The Shadow Walker

by William R Hunt

  “We’ll be right there,” Scarlett answered. She watched the messenger leave.

  “Who’s Yates?” Victor asked, returning his hand to the table.

  Scarlett blinked thoughtfully. “The most powerful man here.”

  Chapter 32

  After surrendering their weapons, the brothers were taken down the subway stairs to a small room where a man was working at a desk.

  He was short, thin but not frail, with hairy arms blotched with little islands of melanoma. He wore a dark wool coat over a white dress shirt, a working-man look that suggested an itinerant preacher or a traveling salesman, someone used to denying himself many of the comforts others enjoyed. His round spectacles lent the only color to his otherwise drab appearance. They were mustard yellow.

  He waved them in with his free hand. The other hand, the right, was occupied writing on a lined notepad. His desk was cluttered with papers, an artful chaos more indicative of a peculiar mind than of carelessness. Two clocks hung on the walls, neither of which possessed a heartbeat. Simon and Garfunkel’s “Mrs. Robinson” was playing softly from a record player complete with a flared, flower-like trumpet.

  “Please, have a seat,” the man offered without raising his eyes or slowing his writing. His lips moved erratically, as if testing the words before he committed them to paper.

  The brothers sat down in a pair of leather chairs lined with brass buttons. The door they had entered now closed behind them, then clicked as the bolt went home. Victor heard the rustle of clothing as a figure crossed his arms behind the brothers. He must have been hiding in the shadowed corner when they entered. The only light came from a few candles strategically placed around the room, so there were plenty of shadows to hide within.

  Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson, Jesus loves you more than you will know, whoa-whoa-whoa, the stereo hummed. Dante drummed his fingers on his knee as his eyes wandered around the room. Victor studied the man on the other side of the desk, trying to decide whether this waiting was a power play. He was perplexed at Scarlett’s claim that this was the man in charge. This fellow looked more like the man behind the man, the shadow figure, an Ernie Adams more than a Bill Belichick.

  “Alright!” the man exclaimed, dropping the pen. He propped his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together. “You have my undivided attention. You are…?”

  Victor let a few moments pass before answering. “Victor Gervasio. This is my brother Dante.”

  “And you’re wondering why you’re here, right?” The man had a conversational, matter-of-fact way of speaking. “The guards phoned from the gate. They seemed to think I’d want to meet you.”

  “Sorry, who are you?”

  “William Yates,” he answered, extending his hand across the desk. “Civil servant.”

  Victor shook the hand, then Dante did the same.

  “Would you like a drink?” Yates asked, tipping his head at the figure standing behind the brothers.

  “Whiskey?” Victor suggested.

  Yates hesitated. “This is your first time here, so I can’t expect you to know the rules. Alcohol is not allowed. It weakens a man’s will. I know it’s a difficult rule to accept, but it’s a small sacrifice to place on the altar of duty.”

  Victor tried not to smile. He wasn’t used to hearing people throw around words like “sacrifice” and “duty.” He hadn’t been for a long time.

  “Got any coke?” Dante asked. “I didn’t used to drink it - it’s pretty much syrup - but you know how it goes when something’s no longer available.” He opened his mouth to continue this chatter, which Victor thought might have been inspired by his discomfort at this uncertain meeting, when a can of coke was placed on the desk in front of him.

  “I hope vanilla will do,” Yates said. “It’s my favorite.”

  Dante cracked open the can and took a sip. Then, after a contented sigh, he tipped the can back and drained a few more swallows. Victor was glad for this distraction. He did not want Dante muddying the waters.

  “Just water,” Victor said. A glass of clear water was placed in front of him. Trapped bubbles drifted to the surface and popped.

  “So,” Yates began, opening a drawer. “They told me—” He drew a cigar from the drawer and stopped. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

  Victor shook his head.

  Yates lit the cigar and took a long pull before speaking. “What brings you to this land of plenty?”

  Victor picked up his glass of water and cradled it in his hands. He had been thinking about this answer since his conversation with Scarlett that morning. “We’ve been on the road for a while now, looking for somewhere to start over.” This was only half-true, but he did not care to share the matter of the horsemen just then.

  “And you think this is the place for you?”

  “I think it can be. We’re soldiers, my brother and I.” Another calculated lie. “I’m not asking to be a burden on your society. I’m asking for the opportunity to help.”

  Yates leaned back in his chair and regarded Victor through a haze of smoke. “You know we’re at war, don’t you?”

  Victor did not answer.

  “You’re ready to go to war? If I asked you to set that glass down and pick up a gun, you’d be ready for your marching orders?”

  Victor did not hesitate. “In a heartbeat.”

  Yates tapped the end of his cigar on a glass cup. “Do you know what we’re fighting for?”

  Victor frowned again. “Civilization. Survival.”

