"It was a 1967 Pontiac LeMans ragtop. Bloodied and so souped-up that she's outrun any damn thing on the road. And I do mean damned thing."
That's how Motor Hammer always described his car. Then he's give a big braying horse laugh, because no matter how many times he said it, he thought it was the funniest joke ever. People tended to laugh with him rather an at the actual joker because Hammer had a seventy-inch chest and twenty-four-inch biceps, and his sweat was a soup of testosterone anabolic steroids and Jake Daniels. Had a face of a bulldog and had pistol butts sticking out every pocket, as well as a length of black pipe that hung like a club from his belt. You don't laugh, he gets mad and starts to think you're messing with him. Something ugly usually followed Hammer becoming offended.
Sam's friends always laughed. Not because they were afraid of what Hammer would do to them if they didn't, but because they thought Hammer was hilarious. And cool. No one cooler on the planet. Sam was alright with him but didn't think he was cooler than another Bounty Hunter he knows very well.
It didn't strike him like his friends that the car of Hammers always talked about had run out of gas thirteen years ago and was a rusted piece of scrap metal somewhere out in the Ruins. Not did it matter that the fact the car could even drive was at odds with history; not after the EMPs. In Hammer's stories, that car had lived through the bombs and the ghouls and a thousand adventures, and could never be forgotten. Hammer said he'd been a real road warrior in the LeMans, cruising the blacktop and bashing Infected.
Everyone else at Safferty's General Store laughed too, a couple were faking it, Sam couldn't blame them. About the only person who didn't laugh at the joke was Sam as well. He would of thought Hammer was insanely cool... Just he doesn't have this trust on him, especially the stories on how he's such an important hero. As a kid he would of thought of him as this awesome cool guy, but he begged to differ.
Motor Hammer were the toughest bounty hunters in the entire Ruins. Everyone said so. Sometimes even to Tom or Negan, but Hammer said Tom was "a bit too easy on the infected," and he said it in a way that suggested Tom was either shy of a real fight or didn't have the raw nerve necessary to be a first-class infected-hunting, badlands badass. No, Tom wasn't a coward. Sam knew that firsthand.
Working as a bounty hunter was a thought and dangerous business. None tougher, as far as Sam knew. Most of the hunters were paid by the town to clear infected and runners out of the areas around the trade route that linked Eleven Towns to the handful of other communities strung out along the mountain ranges and cities. Others worked in packs as mercenary armies to clear out towns, old shopping malls, warehouses, and even a few small cities, so that the traders could raid them for supplies. According to Motor Hammer the life expectancy of a typical bounty hunter was six months. Most of the young men who tied that job have it a month or two and then quit, discovering that actually killing Infected and also people was a lot different from what they learned from family members who had survived the Black Night, and a whole lot different from the stuff they were taught in school or the Scouts. Hammer always says he and Charlie Marion- another bounty hunter that Sam never heard before- had been the first of the hunters and they'd been at it since the beginning, making their first paid kill eight months after the Black Night. Sam knew who Bounty Hunters who lived throughout the Black Night and became bounty hunters, and one created a secured place called Sanctuary. Tom and Negan.
He met Negan because Tom and him were best friends before this. Sam laughed at how a man like Tom is so opposite and friends with a foul-mouth, rash, too honest man like Negan. Sam definitely thought Negan was the coolest Bounty Hunter; he had the rugged handsome looks, the funniest jokes that could be so dirty yet hilarious, the leather jacket, and the badass bat named Ellie and others like the bat. He was probably tougher than legendary hunters, like Queen Arnica, Houston Bill Wildchild, or the Mekong brothers, hell he even build his own community, similar on jobs yet very focus on saving people, and working inside and outside the Ruins. Negan was amongst the coolest and influential hunter.
"We kilt more Infected than the whole army, navy, Air Force, and marines put together," the Hammer bragged at least once a month. "And that includes the pansy-ass National Guard."
Hammer also did closure jobs- locating a Runner family member or friend for a client and putting them to a final rest. Mayor Gregory said they had as high a closure rate as Tom, thought Gregory was a jerk and doesn't like Tom's ways.
