The Walker
33

Charlie sat alone in the bar, sipping at his drink. Walker had patched up his neck well enough for now, reconnecting the hydraulic cable that was damaged when he had crushed his throat. The boy certainly knew his stuff, Charlie conceded.

Walker. The man had always been angry, but hell... He seemed worse these days, different, odd. Just... worse.

Poor girl, he mused, swirling the remains of his whiskey. Although, he allowed, she did seem to have a good grasp on things. Could be a match even for the ‘mighty’ Walker. He scoffed to himself in the silence of his club. Could be what he needs to sort him out, he reasoned.

He sipped at his drink again. Charlie had sent them to a contact of his, worked in ‘repurposing items of value from one client to another’, who knew some of the best ways up, in, around, under and over the city, and promised he could help them out.

The Library was old, part of the old university that had once sat so proudly at the top of the hill at the city centre, full of narrow passages, underground entryways, and other, more hidden secrets. Charlie was sure the Librarian knew every bloody ‘secret’ way into his sanctuary but hey.

He stood and made his way to the bar, which he leant on, drink in hand. The cleaners had finished up and gone home, and the door had been fixed.

He reached into the cubby hole behind the liquor cabinet and retrieved his book.

Charlie knew the title well, despite the lack of any covers and the first twenty pages. He settled to read of androids and dreams, and to think, and drink, two relics left in the remains of the old world.