Thursday, May 26, 2011

//Log Date: 2281-10-23 06:14//

<<UserID:Webb>> I’m in. I set the PIP-Boy’s alarm for four hundred hours, had a quick breakfast of “Greasy Prospector” canned pork and beans -- I’ve always suspected the reason this stuff is still edible is the radiation, and the PIP-Boy’s Geiger counter proved me alarmingly correct -- then washed the taste out of my mouth with more of the Nashes’ store of water. 
I left the majority of my kit in the Mojave Express office, especially the noisy, jangly bits. Easier to sneak in that way. I did bring my pistol and the shotgun I took off that ‘Ganger, though, along with my old bootknife. I’m especially glad for the latter at the moment, as, as soon as I came through the door, I stumbled across a ‘Ganger dozing against the wall.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Crossing the street between the Mojave Express office and the Bison Steve was easy at that hour -- darkness was more than enough cover to keep any of the ‘Gangers who were even awake from spotting me. Rather than heading in the front door, I hoisted myself up onto the skeleton of the roller coaster and managed to clamber up onto the roof behind the Lucky Casino marquis. 
There was no one up there at the moment, but it looks like a popular spot during the daytime. Empty bottles and cigarette butts were scattered around, and there was a shotglass and a pair of binoculars propped up against the back of the marquis. By some miracle, the binocular lenses were actually in good alignment. I slipped the strap around my neck and crept the rest of the way around the ledge of the building to an exterior second floor entrance on the back of the building.
Good gravy, I hate heights.
There were several ‘Gangers wandering the far side of the roller coaster, but none were close enough to spot me, and they were well outside the range of my pistol -- although I wager Jess could have picked them off easily enough, even at this distance. I suppose I’ll need to find a decent rifle if I’m going to be attempting suicidal heroics with any regularity.
I jimmied the door open and slipped inside, almost tripping over a ‘Ganger curled up by the door, snoring soundly. I froze for a moment, trying to decide what to do, and then I remembered the sheriff and his wife -- shot in their sleep, never even given a chance. Maybe it makes me just as bad as them, but I certainly wasn’t in the mood to give this scum any chances either. 
Hey, I hadn’t had my coffee yet.
I keep my service knife good and sharp, and it did the job neatly. Not that anyone can holler too well with their throat slit, but I kept a hand over his mouth until he bled out anyway. He had a revolver in a holster by his waist, chambered for .357 rounds, as well as a solid pocketful of ammunition, all of which I took. It’s got a little more kick than the pistol Mitchell gave me, which will be handy in these close quarters.
The Bison Steve, by the way, is a mess. I’m not sure if it was never fixed up by the residents of Primm, or if the ‘Gangers are just terrible tenants. I’m assuming it’s the former, but the latter wouldn’t surprise me one bit either. 
The place looks like a hotel from the inside -- more of a flop house, now. The casino advertised by the sign must be downstairs. I think I’ve cleared out the upper floors, but it was a near thing. I’ve always hated close-quarters firefights. Thank god I found that shotgun -- a nice cloud of buckshot forgives a multitude of tactical errors.
