It wasn't the original jingling of the bell as she walked herself along that woke Billings from his slumber, though the high silvery chimes did alert him that someone was around.  You didn't last long in the City Wastes if you were a heavy sleeper.  Not unless you belonged to one of the forts, and Billings had always considered himself a free agent.  Living in someone else's fort meant you have to live by someone else's rules, after all, and those rules were generally far too restrictive for an unstable sociopath.  Of course, in this day and age being an unstable sociopath wasn't really all that terrible a thing.  Normal people tended to die quickly because they didn't react well, or clung to ideas of 'fair play' or 'live and let live'.  Which was a good way to end up dead, looted, and possibly even eaten depending on the section of town that you wandered into.<br/><br/>No, it was the yelp of pain mingled with the crash of metal and the frantic bell-ringing that really gave him a reason to sit up and take notice.  Rather like a ragged trapdoor spider he pushed back the covering that hid the entrance to his building, a big piece of plywood with rubble glued to the front.  Heavy, yes, but when settled it made the building appear to be utterly blocked and inaccessible.  And, but for the basement, that was pretty much the case.  Nervous blue eyes scanned the street, watching for other scavengers and predators for a few heartbeats.  Nope, coast was clear.  Quickly he closed the distance between himself and the... yoked, impaled, and fallen woman.  A woman who'd taken a living hell's worth of abuse, if he was any judge of things.  And he was.  "Well, what the fuck do we have here?  Someone sure hates the fuck out of you, girl."<br/><br/>A great dusty gray overcoat, stained with brown spots of grease and filth but still quite good for camo when moving around the city, hugged a rather burly and powerful frame that would have been at home an any lumberjack you'd care to name.  Matted chestnut hair stuck out wildly from beneath a cowboy hat that may once have been black, but was now mostly sun-faded and white with crusted sweat salt.  With a five-o-clock shadow hugging a strong jaw, slightly crooked nose, and bushy eyebrows he could have stepped right out of some western as the crusty sheriff, if not for the madness that swirled in his gaze.  And the fact that he had only a stained yellowing t-shirt under the coat, tucked loosely into faded denim jeans with a hole in the right knee.  Duct-taped cowboy boots, though!  That has to count for something.<br/><br/>"You just last still a moment little miss.  Lets see if we can get you out of this."  A knife made from what appeared to be a sharpened lawnmower blade with a cloth-wrapped handled appeared from behind his back and sliced through the plastic bag lead easily before being stowed in the spine sheath it came from.  Powerful, calloused hands settled under her arms, gripping near her armpits as he carefully righted her, not even grunting at the added weight of her stocks.  "Don't know who put this in you, but it's not going to feel any nicer coming out.  Just try not to scream to much, and maybe we can get out of this alive."  One booted foot jammed into the back wheel well, holding it still while he lifted, drawing the metal tube from her ass inch by inch until he could set her on her good foot and steady the bike.  "C'mon, miss.  You're not going anywhere like that.  Lets get you down somewhere safe.  Just don't talk until I say we're clear, got it?"<br/><br/>Been a while since he's seen or had a woman.  And for as fucked up as she was, she was a looker, alright.  But Billings was a man with standards, and he'd be damned it he was going to rape a woman in her condition.  Better to clean her up a bit, bind some of the wounds, and THEN rape her and toss her back out into the street.  Seems a fair trade, that.  Quickly he shuffled her back to his lair, helping her down the dusty stairs and into the murky depths, even though she had to turn her body a bit to fit the yoke down there.  The bike was stashed nearby, the cover back in place, and after leading her deeper still they emerged into his... cave, really.  It was a basement once, but the death of the world had opened it up some, the wall crumbling between his basement and that of the building next door, giving him plenty of space.  Not much light, but a few crude candles solved that.<br/><br/>"Sit, sit," he urged, settling her onto the remains of an overstuffed easy chair, stained and an ugly mint green.  A crude wooden crate was fetched for her foot to rest on, before he fetched some water, first cleaning off her face with a wetted cloth, then pressing the battered and chipped ceramic cup to her lips.  "Drink, then tell me what the fuck happened to you while I try to patch you up.  Who's mother did you sodomize with a spiked bat to end up like this?"