  Yates pressed his lips together in a disappointed line. “That’s the old world. The capitalists want things to go back to how they were, but we don’t. I was a bookseller before this, you know.” He turned and indicated a bookshelf flickering in the candlelight. “Just a nobody who kept to his own business. But when the panic started, I was ready for it. I was prepared because I believed in something.”

  “You mean class warfare?”

  Yates pointed his cigar at Victor. “You have a sharp mind. Society - any society - has always been a war between two groups: Rich and poor, strong and weak, yada-yada-yada.” He waved his hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter what you call them. They are always there. Some countries have tried another path, of course: Russia, China, North Korea, Cuba. We all know what happened to the Soviets. Their system was corrupt; Stalin was so paranoid he purged anyone capable of possessing their own ideas.” He paused as if trying to regain the course of his thoughts.

  “The point is this,” he continued. “We have a golden opportunity to succeed where others have failed. This city can become a beacon of freedom for the entire country. Imagine a society where everyone from the coal miner to the CEO of the largest tech-company labors for the same common good, where there are no poor and no homeless because they are supported by the mighty hand of progress. Imagine what could be done if all the resources of this great country were not hoarded by individuals for their own benefit, but used only for the good of all.”

  “You believe this is possible?” Victor asked, guarding his expression.

  “I believe it is necessary. Otherwise it will be the gradual extinction of the human race.” He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes bright. “Do you believe it’s possible, Victor?”

  This was a question Victor had not prepared for. He sensed no skepticism beneath Yates’s ideological monologue, no reason to doubt he was in fact a true believer. He did sense, however, that this question was a test, pass or fail, proceed or turn back.

  He glanced at Dante, who was staring thoughtfully at his empty can of coke. “I do think it’s possible.”

  “I didn’t ask what you think, but what you believe. The two could not be further apart.”

  Victor preceded his answer with a thoughtful pause. “Yes. Yes, I do. I doubt I could have said it as well as you have, but this does seem to be an opportunity for change, revolution. If you will have us, my brother and I will join your cause.”

  Yates nodded and stared down at the table
. A heavy burden seemed suddenly to weigh on him. “I was right about you,” he said quietly. “I thought I might not be. You must understand, my duty is, above all else, to safeguard the interests of this community. Anything else is a betrayal of the people’s trust.”

  Victor did not know what to make of this, so he kept silent.

  “This is unfortunate,” Yates added. “Truly unfortunate.” He nodded at the man standing behind the brothers.

  Moments later, Victor heard feet stomping into the room. That was when he realized what was happening, but it was already too late. Hands grabbed him and hauled him roughly to his feet.

  “What is this?” he demanded, craning his head to stare at Yates. Dante gave a cry of pain as his arms were twisted behind his back.

  Yates sighed regretfully. “Did you really think I could not see through you? You’re not the first person to sit in that chair and tell me what I wanted to hear.”

  “I don’t know who you think you are—”

  “Ah, but I know who - and what - you are—spies sent to infiltrate this Commune.” He shook his head. “You made the wrong choice, Victor. We could have worked together.”

  “Wait!” Victor shouted, but it was too late. They dragged him outside, and as they crossed the subway platform, he turned to see Scarlett standing with a knot of soldiers.

  “Scarlett!” he shouted. “You have to talk to him, he’s crazy!”

  “You know him?” the soldier beside Scarlett asked. He was standing close to her, his arm curled casually around her waist.

  She met Victor’s eyes, blinked, then turned away. “Never seen him in my life,” she answered.

  Words failed Victor then. He and Dante were dragged down another flight of stairs and into darkness.

  Part 3: Rashad el-Hashem

  He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into you.

  Friedrich Nietzsche

  Beyond Good and Evil

  The measure of a man is what he does with power.

  Plato

  Chapter 33

  He stood in the doorway, letting the bloody light of the western sun wash his back. His shadow stretched long across the old cupped floorboards, which were covered with a thin film of dust. Heads turned to see the newcomer, then turned away just as quickly, picking up fallen threads of conversation or hiding their faces behind shot glasses.

  The Wily Wench was not a place for making friends. No, it was a grim tavern for grim men, a drinking hole for creatures weary of the long sun.

  In the back room, shouts of laughter bubbled out toward the drinkers at the bar. That was where the entertainment could be found: card games, darts, the rattle of dice and the thump of steel into wood, wagers won or lost, threats given, enemies made.

  Out here in the main room of the bar, however, the conversations were muted, the stares dull, nothing but old-timers and luckless lovers hard at drinking.

  The man framed in the doorway, his back to the dying light, noticed this distinction and felt a sense of comfort in the presence of these strangers. Yes, these were his kin, the quiet few with sunken eyes who asked no questions, offered no smiles, gave no empty promises.

  A cold wind seemed to fill the room as the man crossed the floorboards. The folk nearest the door moved aside, avoiding his gaze. He would have liked to think it was his appearance they feared—his stature, the hardness of his eyes, the dark beard covering the lower half of his mouth.

