Title: The Night Wade Elliott Died. (ReVolution 249 triple threat match vs. Johnny Noble and Big Bear)
Featuring: Wade Elliott
Date: Through the years.
Location: Somewhere in Pennsylvania.

Fenway Park. Colossus.
August, 2009

"That hurt...

Gotta admit, wasn't 'xpectin' that kick. C'mon Wade, get yerself up.

Alright, he's gon' be close. Where are ya...

There.

Damn, missed.

Ah, hell, he's got me ass over tea-kettle.

Shit."


* * * * * * *


Somewhere in Pennsylvania...

She took cautious steps through the black. Gentle, heel-toe movements to stifle the sound of dirt crunching under her shoes. She could only guess where the sound of the metal behemoth had come from, but she knew she was getting close.

An orange flicker around the bend stopped her for a moment. She lifted her bolt action 30./30. rifle into firing position and proceeded forward.

The vehicle had exploded. The silhouette of a large black pickup sat in the middle of the dirt road, burning hot. She kept her distance, the heat already hitting her face some twenty yards back.

Heavy steps tightened her grip. She turned the barrel of her rifle in their direction and waited. From the darkness came the shape of a large man, almost zombie-like as he moved toward her. She kept the bead locked on his head.

"Are you alright, stranger?" she called.

He kept walking without answer. She kept her rifle pinned to his forehead. His face eventually came into view, a frightened, wide-eyed visage, wearing rough brown hair and a heavy goatee, the left side of his face soaked in blood, smeared into his hair.

"I could use a hand."


* * * * * * *


Scattered, grainy, and shaky.

A glass smashed onto a bar counter.

Noise. Voices. Yelling.

Dirty looks.

A shoulder running into a door jamb.

Truck door flung open.

Keys struggling to find their way.

Roar to life.

The squeal of rubber on asphalt.


* * * * * * *


His steely blue eyes fluttered open, squinting as the sharp light of the sun struck his pupils. It took him a minute to realize that he was awake, and more importantly, alive.

The headache, however, became his next immediate focus.

It had been a very, very long time since he had a legitimate hangover. When your bloodstream has been equal parts black coffee and Jim Beam for the better part of two decades, it takes a lot for your body to react badly to it.

Apparently, he had drank more than a lot.

He sat up, taking notice of the old, tan fabric couch he had spent the night on. He rubbed his temples, dragged a hand over his face and down his goatee, feeling a bandage taped over the left corner of his forehead.

"Shit," he grumbled.

He was in a small cabin. One large room with a bedroom off the back of the building as far as he could guess. A small wood stove in the left corner, a modest wooden table in the center, one chair pulled up underneath. Shelves. A simple counter-top with a sink. Average sliding windows on the opposing walls. The very basics.

"Ahh, hell. What've ya done this time..." he asked himself, sighing heavily.

"That's a good question."

He turned his head to the left. A woman, probably early to mid thirties, average in height, stood leaning against the doorway of the room off the back of the cabin. Arms crossed, a somewhat judgmental stare from light brown eyes lay on the beat-down drifter. She was beautiful in way that make-up and expensive clothes might ruin everything.

Wade turned his head away, planting his hands on the edge of the couch.

"S'pose I got you to thank," he said.

"I guess," she replied. "You made quite a mess back there."

Wade nodded, and lowered his head a bit, realizing his truck was likely destroyed.

"What's your name?" she asked, straightforward. More of a demand than a question.

"Wade," he replied. "We can leave it at that. Yer's?"

"Any idea where you are, Wade?" she asked, deflecting his inquiry.

"Not even close. Last thing I remember is gettin' my ass kicked in Boston."

"Boston?" she echoed with disbelief. "When were you in Boston?"

"What's the date?"

"The 29th of August."

He almost laughed, placing a paw on his forehead.

"Yesterday."

"Yesterday?" she said with a condescending chuckle. "Well, you must have had somewhere real important to be to make it all the way out to the Middle of Nowhere, Pennsylvania in one night from Boston. Amazing you made it this far considering how shit-faced you were. That was real smart, Mr. Wade."

