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Alrighty fellas, after a long little time, I finally got around to putting another chapter up. Maybe not the longest, but things are getting a bit more interesting. Leave a comment if you like it!

There's a thing about war that only a few people really understand. Everybody knows what starts a war, who fights the war, and how much there is to lose, but how does it end? When does either side sit down around their world maps and inked red lines and plans and say to each other "Hey, how 'bout we call it good now?" Where is that line drawn? If two countries fight over oil, surely they cannot just fight until the other is gone, their red lines wiped from the map. And yet the other side may not win until the same is done unto their enemies. When a truce is called, who tells them to stop? Where do they go? How do they get there?

In the year 2023, the war pigs that were had to face this same issue. In the Middle East, Iraq had undergone a heavy power trip, spurred on by a leader who was never officially named. The determined and well-armed militant forces of the land spread quickly, taking the surrounding land by storm. Before long, Iraq had made a successful annex of Syria, Iran, Saudi Arabia, and Pakistan. This new country hybrid called itself Rikustque. Of course, the United States had to step up and challenge this try at domination, as it always did. The only reason it was allowed to progress as far as it did was because of the threat of nuclear weapons that Rikustque claimed to own. When Afghanistan stood up to an attack based through Pakistan, China took a move in its defense. From that point on, it was the Great War, all over again. Allies took sides, countries teamed up, and threats flew like missiles. All countries stood their ground with a common threat: Nuclear warfare. The entire world held its breath.

Nobody, even now, almost 100 years later, knows who fired the first shot. The world was set like a doomsday machine from the start. Each country threatened the end of everything, even themselves, in the event of an attack. When the bombs landed in France, it was over in a matter of hours. Alliances held, and the missiles flew. For 30 years afterward, the world was quite. Then, the shelters opened back up. Nobody knew how to end the war, so the war ended itself.

The first thing that people had to ask was, "Who's in charge?", "Where is Mr. President?", "What will he do first?" What nobody knew, was that nobody was in charge any more. Nobody was in control, nobody was behind a big desk in a big bunker, planning how to rebuild the US. There was nobody. People did figure it out, eventually, and by that time nobody cared anyway. The world was different, and the rules had changed. The only thing people could still remember, the last bit of civilization left in their blood, was money. People still lived to earn, and earned to live. One of the first things to show itself again when the dust settled was a workable economic system. People traded, sold bartered, all on an unchanging dollar that was around before the war. The last memory they could cling to was money. It turns out, money is all it takes to build a world.

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When Nicholson got back into the truck stop, this age-old rule revealed itself again. Bandits, after all that they could get. Bodies lie in red clods of sand, and only a few settlers were still running through the town. The others were either dead, or had wised up and hidden. The bandits were dressed in a lazy selection of worn-out combat armor or leather sheets, which in truth did little help protecting against the dangers of the wastes. Their faces were swathed in sheets and some wore scratched glasses or visors to protect from the sand. Nicholson even spied one man rooting through somebody's backpack while sporting a set of protective chemistry goggles over his eyes.

They hadn't spotted him yet, so he used this to his advantage. Drawing both revolvers, he crouched and crept around a linoleum-sided shack, removing his duster jacket and leaving it lying in the dirt. He counted to three then spun out from behind the shack, squeezing two rounds from either gun into the two nearest bandits, who hit the dirt immediately. They may not be dead, but they weren't planning on moving any time soon. The others had spotted him now, and the nearest brought an old and heavy-looking pre-war rifle up to his hip, shooting at the drifter before even taking time to aim. Nicholson kept moving, making a beeline for Charles' bar while the bandit's bullets went whizzing far behind him. Keeping low, he pivoted and put two rounds from his right-hand gun at the bandit, catching him in the gut with the second shot.

The bandit fell, but the others were picking up speed, sprinting after the gunslinger and spraying bullets blindly into the air around him. Nicholson dived through the shattered glass door and took cover behind the bar, guns on raised to his shoulders, waiting for the bandits to come through the door. After a minute nothing happened, and the drifter took the chance of hoping that they had found interest in something else in the town worth looting. That was when heard Charles groan from the floor near his feet.

The heavy bartender lay on the floor behind the bar, taking on the appearance of a deflating boulder wrapped in clothes. His round stomach rose in shuddering heaves and Nicholson crawled over, setting the hammers of his Big Irons back into place and holstering them. There was a riddling of small jagged holes up Charles's arm and shoulder, blossoming outward like paper punctured by a pencil. Nicholson dug into his courier back and pulled out a morphine needle, popped the lid free with his teeth, and stuck the needle into the barkeep's shoulder. Charles didn't even flinch.

"I don't have any o' the grainy healing powder with me, but I can fetch some later. This'll do for now." Nicholson said under his breath as he pulled the needle from the barkeep's shoulder and tossed it aside. "Now quickly, what happened?"

"The fuckin' bandits 'appened, are ye blind?!" Charles roared, his stomach growing a foot higher than his head as he shouted. Nicholson gave his injured arm a light swat and pressed a finger to his snout, reminding the irate bartender to watch his noise, and his temper.

"When did they show, did they say anything?" Nicholson inquired, still keeping his voice just above a whisper. Charles grimaces and hesitated, his stomach forming landscapes as he inhaled.

"They walked into the stop jus' as soon as ye left, faces all covered and guns strapped about their backs." Charles began, keeping his voice at a wheezy monotone. "They came in as if they had just bee' waiting for you to be gone, like it was their queue. They brou' out their guns and took down poor ol Han and that fellow who sells used brass jus' like that, then told er'body to scatter lest the same happen to them." Just then two more shot barked from outside the bar, and Nicholson's guns were out and at the ready. He waited with his sights on the doors for 30 seconds, and then returned his attention back to the downed not-so-jolly bartender.

