DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.
Bounty Hunter
By Rusty Dillingham
--Chapter Seven – Bad Men in the Bad Lands--
Speedy the Kangaroo's nostrils still flared upon recollection of Fang the Sniper's humiliating commentary at his expense. He had not wanted to even run into the little bastard in the first place, and to suffer his opinions made the coincidental conversation all the more irritating. But Smiley hadn't been able to keep from rubbing the weasel-wolf's nose into the dirt, and they had almost sent themselves into an out-of-hand situation. He was unable to object to Smiley's way of doing things, but it could get them into some spots, on occasion, and despite how they always found ways out of it, Speedy would have preferred to have the unending realization that Fang the Sniper was still alive gone and out of his mind. That was the price he paid for being a cronie, though, and he accepted it.
But he did not enjoy prissy-footing around, either, and he made that clear to his boss as the three bounty hunters sat on their aerobikes smack in the middle of dusty, dirty, ugly, miserable Sand Hill. They were situated on a rise that gave them a good look at the horizon, along with anything that might have been running around collecting bounties down there. "I don't like wasting time. We know where the little sonofawhore is and what he's doing. We should just take him down now while he's focused on something else."
Smiley the Kangaroo finished guzzling the contents of a water bottle and absent-mindedly tossed it into the sands, smiling at his underling pleasantly. "Easy, sleazy. We stick to the plan."
"Well, the plan is a sodding waste of time."
Smiley's grin did not waver, but he quietly stared at his cohort until the other kangaroo began to fidget under his gaze.
"Fine." Speedy turned his attention to the distance somberly.
"That's right." Smiley tucked his hat lower over his brow. "I don't give a flippin' hoot how much you dislike our purple buddy. You can't catch someone like him off-guard. You just gotta wait until you can get him in a position that results in the least amount of your boys getting holes sprung in 'em, that's all. That's what we've gotta do, so hold on to your butts until then."
Shifty wasn't so certain about that. "But he's only carryin' that little pea-shooter, boss. How deadly can he be when we've got 'im so outgunned?"
"Any gun will kill you just as dead in the hands of that guy. 'Sides, he probably has other little surprises on him." Smiley gestured down across the sandy formations to a sorry-looking shack nestled between a set of peaks. "You can be damned-for-sure certain he made somebody feel pretty lousy when he went in there. I wonder if he left either of Claw's goons alive?"
The bandana-adorned kangaroo cast his attention down at the shack. Some of the side wooden paneling had been blown out from the frag grenade that Fang had utilized not long earlier, but it was too difficult to see anything inside from their angle and distance. "How do ya know they were even in there?"
"'Cause they were buddies, Shifty. And buddies stick together. Just like us, eh?"
"Oh." Shifty picked at his yellow teeth, still not understanding, though he took the time to contemplate something. "Y'think we should go check on 'em? Maybe they can give us a hand."
Smiley's eyes rolled. "See, this is why I'm the boss. Just don't ask. A'right? Let me do all the thinking."
"Okey-dokey-hokey-pokey."
Speedy's brow furrowed. "Are we gonna move, or are we just gonna sit here on our asses? I'd like to be done with this sooner than later."
"Just hold your horses, buddy. That's exactly what we're doin' now. You don't think we're doing this nonsense just to be rid of a canker sore, now, do you?" Smiley glanced at his miserable cohort. "That bounty for Claw the Mole just got upped the other day, big-time. You know Toothy-boy is after it from what fathead told us. The closer we are to him, the closer we are to all that sexy moolah. Not only do we get rid of old Bucktooth, but we get a helluva bonus."
"Clever," Speedy uttered dryly. "You make that up yourself?"
"Yep. All by my lonesome."
Wordlessly, the darker kangaroo shifted his focus back to the horizon, ignoring the other two. Smiley and Shifty began to converse among themselves, but Speedy didn't listen. He only sat, and stared. Smiley and Shifty were too caught up in the monetary value of the situation to understand the true importance of what was going on. That money meant nothing to Speedy. Fang had to be dealt with. A truck full of gold wouldn't give him the satisfaction that blood would, and blood was the only thing that would quench his thirst now.
"Let's vamoose," Smiley said finally. "Hold on to your butts a little tighter."
He and Shifty gunned their machines, and the two airbikes thundered off from where they sat, racing across the plain in the direction the weasel-wolf had gone. Speedy spat into the sand before roaring off after them.
You're a dead man walking, Fang "the Sniper."
"Ohhhh."
