Practicing Medicine // Complete

Chapter Thirty: The End

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It was early in the afternoon, and frigid winds were blowing all across the Mojave.

The winds blew to the south in Goodsprings, and in my hometown of Primm, where they blew against the shuttered windows of Mother's casino. The McBains and their town militia stood at a winter standstill with them powder gangers from out the penitentiary, and the cold was doubtless setting into both sides by now.

The winds blew East, too, over the Dam where the Legion and the NCR were locked in a similar engagement. In the West they swept over the quarry, which I had heard no news from, and the remains of the Amish tribe. Seems they too had been stricken by the bitter wastes.

Up north, the winds blew on the strip, but you wouldn't know it from how folks acted. Vegas was still just as sleazy as ever. Sure, the hookers started wearing fur and the lights changed a different color for the holidays, but the spirit was the same. Drugs and caps still flowed like water from out the Casinos, and the surrounding neighborhoods still couldn't catch a break. Every day Fort Mormon more and more saturated with displaced loners out of Freeside who couldn't fight off the cold any longer. We took in some sharecroppers too, but most of them were lucky enough to have radiators on account of being so near the NCR water stores.

Or I should say, most of us. I couldn't stand the thought of living in a tent with all them noisy people over at Fort Mormon, so I used some of the caps that I got from selling off Mom's Casino to buy myself a vacant, two-story farmhouse on the outskirts of the sharecropper compound. It was a long walk to work and I didn't ever intend to do any actual farming, but it was safe and cozy. Plus it had a real nice view of the Lucky 38 Casino, and while I never cared much about the view, I knew someone who did...

That wind, that cold, cruel wind, it blew all over the Mojave, but it didn't blow here. I was safe in here. The windows might've shook, and the roof might've creaked, but it was warm beneath the covers, and I could smell something delicious wafting up from the kitchen. I rolled over onto my side.

"Dag-gum... what time is it?" I fumbled about for my pip boy on my bed stand, and squinted to make out the numbers on the screen. 11:43. I growled and pressed my face into my pillow.

I really needed to get out of bed.

Of course, I didn't technically have to, on account of having Sundays off for the lord or whatever, but I had some things I wanted to get done before dark. So, I stumbled out of bed and threw open the curtains, let the light flood in. The high-noon sun was almost blinding, reflected off the sparkling blanket of snow.

Snow in the Mojave. It'd hailed once when I was young, with chunks of ice as big around as quarters, but I'd never seen fluffy snow before this winter. Guess it'd never been wet or cold enough. All of the smart science-folks in my life had their own theories as to why this winter was so frigid and snowy, and every single one was completely beyond me. I snatched my fancy new horn-rimmed glasses off my nightstand and stumbled into the bathroom.

"Oh Isaac, you funny-looking bastard!"

I grabbed a half empty whiskey bottle off the sink and took a long, mournful drink. Seeing myself in the grimy mirror, I didn't look hardly anything like the boy I used to be, which was good because according to the NCR, "Isaac Saller" had been executed about a year back. I'd lived a lot of life in that time; the scars alone told the story pretty well. A welt in my cheek, a scar across my nose and brow, a hairless streak in my scruffy blonde beard... I splashed some water over my head and face, ran my fingers over my prickly, shaven head. Over in the bedroom, my alarm went off again, and I found myself lost in the music, staring deep into the mirror. The world faded out around me.