While scouting out the floor, I almost walked straight into a ‘Ganger near a set of vending machines. He spotted me in the flicker of light from the machines and jumped up, dashing after me. I still had my knife out, and, more by luck than anything else, managed to catch him right under the breastbone with it as he rushed through the doorway after me. Nothing silent about this time -- he screamed loud enough to make my ears ring, spattering frothy blood into my face. Definitely got the lungs there.
I let go of the knife and pulled my pistol, firing a round into his temple. He went down, but the others were definitely on to me after all that shouting. I left the first one where he fell and pressed myself up against the side of the door, pocketing the revolver and drawing the shotgun from the improvised sling on my back. 
Two of them came pounding down the hallway in my direction. The first one burst into the room, firing a pistol wildly as he rounded the corner. He went right past me, and I unloaded the scattergun into his back. The shot blew a gap in his spine and took a good deal of his intestine with it.
The next ‘Ganger into the room came slightly more cautiously, and he saw the blast that took out his buddy. He spun on me and fired. My hat went flying off, and my vision strobed from the muzzle flare, but I was still standing, so I swung at him with the barrel of the shotgun like a bat. It spun him around and gave me enough time to crack the action on the shotgun, slap in another round, and snap the barrel closed. He started to raise his gun arm as I was swinging up the shotgun, and I panicked, firing early. 
It’s been a long time since trigger discipline drills, and I was never that good at grace under fire anyway.
The shot took him in the knee, rather than center mass as I’d hoped, but it was still enough to do the job -- with a little post-op attention from the revolver, at least. I waited by the door for a full five minutes afterwards, barely breathing, but that seemed to be all the attention I was going to draw.
Other than some powder burns and ringing ears, I made it through the scuffle unharmed, but my hat wasn’t so lucky, once I found it among the newly gore-strewn shambles of the room. The damn thing had a hole right through it, like something out of a pre-war holovid.
I’ve finished exploring the upper floors, but that seemed to be everyone who was up here. I suppose Beagle must be on the ground floor, probably with the majority of the ‘Gangers. 
I DID turn up an unsurprising amount of dynamite in the ‘Gangers’ stockpiles, however, along with a fair amount of pre-war salvage during the search. Plenty of it was behind locked doors, but I’m still fairly handy with a bobby pin and was able to juke most of the locks. It’s one of the few things I was always better at than Jess.
I’m not going to bother to pack any of it up now, but I’ll be back for it if I make it out of here alive. Should be worth a tidy pile of caps and trade.
If nothing else, I’ll be able to buy myself a new hat.
There’s an interior staircase down to the ground floor, but I’m sure that will be watched. There’s also an elevator that’s currently jammed between floors, but, if the vending machines are any indication, this place is still drawing power -- maybe enough to get it moving again, if I can unjam it. Should give me the element of surprise, even if they’ve already heard the ruckus up here.
Heh. Jess always did say I knew how to make an entrance.
Now, let’s see... I’m sure I spotted a toolbox in one of the rooms up here...
//Recording Ends//

