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The sand was peaceful, albeit a little cold. He didn’t mind much. He’d made himself comfortable in a small crawling root from the nearby Geoplant, where the low foliage curled through the sand and held him like a cradle. Almost like his Sister was holding him, here to comfort him in her own special way. He could hear the hum of her song, soft and soothing. It lulled him enough to let his eyes droop closed.
He thought of the people he loved. His brother; Despite it all, he couldn’t say he hated him. Milly; She’d started slowing down the last time he got to see her, her bangs long since gone white and her smiles leaving permanent creases on sun-speckled skin. Meryl; Still a career gal, though she’d started trading in mini skirts and heeled boots for slacks and flats. Livio; Still working like a dog at Hopeland, having stepped into Miss Melanie’s role after her passing. And Wolfwood.
Wolfwood, Wolfwood, Wolfwood. Forever frozen in his memory, bold form and black hair, smile all teeth. He’d been scared to death that somewhere along the line, he’d start to forget Wolfwood’s face. It had pushed him to tears more than once, the fear that Wolfwood would be forever lost to the sand and forgotten. He couldn’t stand the thought that no one else would get to experience the joy of Nicholas D. Wolfwood. Milly and Meryl had surprised him with an album of printed candid photos that they’d taken of everyone in their time traveling together, and he wept seeing Wolfwood’s face, full of life.
He didn’t carry the whole album with him. It was safe in the nightstand of his bedroom on Ship 3. He’d started going back more frequently in the past handful of years, for more repairs on himself, his arm, his jacket, everything. His reflexes had started slowing and he’d been getting hit more, and without someone there to patch him up and keep an eye on his wounds, he’d started getting sicker. He attributed it to his age, and the Plant power being drained from his body. No more immunity to infection without a healing factor. Admittedly, he knew he’d gotten spoiled traveling with Wolfwood. Wolfwood, who fussed over every bullet hole, who cleaned every wound with drops from their bottle of liquor, and who held him through the stabbing pains that lingered after he’d been patched up.
It dawned on him that he didn’t hurt as he was. No aches, no stinging pain, no lead rattling in his lungs. It was freeing. It felt like he was outside his body, that he was an incorporeal being floating above the sand. His body settled, heavy and limp against the low foliage below. His Sister’s song faded in his ears.
A single apple tree in the center of the foliage patch stood in the level sands, wrapped in faded red fabric that appeared pink and tattered on the edges. Buried below, a battered silver Colt was wrapped in the roots as if the tree was clinging to it with desperate, knotted fingers. The rich, autumn-colored fruit never rotted, never fell to the sands below. The harsh conditions of the desert never hindered the growth of the tree, it stood proud and tall, a beacon of resilience in the desert.
The name of Vash the Stampede quietly fizzled out. The legendary outlaw’s name quietly blew out into the sand, never to terrorize Noman’s Land again.