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Sam had always hated cities. Even back in the days when he could drive home at the end of the day. Now, as he ran in widening circles around its winding streets, he wanted to burn it down. Dodging roamers and hoping to avoid any dogs, he wanted to blow it apart. If Sam could have ripped the whole misery of this city apart, brick by rotting brick, he would have done it.
As badly as he needed to, Sam couldn’t run on anger forever. Neither could he keep the sun up. He cursed as it slipped behind the brick houses for good. He pulled his scarf up to mask his hoarse breathing. He grudged every second d it took, but he searched for a place to lie low. He only had a little penlight left, and no batteries; he’d be searching blind.
At last he found an old office, maybe an unpopular lawyer from the look of it. Inside, the first piece of furniture he ran into, shin first, was an unfortunately heavy desk. He reached over, checked that the windows were blocked, and swept his flickering penlight around the room.
Besides a water cooler three inches full, there wasn’t much of use. Sam filled his canteen mechanically and splashed his face clean.
The last of the faded blue light disappeared. Sam sat. He knew he should sleep, but he couldn’t yet. Didn’t want it, didn’t deserve it at all. He couldn’t afford to close his eyes and let his mind drift. As soon as he did, all he’d see was that hideous dog with it’s teeth around Frodo’s leg, those men in the truck pulling up, he couldn’t tell exactly how many there were inside through the trees and the red mist as Gollum’s fingers tightened around his throat. Even now it ached. Some of it was due to crying, though.
“Stop it,” Sam muttered to himself. He scrubbed his sleeve over his face. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He knew better. He took a few breaths and shook his head hard.
The truck had headed this way, he was sure. It hadn’t left on the freeway, he’d had it in his sights the whole time he was on pursuit. They were still in the city.
He wasn’t certain Gollum hadn’t followed him, but with a bullet in him, even Tweaker couldn’t move fast. Sam didn’t feel any guilt calling him that now.
Frodo was still alive. The drifters could have no use for him dead. Sam’s stomach turned at the implications, and he clutched at his ankles, head between his knees. For a long time, it went dark.
When he woke again, he ached head to foot from his dodging and panicky running. He stood slowly, like an old man.
Night had passed; weak light filtered through the shades. Sam hadn’t even taken his backpack off before collapsing last night, so all he needed to do was push the desk out of the way, and ease the door open.
In accordance with Sam’s luck, a roamer lurched inwards, snarling and snapping.
Sam yelped, “Frodo, back up!” without thinking, and whipped the crowbar out of his belt loop and into the creatures open jaw. For a moment, he stood stock still, hoping his noise hadn’t drawn more. His heart thudded unevenly, but he heard nothing.
He glanced at the roamer, automatically checking the body for anything of use.
He smiled suddenly, grimly. The corpse was the same man who had bounded out of the truck and seized the dog off of Frodo. Sam kicked the body resentfully, remembering how the man backhanded Frodo unconscious, before tossing him in the bed of the truck.
It had been a crowded vehicle; seven or eight men in one car. “One less now,” he said softly.
The winding streets were still dim. He found no trace of the white truck with X’s on the windows. Neither did he see any more roamers, but kept an eye out nonetheless.
He must’ve run more than a mile before he found it. He caught sight and immediately ducked behind a car and watched for a moment. There was the truck, parked haphazardly in front of a tall chrome building that looked out of place among all the two story brick houses.
As angry and terrified as Sam was, he needed a plan. He only had two bullets left.
Maybe he could set something on fire, make a distraction. He pushed back from the car, evaluating. It could work.
He was fumbling for matches in his coat pocket, when a scream like nails on a chalkboard made him drop to the ground.
Two men stumbled out of the revolving door and got in the truck, slamming the door shut with a curse. They peeled around the corner. Another man, limping and old, came out and hollered for them to stop. The engine noise sped away, and he spat on the ground. The man looked helplessly up the street and began heading in Sam’s direction.
