The Walker
28

Walker stopped at the bottom of the stairs and lit his cigarette, cupping his hand against his face to shelter it from the wind. He inhaled and stretched, shifting the weight of his books across his shoulder. The machinery on his back whined and clunked, reminding him he needed to replace an artificer at some point.

He wandered across the street and headed back the way they had come earlier; it was still busy out here even now; the city never truly slept. He stopped at a mobile vendor and bought some more tobacco, as well as some papers, and stowed them in a pocket. He grabbed a small, savoury pastry and chewed it as he walked.

He saw what he had been looking for, and chuckled to himself. Walker shook his head, finished the pastry, and took another drag of his cigarette.

The alleyway. Hopefully the reprobate was still in there.

Walker thumbed the safety on his pistol off and made his way to the open mouth between the buildings, peering cautiously around the corner of the alley, looking for signs of life. There was nothing. The man appeared to have gone. Walker slid fluidly into the gloom, unholstering his revolver as he did so.

The sounds and glare of the city died behind him, leaving a dull bass rumble. Walker stepped quietly into the shadows, scanning for any sign of movement.

There was a sudden movement ahead, a flash of darker shadow in the gloom. Walker raised his pistol and darted forward, clutching at the shape.

The junkie hung in his grip, grinning. He had removed his helmet, and Walker could see pale grey eyes, deeply sunken into purplish sockets. His gaunt frame looked worse for the darkness of the alley and he was shaking.

Before Walker could speak, the creature chuckled dryly, pointing to his eyes. “Hindsight isn’t as helpful as insight, and half again as good as foresight.”

Walker shook him roughly like a paper doll. “Stop babbling, wastrel. Charlie sent me.”

The man giggled, staring at Walker unseeingly. “Old tin man sent you, but he’s got no heart. The man from the tower is here. He will say to put away your gun, and you should.”

Walker growled, “Why would I listen to you? You’re unarmed. And even if you were, I could outshoot you.”

The man tilted his head to one side, still smiling. “Maybe so, maybe so. But could you outshoot them?”

He pointed behind Walker, who turned. Several men stood at the mouth of the alley. Even in the gloom their helmets gleamed. Bookmen, Walker thought. Some had their rifles aimed up at him; he was out gunned. One of them called out to him.

“Put it away; rebel walkers aren’t permitted to carry as it is.”

Walker glanced back at the junkie. He lowered his pistol, slowly, and slid it back into its holster.

The little man wrenched free of Walker’s grip and dropped clumsily to the ground, grinning at him. He turned to the soldiers. “I’ll be back soon, and right as rain. Right?“

One of the soldiers was holding the helmet the junkie had been wearing when Walker last saw him. He raised it nonchalantly and threw it at the ground, where it shattered. The junkie’s smile slowly sunk from his face, and his mouth twisted down unpleasantly. His pale eyes stared mournfully at the destroyed eggshell pieces before him. The soldier laughed at his displeasure, and spat on the broken shards.

Before he could speak, a voice came from behind the soldiers. “I suggest you leave.”

The men parted, and the tall, slim figure of the Librarian paced gently through. It was Michael. He was dressed in his favoured black; black cape, the cracked, weathered leather flowed from his shoulders, like dark wings, limp before flight; black hat, wider and higher than Walker’s; inky, black visor, shining darkly over that thin face which solemnly extended to a point below it.

Walker glared up at him. The Librarian looked impassively back. “So,” he intoned, raising his hands. “Here we are. Once again.” He shook his head and moved past Walker, bending to look the junkie in the eye. “Time for you to leave. Don’t make me say it again.”

The small man ignored him, still staring at the fractured helmet. The Librarian prodded him, bringing the man back round. He looked up at Walker, focusing properly for the first time, peeled grape eyes lost and forlorn. He turned and shuffled off awkwardly through the rubbish in the alley, mumbling.

Walker continued to glower up at the Librarian. He was tall, taller than Walker, but slighter of build. His armour was new and well maintained, its oily blackness giving an effect of dark efficiency next to Walker’s scratched, dust scored, uncared for chest piece.

The Librarian straightened up and turned back to Walker. “So, you’re still playing this game, then?” He looked Walker up and down, disapprovingly. “I notice you’ve changed your revolver. Lighter frame, looks newer. I wonder why.”

He clucked like a hen, “And what are you today, I wonder? A mercenary? Private detective? Or are you still playing at being a Walker?” He looked down at Walker’s satchel, the rough shape of the books inside answering his question.

“Carpenter, take his satchel, please.”

One of the Bookmen nodded and strode forward. As he reached for the strap of the bag, Walker gave a guttural bark and grabbed his wrist, twisting it up and forcing the man to his knees.

Instantly the other soldier’s rifles were pointed at him, humming menacingly. Walker could hear the pleasant voice of the targeting systems in their helmets confirming his presence.

The Librarian sighed. “Please, let him go. No one needs to die here. Not this time.”

Walker grunted and let the man go, who fell, grabbing his wrist. “What do you want?”

He sighed again and took off his hat, running a gloved hand through his salt and pepper hair. “I want you to stop this, as usual. Get up, Carpenter. He didn’t even break it. “

Carpenter scrambled up, furious. “Fucking Walkers.” He clenched a fist and drew it back, but the Librarian put a hand softly on his arm.

The bookman lowered his arm and turned away, muttering.

The Librarian continued, “We will be taking the satchel, Walker. You know the rules. No unlicensed distribution. No free Walkers.”

He held out a hand to Walker, who merely stared at it, mind racing. He was going to take the books.

“Come on, Walker. We haven’t got all day. It’s very late, in fact. Hand the books over, and I will consider you gone. I’m giving you a fair chance. Another one. Don’t waste it. Again.”

Walker looked down at the ground. He numbly lifted the satchel strap over his head, feeling the weight of the books within. He was taking them, and there was nothing he could do. He handed them over to the Librarian, who took the pack carefully. Walker stalked passed, pushing roughly through the soldiers and headed towards Charlie’s bar.

The Librarian sighed again and watched him go. He shook his head and headed out of the alleyway, the soldiers falling in behind him.