"It ain't all that surprisin'," he replied.

Pennsylvania. Not even the slightest memory. Not a very good sign.

"Well, you probably chose the best place in the state to wreck your rig. It's pretty much just me for a good thirty miles in any direction, the cops don't make it out this way very often. But that doesn't mean they don't show up once in a while, and you slept all day, so we'd better go get that mess off the road before we lose daylight."

He nodded, and pushed himself to his feet.

"That'd be good."


* * * * * * *


She rested a hand on the front tire of her small tractor. The old machine sat idling in the dirt road, the sun almost ready to disappear over the tree-tops. She stared at the Bad Dog, twenty yards ahead, standing in front of his demolished Chevy Silverado, waiting.

He couldn't really move. There it was. The closest thing he could call home in years. A black, bent mess of what used to be a thundering monster of a vehicle. Glass scattered everywhere, frame bent at every possible angle. A small flame still burning away at one of the tires.

He couldn't take his eyes off it.

She moved forward slowly, stepping up behind him.

"Wade," she said gently. "It'll be dark soon..."

He didn't turn to acknowledge her. He just kept staring at the flame.

"Just...just give me a minute."


* * * * * * *


"Thanks fer that. I'll do my best to git back here someday and git that mess offa yer lawn."

"Don't...don't worry about it. I'll find some use for all the scrap."

"That's awfully kind've ya."

He looked down into his coffee. It was such a comfortable feeling, sitting on an overturned bucket at the woman's small table, sipping on black coffee. He didn't even have the urge for whiskey, not even a cigarette. At that moment, hot coffee with a roof over his head felt very, very good.

"Well," he started, setting his coffee mug down. "I'd best git goin'. I don't wanna take up yer space much longer."

"Where are you gonna go?" she asked as Wade stood to his feet.

"Ain't sure," he shrugged. "I'll pick a direction, see what I can find. Ain't really got a destination anymore."

"It's a long way in any direction."

"I've walked longer distances in shittier territory. Thanks again, it ain't often total strangers are this hospitable to Ol' Wade."

He thudded toward the door. She watched him as he turned the handle, and ran a hand through her long brown hair.

She closed her eyes, and sighed.

"Wait."

He stopped, and looked over his shoulder.

"Look, that wound in your head was gushing pretty bad, and who knows if you've got a concussion or not. Why don't..."

Wade turned around while she paused.

"...why don't you stay here, at least for a few days. We'll make sure that head-wound heals, and get your clothes cleaned up."

He waited a moment, taken aback by the kindness of this woman. It was pretty obvious she didn't know exactly who he was. From what he could tell she probably hadn't sat in front of a television in a long, long time, no reason she would recognize the name Wade Elliott, or PRIME.

The drifter part of him wanted him to open the door, and head off down the road, like he'd always done.

The other part of him, something new that he couldn't put a name on, wanted to keep the door shut.

He kept the door shut.

"I appreciate that..." he said, moving back to the table, sitting on the overturned bucket and returning to his coffee. "...but, if I'm gonna stay a couple more days, I'm gonna need yer name."

For the first time since he'd met the woman, she smiled.

"Kate."


* * * * * * *


Bellowing engine.

Left and right down a highway

Honking horns.

Acceleration.

Cigarette smoke.

Whiskey breath.

Gone.


* * * * * * *


He woke up, body shuddering as it lurched abruptly to consciousness, the scattered images stuck in his mind. It was dark out. He could barely see his hand in front of his face inside the cabin. He reached to his forehead, touching the bandage.

He sat up, and reached into his front pocket, retrieving a silver Zippo and snapping it to life, illuminating the room.

He stood, and searched around the cabin. He found a small mirror on one of the shelves, and brought it back to the couch, taking a seat.

He looked into the mirror, staring back at his own tired, ragged face. He slowly peeled at the tape holding the gauze above his left eyebrow, gingerly pulling it away, awkwardly holding the mirror and the Zippo in one hand and inspecting the bandage with the other.

