Sam Printer slowly followed his caravan out of town, hanging back not because he wanted to stay but he wasn’t sure he wanted to go. The past Trade Meet had been brutal and the strain put on the Lucky 7 Caravan was beyond the pale that he wasn’t quite sure would ever go back to right. The fact that everyone was leaving together as a caravan was something he supposed and for that he was grateful.
The miles stretched on and still he plodded slowly behind the caravan, the voices strangely silent and lost in his thoughts reflected on the few days that had somehow stretched into an eternity. He walked alone in his thoughts, much like he did on his walk back into Bravo after he awoke again from the Gravemind.
The morning was cold and gray. No one seemed to be up at this early hour and no one was there to meet him when he came upon the normal shrine area where the living met the returned. He had been there for his bosses – all of them had early the night before and they all came back missing something. Missing parts of their being beyond the normal mental derangement that hounded most who returned for a spell. No, something was fundamentally different about them, he could feel it in his bones.
Sam stood by the altar and took a self-evaluation, was he too missing something? The previous month when he had returned, he had been so depressed, uninterested in anything except that he knew he had to protect others, even when he could not. Non-combatant. He spit the word out like the bile it was. No, this time he felt…. Fine.
The walk into town was lonely and cold but he felt fine and made his way to the saloon. It wasn’t long before Scrap and others found him there. They drilled him on where he had been all night. He looked over at Scrap bemusedly. “Remember when we fought that… that thing last night?”
“Did you die there?” Scrap demanded.
“I saw you fall and called for the medic to help you, that you were in bleed out. That was me.”
“Did you die.” Scrap growled.
Did he die? Really? Scrap had only carried him outside of the cabin they had been in trying vainly to rescue the innocents in there. Had to drop him where he was outside the door as she herself was ambushed and moments later fell, having led the Thing away from him. How could she not know?
“What does it matter? I’m fine” Sam growled back.
By now others had arrived in the Saloon and he saw Mr. Who. Ignoring Scrap and the others with a brisk, “I’m fine if perhaps a bit grumpy. Hell, it’s early and cold.” Going over to Mr. Who he unceremoniously dropped a piece of metal on the table near him and handed Mr. Who some brass. “I’m in need of a sword Who, make me one please.” Then avoiding Scrap, Who, Kat and the others he left the saloon, barely keeping his rage in check. “I’m fine,” he said.
For the rest of the morning for the most part Sam was fine. Gus, Soarin and Roscoe weren’t themselves but he stood nearby and was present when the news came in. Dipper had been kidnapped by Alice. It was decided the hunt and rescue would be on and so they all left together with a dozen and more members, friends and other town folk looking for Dipper and others. An hour later, Dipper was found. Dead.
The culprit who had murdered him was bound and being led back into town by Skip Tracer. Roscoe confronted the man and would of killed him had Skip Tracer not intervened. Sam Printer positioned himself behind Skip Tracer and the murderer while their attention was on Roscoe. Quietly, deliberately he placed the barrel of his shooter to the base of the murderer’s skull. This so-called man had tortured and murdered the one man who had come to save Sam the month before when he had foolishly went by himself to his cabin.
“Be damned,” Sam said cocking the hammer back on his shooter and placing his finger on the trigger.
Instead of the explosion of blood and bone that he was expecting his shot went wild as Skip Tracer slapped the shooter away from Sam’s grip. “NO! This man will hang – but if you kill him, then YOU will hang.” Skip Tracer was desperately trying to keep things form going to hell quickly. Sam holstered his shooter and stormed off.
He had barely gotten twenty paces away when Gus yelled at him, “You’re fired!” Things went fuzzy from there but he remembered challenging Gus and when Gus had stopped, turned around with that look in his eye and started walking towards him, Sam didn’t hesitate.
Three shots rang out in the air and those around him and Gus back peddled getting out of the way of the fight that was surely about to start. All three shots landed, but Gus was undeterred and drew his sword. Sam didn’t care. The head of Flotsam and Jetsam, Aidan cared apparently and swords and guns dropped to the ground after his well placed scattered shot. Sam Printer stormed off, his rage red and dark.
He was fine.
Sam picked up his pace as he fell a little too far behind the caravan. He could feel the eyes of his bosses watching him, wondering if he would fly into a rage again and attack one of them. Sam himself snorted at the idea. He was fricking harmless, hadn’t he proved that by now to everyone? Irritated that his recollection was interrupted so, he hoped on the back of one of the moving wagons and tipped his hat down, feigning rest while his thoughts went back to the night the Gore Hounds attacked….
Most of the day he felt just fine, enjoyed company with Kat, Scrap and others. He was asked several times throughout the day if he was feeling alright. His answer never faulted and with a smile would say something such as “I’m fine. Perhaps a little grumpy earlier today but I’m fine now. It’s OK, let’s worry about…” and he would bring up someone or something else. He had gotten his shooter back and throughout the afternoon a skirmish here and there he fought smartly, staying behind the main fighters and shields and stepping up and Double-Tapping things that needed it, simply ensuring others were dead before taking up his spot again behind the real fighters.
The Zed and Gore Hounds struck along the road between Kiva and the Saloon. He and Scrap were in the middle of one such fight when Scrap went down. Before Sam could get to her, she was carried off by the Gore Hounds. It took a minute to get past his own allies but finally he managed to do so and ran into the Zed swarm and through it to where the Gore Hounds had taken Scrap. He had never seen Zed surprised before and for a minute fought down the urge to laugh out loud. But then he was brought down, right next to Scrap and the Gore Hounds began to chew. Scrap was screaming for help and calmly Sam cried out beside her, “It’s OK, you’ll be rescued… See?” As if his words and force of will were all that was needed, someone, somewhere grabbed Scrap rescued her. Sam, smiled, at least his friend would live. This was fine and was meant to be. His only regret at that moment that he had just learned swordplay earlier but didn’t have one in his hand for this fight.
Sam figured he was tasty because a minute later he was saved, then stabilized, and then carried off again to be eaten. And to face being eaten not just by Gore Hounds but a Goliath. Sam would never know just how he managed to live through this epic battle, but he did remember a lot of hands, aid, and double tapping that same Goliath who had tried to eat him. He eventually got stopped by a medic. “Get the fuck out of here! I can’t heal you every few minutes you blockhead!” and was summarily pushed back towards Kiva where the town had set up a first aid station. “I’m fine!!” Sam yelled back but headed towards safety nonetheless.
It wasn’t long before he found out the truth that Scrap had died during or right after that rescue. Grief-stricken he couldn’t understand. Scrap was a fighter, he was this so-called non-combatant. Why was he still alive and she dead? With others that he berated, he went to the morgue. There was no way Scrap would return and not have someone there/ Sure, he was Fine but that didn’t mean she would not.
There were conflicts the rest of the Trade Meet. It was almost like everyone sought to argue with him or let him down, or piss him off. He was fine, but what the hell with everyone else? Very little happened the remainder of the Trade meet. Sure there more double tap kills; he had been accepted back into the Lucky 7 with almost a no harm, no foul; and then there was that zombie that bit his nipple off after waking him when he did finally manage to get some sleep. After all, he was Fine.
And as he opened his eyes, a wild look in them for others to see, and hackles raised, muttered aloud, “I said I’m fine!” and jumped from the wagon, ready to fight again, this time with a sword in one hand and a shooter in the other.
Photo Credit: Heather Halstead
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