This was a better chance than Sam had imagined. He scooted back, picking himself up off the asphalt. Sam
was a match for this man, whether he was short or not.
He waited until the dragging footsteps were as close as possible, then struck out at his legs. The man snarled and fell.
Sam clicked the safety off of Frodo’s silver revolver.
“Where is he?” His voice was hoarse.
The man’s head snapped up and he looked down the gun barrel.
“Holy-“
“Where the hell is he?” Sam said as loud as he dared.
“Who?” The man tried to rise. Sam pulled the hammer back and he stilled.
“Frodo! I know he’s-“
The man pointed to the left, the direction the truck had gone. Sam lost his nerve for a split second and looked.
Something hard was flung into his face and the man took off running. He disappeared into an alley.
Sam sprawled dazed on the ground. He sat up slowly and touched his cheek. It wasn’t cut, but it was throbbing and would be swollen soon. He reached for the thing the man threw at him.
It was a drawstring bag, cheap polyester. He loosened the top, glancing up now and then to make sure he was alone. He glanced inside- and shut his eyes tight. His breath came hard.
Behind his eyelids, the sight of Frodo’s vest stayed unwavering. It was Frodo’s last present from Bilbo, it had stopped a bullet before. Frodo never took it off.
“Oh, what am I gonna do?” he said, his voice unsteady.
Grinding his fist against the ground, he struggled to pull himself together. The man could have simply stolen it, and he hadn’t seen Frodo get in the car.
Without a second thought, Sam made a break for the entrance. He slammed shoulder first against the revolving door and pushed as hard as he could.
It was only once he was inside that he realized that the door was resisting him because a body was caught in it. He looked around wildly. Two roamers we’re heading for him, one walking, the other with both legs hacked off, dragging itself.
Sam ducked back into the revolving door. He still had Frodo’s gun in his hand, but he took out the first roamer with his crowbar. It took three blows to kill it. By that time it’s grasping fingers were almost at Sam’s face. He stepped over it and drove his crowbar into the legless roamers skull. He looked around, wild eyed, but he was finally alone.
There was one more corpse lying a few feet away, but it was still, lying in a pool of blood congealing around a head wound. Even the dog was dead. It had a Halloween collar with spiders on it. Sam might have felt sorry for it if he hadn’t seen it run Frodo down. There was still blood on its muzzle.
Sam tore his gaze away and scanned the room more slowly. No sign of Frodo.
“Frodo?” he called. No answer.
The lobby was fairly open, no place to hide anyone.
Sam tried all the doors. They were all locked, except the door to the stairwell. He started climbing.
He tried every door on the way up, and found them all locked. He tripped over long dead bodies, saving his breath, wanting to yell as loud as he could. One floor. Then two. He stopped counting. Finally he reached the end of the stairs.
They came to a halt in a small box of a room, no furniture, nothing but some sort of industrial type metal locker which yawned open.
Sam raced to the last floor he checked, tried the door again. Nothing. He ran back to the top of the stairs and stood, chest heaving.
There was a window. Beyond the layer of grime coating the glass, past the low and lopsided and ugly rooftops, Sam could see a road leading away. A white truck was speeding away, barely in his sights anymore.
Sam sat down at the top of the stairs. He felt a buzzing sensation creep out from his hands and feet. He closed his eyes.
Foggily, he wanted to take back his decision to not pursue the truck, but his thoughts felt distant. He didn’t belong to the here and now at all.
He put his head in his hands, and tried to concentrate, but he drifted all the way back to Kansas, to Gandalf still alive, to everyone together.
He remembered the townhouse, the cold basement. The snow howled outside but that meant they were safe.
Pippin had found a battery operated cd player with some juice left.
Merry had lit up the last of his stash.
Boromir had gone through the CDs in the racks and insisted on the Best of Bob Marley, even when they all laughed at him. Boromir didn’t mind being cliché.