Saturday, May 21, 2011

//Log Date: 2281-10-22 21:06//

<<UserID:Webb>> My bet paid off, and I’ve found the remaining townsfolk of Primm. It was like getting a royal flush in a game of Not-Getting-Shot-in-the-Face.

It’s been an extremely informative few hours. When I made my dash for the building across the street -- actually a casino called the Vikki and Vance -- the doors popped open and a robot grabbed me in its clamps and pulled me inside. I was so startled by the appearance of a Protectron -- which was wearing boots and a cowboy hat, no less -- that I didn’t even notice the flesh and blood locals pointing their guns at me until they were sure I wasn’t a ‘Ganger.
The Protectron is something like a tour guide for the casino, with overly enthusiastic programming. The locals call him Primm Slim. I think he and Victor would get along fine.
And speaking of Victor, I’ve found out I have a lot more to thank him for than I’d previously thought.
The man who seems to be in charge by default is Johnson Nash, the owner of the Mojave Express office. He filled me in on what has been happening in Primm. It seems that the ‘Gangers swept into town and started shooting anyone who got in their way. Any locals who could make it converged on the Vikki and Vance and barricaded themselves in. No one has seen the sheriff, and the deputy is supposedly being held for ransom by the ‘Gangers -- the joke’s on them, of course, as they’ve already taken everything the town has.
Trying not to seem callous -- and probably failing, tact’s never been my strong suit -- I steered the conversation away from the town’s troubles to the job that had gotten me into this mess. Nash seemed happy to get his mind off of his current predicament, so he told me what he recalled about the job, starting with the cowboy robot that had contracted for it.
At first, I thought he meant Primm Slim, but it quickly became clear that he was talking about my old buddy Victor.
I knew that unicycled son of a bitch was too good to be true.
It seems like Victor had actually hired six couriers to carry six nearly identical packages to the New Vegas strip -- must be some sort of smokescreen. Assuming my chip was the real McCoy and the others were the decoys, it doesn’t seem like it wound up being terribly effective.
Of course, given the poor kid I saw dead outside the Mojave Express office, it may just mean they killed their way down the list until they hit the jackpot.
One interesting side note: supposedly, there was another courier ahead of me in line for the sixth package, but, according to Nash, he saw my name on the list and backed out, letting me take the package instead of him.
Very odd. I didn’t think there was anyone in the Mojave who knew me... at least, these days.
Back on track, however, Nash also confirmed that Checkers and his Khan thugs had come through Primm after they buried me and after the ‘Gangers settled in, which means I’m only two or three days behind them. In fact, it sounds like they were somewhat chummy with the ‘Gangers.
Nash hadn’t spoken to them, but the deputy, a young man named Beagle who was the brother of the sheriff’s wife, had gone to check out the situation before he’d been kidnapped. Nash suggested he might have overheard something and said he was being held in the Bison Steve, the casino with the rollercoaster across the street.
I told Nash and the others that I’d see what I could do about getting Beagle out -- sure, I was doing it mainly for the info that will let me track down Checkers, but I neglected to pass that little tidbit along. Then I headed back out into the town. 
Now that night had fallen, it was much easier to sneak past the ‘Gangers who hadn’t already drunk themselves into a stupor. I swear, the NCR could have swept this place clean with three raw recruits armed with BB guns, if it weren’t for their precious jurisdiction.
I made my way to the sheriff’s home to check and see if he might be held up in there, but the smell as soon as I cracked the door told me everything I needed to know. The sheriff and his wife were in the bed, still tangled in the sheets. Both were covered in gunshot wounds. They’d been dead a few days, in a similar state of decay to the dead courier. If I had to essay a professional opinion, I’d say they’d been shot in their sleep.
These ‘Gangers are racking up one hell of a bill, and, if there’s any justice left in this burnt-out husk of a world, it’s going to come due very soon.
I’d go looking for Beagle right now, but it’s been a long day, and it’s hard to be stealthy when you’re snoring face down on the pavement. I can’t sleep here, though -- that greasy cinnamon smell of decay is everywhere. I found a clean sheet in a cupboard and spread it over the sheriff and his wife, then grabbed a heavy coat off the rack by the door -- it’s getting chilly out there at night this late in the fall, and the sheriff certainly won’t be needing it any more.
I think I’ll creep back to the Mojave Express office and grab a few hours of sleep, then head for the Bison Steve early in the morning while it’s still dark.
Signing off.
//Recording Ends//

