from somewhere deeper in the darkness until their stench was too much for him to bear. He would cover his nose and mouth to block out the over-ripe smell of death, but it always overwhelmed in the end. The bile in his stomach would rise until it forced him into retching - right onto the lifeless face of a young girl. He would push her hair back and try to rinse her face in horror, only to find Digit's muddy hazel eyes looking back at him.

The ghoul woke with a start that brought Dogmeat padding over from were he'd been enjoying the last bits of warmth from the fading cook fire. Charon tried to catch his breath and take stock as the images from his dream began to dissipate. He immediately looked over to where Digit had unrolled her blankets after dinner and found her still sleeping soundly, albeit one booted foot was a touch too close to the fire pit. He sighed in relief and rose as quietly as possible to tuck her sprawling limb back under her blanket. After making sure he hadn't woken her, he went back to his own bed and stripped off the dirty shirt that his nightmare had caused him to soak with sweat. He hands shook as he pulled on a fresher garment, and they stopped only after he'd spent ten minutes or so giving Dogmeat a series of reassuring pats.

"It's okay boy," he whispered, "I'm fine alright? Go keep Digit warm."

The dog did as he was told and curled up at the base of the woman's makeshift pallet. The ghoul on the other hand, continued to sit stock-still on a rock to await the sunrise. There would be no more sleep for him that night.