Ralph woke early in the morning to the sound of the Anthem of the Great Republic.
"Name of this damn anthem is bloody stupid." he muttered into his pillow.
0500 hours. McCarran was just now getting up, replacing the night gaurds with their relief gaurds for the day, soldiers arming themselves; to an outsider it would look like an average day, and for most of the troopers it was. More than ordinary, in fact. But for Ralph, suffering from a hangover, and Sterling, it was anything but average. Today their orders to patrol the surrounding area began.
Both of them were fairly certain it would be their demise. Entire squadrons of men had been wiped of the map- without a trace before. How it was the higher-ups thought it possible for two snipers to do it alone, and Sterling was near crippled, to boot.
Ralph double checked his rifle, made sure to snag some extra ammo, clipped his binoculars to his belt, and did a host of other preparations to maximize their chances of survival. His, anyway.
Sterling and Ralph signed out of the First Recon tent and headed to the gate. Another sign-out sheet. Command liked to keep track of them.
“So Sterling, where to?”
“I'm not sure. They didn't give us specific patrols, huh?”
“Nope. How about just walking ‘round the perimeter till we find something.”
“Sounds good.”
The men traveled around the walls, once, twice, three times. After beginning the fourth, they stopped.
“This is stupid. No Fiend will come this close, no matter how drugged up they are.”
“Afraid you're right, Ralph. I say we’re due a quick break anyway.”
Ralph sat down on a crumbled wall and pulled a cigarette from a pack in his breast pocket.
“Smoke?”
“Nah.” Sterling replied, though he did sit next to him.
Ralph took out his lighter and light the cigarette. The Sun was beating down on them without mercy and without pause; it was as most things are, harsh, inside the walls of cities and out. No place in the wastes was truly safe, certainly nobody was trustworthy. More people were murdered than starved, and that was usually to prevent the murderer from starving; surprisingly the first time in human history that starvation was only the number 3 cause of death, just after murder and finally dehydration. It was in these horrid circumstances that humanity found itself in.
Alone, with only the wind to keep them company. Old World Regrets.
Oh yes, they had a name for the mood they were in. Dreaming of before the radiation, the dust, the mutants, the crumbled concrete.
Sterling stood, Ralph following suit.
“Back to it, then. Where to now, Sterling?”
After talking it over, they decided to climb up an old water tower to use as a vantage point. It was rusted straight to the core and any remnants of a safety rail around the ladder and the top platform had long since disappeared; lost to the wasteland. They slowly began up the ladder, taking care not to cut themselves or break a weak link, and finally made it to the top.
“Gonna need a tetanus shot after this.”
The snipers spent hours in the tower, Ralph scanning the are with his binoculars, but not once did either man spot a Fiend. They stood idly by, ever on alert, until just before sunset when the descended the ladder and entered McCarran once more.
They went back into First Recon’s tent and were welcomed with their daily rations and an eager crowd who wished to watch a game of Blackjack between Lieutenant Gorobets and Ralph.
“Whose deck are we playing with?” was Ralph’s first reaction. With him, the answer to a challenge was always ‘yes’; the only thing he cared about was not letting anyone involved cheat, though he himself wasn't always a squeaky-clean player
“Mine.” Ralph looked over to Betsy who was pulling a deck of cards out of her pocket.
Ralph ran a hand through his graying beard and nodded. He and Gorobets sat down on folding chairs at a small table and smiled to each other; they were about the same age and had similar personalities, so they got along fairly well. The only thing that either loved more then blowing some poor chump’s head off was winning a gamble.
“We betting or just playing for bragging rights?”
“Ralph Baker, you know that betting is strictly forbidden.”
“Can't blame me for tryin’.”
The two of them also liked to play a slightly more interesting version of the game; the cards were not public. It didn't affect the game much, though the reactions from the crowd when the players revealed their cards was much more satisfying.
Betsy delt out the cards.
Gorobets made the first move; “Hit.” Betsy slid him a card.
Ralph passed his turn.
The crowd looked back to Gorobets and examined his face as he tried to decide whether to hit again or just finish with what he had. He took just long enough that nobody saw Ralph replace a Two of Hearts with a King of Hearts he kept in his boot.
He tried to refrain from cheating. For the most part, he was quite trustworthy. If there was anyone in the world who might be able to best him, though, it was Gorobets. Somehow, someway, Gorobets was just as good at Blackjack than him, and that was something Ralph couldn't stand.
Gorobets ultimately decided to refrain from another card, and they both laid out their hands before the crowd. Gorobets came in with an impressive 18. Everyone looked across the table to Ralph’s deck.
His King sat next to an Ace. 21.
They all knew he cheated; he was discreet, of course, but not a single person in that tent believed that that was the hand he was delt. However, with no proof, they all mumbled about who they would've put money on and how it was a good game, and various other related topics. Betsy put her deck face down on the table for both of the men to put their cards back, and it was that way that Ralph easily managed to slip the Two back in and place his King back into his boot.
They normally would have played a few more rounds, but for this particular night it was nearing lights-out, and the Major was very strict about being punctual with bed. Early to sleep, early to wake, things would get done earlier; at least, that was his reasoning. In actuality, it simply annoyed the soldiers.
They took off their jackets and berets, and climbed into their bunks, preparing for more of the same for the next few years; more if they re-enlisted.
Ralph awoke in the middle of the night to loud snores coming from the sofa. He opened an eye and in the dim light could just make out the figure of Ten of Spades slumped over, a half-eaten box of Sugar Bombs still in his hand. Damn kid loved his snacks. He quietly eased himself out of his bunk, luckily on the bottom, and crept quietly behind the sofa, making sure to not kick the boys’ hidden stash of snacks and alcohol. He held his hand hovering over the kids mouth, then pressed it hard against it.
Ten’s eyes snapped open.
“MMMmmM!”
His breathing was heavy as his eyes adjusted to the dark and he tried to escape Ralph’s grasp.
“Relax, kid. It's just me.” He whispered.
“Jesus, Ralph! Don't do th-th-that kinda shit t-t-to people!”
He patted him on his shoulder.
“Next time don't fall asleep while eating your Sugar Bombs.”
“Baker, Spades! Back to your bunks.”
“Sure thing, Lieutenant.”
The rest of Recon snickered, and Gorobets sighed.
“Is everyone awake?”
A unanimous ‘yes’ resounded throughout the members. Gorobets sighed and rolled over in his bed, leaving the rest to go back to sleep on their own in the surprisingly cool night.
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