Jagged the Hyena awoke slowly and groggily, and when he did, he quickly realized three things – first, he had fallen asleep in the seat of his big, black motorcycle outside of Dead-Drunk Dave's. Second, he had an indescribable hang-over. Third, he was supposed to do something.
"Ohh... shit."
What was he supposed to do again?
"Nngh..."
Go to a bar?
"... No..."
Borrow some money from his buddies?
"Rgh. What... the friggin'... urngh."
Get drunk?
"... Yeah."
Wait, no. He wiped at the spot on the little dash where he'd been drooling and tried to think harder, but it didn't help his situation. He placed a hand against his head as it lay there, his face smushed up against the back of the motorcycle's windshield. "Arrggh... stop... hurting."
Thump thump thump went the side of his forehead.
"RRGH. Shut up..."
Thump thump thump thump thump.
"Damn it!"
Thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump bing. The image of Fang the Sniper flashed through his memory, nestled somewhere between the images of Jagged's favorite nudey bar and his wide collection of assorted pottery.
"HOLY SHIT." The motorcycle roared to life noisily. "Crap crap crap crap crap!"
The back tire shrieked as the hyena tore the road a new ass in his desperate bid to get a move on. Jagged fumed, spazzed, and panicked all at once, cursing continuously at a louder volume than his bike's engine could manage.
Jagged had a ritual where every time he was going after a new bounty, he'd stop and have a pre-hunt drink beforehand to get his vigor going. Unfortunately, he had the tendency to eventually have more than that one drink, and another after that, and then he'd just start ordering various amounts of food to go with his alcohol, and then he'd come to the following afternoon, usually awakening right after the bounty had already been captured. There had already been a few sightings of the target since the previous afternoon, but since he'd been out of it heck knew how long, odds were the reports were long past being of any use to him.
It didn't take long for Jagged to slow the bike down when he realized he had no idea where the hell he was even going. He pulled into the parking lot of a fast food joint and sat for a moment, contemplating things. That fatass police sergeant had sent him some more info on the target after the hyena had departed, info that told of the disappearance of some of the room's most prominent wanted posters. Claw the Mole and his cronies were out there, and there was no doubt in Jag's mind that Fang was after them. Fang liked big money, but the fact that the "sniper" was going for that cash made Jagged think even more.
The gears in his head whirred and squeaked. Jag fought to understand the flow of thoughts hitting his mind.
Thump thump thump thump thump.
"Rrgh!"
Thump thump thump thump thump...
"Shut up!"
Thump thump thump thump thump thump bing. Fang plus Claw equaled—
Jag sat there and racked his mind some more. Carry the two... multiply "x" by two-thirds...
Fang plus Claw equaled...
... something.
"URRRGH!" Thump thump thump thump thump— "STOP HURTING!"
He took a very deep breath and held his hands in front of him, closing his eyes. Calm down. Calm down. Concentrate. Be the wind, or some shit like that.
Slowly his frustration and fury evaporated. Jag sat there, trying his damndest to look deep in thought as people with fast food bags walked by him and struck him with odd looks.
Fang... plus Claw... equaled...
Ri-i-i-ing went his cell phone noisily, and Jagged combusted, flailing his arms wildly, pulling at the fur on his head, and otherwise just pitching a total fit. "ARRRRGH!!" Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump.
Out came the phone, the hyena struggling to keep from ripping it into a million pieces like it were paper. "WHAT!!"
The other voice blabbered for a moment.
"NO I WASN'T SLEEPING! WHAT IS IT!?"
Blah-blah-jibba-jabba went the other line.
"YES I'M ON THE JOB! WHAT DO YOU THINK I'VE BEEN DOING!?
Blah-blah-blah.
"DAMN IT, I JUST SAID I WASN'T ASLEEP!! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT!?"
Blah-blah-blah-blah-blah.
"Wait, say what?"
Blah blah, etcetera-etcetera.
"Are you sure? You're not screwing with me like last time, right? I know I'm the F.N.G., but—"
Blah-blah-blah-get-your-ass-moving sounded through the phone at a much louder volume than it'd been at previously.
"Alright, ALRIGHT! I'm going! Get your panties out of a twist!" Beep went his thumb against a button, closing the connection. "Stupid prick would ruin a wet dream."
He steered the 'cycle to where he could get out of the parking lot, and gassed the throttle, rumbling out of the lot and down the street loudly. Jagged felt his entire mouth salivate in anticipation. He had a new destination, and its name was Sand Hill.
