DarkWalker Read Free

drugged-up little shits who had been getting high behind the fence when they saw Jack walking all alone and thought it’d be a good idea to hit him up for money. Beat him, kill him, whatever it took.
    Jack counted three of them. They were young and stupid, but that didn’t mean a fourth or fifth didn’t hide in the bushes.
    It was a useless fence, ending abruptly at the end of the parking lot; anyone could simply walk around it. Jack was already on the far side, away from the police station and downtown—and the street lamps that were popular there.
    The moon, waxing and nearly full, cast plenty of light. Despite the heat, the “leader” of this pack wore a leather jacket. He hadn’t bothered to hide his weapon, a pathetic switchblade he tossed from hand to hand. He paused, briefly, when he realized he’d been seen.
    Jack rolled his eyes.
    “M-m-maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” one of his followers said, blinking excessively and rubbing his palms down the sides of his jeans. “He-he ain’t a-scared.”
    Jack did not step away. Only the leader seemed fully intent on scoring this fight; the others trailed behind him, perhaps sensing the same thing that stopped vampires from taking Jack’s blood.
    “Yeah, I figure you got a wad of cash in them pockets, bro, and I figure you’re gonna just hand it over nice and friendly like, ain’t that right?” the lead kid asked. A pale scar streaked the side of his face, from the corner of his eye to his ear.
    Jack showed his empty palms. “Don’t want trouble,” he said.
    “Too late, ain’t that right boys?” He glanced to his left and right, but had to look back to see his support, his posse . Fled from the strangeness, the danger Jack exuded, the slight tint of dark he’d absorbed; it made him unpalatable even to mundane threats.
    They ran. “ Fuckin ’ wimps,” the leader said, turning back to Jack.
    “You don’t want me,” Jack said.
    “And why the fuck not?”
    “Got nothing for you,” Jack said. He hadn’t reached for a weapon, never puffed himself up. He could fight, if necessary. And maybe he counted on that mark, that ability to walk through seemingly anything. Or maybe he didn’t consider the kid a real threat. It wasn’t like they were an actual gang. A group of kids with more guts than brains, yes, and perhaps something more than blood coursing through their veins. But dangerous? Compared to the stranger with the shaved head and cane? Not a chance.
    “Aw, shit,” the guy said, finally turning and chasing after his friends.
    They disappeared behind the side of the fence, where hedges hid them from the street. They were noisy now, whispering, rustling the leaves, tripping on their own feet.
    After a moment, Jack resumed walking. He crossed the railroad tracks, following the curve of the road, and found his car where he’d left it.
    6.
     
    He officially became owner of the ‘69 Mustang when his mother died, but he’d already rebuilt the engine. The blue was faded, but there wasn’t a spot of rust. Mach I 428 CJ Fastback. Scoop on the hood. Almost looked mean when its four headlights stared you down. Only drawback was the automatic transmission.
    Everything Jack owned was in the car: a bag of clothes and the laptop.
    He spent some time recording tonight in the computer, omitting the kids at the parking lot, then slid the laptop under his seat. The Mustang roared to life when he turned the key. Lights blazed. It was a five-minute drive to the thirty-dollar motel where he’d bought three nights. This was the third.
    He hadn’t decided to leave, but delayed paying for another night because of money. Thirty bucks was thirty bucks, especially when your only jobs were menial, scattered, and generally cash at the end of the day. He hadn’t worked in almost two weeks. That whole stealing from the dead he’d told the ghost, that was rare. Like the ashed girl in the parking lot, victims usually took their money with them when they vanished