It was a good cut. Head wounds bleed heavy anyway, even small ones, but this was a good six inch gash curving with the shape of his eye-socket, just missing his eyebrow. It had been stitched, a pretty good job, too. He touched it gently, a good sting going along with it. Maybe it came from the steering wheel, or the windshield.

It could have been a lot worse.

It probably should have been a lot worse.

He folded the bandage back over the wound, and pressed the tape to his skin.

"Ya didn't deserve to walk from that one, Wade..." he whispered to himself.

He returned the mirror to its shelf, and closed his Zippo, clouding the cabin in darkness once again.

"...ya didn't deserve a lot of things..."


* * * * * * *


He walked out the front door into the morning sun, stretching his heavy frame. He took a look around, the first time he really got a chance to check his surroundings. The cabin was a bit run-down, Frankensteined from many different kinds of wood, which were likely salvaged from many different structures. A smaller building, a large shed, sat next to the cabin. Everything was tucked neatly into the trees, veiled from the dirt road a good quarter mile away. The lawn was a little overgrown, lots of random, rusted salvage long nestled into the grass. A fixer-upper for sure, but cozy.

He could hear Kate around the corner. He walked around the cabin, finding her pushing over a stack of tires, probably five tires high. They revealed a pile of soil when they hit the ground. She bent over to dig through the dark dirt, pulling out what looked like potatoes, tossing them into a basket.

"Mornin'," said Wade, approaching. She turned her head over her shoulder.

"Morning," she replied, turning back to her digging. "Sleep alright?"

"Good enough," he said. "That's a clever idea," he continued after a pause, addressing her less than conventional potato growing technique.

"Oh, thanks. You know, try to use everything I can for whatever I can use it for. Saves a lot of space that I can use for other vegetables."

"Need a hand?"

"Um, sure," she said, standing to stretch her back. "Not much left, just another stack or two."

Wade crouched next to her, pushing his big paws through the soil, finding the potatoes and placing them into the basket.

"Pretty good stitch job ya put on me," he mentioned after a few minutes.

She didn't answer right away.

"Well, didn't want you losing too much blood, it wasn't exactly a scratch."

"I saw that. Hafta stitch yerself up often?"

"No, not often," she replied. "But it's a good thing to know when I do split myself open, being out here on my own and all."

He nodded as he tossed the last of the potatoes into the basket. They stood together, wiping the dirt off their hands.

"Shouldn't be long before I take off. Figure the head'll be in good shape pretty quick."

"That's fine," she said. "Wouldn't be smart to head off down the road and have that thing open back up."

"Yup, yer right. 'Xpect I'll take off in a few days."

She nodded.

"A few days."


* * * * * *



Days turned into weeks...

"How long's that fence been all beat t'hell like that?"

"God, years. I've never really had the chance to put any work into it. There's a pile of posts lying under a tarp somewhere out there."

"Maybe I'll see if I can't get it standin'."

"Be my guest."

Weeks turned into months...

"Thinkin' I could prob'bly re-shingle the roof. It's leakin' pretty bad."

"I wish like hell it wouldn't leak like that, but I don't have the money for shingling. I've just kind of patched it with whatever I can find."

"That's alright, I'll take a stroll to that town a ways down the road an' get some trucked up."

"That's a nice thought Wade, but I can't pay for that."

"Quit worryin', I can afford it."

"How can you afford that?"

"Calm yer head, I just can."

"...fine."

And incredibly enough, months turned into a year...


* * * * * * *


He slowly closed the front door to the cabin, taking quiet steps with bare feet. It was dark, but the moon illuminated the world as well as it ever could. For Wade, however, things weren't exactly clear. The past year had been...

...different.

But it had been so easy. This woman, Kate, and living in her cabin, had kept The Bad Dog from running. He'd had every opportunity to take off, to head down the road like he'd always done. But there he was. A year later. A year since the crash.

A year to finally get scared.

He walked into the yard, the dew in the grass soaking the hem of his jeans, the chilly night air biting at his shirtless body. He stared wide-eyed into the sky, at the thousands and thousands of bright little stars.

"I need help," he said to the dark, an odd rush to his usual steady, gravely voice.

