The Shadow Walker

by William R Hunt

  “Hey Scarlett,” the boyfriend said casually, his eyes still on Victor as he slipped his hands into his pockets. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Gabriel, this is Victor,” she said, touching Gabriel’s arm as she introduced them. The gesture seemed forced, too deliberate to be natural, and Victor suspected she had done so as a signal to him. The meaning was clear: she was with Gabriel. Did Gabriel know she had tried to escape the Commune? Victor supposed that topic was probably off-limits. It caused him to wonder, however, how happy she could be with Gabriel if she had tried to escape without him.

  “A pleasure,” Gabriel said flatly as he shook Victor’s hand. Victor shifted his hand at the last moment so that he gripped Gabriel’s fingers more than his hand, then squeezed a little harder than necessary. Might as well establish the pecking order from the start, he thought.

  “What brings you to the Commune, Victor?” Gabriel asked. His smile was strained now.

  “Business,” Victor answered. He gave Gabriel’s fingers one final squeeze before releasing them. Gabriel promptly returned his hands to his pockets.

  “We bumped into each other on the outside,” Scarlett explained.

  “What about the kid?” Gabriel asked.

  You didn’t even know his name, Victor thought.

  “Calvin’s gone,” she answered faintly.

  Either Gabriel did not notice her stricken expression or he did not care. He blew out a long sigh, rippling his lips, and said, “Well, we should get to the party, Scar. I’m sure Victor can manage on his own.”

  She nodded, gave Victor a fleeting glance he could not read, and then let Gabriel lead her to one of the tables. Victor tried to remember the fiery woman he had found handcuffed to a table in an old factory, and he almost couldn’t. She looked so meek now, so submissive. What did Gabriel have on her? Some secret she didn’t want others to know? There couldn’t possibly be any real love between them.

  Well, he thought, at least I’m making friends on my first day of school.

  He glanced away, letting his eyes pan across the crowd, and was startled to see Dante striding toward him. Dante’s face was lit by a bright smile.

  “Hey, man!” Dante pulled him in for an embrace. He fit right in with the other party-goers: dark hair combed to the side, striped dress shirt, tan khakis. And what was that cologne he was wearing? Axe?

  Victor wanted to demand an explanation about how they had been released from the subway and why Dante had left all the notes in the apartment, rather than being there when Victor woke. Instead he just held his brother, content to know they were both safe—at least for now.

  Dante stepped back and studied him. “You look great! How’d it feel to take a shower? I know there’s no hot water - almost nobody has hot water - but it’s still good just to wash off the dust, know what I mean?” He spoke quickly, not allowing Victor time to interrupt. Now and then he tucked his hair behind his ears or ran his hand down the front of his shirt to straighten it. Something was on his mind, Victor could tell that much at a glance, but Victor had too much on his own mind just then to investigate further.

  “Listen,” Dante went on, “I know you’re reeling, but hang tight just a little longer, okay? It will all make sense soon. I promise.”

  Victor doubted Dante’s ability to fulfill this promise, but he nodded just the same.

  “And sorry I didn’t show up at noon,” Dante added. “I got mixed up in something. But you’re here now—that’s the important thing. Sit down, enjoy the music!” He grinned. “It wouldn’t hurt to flirt a little, either.”

  Victor, who often prided himself on his ability to read people, could not gauge his brother’s level of sincerity. His own instincts told him to survey the crowds, count the number of soldiers standing around the perimeter, calculate the difficulty of grabbing Dante and slipping off into the shadows. But what if Dante had bought into whatever lie they were feeding him? What if Dante really believed they belonged there?

  “Vic? Still with us?”

  Victor smiled weakly. “Still here.” He fished the bottle of Aspirin from his pocket, popped the cap, spilled a few into his palm, and hesitated.

  “Need a glass of water?” Dante asked.

  “No. Maybe I’m crazy, but…”

  “But you’re afraid to take them?” Dante plucked one of the pills from Victor’s hand and swallowed it. “How’s that? I’m pretty sure if they wanted to get rid of you, they wouldn’t have pulled you from that bus.”

  Victor shrugged and tossed three pills into the back of his mouth. “All the same,” he answered after forcing them down, “I’ll keep my suspicions. I don’t trust this place—not Yates, not anyone. I’m not even sure how to feel about Scarlett. You’re the only friend I have in the world right now, Dante.”

  Dante smiled sheepishly. It was a pained smile, and it seemed as if the shadow of a secret hid behind his eyes. Victor, however, was too distracted to pay close attention, and so he said nothing.

  Dante took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Come on. Yates wants to see you.”

  Chapter 45

  The second time Victor met William Yates, he hid his hands in his pockets so it would not be obvious how eager they were to choke the man to death.

  “Victor Gervasio,” Yates said, not smiling. He sat alone at a table set apart from the rest of the group. An air of resignation surrounded him, the kind that smells of the burning of dreams.