Sam sniffed wetly and smiled, head in his hands, remembering.
Aragorn danced badly, Arwen joined him, somewhat better. Her swords clanked on her back in time to the beat.
Merry and Eowyn snuggled in the corner, they had finished most of the joint themselves.
Legolas and Gimli had played darts.
Frodo had fallen asleep with his head in Sam’s lap. He couldn’t remember if that night had been one year or two years ago.
He started humming, then singing. It wasn’t a very long song; he gave up and let his head drop forward again. He would have given anything at that moment to have not been alone.
“…h..llo?...”
Sam drew a slow breath and looked around. Someone was answering him. He stood, about to head downstairs to investigate, when he heard the door to the second floor open.
“Shaddap, asshole!”
Sam froze.
“I told you to keep quiet!” the voice rasped. Sam didn’t answer. Neither did anything else.
Even so, someone began climbing the stairs. Sam slipped into the locker, cautious. Peering through the crack in the door, Sam recognized one of the men from the truck. He reached for his gun, but paused when he saw what the bastard was carrying.
A ladder. He set it against the wall and began climbing out of Sam’s sightline. A roller door shuffled open. He heard footsteps on the roof above and crawled out of the locker.
The watery light came through the hole and Sam craned his neck, both hands on the ladder, not daring to hope.
He heard the man stomp a ways away from the opening, then say, “I told you to keep your yap shut.”
There was no answer.
The man’s voice grew quieter. Sam could only hear snatches.
“….got lucky…….you and me, bitch….”
Sam slowly made his way up the ladder. The voice grew clearer.
“….just you watch your mouth, or the fun starts all over again. Got it?”
Still no answer. Sam climbed quietly, one hand on his gun.
Suddenly, there was a sound of impact, something striking flesh, and a scream.
Sam scrambled up the last rung, heart in his throat. He sprang through the roller door and landed on the roof. The man stood up from a crouch, open mouthed, a baton in his hand-
Sam drew and shot once. A hole blossomed in the mans neck. He stayed up on his feet for a moment, staring. He staggered and fell at Sam’s feet. Sam kicked out at him and he slid through the roller doorway and landed with a thud on the stair landing.
Sam turned around, then froze.
Frodo was sprawled on a plastic drop cloth, as if he’d passed out on it. His pants were filthy and his shirt and coat were missing altogether.
Sam finally caught a breath and fell forward, kneeling and pulling Frodo up. He knew he was begging Frodo to open his eyes but he couldn’t hear it past the rushing in his ears.
Frodo was covered in bruises and scuff marks. They looked like boot prints.
Sam shook Frodo’s shoulders again but he still didn't move. Shuddering, Sam sank forward.
Frodo shifted his legs and moaned.
Sam straightened, one hand went to Frodo’s neck, to his forehead, pushing his hair out of his swollen face
He needs a haircut, thought a crazy part of Sam’s brain.
Frodo opened his eyes. He winced and curled inwards, hands going to the huge bruise on his ribs. He groaned.
Sam couldn’t stop shaking. He realized he was laughing. “Oh, sir.” He hadn’t called Frodo 'sir' in a long time, he hadn’t worked for him in three years. But he couldn’t stop himself.
“Oh, Mr. Frodo.”
Frodo looked up, seeing him suddenly.
“Sam?”
Sam nodded, grinning and tasting tears.
Frodo grabbed him around the middle. “I thought I was dreaming! You’re really here!”
Sam held him closer, laughter turning to sobs.
Frodo pulled back. “Were- were you singing?”
All Sam could do was nod.
Frodo smiled incredulously, a split lip turning his grin crooked. “I can’t believe it.”
Sam cried harder. Bloodied and bruised and beaten and God knows what else, and Frodo smiled.
Frodo sank back down, wincing, and Sam tried to get ahold of himself. He couldn’t tell afterwards how long it took him to calm down.
Frodo sat quiet with him the whole time.