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Six days out of Diamond City, five since Nate had eaten anything resembling a regular meal. They’d hit a Super-Duper Mart on the second day and found a box of Ritz crackers and a dented can of tuna with a torn label. His ‘rations’ had lasted until sundown on the fourth day. In his army days, he’d lived off less for longer, but his aim was starting to suffer. Nate couldn’t stop his hands shaking; the barrel of his rifle dipped and swayed like a punch-drunk boxer even when he stood still.
Hancock was starting to worry.
“Better take it easy before you drop dead,” he said, his voice artificially bright and cheerful. “You keel over, I’m not hauling your ass back home.”
Nate shrugged with one shoulder, head on a swivel. The hunger was making him sloppy, and he’d been letting his guard slip. They’d stumbled into Raider ambushes twice in three days, narrowly escaping each time, and he was determined not to let it happen again. He shaded his eyes and peered into the falling night, his eyes darting back and forth across the ruined horizon.
He lifted his Pip-Boy and tuned the radio, searching for a particular station broadcasting dead air. He’d found the frequency a week earlier while scanning for numbers stations. Over the roar of the static, Nate could pick out low groans and cries, muffled thumps and ragged, uneven breathing. It was a distress signal, or something like it, and he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t track the signal to its source.
“Seriously,” Hancock said, lengthening his stride to keep pace with Nate. “We should stop, find you something to eat. There’s got to be an old diner or a Red Rocket or something around here, somewhere.” He tugged at the cuffs of his red frock coat. “Or an ice cream truck or a bomb shelter full of beans. Food.”
“That’s not our priority,” said Nate, snapping the radio off. “We have to track that signal to its source.”
“Whoever’s broadcasting can wait for the extra hour it’ll take us to find something to eat,” Hancock said. “You’re no good to anyone if you can’t keep your rifle on target because you haven’t eaten in a week.”
“Two days,” Nick corrected. “Humans can go thirty without food.”
“And ghouls can go three months, but you don’t see me signing up.” He drummed his fingers against the wooden stock of his shotgun, tapping out a nervous beat. “You can’t live off Med-X and Buffout.”
“Can try,” he said, forcing a grin onto his face.
Hancock didn’t return his smile. “We stop at the next building to scavenge for food,” he said, “Or I’m going to knock you over the head and feed you like a baby bird.”
The ghoul’s expression was grave, no trace of humor in his weathered features. Nate sighed. “We’re close,” he said. “Damn close. I don’t want to get sidetracked, leave this thing unfinished.”
“We won’t,” Hancock said. “But you need to eat, to rest. We’re goddamn heroes, but you’re not invincible. Even Grognak had to stop to shit.”
“I must have missed that issue,” Nate said drily, quietly comforted by Hancock’s use of the word we. “You’re right, I’d hate to keel over and leave you bereft of a sidekick.”
Hancock punched Nate in the arm good-naturedly. “I’m always right,” he said. “‘Bout damn time you started listening to me.” He grinned, black eyes flashing with mirth, and Nate’s stomach did a somersault.
----
He dropped his gaze and cleared his throat. “Next building,” he said gruffly, lifting his eyes to the horizon, his rifle at the ready.
A Red Rocket appeared on the horizon, its familiar curvilinear arches rusted and pockmarked with age. A long-ago explosion had taken the pumps and the front of the building, littering the bushes and road with twisted hunks of metal. Pebbles of blue safety glass crunched underfoot, glinting queerly in the amber light of his Pip-Boy. Inside, the shelves were bare, long-since picked clean. Hancock went to work on the locked office door while Nate sifted through the rubble, ignoring the hollow ache of his empty stomach.
Finding nothing, he stood, stretched, and flicked to the turned the radio on again and tuned to the eerie distress signal, listening for a voice in the static. Nothing had changed, and he shut the radio off, crossing the ruined filling station to the office door. “Find anything?”
“Pack of gum,” Hancock said, tossing it to him underhand. Nate caught it easily and turned the package over in his hands.
“Big Pops bubblegum,” Nate read. “Watermelon flavored. Comes with a real pirate tattoo.”
“A what tattoo?”
“Nevermind,” said Nate. “This it?”
Hancock shrugged. “We got a hotplate and a busted terminal. Can’t eat any of it.”
“Gum it is, then,” Nate said. He fumbled with the pack for a moment before he got his nails under the edge of the waxy wrapper, then he tore it away and let it fall to the floor. The pack had six sticks of gum in foil wrappers and he divided them evenly between himself and Hancock. He pretended not to notice when the ghoul slipped two sticks of gum back into Nate’s pocket.
He unwrapped the first stick of gum and popped it into his mouth, working his jaw furiously to soften it. The watermelon flavor was cloyingly artificial, sweeter than anything he’d tasted in months. His mouth filled with saliva and he embarrassed himself by drooling on his jacket.
Hancock pretended not to notice.
“Did you ever have watermelon,” he said, “Before the war, I mean.”
Nate nodded. “Yeah. The gum doesn’t really do it justice, though.”
“Figures.” Hancock turned the wrapper over in his hands and creasing it with his thumbnail and folded it over again. “I’ve seen pictures in books,” he said. “Always wanted to try one. A real one.”
“Might still be watermelons, out there somewhere,” Nate said. “I mean, the things were full of seeds. Has to be somebody, somewhere, who stocked up and got a garden going.”
“Yeah,” said Hancock wistfully. He twisted the wrapper in his hands, transforming it into a tiny foil rose. He reached out and tucked the ‘stem’ into Nate’s lapel, smoothing it with his hands. “There,” he said gently. “A flower.”
His hands lingered on Nate’s chest for half a heartbeat longer than necessary, and Nate forgot to breathe for a moment. “Thanks,” he said, his hunger temporarily forgotten.
“Don’t mention it,” Hancock said, his hands falling uselessly to his sides.
They stood there a moment, chests almost touching, not looking at one another, and then Hancock stepped away, tugging at his cuffs again. “We should go,” he said. “Greener pastures, people to save, all of that.”
“Yeah,” Nate said, distractedly. “Don't want to leave things unfinished.”