The Long Walk

There was tremendous oddness about that day, as it was chronicled later. The sky above the town of Brezdo glowed in a surreal and beautiful haze of orange. It was November, late enough in the season for snow. Indeed, the temperatures had been well below freezing, and a few soothsayers had forecasted such a storm. However, the frigid afternoon was instead filled with a lifeless rain, thick and heavy.

Along Malborni Avenue, no person could be seen, though the hour would have typically promised pedestrians and customers in hoards. No one strolled on the boardwalks; no one sat under the numerous eaves; no carriage rolled along with commuters. The avenue was in a word, empty, for every townsfolk had been drawn elsewhere that mid-day.

Nearly two miles west of Brezdo lay a long path, dug several feet down into the earth, and paved with multicolored stones. The hours of steady rainfall had turned them darker. Damp moss covered the brick walls, which enclosed both sides of the path. Water could be heard rushing and draining into well-hidden sewer grates. Above the deep walkway hovered every resident, traveler, and visitor of Brezdo. Dressed mostly in black shawls, every head, eye, and nose remained bowed beneath an umbrella. They had gathered long ago and merely waited.

A single carriage eventually approached, coming from town.

No eye lifted. No umbrella was raised. The only movement among the spectators were puffs of breath, wafting briefly in every direction before then vanishing.

"Woah!" shouted the driver of the coach. He clicked twice with his mouth while pulling on the reins. "Woah!"

The carriage, wheels, and spokes crammed with mud came to a gradual halt in front of the stone path. The doors swung open, inside out. Two men stepped down from the box on to the start of the stone path. Both were tall and dressed in identical grey overcoats, wrinkled black trousers, and brown leather-strapped boots. The first of them, Kifer Nikov, aged forty, wore a brown brimmed hat. He was short but broad-shouldered and clearly well built. The other man, Razum Ivanov, was far younger and possessed a neatly shaven face. He wore wire spectacles and a simple black check cap, pulled tight over his ears. His brown eyes darted back and forth, scanning for trouble.

Meanwhile, Kifer turned and leaned into the compartment.

"Come on, now," he said dourly.

A few moments passed under the rain. Silent agitation swayed through the crowd. Kifer raised a foot, intending to step on the box when a pale hand immediately shot out and aggressively waved him back.

"By myself," said a voice, hoarse and muffled.

Kifer nodded. He settled his feet once more on the stones. His eyes abruptly fell as he rested his hands together on the small of his back. Thoroughly soaked from his head to his boots, water dripped off his brimmed hat in sheets. He had no umbrella. His profession did not allow for such comfort. Another man then stepped out of the carriage. He dismounted from the box to the wet stones, holding his arms out to steady himself. Among the crowd, only a few people strained their necks, attempting to capture a view of him.

Alyosha Rasnost, the third and final passenger, stood before everyone with trembling arms. Formerly large and taller than his two companions, his body now seized in fatigue. The thirty-year-old man stooped over, thus appearing considerably shorter than his full height.

The weary Alyosha took a small shuffle step forward and moaned in pain.

The two guards immediately pressed around their prisoner in leg irons.

"By myself," repeated Alyosha with exasperated conviction. "By myself."

The prisoner moved forward again. A red light at his feet flickered in response. The shackles now began to glow, clanking, cutting his ankles with every shuffling step. The two guards followed closely behind, but without an arm to aid.