Better watch out, 'cause I'm on you, you mangy little sumbitch. You and Claw equal one big damn paycheck, and I aim to cash it.
"Nngh."
Sombrero the Gila Monster had never felt like this before in his life. He'd had a few run-ins with bullets, but they'd all been mere grazing blows; nothing that had really put his life in danger before. This one wasn't either, but it felt like it had scraped off bone toward the top of his shoulder, and he was struggling to do everything he could to lessen the pain, disinfect it, stuture it, wrap it up, and all the while recall everything he'd gone through in med school before he'd said screw this. Incompetent as he might have normally been, he hadn't made his living for so long by not knowing how to take care of himself when no one else would or could. The shack, while not exactly furnished like a mansion, did have the sort of necessities required to survive in such a hostile environment – and lifestyle. It had served them all well in the past.
"Son of a friggin'... rrgh."
He finished the self-preservation acts by wrapping the long bandage around his shoulder and tried to move it. There was pain, and no small amount of it, but it did not render him helpless.
"Kill you so bad, I swear."
He had seen the three unfamiliar aerobike riders race off across Sand Hill during his self-treatment. Their presence and objectives had confused him and made him wonder what they were doing, but he reasoned that following after them would probably create some opportunities for bloodshed, and Sombrero definitely wanted in on that game. Any game involving blood – other than his own, anyway – was sure to be fun, and he had a feeling this game would involve the little purple bastard who had shaved some of his scales off. Little son of a bitch. Sombrero was going to make that clown eat the corn from his crap when he caught up with him. Anyone else in the way be damned.
Over to the next room he tropped, retrieving the small black pistol that had gone flying from his grip in the showdown and placing it back into the holster on his belt. He stretched his arm for a second, perhaps to try and dull the pain flowing through it. It didn't work. Sombrero seethed.
Then he stood erect and still for a moment, took in a breath, and grabbed iron. The pistol was back out in the blink of an eye, and in an instant, he was pointing it at some imaginary target on the wall. The wound and pain combined were not enough to overcome his ferocity.
I ain't out of the picture yet, you purple bastard. It'll take more than a scrape to put me down for the count. I'm gonna find you, and I'm gonna flay you alive.
He slipped the gun back into the holster and re-entered the kitchen to get some supplies. He snatched every 9mm clip he could find, then turned to check himself in the shack's only and absurdly dirty mirror. Straightening the gaudy white hat and the bandana over most of his face, Sombrero quickly started to feel his health and bravado returning. "You are one hot tamalé. Oh yes you are, you good-lookin' little bad boy—"
"Sombrero!"
"AGGH! DON'T KILL ME!!" Sombrero raced behind the kitchen wall.
Off came the namesake sombrero as he waved it in the open doorway. A moment later, he peeked out into the main room, face an even lighter shade than the hat and the rest of his clothes.
Dry Horn the Bison was looking right at him. "S-Som—brero."
Into the room came the gila monster, placing the hat back on his head. "Holy crap."
He approached the scene. Dry Horn was lying against the wall, crumpled in a mess of furniture and bleeding from numerous shrapnel wounds, burned on his torso, and both of his legs were useless. Yet he was alive. Sombrero didn't know of anyone resilient enough to take a grenade as close as the bison had and still be drawing breath after such a thing, but he must have been far enough from it to take it without getting every part of him blown off, and the big man was one of the toughest, most hardened individuals he'd ever come across in his entire life. The lizard was amazed and bewildered at once. Dry Horn looked like he'd make it, should he get medical attention.
"I thought you were dead," Sombrero remarked, looking down at the bison.
"Yeah," the big fellow agreed with a choke as he lay there bleeding.
"Y'always were more brawn than brains. Not that I'm jealous or nothin'."
"Wh—" started the gigantic outlaw, "where's— C-Claw?"
"Who?"
"Claw," repeated the bison with a great deal of effort.
"Who's that?"
Dry Horn smoldered even as he lay wounded.
"Just kiddin'. I think he booked it when he saw Big-Shot Bounty Hunter was here. They're long-gone. Ain't nobody watchin' us but God, now. I think Claw took the bomb with 'im, too. Pretty sure he had it on his bike. Took the motion sensors, too. I was lookin' forward to usin' that thing on the vault at Station Square Bank. Ah well, that guy and his gadgets. He's such a dork."
The blood-spattered bison glared at him. He did not seem to think the situation called for the level of humor and conversation that the reptile did.
"Oh. 'Scuse me, how very rude of me."
Dry Horn struggled to say something.