"When you gonna retire?" asked Barry Sputters, the mail carrier, as he poured Hammer another cup of iced tea. "You have to be rich as Midas by now."
"Midas?" Asked the Hammer. "Who's he?"
"I think he sold mufflers," offered Norbert, one of the traders who used armored horses to pull wagons of scavenged goods from town to town, "and then bought a kingdom."
"Yeah," said Hammer, nodding as if he knew that to be the truth. "Long Midas. Definitely from Detroit. Made a fortune outta car parts and such."
And everyone agreed with him, because that was the smart thing to do. "Well, boys," said Hammer with a wink. "I ain't saying I'm rich as a king, but me and my pal White Bear got us a whole pot of gold. The Ruin's been good to us."
"My uncle Ben said you killed the four Lightwood brothers last month," said Dylan from the back of the crowd.
Hammer burst out laughing. "Hell yes! We killed them deader'n dead. White Beat shucked up on their place, half-past sunrise, and tossed a Molotov onto the roof. All four of them dead suckers come staggering out into the morning light. Streaked with old blood and horse crap as who knows what. Skinny and rotten, smelled worse than sweaty pigs, and we were fifty feet away."
"Whatcha do?" Benny asked, his eyes ablaze.
The Hammer snorted. "We played some. This business is getting so's killing these critters is way too easy. Am I right or am I right?"
A few people chuckled or nodded vaguely, but nobody said anything specific. It was one of those times when it wasn't clear what the right answer would be.
"I decided to play it fair. We laid down our weapons. Every last one. Guns, knives, my pipe, numchucks, even them ninja throwing stars. We stripped down to our jeans and beaters and just went in, mano a mano.
Sam scoffed. Do people really believe this? Hammer notice and threw a quick, ugly look and plunged back into just story. "Anyways, we came up on them with just our knuckles and nerves, and we fair beat them biters so bad, they died surprised, woke up, and died of shame all over again."
Everyone burst out laughing.
Someone clears his throat, and they all looked up to see Randy Gregory, the town mayor, standing there, his arms folded, bald heard coked to one side as he looked from Sam to Benny to Dylan. "I thought you boys were supposed to be out job hunting."
"I got a job." Benny said quickly.
"Me too," said Dylan.
"And you've had it, Sam Morgan," he raised a quirky eyebrow.
"Yes. As a Bounty Hunter like Tom."
Gregory laughed, scratching at his thick black beard. "This place is safe. Nothing bad can happen here, boy. Now you three run along."
Hammer simply shrugged. "Yeah... you boys got to earn rations just like grown folks. Skedaddle."
Sam and the others got up and slouched past the mayor.
-:-:-:-:-
Tom and Sam left at dawn and headed down to the southeastern gate. The gatekeeper had Tom sign the usual waiver that absolved the town and the gatekeeping staff of all liability if anything untoward happened once they crossed into the Ruins. A vendor sold Tom a dozen bottled of cadaverine, which they sprinkled on their clothing, and a jar of peppermint goo that they dabbed on their upper lips, to kill their own sense of smell.
They were dressed for a long hike. Sam wore good walking ropers, jeans, a durable shirt. Despite the heat, Tom wore a lightweight jacket with lots of pockets. He had an old army gun belt around his narrow waist, with a pistol snugged into a worn leather holster. The last thing Tom strapped on was his recurve bow. Tom was pretty good with any weapon. He could draw fast as lighting, and was quiet so no noise would attract any infected.
Tom tipped a couple of fence runners to bang on drums six hundred yards north, and as soon as that drew away the wandering Infected's, Tom and Sam slipped out into the great Ruins and headed for the tree line.
"We need to move fast for the first half mile," cautioned Tom, and he broke into a jog-trot that was fast enough to get them out of scent range. A few of the infected staggered after them, but the fence runners banged on the drums again, and the infected, incapable of holding on to more than one reaction at a time, turned back toward the noise. Tom and Sam vanished into the shadows under the trees.
-:-:-:-
"We're not being followed," Tom said.
