(no subject)
This is sure to go unread but this is the intro to my new short that's part four of the no longer trilogy now series I guess...
The sky was muted in night and thick clouds. Walker walked down his street; his shadow with it’s implied doom-assaulting buildings like troy falling. The moon was cold, vapid and halved in its cycle. Virulent thoughts moved down from his mind to muffled speech out of his mouth. This was Walker’s walk. His path littered in an earlier rain. The epidemic had reached peaks in the spring. Walker had taken the throne to cataclysm. Power was consolidated with Jordan and Stanton gone and a purge, of anyone still loyal, in January. With violence nullified the air was open for more business. Open-air business meant a flourishing of the drug trade. Walker wasn’t a businessman he was a trigger, but he was calculating and he surrounded himself with men who knew how to maintain operations; and hadn’t been instilled with any particular affection for either Henry or the Priest. Without any open violence, hostilities or political pressure, business was more prolific than it ever had been. Walker differed from both Henry and Stanton in that he was able to create and maintain a preeminent fear and suspicion within his ranks that allowed him absolutism that his predecessors had never achieved. The relative era of good feelings yielded its Judas: plague. The increased drug operations equaled a bigger market and more users, and that would spread the AID’s problem like a wildfire unquenched by spring rains. Walker had been untouched by it and caustically watched the inferno like Nero watching his city fall. He walked his walk every night, from the docks to the office. He walked it alone. It was a half-mile walk that usually took him 10 min. It was 9:15 pm.
Walker walked briskly tonight down the alley. He had enough turbulent thoughts for the month wrapped together tossing over and over. The C.D.C. was going to step in to fight the epidemic. Outside intervention meant the end of the era for sure. Marshall law was on the horizon. Walker’s back would be broken. Arms dealing was at it’s greatest low after the war. The few sales were relegated to junkies blowing their brains out when they got infected or trying to get a free lunch and they were not return revenue. Miles MaCall who took over the Confessional Room, got stuck by a junkie, shot the junkie then shot him-self in the head in the middle of 9th street last week. That was another void that needed filling. The crusaders had already effectively shut down prostitution operations in an early effort to stop the epidemic. Saint Jude’s had opened to be converted into a relief center. Walker despite all his repression had let loose the floodgates. Greed had cost the city its pulse. The city was being split between clean town in the north and junkie-Ville in the south. This was only the preliminary step. Eventually this would be an actual concrete line.
Silence broken by muffled curses pervaded the walk. Had Walker been less absorbed in his trials, he might have heard the four extra footsteps. He heard the extra splashes in puddle just as he was grabbed from behind. There was a stab that penetrated through his jacket and shirt into his shoulder. The pinprick pain was defining. It wasn’t a knife it was a needle and this was an assassination. A swelter burned up in Walker and caught fire, he broke free of the arms that constrained him. He turned hard and met his murderers. There were two men, torn and tattered. Walker pushed in hard and knocked the man that had held him to the ground. He turned on the man holding the needle. He pulled his Rossie Bulldog in the turn, point at the man on the ground and fired. The man lurched halfway up screamed, and fell backward to the wet street. Walker zeroed in on a hand holding the needle and fired. The needle fell and blood squirted from the hole. The man fell to his knees. Walker moved in on the man he had just shot, pocketing his gun. When he was standing in front of the wounded, kneeling man he dug his thumbs deep into the man’s eyes. The screams turned lights on in the apartments above the street. Walker pushed harder. He could feel the pressure giving up and the wetness. “Who sent you?” There was no response but screams. The man clutched at Walker’s wrists, but couldn’t save his eyes. Walker relented and released his thumbs and the blood was free to flow.
“Who fucking sent you?” There was no response. Walker glowed in coal burned malevolence. “Who sent you?” was belted in a fist burst into the man’s face. Still no response but screams. Walker pulled the man up by the back of his head. Then he let out with a clenched beating at the man’s crouch. “Who sent you what’s your fucking name?” There was no response but screams, mow more muffled. Walker lost patience. He dragged the man to the wall of the alley and smashed his head hard into the wall until the squirming stopped. The apartment lights went out. The blood was black in night. Walker let go of the corpse.
He looked back at the man that he’d shot first. His chest was still inhaling and exhaling and he was whimpering. Walker pulled his knife. He walked over to the man and crouched down. He had gut shot his assailant. Walker went to work with his knife inside the man’s stomach wound, looking for the answer to his questions.
