The Wanderer

Special Note: While I actively worked to avoid writing intensely graphic content into this story, this story does contain elements of—and speculative elements of—crime, violence, and sexual violence.

Part I.

Godwin swiveled on his barstool and leaned back against the smooth stone bartop. With a quick flick of his thumb his metal lighter spat out a healthy flame, and he lit the cigarette that was firmly pressed between his lips. He took a generous first puff, at which the tip of the cigarette crackled and burned bright orange, and exhaled a gray plume that slowly dissipated into the dark haze within the dimly lit room. The nicotine did nothing for him—it hadn’t in more years than he could recall—but it helped drown the boredom.

At eleven at night, the small, Red District bar was still quite busy. The laughter was raucous, as good times often seemed to be, and the music—some new age rock song he’d heard a time or two before—was a few clicks too loud, which only served to increase the volume of the chatter and drunken banter to near-shouting.

He carefully surveyed the room for the third time since he’d arrived, his ashen eyes creeping from one person to the next until they fell upon a table of women that must have slipped in during his third glass of whiskey. The five new faces encircled a round, lacquered table in the far corner of the bar next to the bar-front’s big glass window that read “Lucky Pete’s Beer and Burgers.” The table shifted colors time and again from purples to greens to blues to reds as neon lights within the ill-lit bar and from the street outside reflected off its glossy surface. The ever-shifting hues dyed those cheerful faces, too, though they paid it no mind. Neon lights were a common motif in the streets and bars in the Red District. 

Godwin studied the five women from under the shadow of his black fedora as he took another drag from his cigarette. He leaned back further, his fashionable beige trench coat falling open to expose his dark, pinstriped suit, white collared shirt, and a black tie tucked neatly into the suit’s vest. They looked to be in their late twenties and chatted and laughed like old friends. They were well-dressed for the Red District, but not excessively so, wearing stylish winter clothing that suggested casual but rich. Godwin sighed and crossed one leg over the other. They looked happy. What a shame, he thought. One of them would soon be dead.

It hadn’t taken long to single out the unlucky woman. From that moment on, he observed her as if she were the only person in existence. She was a lovely slip of a thing with a wide, open-faced laugh that bared pearly white teeth. From under her white beanie spilled a long ponytail, its color as gold as fresh hay. It rested lackadaisically on her shoulder, and she tussled it with her fingers, winding and unwinding the silken strands as she spoke and giggled and laughed. In such poor lighting and at such a distance, discerning her eye color was an impossibility. He wished he could peer into them now, to gleam from them that final youthful joy before they became frightened and uncertain, then distant and unfeeling.

For now, he would leave the group to their merriment. A final celebration with their soon-to-be dearly departed comrade. After all, from the moment he picked her out of the crowd it had become a waiting game, one with which he was all too familiar. He turned back to the bar.

“Barkeep,” his voice rumbled in a low, gravelly tone. “Another whiskey. Make it a double.”

The man behind the bar, a slender fellow with dark eyes, frazzled brown hair, and a Van Dyke, looked his way curiously. It took several moments before his eyes finally fell upon Godwin.

“I’d forgotten you were there,” he said apologetically as he quickly moved to fill the order. “Long night I guess.”

“Not a problem. Happens all the time,” Godwin replied as the glass was set before him with a clink. Godwin nodded his thanks with a slight smile as he took the glass and poured a small bit of the amber liquid down his throat.

Part II.

           It was well past midnight before the woman had left the bar, parting ways with her friends just outside the door. Godwin was thankful for this, for he never enjoyed being around too many witnesses. Fewer people involved was always better. Simpler. Though sometimes that couldn’t be helped.

The rain pattered rhythmically against his black umbrella as he followed the woman from the Red District, slowly closing the distance between them with graceful strides. Soon they were alone but for a random stranger here and there. Some of the shadowy figures moved with an ease and carelessness that bespoke of trouble while others moved more quickly and cautiously. He wondered why she had chosen to walk alone in such an area, where the buildings were poorly maintained, or abandoned altogether, and at so late a time that traffic lights blinked yellow or red. Pride. Or naivety perhaps. Or maybe the foolish courage that came so readily with youth and a moderate splash of alcohol.

He was close now, and though she had looked over her shoulder more than once, she had paid him no mind, her gaze meeting his for the briefest moment before her eyes seemed to dismiss what they had seen as no more than the gentle swaying shadows of a moonlit.

The time drew near. He felt it in his very marrow. His skin tingled. His eyes focused. When the narrow pedestrian underpass came into view, he knew that that was where it would happen. He was so close to her now that he could smell traces of her cloying perfume on the wind. 

The long, concrete corridor was dimly lit. Each light—those few that hadn’t yet burned out—emitted a faint yellow glow through cakes of dust and grime. Decades of graffiti decorated the walls, and the scent of urine could not be ignored.

The woman walked slowly and steadily through the underpass. It was quiet here. Only the rainfall competed with the soft echo of her footsteps and the light scraping of her jeans.

