Shadow Walker

Denial

They sped down the highway and through the streets of Atunda, cars parting to let Dirk's monster vehicle through. As the high-rise buildings flashed past in a blur of residue atmospheric dust, Dec's mind swirled with its own storm of thoughts, all of which he was unable to string together. He thought of the Cormorant, how her cargo had been stacked between vertical guide rails made from steel, how each row had been crane-lifted into place, fixed and locked down for their own security. How his own life had been lifted, lashed and fixed down with the iron grid precision of the Cormorant's cargo bound for a predetermined destination. The Captain, no, his father—he cringed—had made sure of that.

Eventually, Dirk's monster vehicle mounted the curb, before falling into position out the front of Dec's house with a suspension-rattling jolt. Dec barely noticed they'd arrived. He was too busy grinding his teeth and throwing mental weight against the iron confines of his cage. Dirk leaned over the passenger seat and tapped the glovebox. It slid open with an electronic whizzing noise. Dirk pulled out an industrial-sized radio that looked like it could've withstood a crushing from a tank and spoke into the mouthpiece, "Tell the Captain the boy has been delivered."

"Copy that," came the reply.

Dirk slammed the glovebox shut and shoved a rubber nib in front of Dec's face. "Sign here," he said. From his pocket, he unrolled an expensive Northern-style digitised notepad, with his name, Dirk Regulski, gold-embossed in gold on the back.

Dec made no move to sign.

Dirk huffed. "Your signature will be transferred to the protection papers I've lodged with the police, preventing them from commencing any further investigations on your disappearance during the storm and the damaged bot without substantial evidence against you. Montague will not track you any further, unless he wants to navigate a shit tonne of paperwork."

Still, Dec didn't move.

Dirk jabbed him with the rubber nib. "Sign it, kid," he said. "You've no grounds for stubbornness right now."

Dec caught his own reflection in the glossy surface of the trackpad and was surprised to find his expression was made of steel—deadly as a politician about to declare war on the national news projections. Certainly not the blithering mess of someone who'd been given an ultimatum by a father he'd spent twenty years putting to rest in a very deep grave of his mind.

In a single, jerky movement, he yanked the rubber nib from between Dirk's marble digits and attacked the trackpad with such force, his name came out looking like an uncouth graffiti tag, reminiscent of a raised middle finger. Dirk rolled the trackpad and tucked it back in his shirt pocket with the swiftness of a diner wiping his hands on a napkin and began typing a message on his palm pod. He seemed to forget Dec was there.

Dec took leave without ceremony, slid from the leather seat and onto the curb, slamming the door behind him with such force, the vehicle rocked on its wheels. Now that he was out from under the umbrella of Dirk's tinted windows, the sun assaulted his eyes and pricked his neck. Keeping his head down, he stomped indents in the cinnamon dust-coated footpath, ignoring the nostalgic warmth on his back and the urge to take one last look at the day around him. He knew if he did, his outer steel might melt.

Dirk's car idled on the curb, engine a low warning growl. Dec thrust the roller shutter door up, eliciting a loud metal screech. In the flash of light afforded by the sun streaming into the room, he saw how filthy their life had become. Liquid spills made artistic streaks down the kitchen cupboard fronts and the cement floor was littered with chunks of dirt and food scraps. Spiderwebs that had gone unseen in the candlelight clung like broken wedding veils to blown bulbs in the uninsulated plasterboard roof. A cockroach scuttled between a crack in the wall.