Salvation Walks
By
Stephen Jones
The sky was muted in night and thick clouds. Walker walked down his street; his shadow with it’s implied doom-assaulting buildings like troy falling. The moon was cold, vapid and halved in its cycle. Virulent thoughts moved down from his mind to muffled speech out of his mouth. This was Walker’s walk. His path littered in an earlier rain. The epidemic had reached peaks in the spring. Walker had taken the throne to cataclysm. Power was consolidated with Jordan and Stanton gone and a purge, of anyone still loyal, in January. With violence nullified the air was open for more business. Open-air business meant a flourishing of the drug trade. Walker wasn’t a businessman he was a trigger, but he was calculating and he surrounded himself with men who knew how to maintain operations; and hadn’t been instilled with any particular affection for either Henry or the Priest. Without any open violence, hostilities or political pressure, business was more prolific than it ever had been. Walker differed from both Henry and Stanton in that he was able to create and maintain a preeminent fear and suspicion within his ranks that allowed him absolutism that his predecessors had never achieved. The relative era of good feelings yielded its Judas: plague. The increased drug operations equaled a bigger market and more users, and that would spread the AID’s problem like a wildfire unquenched by spring rains. Walker had been untouched by it and caustically watched the inferno like Nero watching his city fall. He walked his walk every night, from the docks to the office. He walked it alone. It was a half-mile walk that usually took him 10 min. It was 9:15 pm.
Walker walked briskly tonight down the alley. He had enough turbulent thoughts for the month wrapped together tossing over and over. The C.D.C. was going to step in to fight the epidemic. Outside intervention meant the end of the era for sure. Marshall law was on the horizon. Walker’s back would be broken. Arms dealing was at it’s greatest low after the war. The few sales were relegated to junkies blowing their brains out when they got infected or trying to get a free lunch and they were not return revenue. Miles MaCall who took over the Confessional Room, got stuck by a junkie, shot the junkie then shot him-self in the head in the middle of 9th street last week. That was another void that needed filling. The crusaders had already effectively shut down prostitution operations in an early effort to stop the epidemic. Saint Jude’s had opened to be converted into a relief center. Walker despite all his repression had let loose the floodgates. Greed had cost the city its pulse. The city was being split between clean town in the north and junkie-Ville in the south. This was only the preliminary step. Eventually this would be an actual concrete line.
Silence broken by muffled curses pervaded the walk. Had Walker been less absorbed in his trials, he might have heard the four extra footsteps. He heard the extra splashes in puddle just as he was grabbed from behind. There was a stab that penetrated through his jacket and shirt into his shoulder. The pinprick pain was defining. It wasn’t a knife it was a needle and this was an assassination. A swelter burned up in Walker and caught fire, he broke free of the arms that constrained him. He turned hard and met his murderers. There were two men, torn and tattered. Walker pushed in hard and knocked the man that had held him to the ground. He turned on the man holding the needle. He pulled his Rossie Bulldog in the turn, point at the man on the ground and fired. The man lurched halfway up screamed, and fell backward to the wet street. Walker zeroed in on a hand holding the needle and fired. The needle fell and blood squirted from the hole. The man fell to his knees. Walker moved in on the man he had just shot, pocketing his gun. When he was standing in front of the wounded, kneeling man he dug his thumbs deep into the man’s eyes. The screams turned lights on in the apartments above the street. Walker pushed harder. He could feel the pressure giving up and the wetness. “Who sent you?” There was no response but screams. The man clutched at Walker’s wrists, but couldn’t save his eyes. Walker relented and released his thumbs and the blood was free to flow.
“Who fucking sent you?” There was no response. Walker glowed in coal burned malevolence. “Who sent you?” was belted in a fist burst into the man’s face. Still no response but screams. Walker pulled the man up by the back of his head. Then he let out with a clenched beating at the man’s crouch. “Who sent you what’s your fucking name?” There was no response but screams, mow more muffled. Walker lost patience. He dragged the man to the wall of the alley and smashed his head hard into the wall until the squirming stopped. The apartment lights went out. The blood was black in night. Walker let go of the corpse.
He looked back at the man that he’d shot first. His chest was still inhaling and exhaling and he was whimpering. Walker pulled his knife. He walked over to the man and crouched down. He had gut shot his assailant. Walker went to work with his knife inside the man’s stomach wound, looking for the answer to his questions.
Salvation Walks
By
Stephen Jones