<img style="" src="http://i1105.photobucket.com/albums/h341/ratoly/fada4433-6d65-4b2a-8c4e-b7c643e89c8f.jpg" style="max-width:100%;float:left;]Perhaps the thing that irritated Cauldo most about his situation was how absolutely unforgiving everything about it was. He had to go fully dressed all the time, which, while not a terrible inconvenience, made it real hard to have a real conversation with someone, and once he was known by name, it was usually just a matter of time before they figured out just who he was and started firing on-sight. It wasn't like he was some kind of bad guy, after all. Just the bad enough type to get shot at over a minor quibble with the lowest brand of people still living here and there across the wastes.
The dregs were lowlife scum, and while he'd been proud to call himself one once, nowadays, it just seemed crass to even think about them. Like one was considering the prospect of raping a corpse. Still, every now and then he still mockingly referred to himself as a dregling. Some kind of cruel joke over the leprosy that addled his body and tore at his self-esteem. It was obvious enough to anyone who saw too much of his skin that he was infected with the stuff, and no matter how contagious he wasn't, it still wasn't not contagious enough to get him permanent residence anywhere in particular. The only place that had even come close to letting him stay more than a few hours in their rooms was the Desert Rose, and even then, he'd been something of an infection scare among the more panicky patrons and residents.
It was a hard life of masturbation and isolation for Cauldo. But it wasn't one he had much power over. So he bit the bullet, swallowed gunpowder, and soldiered on.
And it had made him stronger than he would've expected, living out in the wastes as he did. He'd grown resourceful and clever. He'd learned to dig himself a hidey hole underground when the sun started to rise, and to take advantage of his surroundings when he felt the sand and earth shift, indicating an approaching and lethal caravan or group of bikers. He'd learned that if he was buried completely in sand, the weight distribution wouldn't crush him even if they crossed directly over him, and that, if he moved his hands just right, he could surface again with a little effort and some time.
He'd learned to hoard books on medicine and trauma care. On first aid. That no matter how scarce actual bandages and other first aid supplies were, similar things worked just about as well, and were often left to rot. He hoarded scaps of paper and clothing. Looted dead bodies for change or shoelaces. Sometimes, he was lucky enough to find food or electronics. Most were barely functional, but the occasional device worked just well enough for him to scrape by. Nothing too fancy. Almost never something like night-vision goggles, rare things that made him a target worth hunting. Most of the time, it was watches or broken phones.
Hell, since he'd picked them up, the goggles didn't even work anymore, but the red lenses were something he'd gotten used to, and they hid his face rather well with a cloth over his nose and mouth, so he kept 'em. Besides, they'd be an added 'fuck you' if he ever did get tracked down and gutted. The bastard who'd killed him over such a trinket would be given the rude awakening of finding out that they didn't even work.
That they were less useful than sunglasses.
So Cauldo kept moving his tightly wrapped feet across the sand and dirt of the Mojave wasteland. He hummed when he got bored, and if things were real bad, he might take a break and stare at the stars. But mostly, he walked. His next goal or destination never quite clear until he got closer, until he spotted a tower in the distance of a telephone pole untouched by the things that had happened, or the glow of neon behind a dune.
For now, he was just walking, glad the sun was on its way down so he could stop and rest a bit. Maybe catch a few winks. Never forty. That he could count some stars, redress his sores, and carry on. He coughed roughly, yanking down the cloth over his face to expel some mucous and grit. His saliva followed, landing on the sand beside him with a thuck before he tugged the cloth back into place. Fucking nose. Still, it was better than some of the others he'd left. Bastards could barely breathe sometimes. Some of them were deformed to the point that they couldn't walk.
He'd been lucky enough to find books on the subject of leprosy. That he'd been able to treat himself well and at least postpone the inevitable. It was inevitable, after all. Without real medical treatment, he was as fucked as the rest of the lepers. But at least he'd be able to die separately. Somewhere in this shithole. With all his stuff. A chuckle escaped his lips softly, and dryly. He'd carry forward until he found something new, he supposed. He could take it.
The dregs were lowlife scum, and while he'd been proud to call himself one once, nowadays, it just seemed crass to even think about them. Like one was considering the prospect of raping a corpse. Still, every now and then he still mockingly referred to himself as a dregling. Some kind of cruel joke over the leprosy that addled his body and tore at his self-esteem. It was obvious enough to anyone who saw too much of his skin that he was infected with the stuff, and no matter how contagious he wasn't, it still wasn't not contagious enough to get him permanent residence anywhere in particular. The only place that had even come close to letting him stay more than a few hours in their rooms was the Desert Rose, and even then, he'd been something of an infection scare among the more panicky patrons and residents.
It was a hard life of masturbation and isolation for Cauldo. But it wasn't one he had much power over. So he bit the bullet, swallowed gunpowder, and soldiered on.
And it had made him stronger than he would've expected, living out in the wastes as he did. He'd grown resourceful and clever. He'd learned to dig himself a hidey hole underground when the sun started to rise, and to take advantage of his surroundings when he felt the sand and earth shift, indicating an approaching and lethal caravan or group of bikers. He'd learned that if he was buried completely in sand, the weight distribution wouldn't crush him even if they crossed directly over him, and that, if he moved his hands just right, he could surface again with a little effort and some time.
He'd learned to hoard books on medicine and trauma care. On first aid. That no matter how scarce actual bandages and other first aid supplies were, similar things worked just about as well, and were often left to rot. He hoarded scaps of paper and clothing. Looted dead bodies for change or shoelaces. Sometimes, he was lucky enough to find food or electronics. Most were barely functional, but the occasional device worked just well enough for him to scrape by. Nothing too fancy. Almost never something like night-vision goggles, rare things that made him a target worth hunting. Most of the time, it was watches or broken phones.
Hell, since he'd picked them up, the goggles didn't even work anymore, but the red lenses were something he'd gotten used to, and they hid his face rather well with a cloth over his nose and mouth, so he kept 'em. Besides, they'd be an added 'fuck you' if he ever did get tracked down and gutted. The bastard who'd killed him over such a trinket would be given the rude awakening of finding out that they didn't even work.
That they were less useful than sunglasses.
So Cauldo kept moving his tightly wrapped feet across the sand and dirt of the Mojave wasteland. He hummed when he got bored, and if things were real bad, he might take a break and stare at the stars. But mostly, he walked. His next goal or destination never quite clear until he got closer, until he spotted a tower in the distance of a telephone pole untouched by the things that had happened, or the glow of neon behind a dune.
For now, he was just walking, glad the sun was on its way down so he could stop and rest a bit. Maybe catch a few winks. Never forty. That he could count some stars, redress his sores, and carry on. He coughed roughly, yanking down the cloth over his face to expel some mucous and grit. His saliva followed, landing on the sand beside him with a thuck before he tugged the cloth back into place. Fucking nose. Still, it was better than some of the others he'd left. Bastards could barely breathe sometimes. Some of them were deformed to the point that they couldn't walk.
He'd been lucky enough to find books on the subject of leprosy. That he'd been able to treat himself well and at least postpone the inevitable. It was inevitable, after all. Without real medical treatment, he was as fucked as the rest of the lepers. But at least he'd be able to die separately. Somewhere in this shithole. With all his stuff. A chuckle escaped his lips softly, and dryly. He'd carry forward until he found something new, he supposed. He could take it.
The mind is a fantastic, dangerous place. Don't go alone.
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