  But he knew better. It was the badge in his coat that drew their fear. It was a borrowed fear, perhaps, and he did not revel in it the way others did, yet today he was glad for it. If nothing else, it should buy him a measure of quiet.

  He walked slowly to the bar, feeling - but not returning - the furtive glances of the other customers. The room had fallen nearly to silence, quiet enough for him to hear the music spilling over from the park.

  He got the bartender’s attention and ordered a whisky. Then, for good measure, he suggested the fellow might as well just leave the bottle beside the glass, which he did. After pouring a glass, the bartender invented an excuse to move down the bar, just far enough to escape the other man’s dead stare along with any unwanted words that might tumble from his mouth.

  This second precaution, however, proved unnecessary, for the man sitting at the bar did not care to share a word with anyone that night. He wanted only to drink, to wash away the thoughts that hounded him. Drinking had been the sin of his youth, and after marrying Eshe his rule had become DO NOT EVEN LOOK AT ALCOHOL. For years it had worked. Then, sometime after agreeing to work for the Baron, his rule had changed to DON’T BRING IT HOME WITH YOU. This was an easier rule, and since he was often away from home, it afforded him many opportunities to sin without incurring his wife’s disapproval. Just like this one.

  He drank with steady purpose, welcoming both the warmth in his belly and the detachment of his thoughts. It was as if his mind had filled with water and the furniture was now floating about on a gentle, relaxing current.

  Cards—that was another vice he had dabbled in, but not so seriously as drinking. He seemed to be made for vices. Maybe that was always the cost of guilt—you had to find some way to get your mind off your mistakes. And he had made plenty of those. The first sin, hitching his wagon to the Baron’s, had been the gravest, and all the others were but the children of the original, grandfatherly sin.

  His hand drifted to the breast pocket of his coat and produced a small photograph. The picture was dotted with little swirls of color where raindrops had struck it, but the faces were clear as he set down his glass and held the picture with both hands. He was in the picture, along with a woman - Eshe - and two young girls. The girls wore matching dresses. Eshe’s hand was around his waist, her head leaning toward him almost shyly.

  He was not aware of his tears until one dribbled down his cheek. He scuffed it away with his knuckles, glancing side-to-side. Had anyone noticed? Probably not. Besides, why did he care if they saw his tears?

  I guess even a stone can shed tears. Those were Eshe’s words, said the last time they were together, just before he rode off in the early darkness like a bandit. The days had stretched to weeks, then to months as he and his men scoured the countryside. All for the ambition of a man he had once called friend.

  And if he orders you to fall on your sword, Eshe had asked in her soft, cold voice, will you do that too?

  The man at the bar, whose sorrows refused to be drowned by alcohol, fumbled in his pocket and brought out his knife. The bartender’s head snapped in his direction, but the first man did not notice this. He pinned the picture to the bar, then used the tip of the knife to slice off part of the picture, removing himself from his family. Eshe’s arm came with him, and a clearer mind would have seen the symbolism in that, but his mind was anything but clear.

  He poured himself another shot to chase away the voices. Then another, and another, until finally Eshe’s voice was gone completely from thought and he no longer imagined the girls in the matching dresses, or that dark night and the thunder of hooves and the silhouette of his wife in the window as he fled from her life, perhaps forever. For he could not return, not now, not empty-handed.

  He did not recall rising from the stool or stumbling toward the door, but now he was leaning against a brick wall whose roughness he could hardly feel beneath his numb fingertips. He was standing with his head bent, waiting for all that booze to find its way out into the air again, when he decided this would be the perfect place for his half of that picture. He pulled it from his pocket and flung it to the ground, down with the piss and the vomit of other drunks, then ground it beneath his boot for good measure. There. That was where he belonged, down in the gutter with the rest of the filth.

  “Had a few too many, eh?” a voice asked, then let out a low whistle. “Where’d you get that badge? Steal it off a corpse?”

  “Fuck off,” the big man growled, rising u
nsteadily to his feet. He saw three figures closing in a loose semi-circle around him.

  “How do you like being one of the Baron’s goons?” one of them asked. “You change his chamberpot, too?” He chuckled and glanced at his fellows to see their reaction. The eyes of his two companions, however, were flat and humorless. They inched closer to the big man cornered against the wall.

  Without waiting for them to throw the first punch, he barreled forward and carried one of the men to the ground. The man’s head bounced off the asphalt with a sound like coconuts striking together. He was probably out for the count, but the big man threw a broken jaw and a few chipped teeth into the bargain anyway.

  An arm snaked around his throat and began cutting off the blood to his brain. He almost welcomed that darkness, would have welcomed that darkness had it come from some impersonal force. But to be knocked unconscious and robbed by a couple of thugs? That wasn’t going to happen, not in this life or any other.