The wastes swallowed sound.
For hours the only noise was the plod of brahmin hooves, the creak of leather straps, and the occasional cough from one of the guards. The road east from Megaton was more suggestion than path, broken asphalt winding through skeleton neighborhoods where hollow-eyed houses leaned against one another like drunks.
Ash walked on the right flank, his revolvers riding easy at his hips. His gaze moved constantly — rooftops, alleys, windows blackened with age. He watched like it was second nature, each flick of his eyes quick and practiced.
Most of the caravan guards joked to pass the time. One of them, a scarred man with a hunting rifle, laughed about the last job gone wrong. "Brahmin fell in a sinkhole," he said, slapping his thigh. "Whole damn load swallowed up! Took us three hours to pull the beast out, and it came out smellin' worse than a ghoul's breath."
The others chuckled. Ash didn't.
Crow noticed. The merchant pulled his patched coat tighter and sidled up near him. "You don't talk much, do you, kid?"
Ash shrugged. "Talkin' doesn't stop bullets."
Crow barked a short laugh. "Fair enough. But sometimes it stops knives in the back. Keep that in mind."
The Ruins
By midday, they passed under the shattered skeleton of a freeway. The sky loomed gray above, and the smell of rust clung thick. Ash slowed, his eyes narrowing on movement in the distance — just a shimmer at first, like heat haze.
One of the guards noticed him pause. "What is it?"
"Nothing," Ash said, though his fingers brushed the grip of his revolver.
Crow's eyes sharpened. "You saw somethin'."
"Not sure yet," Ash answered. "Could be wind. Could be eyes."
The others grew uneasy. The wasteland had that effect — silence stretching too long, shadows playing tricks.
Campfire
They made camp that night in the shell of an old diner, its roof half caved in but walls enough to break the wind. A fire crackled low in the center, casting long shadows on peeling wallpaper and rusted booths.
The guards ate in silence. Crow sharpened a knife, his eyes occasionally flicking toward Ash, who sat near the edge of the firelight, his revolver laid across his lap as he polished the barrel with a rag.
"You always treat your guns like they're holy?" one of the guards asked, breaking the quiet.
Ash didn't look up. "They are."
That earned a couple chuckles, though there was no malice in them.
Crow leaned back against a wall, staring at the boy. "Simms said you're different. I can see it. But out here?" He gestured toward the dark wasteland beyond the diner. "Out here, difference gets you killed as often as it saves you. Tomorrow you'll find out which it is."
Ash didn't answer. He just slid the revolver back into its holster and stared into the fire until the flames blurred.
The wastes had gone quiet again. Too quiet.
Tomorrow, something would come.