Godwin drew deep, steady breaths. His strides had shortened, and his soft footsteps now matched hers in perfect cadence. She was so close now that he could reach out and touch her at any moment.

Part III.

           They were halfway through the underpass when the men showed. Two had entered from the direction in which they walked, and two from behind. The men walked briskly and brazenly, their smiles unsavory and malevolent, their minds failing to recognize the presence of another man who watched and waited. They called to her with confidence and arrogance. One said sweet things while another spoke in ominous vulgarities. The woman had grown so uneasy that she had dropped her umbrella and had frantically begun to fumble through her purse. She quickly produced a small pepper-spray device and her cell phone. She yelled at the men to stay back as she aimed the peppery spray bottle one way then the other while her fingers desperately worked her phone over and over.

           Godwin sighed from his perch he had taken against the wall, his umbrella now closed and resting against the wall beside him. He looked up at the small cracks that had formed in the rounded concrete ceiling from which water fell in rhythmic drips. He hoped this wouldn’t take long, but he knew better. After all, he had witnessed these sorts of atrocities time and again for generations. Yet even still he did not know what he was, who he had been, nor even why he did what he did. A curse. A trauma, perhaps. Maybe even a last promise to a treasure long lost to some tragedy. But he knew his work was important. He also knew that once he spotted death’s embrace, it could not be undone. He stuck his hands in his pockets and tried to ignore the frantic shouts and cries for help.

           “There’s no service here,” one man laughed. He was a short fellow with dark hair, beady eyes, and a myriad of tattoos on his face and neck.

“We’re not going to hurt you. We just want to have a little fun,” called another man, his pitchy voice sounding almost like the cackling of a hyena. The hood of his sweatshirt blanketed the man’s face with darkness.

           The woman was bound by panic and fear, and she worked her phone over and over in a desperate attempt for help. Still she screamed, her voice growing hoarse, her eyes wide.

           That’s enough, Godwin decided.

           Godwin stepped forward, past the white umbrella on the ground, and gently took the woman by the wrist. The world around him slowed, and its vibrance dulled into shades of blue and gray. All sound became distant and inconsequential. Gingerly, he pulled the woman away from herself. Nervously, she rejected him at first, but when her amber eyes met his, she became as calm as a fern safely nested within a glass jar. She stepped out from her body into this strange, blue-hued existence that presented itself like a dream. She looked around in awe, her face calm and bewildered, her eyes wide with wonder. She spoke, but her words came too quietly to comprehend. Behind her, time moved more quickly. Godwin glanced past the woman who stood before him. His hard stare consumed the countless heinous deeds performed by the band of men, and his ears registered each scream. When the woman who stood before him tried to turn to observe the scenario that unfolded behind her, Godwin took her gingerly by the cheek and turned her gaze to meet his. 

           Don’t look at them, he whispered softly into her mind, his words resonating like a drop of water striking a small pool in deep, isolated grotto. You are safe. Nothing can hurt you here. He smiled at her, his handsome face softening from its usual listless mask. What is your favorite childhood memory? Do you remember?

           Behind them, the woman fought her assailants but to no avail. No matter how she screamed and kicked, they would not be deterred. For a moment, an iciness returned to Godwin’s eyes, though he knew that the woman he watched was no longer there. Not really. He had taken the important parts, leaving behind only instincts and an empty husk of flesh, blood, and bone. 

When the woman before him finally nodded with a smile, Godwin returned his attentions to her. She moved her lips silently as if to say, I remember.

Show me.

For a short time, the world around them transformed into something beautiful.

Part IV.

           When the ordeal was over and the men had gone, Godwin released the woman who stood before him. A pleasant journey, he whispered and watched as she faded away, holding fast his soft smile until the last sparkle of her essence had vanished. The dream-like state faded, and the world around him once again became bright and bold. He had never figured out where they went, whether they simply withered away into non-existence or found something else waiting for them. Something better, perhaps. He wasn’t sure he would ever know. His smile faded, and his gray eyes once again became cold and distant.

The attack had been vile and had lasted for far too long. He looked away from the slashed and bloodied body that lie in a pool of crimson. He had witnessed all that had been done to the woman. It was not often he went beyond the scope of his work, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself. Her wide smile and heart-filled laughter, and the treasured childhood memory she had shared with him, were still freshly imprinted on his mind. He had picked up the scent of each of those men, and he could follow those trails to the ends of the earth. Wherever they went, however far, however fast, he would find them.

There was always work to be done, he knew, so he did not linger. He picked up his black umbrella and rested it on his shoulder. From his coat pocket, he withdrew a curved blade—the smooth ivory handle cool in his grasp—and dragged it along the concrete wall as he walked in the direction in which the men had run. The scraping of the steel on concrete rang harshly within the small, dim underpass. As he walked, he began to whistle a tune, the name of which he had long since forgotten.