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” Yates offered. Though there were several chairs, the table itself was empty except for two cups, one of which was half-full.

  Victor remained standing.

  Yates shrugged. “As you will. You don’t care much for the opinions of others—I can appreciate that. I rather think we’re alike that way, which may be why we were so quick to lock horns.”

  “Your choice, not mine.”

  “In any case, you’re here now. You and Dante are both free to go where you please within the Commune, provided you do not trespass or try to leave.”

  “Still prisoners, then?”

  Yates smiled politely. “No more than the rest of us. Besides, who would want to leave? We have food, housing, electricity. And when was the last time you enjoyed running water?”

  “And in return? You must want something from us.”

  Yates spread his hands, smoothing the tablecloth. “You’re a practical man, Victor. Scarlett told me as much. She also told me of your run-in with the Baron’s goons.”

  This caught Victor off guard. He blinked, trying to recall exactly what he had told Scarlett. What a fool he had been to trust her—what a gullible, optimistic fool.

  The music changed just then. One of the singers called for the couples in the crowd to step out on the green. People began leaving the tables in pairs, some holding hands, some excited and others sheepish. The women, Victor noticed, wore bright dresses of yellow or blue or gaudy red, while most of the men had chosen drab blacks and grays.

  Victor pretended to be distracted by this movement.

  “Why don’t you take that seat and we’ll talk like men?” Yates suggested.

  Victor drew the chair opposite Yates and sat down. “I’ll bite,” he answered cautiously. “What did she tell you?”

  Yates ignored the question. “I was never much of a dancer myself. My mind would always drift away, and before I knew it I was stepping on my partner’s foot while thinking about Marx’s views on democracy and social revolution. Besides, the choreography…” He trailed off, watching the dancers. It was his turn to feign distraction.

  Victor waited patiently for Yates to circle back to the previous topic.

  “Which branch did you serve in?” Yates asked.

  “How do you know I served?”

  Yates raised his eyebrows. “Don’t insult me.”

  “Rangers.” This was a piece of the truth, but not the whole thing.

  “Impressive.”

  “Is this an interview? I don’t remember applying.”
>
  Oh, you did,” Yates answered. “As soon as you stepped foot inside this Commune, you proffered your services. The only question is how you will serve. I could assign you to one of our illustrious “Reclamation Projects”—you would mostly spend your time carting rubble and wielding a sledgehammer. There are worse ways to earn your keep, don’t you think?”

  “Something tells me you have a better idea.”

  Yates nodded agreeably. “Your brother’s skill-set is limited. He can’t even perform certain kinds of menial labor because of that ankle. What Scarlett told me about you, however, is a bit more interesting.”

  Victor watched the dancers, considering just what Yates might be getting at, when his eyes landed on a woman in a burgundy dress. Scarlett was dancing with Gabriel, her dress sweeping around her feet, and Victor could not help noticing how gracefully she moved compared to Gabriel. Gabriel was an unbending oak, rigid and unyielding, while she was a rose caught in the breeze, stirring with unconscious grace. Victor glimpsed her face for a moment and saw her half-lidded concentration as she let the music captivate her, and he imagined a little girl with dark curls dancing in a field of clover beneath a French sky.

  “You’re looking for a soldier,” Victor said, turning his attention back to Yates. “And in return for my service, I get a little slice of domestic bliss in this charming community.”

  “Would you rather return to that cage? It can be arranged.”

  “I am curious where that bus would have taken me. It must take quite an effort to keep the pumps running so that the tunnels don’t flood.”

  Yates smiled. “That’s a trade secret. After all, what is a man without his secrets?”

  Victor cupped a hand against his chin and frowned at the shadows beyond the torches. “I think I’ve had my fill of secrets recently. Betrayals, too.”

  “Strange to hear that coming from you.”

  “Which part?”

  The corner of Yates’s mouth quirked toward a smile. “The secrets.”

  Victor waited for Yates to explain himself, but he never did. A waitress came by with a tray of non-alcoholic drinks, and after Victor shook his head, Yates waved the woman away.

  “In another life,” Yates said, “I think you and I could have been good friends.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “We are both men of principle, of logic. But more importantly, we both have a vision. It’s like a glowing ember freshly plucked from the fire: Get close to it and it will warm you; try to set your hands on it, and it will melt your flesh like wax.”

  Yates pushed back his chair and stood. As he walked by, he placed a napkin in front of Victor. A few lines were indented on the napkin in a slanted scrawl.

  “What’s this?” Victor asked.

  Yates smiled. “Your assignment. Unless you’d prefer to revisit your future below ground. You may be a rare talent, Victor, but there are others like you out there. I just haven’t found them yet.” He patted Victor’s shoulder on the way by, leaving Victor to contemplate the contents of the napkin.