"No, nothing."
"Good."
"How far are we going?" Sam asked.
"Far." He dug into a jacket pocket and removed an envelop, opened it, and took out a piece of paper that he unfolded and handed to Sam. There was a small color photograph clipped to one corner that showed a smiling man of thirty, with sandy hair and a sparse beard. The paper it was clipped to was a large portrait of the same man as he might be now if he was a Infected. The name "Harold" was handwritten in one corner.
Him and Tom always go out to practice on fighting Infected and Runners. But this is the first time for Sam to come with Tom in his closure job, getting erosion portraits of people having pictures done of wives, husbands, children... anyone they love. Someone they lost and kill them.
Tom filed the erosion portrait and put it in his pocket, then took out the vial of cadaverine and sprinkled some on his clothes. He handed it to Sam, then dabbed some mint gel on his upper lip and passed the jar to Tom.
"You ready?"
"Not even a little bit," said Sam.
-:-:-:-:-
They slows their pace as they neared the first houses. Tom stopped and spent a few minutes studying the town. The main street ran upward to where they stood, so they had a good view of everything. Moving very closely, Tom removed the envelope from his pocket and unfolded the portrait.
"My client said that it was the sixth house along the main street," Tom murmured. "Red front door and white fence. See it? There, past the old mail truck."
"Uh-huh," Sam said without moving his lips.
"We're looking for a man named Harold Simmons. There's nobody in the yard, so we may have to go inside."
"Inside?" Sam asked.
"Come one." Tom began moving slowly, barely lifting his feet and Sam mimic everything Tom did. They passed two houses which infected stood in the yard. The first house, on their left, had three Infected's on the other side of a hip-high chain-link fence. Two little girls and an older woman. As they passed by them, the woman turned their direction. Tom stopped and waited, his hand touching the handle of his bow, but the woman's dead eyes swept past them without lingering. A few paces along, they passed a yard on their right in which a man in a bathrobe stood among wild weeds and creeper vines that had wrapped themselves around his calves. It looked like he had stood there for years.
"There he is," murmured Tom, and Sam looked toward the house with the red door. A man stood inside, looking out of the big bay window. He once had sandy hair as a sparse beard, but now the hair and beard were nearly gone, and the skin of his face had shriveled to a leathery tightness.
"Sam?" He said under his breath. "You think that's him?"
"Mm-hm," Sam said with a low squeak.
Tom nudged the gate with his tie and entered the yard. They took a slow step by step. The process was excruciatingly slow, but to Sam it felt as if they were moving too fast. No matter how deliberately they went, he thought it was all wrong, that the infected- all of them up, and down the street- would suddenly turn toward them and moan with their dry and dusty voices, and that a great mass of the hungry dead would surround them.
Tom reached the door and turned the handle. The knob turned in his had, and the lock clicked open. Tom gently pushed open the door and stepped into the gloom of the house. Sam cast a quick look at the window to make sure the infected was still there.
Only he wasn't.
"Look out!"
A dark shape lunged at Tim out of the shadows of the entrance hallway. It clawed for him with wax-white fingers and moaned with an unspeakable hunger.
Tom pivoted to the outside of its right arm, ducked low, grabbed the Infected's shins from behind, and drove his shoulder into the former Harold Simmons's back. The infected instantly fell forward into its face, knocking clouds of dust from the carpet. Tom leaped into the creatures back and used his knees to pin both shoulders to the floor. He then pulled a spool of thin sip cord from his jacket pocket. He whispered the cord around the Infected's wrists and shimmied down to bring both its hands together to tie behind the creatures back.
Sam closed the door before any Infected see any movement. Tom flicked out a spring-bladed knife and cut the silk cord. He kept his weight in the struggling infected while he fashioned a large loop, like a noose. The Infected kept trying to turn its head to bite, but Tom didn't seem to care. Maybe he knew that the infected couldn't reach him.