"What then?" Nicholson probed.

"I turned to get in mah' bar, and they shot me in the god-dammed back. I made it this far and then resigned myself as goo' as dead." Charles said, waving a dramatic hand over his head and rolled his eyes. "As far as I can tell nobody es' is dead though, just righ' scared and hiding."

"What about Mike?"

"The young'n? I reckon he's hidin ou' with his mother."

"Good. Stay put, I'll be back in three."

With that, Nicholson swept his hat from his head, placed it on the bar counter, stood, and strode back through the shattered glass door, guns raised and aimed at three of the bandits who were huddled around a pile of odds and ends, attempting to stuff a rag into the top of a bottle filled with alcoholic slop. He fired twice, once from each six-shooter, and two of the bandits roared in pain. They clutched at their backs, shoulder blades arching together, and pitched forward into the pile of clutter.

The last one yelped and dragged his rifle from behind his back, and Nicholson thumbed back the hammer on his right-hand revolver, all the while advancing on the bandit at a brisk pace. The bandit almost got the rifle to bear when it's strap caught on a plate of the combat armor he wore. From beneath the cloth that covered his face came a quiet whimper and he tugged at the gun with shaky hands, attempting to wrench it free. Nichols fired once into the ground, still walking quickly toward the man. The bandit flinched hard enough to pull the gun free, now bringing it up to his shoulder and grabbing the bolt to charge the bullet into the chamber. Nicholson fired into the ground again, now five feet from the bandit, and the man flinched a second time, giving a high-pitched shout and pulling the bolt back too hard. Bullets tinkled and glinted in the light as they fell from the bottom of his rifle and the bandit let out a groan of despair. Nicholson now stood arms length from the bandit and raised his revolver to the man's forehead, thumbing the hammer back again. As the cylinder turned and the hammer clicked back, the bandit shut his eyes tight and moaned a shaky nervous breath. Nicholson pulled the trigger, and the hammer clicked down against the empty shell that had been used to kill Granite. The bandit fainted.

Nicholson turned, holstering his right-hand Iron and swapping the one in his left over to his right. He made a quick jog over to the shack where Mike and his mother lived, reloading the revolver as he went. A series of staccato gunshots followed by a high scream caused the gunslinger to hurry his pace, keeping a steady eye on the surrounding in search of other armed robbers.

When he reached the shack, he found the door ajar and broke into a sprint, pulling the hammer of the Iron in his hand into position. When he crossed the threshold his blinked several times, coaxing his eyes to adjust to the gloom inside the shack. The canine shepherd mutie who was Mike's mother was slumped against the table in the middle of the room, the insides of her head were splattered against the opposite wall, where they had already begun to slide down toward the floor. A man in tough leather clothes and with a wood, handled machine gun cocked in one hand, spun around to face the drifter, and behind him Nicholson spotted the little mutie, backed into the farthest corner of the dark and dusty shack.

The bandit opened fire, an ugly snarl was smeared across his face, illuminated a sickening yellow with each shot from the gun in his hands. Nicholson ducked back and juked behind the door, taking two hits into the side of his rib cage. He slammed his back against the sheet metal wall beside the doorframe as stars burst through his vision and the air left his lungs. He sucked in breath but it fled him instantly, and blood soaked from the holes in his side. He counted to three and then spun back out around the door, firing once into the bandit's chest.

The bandit gave a short cry, made half a turn toward the table, and fell on his back. Nicholson advanced on Mike and hoisted him up over his shoulder, wheezing in quiet agony as the holes in his side protested his every move. Mike began to speak when a foot shot from beneath the table and knocked the drifter on his ass. The mutie pup fell from his shoulder and went tumbling across the room, flailing his arms to regain control of himself.

Nicholson gasped at the air, tasting blood as it ran across his tongue. He looked up to find the bandit, standing up and lifting the machine gun up to the gunslinger's head. Nicholson kicked out in an arch, grimacing with every movement, and his boot connected with the bandit's knee, sending him back to the ground. The drifter raised his pistol and shot again, sending the shot up the bandit's chin and out the top of his head.

Before going back to retrieve Mike, who was now huddled in the other corner, whimpering quietly, Nicholson lifted the leather armor away from the bandit's body to find a thick Kevlar vest, bleached grey from years in the sun. Just above the logo of the vest (APDSWAT) on the right side, was a flattened .357 bullet, embedded neatly into the fabric. Nicholson unzipped the jacket and flipped the bandit's body over to pull it free. He then called the frightened mutant boy back over to him and wrapped him in the heavy bulletproof material.

"We're going back to the bar now alright?" Nicholson whispered, close to the boy's ear. "I want you to stay quiet and hold to me tight, unti' I give the word, ye kin?" The boy nodded slowly, wiping his now and sniffling shakily. The drifter hoisted the boy back up onto his shoulder, groaning through the pain as best as he could.

As he left the shack, he began running as fast as his legs could carry, back to the bar. Gunshots rang out to his left and right, throwing up hiccups of sand from the ground at his feet and whining like bees as they passed his head. He struggled for air as the holes in his lungs leaked, and he could dark rings growing in the corners of his vision.

Only a few more yards, his body ached and his breath came ragged. He dove through the door of the bar when the gunfire stopped and Charles, who was now sitting upright, caught Mike as he fell from the gunslinger's arms. Nicholson rolled onto his back, staring up at the fading ceiling and choking on nothing at all. Before long, the world went dark.