  ___

  He sat alone for ten or fifteen minutes, reading the napkin and musing over his conversation with Yates, before Dante joined him.

  “So?” his little brother asked expectantly. “How did it go?”

  “Peachy.” Victor nonchalantly folded the napkin, covering the words.

  Dante pulled back a chair and sat down beside him. “I know it’s not what we expected,” he said in a low voice. “But honestly, it could be far worse. Remember that conversation we had after you killed Walker?”

  “Conversation? I seem to recall you quietly listening while I rambled on about my past.” Saying the words aloud caused Victor to realize how much of a role-reversal that conversation had been.

  Dante waved his hand dismissively. “After that, then. We talked about what was in the cards for us, remember?”

  Victor nodded. “You wanted to become a farmer.”

  “That’s not exactly what I said.”

  “And I’d keep hunting, and we’d call each other Cain and Abel.”

  Dante frowned at him. “You’re pulling my leg, right? I can never tell with you.”

  Victor crumpled the napkin and slipped it into his pocket. “What are you expecting, Dante? Do you want me to say Yates and I had a good heart to heart? Should I tell you how he convinced me to believe his Communist dogma bullshit and how eager I am to spread the good news?” He didn’t mean to turn his anger on Dante, but it was like a cloud following him around.

  “Shh!” Dante glanced at the other tables. “You can’t talk like that here, Vic.”

  Victor sighed. “I’m tired, Dante, okay? I’m tired of playing games, of deciding whose back I need to scratch, of not knowing where I’m going to lay my head at night.”

  “Are you telling me you need a vacation?” Dante’s smile was tentative, an invitation for Victor to set aside his frustration and behave like friends again.

  Victor, however, was not interested in the easy way out. “Maybe it’s the blow I took to the head. I don’t know. Things just aren’t as clear to me as they usually are. I need some time alone—a few beers wouldn’t hurt, either.”

  Dante nodded, but it was clear he was crestfallen. “You won’t get the beer—”

  “I know. He’s a stickler for rules.”

  Dante opened his mouth, as if he would point out how much a stickler Victor could also be, but then he blinked and changed tack. “He’s going to need an answer soon, Vic.”

  “I know,” Victor repeated. “And once my mind is clear, I’ll give him one.” He stood, and before Dante had time to ask him to stay just a few more minutes, he stepped past his brother and slipped into the comforting concealment of the shadows.

  Chapter 46

  The napkin was more familiar than he would have cared to admit.

  The music thinned behind him, the wind cutting its teeth on all the broken edges around him, tempered glass and chipped brick, and the sky might have been the outer bounds of the galaxy, so distant did it seem. Why did the sky always appear so aloof? Why must man, whose ambition knew no limits, set his gaze on celestial bodies far beyond his reach? Why, for that matter, did man dream at all?

  He hid himself in an alley as a patrol sauntered by. It must be past curfew. To hell with curfew, he thought. To hell with Yates and Marx and fellow travelers everywhere.

  Yates had been wrong. Yates was a man of vision and ideals, ready to become a martyr for the cause he believed in. Victor, however, was fueled by other motives. Sure, there might have been times when he tried to convince himself his actions were altruistic, from joining the military to helping stop the engineering of a dangerous virus. The truth, unfortunately, was far less glamorous. The truth was that he did it all for the rush, the excitement, the heart-pounding, roller-coaster thrill.

  The truth was that he was more of a junkie than Dante had ever been. Dante had gone searching for a fix in the pharmacy that one time, but Victor lived for the fix.

  That was why he had climbed aboard the helicopter with Peter when he could have gone home to Camila. It was why, even when he had lost sight of the purpose of the work he and Peter were doing, he had gone on.

  For the thrill. The high.

  Maybe the blow to his head had been worse than he’d thought. What if, like a closet schizophrenic, the injury had jarred one personality from control and allowed another to take its place? Was that why he felt so keenly those emotions that most of the time floated like fish beneath the surface, quietly following their own current, minding their own business?

  “Damn it all,” he muttered to the darkness. He needed a drink. A few shots of bourbon would have done him fine. He was an angry drunk, and that suited him fine as well because anger possessed motion, movement, purpose. Sorrow and regret were no more than irons clamped around your feet to keep you from leaving your cell. Anger might be foolish, it might lead to trouble, but at least it did not stagnate.

  A cat hissed at
him from a doorway, startling him back into the moment. How far had he wandered down these nameless streets? It didn’t matter. So long as his anger fueled him, he would go on walking wherever his feet took him. After all, there was no real solution to his anger, was there? No way to appease the demon inside him? To do that, he would first need to know what the demon wanted.

  The injury, the napkin, Yates’s condescension—those were the things that had set him off. Scarlett had pissed him off, too, but Yates was the real thorn in his side.