With a deft twist of the wrist, Tom looped the noose over the Infected's head, catching it below the chin, and then he jerked the slack, so closing loop forced the creature's jaws shut with a clack. Tom wound more silk cord under the Infected's head, so that the line passed under the jaw and over the crown. When he had three full turns in place, he tied the cord tightly. He shimmied down the Infected's body and pinned its legs and then tied its ankle together.
Then Tom stood up, stuffed the rest of the cord into his pocket, and closed the knife. He slapped dust from his clothes as he turned back to Sam.
"Thanks for the warning, kiddo."
"No problem." Sam went to the window and looked out. "Eight of 'em out there."
Tom looked at him. "We can't go out the front. I expect there's a back door. We'll finish our business here and then we'll sneak out nice and quiet, and head on our way. C'mon, help me get him up."
They knelt on opposite sides of the Infected, but Sam didn't want to touch it. He knew the safety of going near an Infected and always been so cautious.
"Sam," Tom said, "he can't hurt you now. He's helpless."
Together they lifted the Infected. It was light- far lighter than Sam expected- and they half carried, half-dragged it into the dining room, away from the living room windows. Sunlight feel in dusty slants through the moth-eaten curtains. The ruins of a meal had long since decayed to dust on the table. They put it in a chair, and Tom produced the spool of cord and bound it in place.
"What do we do with him?" Sam asked. "I mean... after?"
"Nothing. We leave him here."
"Shouldn't we bury him?"
"Why? This was his home. The whole world is a graveyard. If it as you, would you rather be in a little wooden box under the cold ground or in the place where you lived? A place where you were happy and loved."
Sam just nodded. Tom removed the envelope from his pocket. Apart from the folded erosion portrait, there was also a piece of cream stationary on which were several handwritten lines. Tom read it silently, sighed, and then turned to Sam.
"Restraining the dead is difficult, Sam, but it isn't a the hardest part." He held out the letter. "This is."
Sam took the letter.
"My clients- the people who hire me to come out here, they usually want something said. Things they would like to say themselves but can't. Things they need said, so they can have closure. You understand?"
Sam read the letter. His breath caught unexpectedly in his throat, and he nodded as the first years fell down his cheeks.
He angled the letter into the dusty light, and read.
My dear Harold~
I love you and miss you. I've missed you desperately for all these years. I still dream about you every night, and each morning I pray that you've found peace. I forgive you for what you tried to do to me. I forgive you for what you did to the children, I hated you for a long time, but I understand now that it wasn't you. It was this thing that happened. I want you to know that I took care of our children when they turned. They are at peace, and I put flowers on their graves every Sunday. I know you would like that. I have asked Tom to find you. He's a good man, and I know that he will be gentle with you. I love you, Harold. May God grant you His peace. I know that when my time comes, you will be waiting for me. Waiting with Helena and little Timmy, and we will all be together again in a better world. Please forgive me for not having the courage to help you sooner. I will always love you.
~Yours forever, Georgiana
Sam was weeping when he finished. He turned away and covered his face with his hands, and sobbed. Tom went over and hugged him and kissed his head.
Then Tom stepped away, took a breath, and pulled a second knife from his boots. A double-edge, black dagger with a rubbed handle and a six-and-a-half-inch-long blade. Sam placed the letter on the table in front of Harold Simmons and smoother it out. Then Tom moved behind before Sam stops him. "I'll do it," he said. Tom gives the dagger to Sam. Then he went behind and gently pushed its head forward, so that he could place the tip of the knife against the hallow at the base of the skull.
He took a breath and then thrust the blade into the back of the Infected's neck. The blade slid in with almost no effort into the gap between spine and skull, and the razor-shape edge slice completely through the brain stem.
Harold Simmons stopped struggling. His body didn't twitch; there was no death spasm. He just sagged forward against the silken cords and was still. Whatever force had been active in him, whatever pathogen or radiation or whatever had taken the man away and left behind a Infected, was gone.
Tom cut the cords that held Simmons's arms and raised each hand, placing it on the table, so that the head man's palms held the letter in place.
"Be at peace," said Tom.
He wiped his knife and stepped back. He looked Sam who was openly sobbing.
"I wish I've done this to many people I care, as well."
Sam nods and hugs Tom.