Caravan #6

6 Sep

Two piles of muscle stared at Walther through narrow eye-slits. No, these two were not in a joking mood.

“Now gents, I understand that you’re about to throw me out the door, and I get that, I surely do. I’ve caused a ruckus, and you have jobs to do. But I came in with a good friend, and he got himself shot fighting raiders on the Green Bay – Duluth run. So after you’ve thrown me out with the trash, if you could just make sure Freddie gets medical care, I would be much obliged.”

Without so much as a grunt the two thugs stepped towards Walther. He wasn’t rightly sure what happened next. There were a couple of thuds, an enormous amount of pain, and he was upside down in a dusty gutter a surprising distance from the hospital entrance. He took a bit to right himself and collect his effects. (How on earth did his hat get all the way over there?) A quick mental inventory told him that he was heavily bruised, but not unduly injured. Those boys had done their job without an undue level of violence, and he couldn’t fault them for that. And they at least hadn’t thrown Fred out. No way of knowing whether he was getting timely medical care or not, but he’d done what he could.

He was starting to ponder his next course of action when a weedy little man in a tweed jacket stepped out of the medical center. “Excuse me,” the man said, “I couldn’t help but notice your little altercation. You wouldn’t happen to be Walther Bowes, would you?”


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