"What is it?" quipped the gila monster curiously.
"Help me," Dry Horn pleaded.
"Huh?"
"Just— gimme some—h-help. Help me."
Sombrero bent his body over, craned his head to one side to put his little ear in the direction of Dry Horn's voice, and said in the most frustratingly slow and quiet voice ever known to civilization: "What...?"
"Help," the bison gagged, looking very desperate to reach up and tear the bandito's ligaments off one at a time, "me."
Sombrero considered it.
"Eh. Okay."
Out came the pistol again.
Fang the Sniper was not a happy hunter. He was tired, he was thirsty, he was hungry, and he was angry. Not a nice collection of traits to be the proud owner of when one had a job to do – a job that involved a lot of gunplay. But he was going to get Claw if he lost a leg in the process. He wanted that money, and he wanted to bring justice to the little bastard. His tenacity would not be broken.
Since departing on this God-forsaken venture, he had been debating what to do with Claw once he got him. Sure, he'd cash in on the guy's bounty, but he wanted Claw dead, too. The mole deserved death more than anyone Fang had ever known – well, besides perhaps himself. But Fang didn't shoot without call for it. If he had a man to shoot, he shot him, but he always had reasons. It was the only way he'd survived as long as he had. Everyone else who faced him would try to kill him as hard as they damned well could, and Fang wasn't about to let that happen. Claw, however, seemed to liken killing to some kind of pish-posh sport, if that little stunt he'd pulled during a bank heist one time was any indication of the state of his psyche. Fang wasn't about to let that happen much longer, either.
In any case, perhaps Claw would make the decision for him. Fang thought about that, and decided he might as well let the cards play upon the table as they would. Whatever happened happened.
He slowed the aerobike down to study his surroundings. Sand Hill was way too big – it stretched for miles and miles around him, with heat, emptiness, and death amid him. Rocky mesas and ridges rose up all across the zone. Fang didn't like being alone in such open ground with little cover available. He'd always feel as though people were watching him from hiding spots on those ridges, waiting to sink their teeth into him when he wasn't expecting it. They'd tried before. He had little choice in the matter, though, so he shook the funny feelings and kept on, searching for any sign of where Claw's bike had zipped off to. It had been a while since the encounter at the shack, and he didn't want to think about the possibility that he'd totally lost the trail. That would have doomed him from the start.
Eventually he came across a mineshaft embedded in the side of a rocky mountainous formation. Fang approached it warily and stopped the Queen some distance from it as he retrieved his rifle. He hadn't brought the ion blaster with him, opting instead for a weathered, battle-hardened and battle-tested bolt-action rifle that he rather well-liked. It had served him nicely in the past, and he wanted it to be there with him when he blasted some piece of Claw's body off, and it could very well do that. It was a powerful little beast.
There was no sign of Claw's airbike, but the little punk could very well have ridden it into the mine. Fang turned the bike so its side faced the mine opening, and Fang slid off the leather seat, making use of the cover the Queen provided. He pointed the rifle across the seat at the inky blackness before him.
"CLAW THE MOLE!" he yelled in a tone louder than he had used in the past months. "Get your pretty boy ass outta there!"
No response.
"I'm gonna give you five seconds to show yourself! You can come on out and go peacefully or I can blast you outta there! Choice is yours, pretty boy!"
Still no response. All Fang heard was the unnerving silence of Sand Hill. It was an exercise in stark contrast between there and the hustle-and-bustle of places like Station Square and Capital City. Fang liked being alone, sure, but this was a whole new league of alone.
Damn it, you little piece of crap, get out here! Going in there was one of the last things that Fang wanted to do ever. That was all he had to do to lose a body part of his own, and who knew how long that mine had been there anyway? Damned thing was probably on its last legs. There wasn't even any mining equipment nearby, so it must have been abandoned for decades.
But Fang counted down, nonetheless. "Five! Four! Three! Two! One!"
He knelt there silently. Everything was still quiet.
"Damn it," he seethed quietly, rolling his eyes and clenching his jaw in frustration. He didn't like games, and he hated playing ones the enemy started even more. But he wasn't about to wait around outside for the guy to come out. For all he knew, the mole might not have even been in there. Fang wasn't sure how far behind Claw he was because of Sand Hill's aggravating tendency to throw him off-balance when it came to finding his way around the stupid place, so if the fellow wasn't in there, Fang would have lost that much more time.
Huffing through his nose, he retrieved a flashlight from the Queen's storage compartment, and slowly made his way into the mine's opening as quietly as he could, gripping the rifle in one hand.