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

//Log Date: 2281-10-22 18:41//

<<UserID:Webb>> I finally made it into Primm, but nothing can ever be simple, can it?

Southbound Route 15 was fairly quiet. I spotted a few geckoes in the hills to the west, but nothing close enough to decide I was worth coming after, and I picked a few herbs and fruits from the plants alongside the road as I walked. My pack is full of good fresh water from the springs, and I’ve got enough food stashed away for the next few days, so I felt like I was in pretty good shape.
As I got closer to Primm, I noticed two things: first, the towering -- and rickety -- rollercoaster track looming over a building on the east side of town. Second, as I got closer, there seemed to be a complete absence of people visible.
That’s never a good sign in the Mojave, especially with a town like this one that’s sitting on a major trade route like the Long 15, and so close to the border into NCR territory. The last time I was in Primm, there were caravans passing through, pack brahmin milling around... now, nothing.
The town itself actually straddles Route 15, but the portion to the west of the road is mostly just dilapidated shells -- the maintained portion of the town is definitely the east side, where the two casinos and that rollercoaster are. Definitely a pre-war town -- you can always tell by the abundance of brick compared to... well... random *Expletive Deleted* that’s been welded together.
Anyhow, I was headed for the eastern side of town when I was flagged down by a man in a temporary shelter to the west. I recognized the brown uniform immediately -- I should, I wore it myself for long enough -- that marked him as an NCR trooper. This baby-faced kid was everything you’d expect from the NCR’s finest. In a stuttering voice, he warned me away from the eastern side of Primm, stating that escaped convicts from the NCR Correctional Facility had moved in and were terrorizing the locals.
More Powder Gangers, it sounds like. These guys are spreading like radroaches. Damn. Guess I won’t be getting in any gambling.
I asked him why the hell he and his buddies were just standing around rather than charging in to rout a few convicts, and I got exactly the answer I’ve come to expect from the NCR when innocent but politically unimportant folks are in trouble: it’s not in our jurisdiction. 
He blanched at the look I gave him and suggested I speak to his commanding officer. Probably wouldn’t be any more helpful, but at least I might get fancier excuses. I followed the trail of flags and the smell of pomposity to the officer’s tents.
The lieutenant, a bland but curt man named Hayes, clearly didn’t feel he had the time to speak to any non-military personnel, but I didn’t see any frantic tactical action on the immediate horizon so I pushed my way in and demanded why he and his troops were sitting on their khaki-swaddled asses.
More to get rid of me than any thing else, he snapped that the NCR had sent him to contain the escaped convicts, but he didn’t have the manpower. 
Behold, the might of the NCR in the field: no supplies, no reinforcements... no surprises.
I left the veritable hotbed of action that was the officer’s tent and decided to see what I could find out on my own. I may never have been a sharpshooter, but I’ve always been able to skulk around the fringes of a battlefield with the best of them.
Hey, it’s tougher to triage casualties when you’ve been shot in the face, right?
There’s definitely a ‘Ganger presence here. Fortunately, the majority of the action seems to have cooled off for the time being, and they all seem to be in a wary state of inaction, wandering the streets listlessly and keeping their eyes on the NCR camp to the west. 
I spotted the Mojave Express office where I’d gotten the damn job carrying the chip in the first place. Only one of the convicts was close enough to really pose a risk of spotting me, so I got behind him and smashed him in the temple with the grip of my pistol. 
Ah, good old field anaesthesia...
I shoved him into a pile of refuse in the alley behind the Mojave Express building and took his shotgun and the handful of shells from his belt. With him out of the way, I headed for the door, where another body stopped me. 
Slumped on the sidewalk by the door was a young man, clearly dead for several days, but not dressed like the convicts. I looked around to make sure that none of the ‘Gangers were headed my way, then quickly looked the body over -- gingerly, since he was fairly bloated with decay, and I already needed a wash as it was.
Clutched in his hand was an Express delivery slip, with the exact same terms as my contract, except for fuzzy dice instead of a platinum chip. Looks like I wasn’t the only courier who’d had a rough week -- though this poor kid looked like he’d barely gotten out the door. I eased him down all the way down onto his back and put his hand on his chest -- easy enough, as rigor mortis had long since come and gone. Best I could do for him, under the circumstances.
The door to the Mojave Express office was unlocked, so I slipped inside. I’ve been in here for about five minutes now. It’s abandoned, no real sign of a struggle. When I realized no one was here, I flicked on the PIP-Boy’s light, and I’ve been poking around the place. No sign of the old fellow who runs it -- Nash, I think his name was? 
There IS a scrapped robot on the counter, though. Actually... huh... 
*Sounds of metal clanking and scraping.*
Maybe not scrapped, just deactivated? Might be missing a few components, but worth asking Nash about... if he’s not missing too many components.
Let’s see... what else do we have here... Aha! Water in the fridge! And mostly clean, too.
Ah, much better. Never claimed I was a saint, did I? Besides, if Nash is dead, it’s not really theft, and if he’s alive, I’ll be in a better position to lend a hand if I’m not keeling over from dehydration.
*More swallowing.*
Now, I’ve got a pretty good view of the town’s main drag from this window. Nothing moving that I can see. 
...Wait a minute, did someone just peek through the door of the building across the street? Hard to tell with the glare from the setting sun. I’m going to check it out. Might be survivors... or it might be ‘Gangers.
See? Looks like I’m doing some gambling during my stay, after all...
//Recording Ends//

Sunday, May 15, 2011

//Log Date: 2281-10-22 11:02//

<<UserID:Webb>> Good news is, I figured out why people don’t take this road either. Bad news is, I almost died in the discovery. 

