(3-3-15) A/N: I'm trying my hand at writing with brevity. I also wanted to try writing in present, first-person form.
The Hat Makes The Man
He's far too young to have earned that hat. But, then again, it's a man eat man world out there.
Literally.
Maybe the kid's done more than earn it, and then some.
"Hello." I offer him an easy smile; quick to please when it's usually not in my nature. No use in rubbing him the wrong way. He looks dangerous, despite his age, and it may or may not have anything to do with that pistol he's pointing at my face.
"Hello," he says back. He even offers me a curt nod. The gun is still up.
"I'm looking for someone," I call out, hands still raised lest he shoots. People have done more than that for less, these days. "You haven't seen him, have you? He's got funny looking hair; teeth whiter than a holy man's cloth. All loquacious and the like. He happen this way?"
The boy's eyes, shaded underneath the brim of that hat, narrow. The gun doesn't move.
"I'm sorry?" I form it like a question.
"I haven't seen anyone," he finally says. He tilts his head; raises the gun up a little further. "I like your hat."
"Thanks." My hands are still raised. I dip my head towards his. "I like yours, Sheriff."
A smile picks at the corner of his lip for a second, before it settles back into its initial, pink slash. "It's my dad's."
"He around?"
The slash turns into a frown. "Why?"
"I think it's the lawman in me. Wants to make sure you're not alone. Safe. It's inherent." I offer a roll of the shoulders to try and ease the burn. "Mind if I lower these, son?" I glance up at my hands.
He takes a calculated step back. "Keep 'em where I can see them."
I lower them, nice and slow, to my sides. "You and your daddy," I try to sound nonchalant, "You guys have a camp? Me and my, well my friend I suppose-" I huff a laugh. He furrows his brow because he doesn't understand my relationship with my alleged "friend." Hell, I don't either. "He and I been on the road for a bit. Hail all the way from Kentucky, believe it or not."
Now he just looks bored. Like he wants to shoot me in the face and leave me to the biters just because he can't be bothered.
"How many of you are there?"
"Just me and my friend." I'm not smiling anymore. "We lost a lot of people in the beginning, and then just kept losing them..." I trail off, and I don't think the kid's notice that my eyes have turned downcast. It's hard thinking of them.
I don't know what it is or what does it, but he finally lowers the gun. He doesn't holster it, not yet, but it's an improvement from before. He scans me, up and down, with eyes too old for a face that young.
I can tell he's made a decision, but I don't know what one that is.
"How many walkers have you killed?"
I blink. "Too many."
"How many people have you killed?"
I swallow. "I don't know."
He takes a deep breath. "Why?"
A shadow of a smile ghosts over my lips.
"They drew first."
He squints; looks me up and down before he holsters his gun. He licks at his chapped lips.
"I'm Carl."
"Raylan."
"I really do like your hat."
He walks. I follow.
"They say it makes the man, y'know."
The brass of his, caked underneath blood, mud, and whatever else, gleams under the canopy of trees.
He touches the brim. A Sheriff's hat. His daddy's hat.
He throws a grin over his shoulder.
"I know.
The End.
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