Even with the little device in his hand and the sunlight pouring in through the opening, it didn't take long for him to be encased in total darkness. There was no power whatsoever in the shaft, so whatever lights hung over head were long past their helpfulness. Fang wasn't afraid of the dark by any means, though. It should have been afraid of him, as far as he was concerned.
Some bare mining equipment was strung about on the ground not far from the entrance of the shaft. All their handles were termite-infested and worn from age, giving Fang a hint as to exactly how old this place was and how long it had been since anyone had likely set foot into this oversized hole. Not that he could blame them – he wouldn't have entered the stupid thing either if he hadn't needed to.
The mine's elevation began dropping below ground level. Fang had seen that coming, since the ridge the mine was built into wasn't particularly large, but it aggravated him anyway. Searching through the bowels of the planet for someone who could very well see him coming pissed him off and made him antsy.
Dirt and rocks crunched meekly beneath his boots. Claw would have been able to hear him easily. It was somehow even more quiet in the mine than it was outside in Sand Hill, but a disturbingly silent few minutes passed as Fang treaded deeper with no sign of the mole. The mine's emptiness was getting to him, and he knew it. Is this damn guy even in here?
He started to see why the mine was abandoned. It went for a long way, and they'd probably cleared just about everything worth anything out of it. Fang came across nothing of value, partly to his disappointment, though he found plenty of signs of the miners, including the creepy, desperately-made "monsters from the id" scrawling on the side of the shaft. That one almost rattled Fang's nerves even more. Clever bastards. He might have found it humorous had he not been nerve-wracked to the point where he began to contemplate just shooting himself.
Soon he began to sweat and get hot. His level of awareness rose every second. He hated this, and wanted nothing more than to wring that son of a bitch's neck whenever he found him. It would be a good way to get this out of his system. When I find that yellow-bellied prick, I'm going to put my foot so far into his ass, he'll be crapping leather for a whole motherfu—
Beep went something on the mineshaft wall.
Fang whirled around noisily, sending pebbles scattering across the surface as his black pupils immediately dilated and searched for the source of the sound. His eyes darted down to a tiny red light around foot level. He flashed the light there, and saw a small, technical-looking device pasted to the wall. There was another one parallel to it on the opposite side of the shaft.
The frickin'— The hell are those things?
Then he heard another series of beeps, and these seemed to be counting off once every second. Fang's eyes widened, and he pointed the light further ahead into the shaft where they were coming from. The light shone upon a group of pasty-looking brick shapes, locked to what appeared to be a timer that currently read "00:00:01." Fang just about swallowed his lungs, but not before he managed to curse every fiber of Claw's being in his mind.
An earth-shattering boom ruptured the atmosphere as Fang tore across the ground the way he came, racing as fast as he ever had in his life. Dirt and debris from the blast showered his frame, but he was too focused on moving to notice. His already pained legs came ablaze with agony.
Everything was coming down around him. Any support structures were doomed – wooden pillars holding the shaft in place were giving way every instant. Fang charged back uphill while the mountain itself began caving in behind him, crashing and roaring with the rage of the earth. More noise than he had ever heard in his entire life thundered through every bone in his body. If he didn't know better, he'd think the apocalypse was happening right behind him.
He was moving faster than he had in years, faster than he'd ever sped when chasing a bounty. His heart ran like a racehorse on crack. The beam from his flashlight whipped every which way, barely illuminating Fang's path and keeping him from crashing all over himself. His teeth chattered with the noise and quaking, causing him to nearly bite through his own tongue.
Sunlight caught his vision. The support pillars holding the opening in place were already coming down. Fang held his breath and fired for the opening, feeling rocks rain upon the brim of his hat and the tsunami of dirt smash down upon the edge of his tail. He lunged.
The tip of his foot caught one of the fallen wooden pillars, and he tumbled like a hundred-mile-an-hour roller coaster onto the ground in the blindingly bright world of Sand Hill. A monstrous crash of finality rumbled across the zone from the mountain as the most sickening wipeout Fang had ever endured came to a finish.
He laid there motionlessly on the hot ground next to the Queen, the silence slowly returning to Sand Hill, but his eyes were wider than he thought was possible for him. The rifle and flashlight lay next to him, but he didn't notice. He only panted. It took about thirty seconds for him to begin drawing the ability to speak, sand and sweat stuck to his furry face.
"I'm... gonna... kill you," he rasped through grit teeth poisonously, eyes bloodshot, "someday..."