The Walker

Walker glowered furiously. The cheek of it. Little girls had no business with the Walkers. He climbed down the ladder from the roof, leaving her watching him.

He should have known better than to get involved with the common folk out here, to repeat the mistakes of the past. She was too young, callow and untrained. He couldn’t risk getting involved; Walker didn’t do babysitting.

It was as he dismounted the ladder, thoughts racing through his mind, preoccupying him, that his distractions betrayed him for the second time that day.

A blinding pain screamed up his spine and winded him utterly. He collapsed backwards, knocking dustbins and rubbish askew, and, as he slipped into dark unconsciousness, he thought he could make out a bald, scarred head and a single yellow eye, leering from the shade.