Most Voted Stories

Fallout: The Almost Second Husband of Ace Matthews

As the Ghoul approached the weather-beaten porch, a sudden, sharp sound pierced the air. A bullet whizzed past its head, narrowly missing its hat and leaving a trail of tiny craters in the ground beside it. Before Coop could even process what had happened, two more bullets halted it in its tracks, sending spurts of dust and sand past its spurs to settle on the ground.

A pang of something like betrayal, sharp and unexpected, lanced through Coop. Here it stood, weathered by the desert sun, just like the ramshackle house in front of it, a faded Stetson clinging precariously to its head. Its once-dapper duster, now a patchwork of blood stains and cracked leather, hung loosely over a lean frame.

"Woah, woah! Is that any way to greet an old friend?" Coop exclaimed, its voice filled with a bravado that did little to mask the underlying hurt. It held both hands in the air in a gesture of peace. The Ghoul squinted through the harsh desert sun, its eyes narrowing as it studied the blurry figure on the far side. It couldn't make out anything through the glare, but it could hear the unmistakable creak of a rocking chair.

"You're forty years and three husbands too late to be callin' yourself a friend!" A thick, accented voice called out, followed by the cocking of a shotgun.

The Ghoul winced. "Calamity, always the firecracker," it muttered, its voice barely audible over the desert wind. Memories, both warm and bitter, flickered in its mind's eye – stolen kisses under a star-dusted sky, shared laughter echoing through dusty canyons, and finally, a wedding interrupted. "Look, I know it's been a while, but—"

Another shot interrupted Coop. This one went wide, kicking up a small cloud of dust near its feet. The Ghoul sighed, a puff of dust escaping its own lips.

"Alright, alright! You win! Geez, you haven't gotten any less trigger-happy over the years, have you?"

The creaking of the rocking chair grew louder, then stopped with a thud. A moment later, a weathered woman with sun-baked skin and eyes like chips of flint emerged from the gloom of the porch. She gripped the shotgun in her calloused hands, her gaze never leaving Coop's face. Her once vibrant dress, the one it remembered dancing with her under the desert moon, now hung limp on her frame, faded and worn like a forgotten dream.

"You got a lot of nerve showin' your face around here, Coop," Calamity said, her voice like gravel scraping against rock. "Especially considerin' the last time you did, you left a trail of trouble a mile long."

Coop raised its hands defensively. "Now, Calamity, that ain't entirely fair. I meant to come back—"

"Spare me the excuses," Calamity snapped. "You may have gotten by with your fancy gadgets and whatnot back in the day, but time don't erase nothin'. You want somethin', or are you just here to stir up trouble like a sandstorm in a teacup?"

"Alright, alright, Calamity. You win on both counts. I do need somethin', and trouble seems to follow me like a buzzard after carrion." It took a deep breath, the desert air hot and dry in its lungs. "Look, I'm headin' out to the Mojave. Got a job, well more like a proposition, and I was hopin' you might be able to spare a room – or at least a corner out of the wind – for me and my associate." As if on cue, a young girl stepped out from behind him, and waved sheepishly.

The young girl was young, younger than she had been, a little skinnier too by the looks of her. Calamity studied Lucy with a gaze that could curdle milk. The girl shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny, her eyes darting between Coop and the shotgun.

Calamity's eyes narrowed further, the distrust in them like a physical barrier. "Associate, huh? Seems your taste in girls runs young these days, Coop. Always did have a way with the ladies, even if you never stuck around long enough to see them past their prime." Her voice dripped with a kind of bitter amusement that stung Coop like a scorpion's barb.