About half an hour out of town, I was attacked by enormous insects. I’ve never seen anything like them. They were bigger and much, MUCH faster than bloatflies, with orange wings and black carapaces. They were something like wasps, but without the charming disposition.
I make light of it now, but the fact is, I was terrified. They came up out of nowhere and swarmed me. I went for my pistol, but they were already on top of me, and I was sure I was done. The closest lunged at me and sank its sting into my arm before I could even start shooting. Fire raced up my arm, and I tried to draw a bead on the next one drawing back to sting, but I could barely hold my arm up. Not only were the stings as big as a knife, but they were apparently an injector for some sort of venom. 
Then a hail of bullets ripped into them, shredding wings and spattering the rocks with ichor. I dropped down out of the way -- fairly easy to do, as I was already almost fainting from shock due to the venom -- and just kept my head down until the shooting stopped. 
When the last cough of gunfire and angry buzzing had faded, I raised my head and, for a moment, thought the venom was making me hallucinate. 
It was Victor! The old tin can cowboy apparently followed me out of Goodsprings. When I asked him why, he said he felt somehow responsible for me after pulling me out of the graveyard and wanted to keep an eye on me. I’m not sure if that struck me as noble... or suspicious. It’s also fairly clear that he feels like I owe him, even if he didn’t say it outright. 
Still, if he hadn’t shown up, there’s no way I would have survived those things -- which Victor claims are called “cazadores”, by the way. Even with his help, I almost didn’t survive the poison. It’s just lucky Mitchell had given me some antivenom back when he was first getting me set up, or I don’t think I would have been able to get back to town, even with stimpaks to prop me up on the way. 
The serum did its job, however, and the burning and numbness started to fade. I cleaned out the sting with water from my canteen -- looks like I’ll be headed south after all, so I can refill at the springs as I pass through -- smeared the last of my antiseptic on it, and bound it up with relatively clean linen. It’ll be a bit stiff, but it’s better than losing the arm and no mistake.

Make a note, Webb: either trade for more antivenom the first chance you get, or figure out if you can brew up some yourself ASAP. The last thing I need is to run into more of those wasp critters without a way to patch myself up. Also, if they’re widespread at all -- and isn’t THAT a horrible thought? -- antivenom is probably in high demand among caravaners and other travelers, so I might be able to make some caps out of the bargain to boot.
For now, daylight’s wasting, and my route just got a hell of a lot longer than I hoped. Gotta be more careful on the road, though -- I can’t count on the rust-bucket cavalry showing up every time I run into trouble.
//Recording Ends//

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

//Log Date: 2281-10-22 09:33//

<<UserID:Webb>> Uuuuurgh. The water around here may be pure, but the whiskey sure as hell isn’t. Haven’t had a hangover like this since that night in the Hub... what... six years ago?

My tongue feels like a fuzzy piece of rotten mutfruit. Tastes like it, too.

Where am I? Victor’s place? That’s right, the old clunker said I could crash here. Ooof... where’s my pack... ah, there we go.

*Sounds of metal clanking and canvas straps being adjusted, followed by door hinges creaking.*
Good gravy, that’s bright. I’d swear I found some sunglasses on one of those ‘Gangers... here they are! Much better.
Right. I heard from Chet that Route 15 is seeing some trouble to the North, so that’s probably out, but the Goodsprings road hooks around to the west and then curves back up north, tying into Trail 160 to New Vegas, at least according to my map. Might be a little longer, but it still seems like a much shorter path than the loop down south through Primm. That should let me easily beat Checkers back to New Vegas, even with his head start.
For now, I’ll bid a fond “farewell” to Goodsprings. It’s definitely the most pleasant place I’ve ever been killed.
//Recording Ends//

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

//Log Date: 2281-10-21 21:19//

*Sounds of laughter, music, and glassware clinking.*

<<UserID:Webb>> Just had a bottle of sarsaparilla to chase my beer. Well, if I’m going to be honest, the beer was chasing some whiskey. The sarsaparilla was just keeping it company.
When I popped the cap on the bottle, I saw it had a little blue star on the inside. Never seen one like that. Callie would have loved it. 
God, she loved stars. Remember how she called them “tonkles” when she was little? “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” was her favorite song, but she couldn’t quite say “twinkle”, so stars became “tonkles”. 
I couldn’t bring myself to shove it in with all the other caps in my packs, so I slipped it into my shirt pocket.
I miss you, sweetheart.
<<Unidentified Female>> Doc! Stop lookin’ so mopey and have another round.
<<UserID:Webb>> Duty calls...
//Recording Ends//

Monday, May 9, 2011

//Log Date: 2281-10-21 18:51//

<<UserID:Webb>> Huh. Looks like the recorder switched itself on again during the fight. Maybe I should download a copy for the locals to play for their grandkids.

