Two days later, the settlement known as The Armory buzzed with activity. Built out of the remnants of an old military base, it was one of the few fortified strongholds left in the wasteland. Concrete walls surrounded the perimeter, topped with barbed wire and guard towers manned by survivors trained to shoot first and ask questions later. Inside the compound, the air was thick with the sound of machinery, weapons being forged, and the chatter of people desperately clinging to the last scraps of civilization.
In the heart of it all, Garrett Mason stood in the armory's loading bay, surrounded by an arsenal of weapons and gear. The place smelled of oil and gunpowder, a comforting scent to a man who'd spent his life chasing danger. The walls were lined with guns, blades, explosives, and experimental tech scavenged from pre-war labs. Soldiers and scavengers moved in and out, but all eyes kept darting toward the bounty hunter. Everyone knew what he was preparing for—the hunt for Quest Strother.
At a nearby table, a grim-faced officer named Captain Russo laid out maps and intel reports, briefing Garrett as he methodically loaded his gear. His hands moved with precision, securing a combat vest, loading clips into his sidearm, and strapping a custom-made rifle onto his back. Every piece of equipment was chosen for a purpose. He wasn't going after just anyone. He was hunting the most dangerous target the world had ever known.
Russo cleared his throat. "We've done our best to track Strother's movements, but the kid is a ghost. He doesn't leave a trail. The only way we've been able to get even a rough idea of his location is by following reports of mass casualties—entire towns wiped out, no zombies left standing, no survivors either. It's like he just sweeps through and leaves nothing in his wake."
Garrett didn't look up, checking the scope on his rifle. "I've heard the stories. What I need is hard intel. You don't send me out with rumors."
Russo shifted, uncomfortable. "We know he was last seen in the northwestern ruins, moving between small settlements. There's one report that says he was spotted near New Haven a few days ago, but nothing's confirmed. The thing is... he never stays in one place for long."
Garrett let out a small grunt, finally looking up. "Smart kid."
Russo nodded, pulling out a map and spreading it on the table. "We've marked potential routes he could take if he continues moving west. The problem is, he doesn't follow predictable patterns. He's not just wandering like most survivors—he's hunting something, or maybe someone. Every place he hits, he leaves a massacre behind. But it's not just random violence. Strother has a purpose, though we haven't figured out what it is yet."
Garrett studied the map, noting the red circles marking locations of reported sightings and attacks. He could already tell this wasn't going to be a straightforward hunt. Strother was too careful, too methodical. He wasn't like the usual scum Garrett tracked down—this kid was playing a different game entirely.
"What about the undead? You said they steer clear of him. Why?" Garrett asked, slinging a shotgun over his shoulder.
Russo hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the subject. "We don't know. Strother doesn't kill zombies because they never attack him. They just... freeze. Some of the survivors say it's like the zombies recognize him, like they're afraid of him. There's been talk that he's not fully human anymore, but we can't confirm any of that. All we know is, the dead don't touch him."
Garrett's jaw clenched. He had heard the whispers, the rumors that painted Quest as something beyond human, something worse than the undead. But rumors didn't matter to him. The kid was flesh and blood, and flesh and blood could bleed.
"What's his weakness?" Garrett asked bluntly, always to the point.
Russo looked uneasy. "If he has one, we don't know what it is. But you should know this, Mason: no one who's gone after Strother has come back. We sent three teams of bounty hunters in the last six months, the best we could find. None of them returned. It's like they vanished off the face of the earth."
Garrett smirked coldly, slipping his knife into its sheath. "Well, they weren't me."
Russo grimaced. "Just don't underestimate him, Garrett. Strother's not just another bounty. He's a force of nature. We're counting on you to stop him before he wipes out more settlements. He's already responsible for the deaths of hundreds of survivors. If we don't get him soon, there won't be anything left to rebuild."
Garrett zipped up his jacket and gave Russo a final look. "I've hunted down worse than him and lived to tell about it. This kid may be a killer, but that just makes him a target." He picked up his helmet, sliding it on. "I'll bring him down."
Russo exhaled heavily, his eyes shadowed with doubt. "Good luck, Mason. You're going to need it."
Garrett walked out of the armory, his gear weighing heavy on his back, but his resolve stronger than ever. He had made his decision days ago, and now, there was no turning back.
Outside, a transport vehicle rumbled to life, waiting to take him to the ruins where Quest Strother had last been seen. Garrett climbed into the truck, eyes focused on the horizon. He didn't know what awaited him, but whatever it was, he would face it head-on.
As the truck rolled out of the settlement, leaving the safety of The Armory behind, Garrett's mind was singularly focused on the task at hand.
Quest Strother.
The most dangerous teenager in the world.
And he was going to bring him down. One way or another.