He waited.

Nothing.

He breathed deeper. Faster.

"I need help." he repeated. Louder. Teeth clenched.

He was offered no response. The ghosts he was calling for, the specter of the western law-man 'Wild Bill' Hickok, the corpse-like dead Confederate soldier, and the coyote with the tongue of a man, were long gone, having abandoned the 'Bama Bruiser at a small bar in the middle of nowhere years ago.

"God. Damnit. Where the hell ARE YA!? he bellowed.

He dropped to his knees. Swift, short breaths shooting through his nostrils. He looked over his shoulder, worried he had woken Kate.

He put a rough paw to his forehead. It had all hit him at once. So hard. All the mistakes he had made, the people he'd hurt, the wrong-turns in the road. His mom. His dad. And Lindsay. The answer that had always kept him moving; to run, to leave, was all of a sudden the wrong answer, and the right answer was sound asleep not thirty feet behind him. It all made so much sense that it didn't make any sense at all.

What do you do?

What do you do when the world changes color? When everything you thought you knew about yourself has a different definition? What do you do?

You keep waiting for ghosts.


* * * * * * *


They picked their way through the old shed structure, all sorts of collected odds an ends created a big, dusty maze. Piles of wood, old iron, anything left behind in the area that Kate had once salvaged and put away for safe keeping.

"Ain't really poked 'round this shed much," commented Wade, ducking under a low hanging rafter. "Anythin' useful?"

"Not a lot, most of the wood isn't any good, there's a few things though," said Kate, following behind him.

"Well, never know. Could find their home sometime or another."

Kate smiled, following the big man deeper in the dark shed.

Wade nearly fell onto his face when his pace came to a sudden stop, a large object directly in front of him blocking the way.

"The hell..."

Wade dug into his pocket, retrieving his silver Zippo, flipping it to light.

It was a tarp, covering a vehicle without a doubt, with a layer of dust almost as thick as the tarp itself. He turned his head toward Kate.

"What's under the blanket?"

Kate laughed a little, moving to his side.

"It's a '76 Chevy pickup. It was my grandfather's."

"No shit," said Wade, slowly waving his Zippo around to inspect. "Does she run?"

"No, but I don't think it would take a lot. It's old, but it's all there for the most part. I don't know anything about fixing cars, you're welcome to take a look, see what you can do."

"Might have to," he replied, a small, rare smile on his face, obviously excited about the prospect.

A short silence. Kate turned her body toward the Bad Dog, arms crossed, looking up to him.

"Wade, what are we doing?"

Elliott sighed, turning his blue eyes downward to meet hers.

"I don't know."

"I mean, it's amazing what you've done for me. Helping me with the cabin and everything. But...what are we doing?"

The 'Bama Bruiser didn't reply. He kept looking into her eyes in the dim light of his lighter.

She sighed heavily. "I came out to this cabin to get away from the world, from all the shit, and the Hell people can bring. But then you came along, and I don't know..."

She couldn't finish her sentence. Wade dropped his lighter, wrapped her up in his arms, and kissed her deeply, lifting her feet off the ground. She kissed back, hands gripping the back of his head. He set her down on the hood of the truck underneath its tarp. She started pulling his army green t-shirt off his big frame, while he pushed her plaid button-down shirt off her shoulders.

The Zippo snuffed itself out on the dirt floor.


* * * * * * *


Dirt road.

Vehicle sliding broadside around each turn, kicking up clouds of dirt and dust into the night.

No control.

No vision. Gone. Between the pitch black and the alcohol rushing in the bloodstream, the only thing to do is hold on.

Hold.

On.

Lost it.

Engine whining as the front right tire digs into the dirt, throwing the rig off its wheels and flipping it at a corked angle.

The crushing of frame, the ear-piercing shattering of glass.

Head smashing off the steering wheel.

Body hitting the ground.

Eyes to the sky.

Hot liquid blocking already useless vision, the sound of the truck rolling, smashing.

Exploding.

Eyelids fluttering. No strength, not anywhere. Not enough strength to move an arm.

Black getting blacker.

This is it.

Time to go.