Anyhow, with the town as prepped as it was going to get, I went to let Ringo know. Just then, Sunny showed up to let us know the gangers had been spotted heading towards Goodsprings. Trudy and the militia were already in position behind wagon barricades by Route 15. The Powder Gangers were approaching from the southwest, driving some bighorners before them as a distraction, but Easy Pete set off some dynamite which turned the stampede right around and back into the gangers.
We charged into the mill of the bighorners and opened fire, cutting down the ‘gangers as they tried to regroup. Cobb was the last to fall. He turned and ran amid the chaos, and Ringo gunned him down just beneath the town’s windmill.
Mitchell and I saw to the wounded -- not too bad, all things considered. Trudy had taken a grazing across the forehead, more burn than wound, and one of the townsfolk had been shot in the thigh, but the round had passed cleanly through. The worst wounded, sadly, was Sunny’s faithful dog Cheyenne. She had charged right into the ‘Gangers and leapt at the first one she could reach, tearing into his arm, but the man had a cleaver and brought it down hard into Cheyenne’s shoulder before Sunny could shoot the scum through the neck. 
I’m no veterinarian, but I did the best I could: shaved the area, cleaned up the cut -- which went all the way to the bone -- then put in as much antibacterial salve as we could spare, placed a makeshift drain made from some tubing we scored from Chet, and stitched it up. Sunny promised she’d keep the old girl resting and stop her from scratching or chewing at the drain. Brave little thing. I’ll be sure to bring her a treat the next time I’m in town.
After the doctoring was done, we stripped the bodies for anything useful -- may as well get something productive out of this mess -- then dragged them up to the graveyard for a quick burial.
Victor, curiously enough, had been a no-show at the fight, despite his enthusiasm when I had first asked him. When I went down to his shack to see what happened, he claimed he had no idea that the skirmish had already happened and said he must have “dozed off”. Sounded to me like his memory modules might be getting corrupted, so I offered to take a rummage in his innards. To my surprise, he consented. Everything looked fine, so I ran a diagnostic on his terminal logs and found that the last entry was some sort of remote over-ride. Victor hemmed and hawed that this was impossible, but I think he seemed worried... at least, as much as a TV on wheels can be worried.
Ringo, when all was said and done, gave me some caps in gratitude -- guess I didn’t win every last one off him in Caravan after all -- and told me to drop in on him at the Crimson Caravan station up in New Vegas when I made it there so he could thank me properly.
For now, I’d better be moving on. Seems like I’ve squared up any debts, and Checkers and his cronies aren’t likely to be sitting around waiting for me to catch them. Maybe I’ll just head straight north to New Vegas -- try to cut them off at the pass, so to speak. 
I’ll spend one last night in Goodsprings, though. Trudy says bottles of the local brew are on the house for milita members tonight, and that’s the sort of deal I’m not going to turn down.
//Recording Ends//

Friday, May 6, 2011

//Log Date: 2281-10-21 14:07//

<<Unidentified Female>> --ure didn’t take their time, did they?

<<UserID:Webb>> Which way are they coming?
<<Unidentified Male>> How many are there?
<<Unidentified Female>> Southwest, through the bighorner pens, and--
<<UserID:Webb>> Damn it!
<<Unidentified Female>> --there’s about half a dozen, including Cobb.
<<UserID:Webb>> Those barricades are facing the wrong way, now. Did Easy Pete come through with the dynamite?
<<Unidentified Female>> Not sure. Come ON, we’ve got to get down there.
<<Unidentified Male>> Lead the way, Smiles.
*Sound of running feet and a dog growling.*
<<UserID:Webb>> Trudy! You all okay?
<<Unidentified Female>> Well! Nice of you to join us, Doctor. I see you brought Mr. Ringo as well. Some friends you’ve invited into town, Mr. Ringo.
<<Unidentified Male>> They ain’t my friends, and you know it.
<<Unidentified Female>> Whatever they are, they certainly--
*Distant bellowing and roaring, accompanied by a steady rumbling.*
<<Unidentified Male>> What the hell is that?
<<Unidentified Female>> Oh, god. Oh, god! They’re stampeding the bighorners towards us!
<<Unidentified Female>> *Expletive Deleted*
<<UserID:Webb>> Don’t just stand there! Shoot the--
*A loud boom.*
<<Unidentified Male>> *Expletive Deleted*
<<UserID:Webb>> *Expletive Deleted*
<<Unidentified Female>> Guess Easy Pete DID find that dynamite, after all.
<<UserID:Webb>> That explosion turned the stampede right back into them! Come on, while they’re trying not to get trampled!
*Sounds of gunfire, shouts, and continued rumbling until the recording abruptly cuts out.*
//Recording Ends//

