The Walker

As the yellowing sun began to set, casting long, murky shadows, Jim the veteran, limping heavily as he went, dragged his heavy load down towards the bar.

He licked his lips at the thought of the scrumpy ole Bernie would send his way, and heaved the body along some more. The walker groaned, and Jim put the boot in, knocking him out with a swift kick to the jaw. He was a tough sonofabitch, Jim would give him that. Tall too, probably a good head taller’n most, he thought.

The man’s armour didn’t help Jim’s cause none either. He spat a glob of phlegm and paused, stretching his back, savouring the crunch his joints made. It’d been a long time since Jim had seen a lifter rig like the man at his feet was wearing. Military power armour, Philosopher rank by the looks of it; none complete too. Jim had seen many in his time. This man was showing his ineptitude; the armour was in embarrassing condition.

He grunted as he began to drag the man again, by the foot, down the alley towards the back of the bar; Bernie would never let him in the front with his haul. Jim opened a door and, after peering into the shadows around him to check that no one had followed, dumped the walker through the opening.

He paused to take a breath and a shot of gunfire from the flask at his hip. As he felt the red burn begin in his belly, he grinned, thinking of the treasure the unconscious Walker must have in store for them. He pocketed his flask and headed through the hanging, wooden back door to the bar.