Time's up.

"Wade..."

Enough to open the eyes.

Shadows in the dark.

Jagged outlines. Pencil sketches. Shapes of men, circling, drawn from white noise.

A dog.

A woman.

"Get up."

The voice. Man? Woman?

"Stand."

A terrible groan.

"There's more than this..."

More than this.

More.

Than this.

Enough to move.

Turning over, arms finding strength to push off the cold earth.

Legs finding leverage.

Walk.

Just.

Walk.


* * * * * * *


The sun of the morning jerked him to consciousness, relieving him from the nightmare, a nightmare as clear as the sun, sitting perfectly within the frame of a small window. He drew a big paw down his face, rubbing away the visions. Lost memories resurfacing. After a moment to make sure he was awake, he turned to his right.

Alone in bed.

So many months had gone by. Seasons had come and gone, each night spent next to Kate, and each night he had experienced a comfort he'd never known existed. After spending the majority of of your life running, with only an engine and four tires to call home, you'd think it would be difficult to adapt for a guy like Wade.

It wasn't.

It took time, however, but waking up next to Kate was the easiest part, so her absence was a least a little curious. The Southern Sparkplug sat up and stood out of bed, finding a pair of jeans on the floor and pulling them on. He walked out of the small bedroom, scratching his chest where two crossed Confederate flags flew proudly.

"Kate? Y'alright?" he called.

She was sitting on the cabin's small couch, crouched over, still wearing only her underwear and a tank top from the night before, studying something in her hands, concern on her face.

"What's wrong?" Wade asked, approaching with heavy steps.

In her hands was Alice, Wade's silver .357 magnum. His eyes narrowed a little.

"Where'd you find that..." he asked with a quickness to his gravely voice.

"'I come into a region where is nothing that can give light,'" she read from the thin black inlay on the revolver's barrel, interrupting him as he approached.

He stopped, and relaxed. Nothing to hide. He sat next to her, gently taking the pistol from her hands.

"It's Dante," he answered to a question she didn't ask. "A line from Dante's Inferno."

He turned his gaze back to her. "Where'd ya find it?" he asked again.

"I found it the night you crashed, it must have been thrown from the truck. I took it, and hid it. I didn't want to risk anything, I didn't know who you were."

"Yeah," he breathed. "I guess ya didn't."

"And I guess I still don't," she snapped."We've been playing house for almost three years, Wade. I haven't said anything, and we've got so damn close, but still..."

She paused, shaking her head.

"...but I still have no idea who you are."

Wade ran his fingers over the writing on his pistol. That hellish weapon he'd carried for so long.

"It's a long, long story," he whispered.

Kate studied him. His eyes wouldn't leave the gun barrel.

"You need to leave, don't you." she said. More a statement than a question.

"Kate, listen..."

"It's okay," she said, stopping him. "I've thought about this for a long, long time."

He looked to her. If you didn't know any better, you might have seen a sheen in the Bad Dog's eyes.

"Does the truck run?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Then take it. I won't ask any questions. Go finish whatever it is you started, tie up whatever loose ends you left behind, and if you're ready, maybe you'll come back and tell me about it..."

He pulled her close, kissing her deeply.

"I'll come back," he said quickly, pulling his lips from hers. "Swear I will."

She smiled weakly, tears in her eyes.

"We'll see."


* * * * * * *


She watched from the doorway of her cabin that next, cool morning as Wade thudded away. He swung the door open and sat in the front seat of the green '76 Chevy Pickup that had lived in her shed for many years. He slammed the door shut without looking back. The old engine roared to life, aged, but strong. She stayed there while the truck pulled onto the dirt road, and watched until it disappeared behind the trees.

Wade fought the emotions as the cabin where he'd slept each night for nearly three years disappeared behind him.

"I'll come back, Kate..."

He reached for his wallet, flipping it open and retrieving an old photograph, placing it in the rear view mirror.

The picture was of himself and Lindsay Troy, arms around each others shoulders. Lindsay laughing like crazy, Wade with a small grin.

He turned his focus back to the road.

"...as soon as I can."
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