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

//Log Date: 2281-10-21 13:22//

<<UserID:Webb>> My leg is doing much better today. Looks clear of infection, and the pain is very manageable -- no problems with weight bearing. I’ll keep an eye on it, of course, but looks like I dodged a gangrenous bullet there. That’s the last time I let those little bastards get close to take a bite, I’ll tell you that.
My first stop this morning after taking care of myself was the Prospector Saloon. Sunny was at her usual table, having breakfast, and Cheyenne was enjoying some chow of her own from a bowl on the floor. I was only halfway through explaining the idea of doing something about the Powder Gangers before she cut me off and said she was in, bless her. Reminds me more of Jess than ever. She may not have Jess’s formal training, but she damn sure has her gung-ho spirit.
Sunny suggested we get the townsfolk together and prepped for a fight, so that, when the ‘Gangers come for Ringo, we can hit them hard enough that they don’t think about coming back. Show them that Goodsprings isn’t some ghost town that will blow away in the wind. It’s as good an idea as anything I could devise, so we split up to see who we could recruit.

As I was already in the Prospector, I figured I’d hit up Trudy first, while she was still hopefully in a good mood from my fixing her radio yesterday. She took a little convincing, but eventually I got her to see the light of a united front and convincing the ‘Gangers that they can’t just sweep into town and do whatever they like. She said she’d round up some folks as well. Seems like Goodsprings is on its way to having its own militia.
Next, I brought some lunch from Trudy’s up to Mitchell’s place, and, over roast iguana, he and I went over our pooled medical supplies and made plans for dealing with any injuries that might arise if things went bad with the Powder Gangers. He’d be sitting out the fight itself, of course, but he’d have his little operating theater prepped and ready to go. Here’s hoping we won’t need it.
I spotted the old “prospector” Easy Pete ambling through town as I left Mitchell’s. Well, he claims he’s a prospector, but, as far as I can tell, he’s just a retired scavenger who prefers a more colorful name for his profession. 
Sunny had mentioned he might have some dynamite hidden away somewhere, and that sort of ordnance could definitely come in handy -- after all, the Powder Gangers would definitely be bringing explosives of their own. 
Pete was hesitant at first, and perhaps rightly so -- he was unsure that anyone other than him had the experience to handle dynamite safely. After a few minutes, though, I convinced him that Mitchell and I were more than ready to put right any mishaps and, besides, this wasn’t exactly my first time around explosives. Reluctantly, he agreed and went to dig up his stash. I hope to hell we won’t need it, but I’ll be glad to know it’s handy.
I even asked the robot Victor to chip in, and he was more than happy to volunteer. I figure, even if he isn’t much in a fight, the rest of us can still use the big guy as cover. We can always patch him up afterwards, right?
My last stop was the general store. We’ve got people and weapons -- now we need some protection, and Chet was the only source in town. He was just recalcitrant as everyone had warned; he simply didn’t want to be involved in a potential scrap in any way and risk himself or his stock. I asked him how long he thought his store would last if the ‘Gangers took over Goodsprings -- they don’t strike me as the bartering type. He finally saw the light and begrudgingly forked over some decent leather armor for the would-be militia members.
Now, we’re armed, armored, and as ready as we’re going to be. Everyone is forming up behind some makeshift wagon barricades between the town and Route 15; the prison the ‘Gangers took over is to the east, so they should be coming at us from that direction. I’m going to go let Ringo know that we’re ready to make a stand. 
The only thing left to do at this point is to wait for the ‘Gangers to make their play.
//Recording Ends//

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

//Log Date: 2281-10-20 22:07//

*Several minutes of miscellaneous night noises, then a surprised grunt.*

<<UserID:Webb>> What the... When the hell did this thing get turned on?
Huh. Looks like the recorder occasionally switches on by itself. No wonder Mitchell wanted to ditch the damn thing.
All right, Webb, take note: if there are patches of white noise or silence, it’s NOT neurological problems on your end, just a touchy old PIP-Boy.
Well, probably.
//Recording Ends//