[Halloween 2013] The Wanderer

He walked on marred concrete to the click-clack of fine leather shoes. He did not need to tread lightly for there was no need; there was in fact a need not to for it was the world that tread all too lightly. And so he in his best suit of the deepest crimson and matching scarlet hat and checkered vest complete with a tie that would make anyone jealous and a shirt of the most evanescent white walked. All night and all day he walked, gold tipped cane in hand.

Here and there, to and fro through neighborhoods that’d seen better times and places as of yet in their primes. Where he had yet to go no body knew; where he would not go was any body’s guess.



“Another shot, bartender,” Mr. Gorgeous called with his obnoxious, head-pounding voice. At least, that was the name Vince gave him. He was a little too well dressed just to go out, get hammered and make an ass out of himself. Did he think the clothes would somehow make it more acceptable?

Ice clinked as he set his lonely glass down on varnished maple. The billiard balls clacked in the corner.

“Yo! You hear me?” NO ONE WILL HEAR YOU WHEN YOURE CHOKING ON YOUR OWN BLOOD

Davonte didn’t budge an inch, eyes smug, no better thinking he was so much better. “I think you’ve had enough, sir.”

Gorgeous slammed his hands down, a disharmonious shockwave that did little to interrupt others. “You trying to tell me how to--hic!--how to spend my money?”

“Didn’t you hear him,” Vince asked. “You’ve had enough.”

“Now you list--”

Vince grabbed him, and threw him out of his stool. Gorgeous tried to gain a foothold to retaliate, but Vince shoved him toward the back door. He fell forward through the wispy smoke air.

“Vince,” the manager said.

“Just taking out the trash, Boss.”

“We need to talk.”

He ignored him. Another shove and Gorgeous flew out the door into the dank alley. He tripped across a puddle. The lights’ reflection blurred, red like demons’ eyes. He got a good look then at Vince for the first time since he’d set foot in the bar. Three hours intoxicating and this had been the first. Vince returned his gaze with all six eyes. Any hint of resistance faded, and Gorgeous slipped away, no remorse held.

“Vince.”

“Yeah, what is it?”

“Remember the day I hired you? You lied to me, Vince.” The manager’s voice was calm, no animosity, but Vince didn’t kid himself. The manager’s fangs were bared.

His hand went unconsciously to his tattoo: two black skulls, one staring dead ahead, lower jaw missing and the other roaring, threatening to fly off his cheek. Oh how he regretted ever getting it, and it was all because of a chance encounter that spawned a moment’s impulse.

“You told me you weren’t involved with any gangs.”

“I’m not.”

“Sure, you don’t have any felonies, but that doesn’t mean your record’s scot free. I run a respectable business. I can’t have people like you working for me.” The manager shifted uneasily; searching for something more to say when there was nothing more.

Images flashed through Vince’s head like a broken TV with so much white noise no one could quite guess their entirety without having stood witness to the show before. Unfortunately for Vince, he had.

Mush that used to be people. Blood, so much blood, splattered on him, on the walls, on the floor, anywhere it could reach, it influenced with its taint. Their screams. No. They were Vince’s resounding throughout and echoing back like a cruel joke played by a child who had no notion of what he was about. The others only popped like paint-filled balloons, there one second and then gone the next.

“Are you okay?”

Vince opened his eyes and peered through his fingers, half open blinds failing to keep out the blinding light; useless like so much else.

DON’T FALL FOR HIS FAÇADE. HE CARES NOT.

He swatted away his outstretched hand. When at last he was able to remove himself from the iron grip that his hands had become, he was all alone. When the manager had left he could not say. He let his breathing run ragged. Sweat ran down his face, a product of his body heat in spite of the night’s chill.

“Not the best reaction I’ve seen.”

Vince turned. He wasn’t alone. It seemed the world refused to leave him be. The most well dressed man he had ever seen stood before him straight backed yet at the same time, he couldn’t have been more at ease. His cane twirled leaving a blur his eyes couldn’t follow before coming to rest with a click at his feet.

Vince took an uneasy step back seeking ever so desperately the cold void of the night. “Who are you?”

“Hard to say. I suppose you could call me a wanderer.”

“So you’re not from around here?”

“No. I’m not. I’m not a man to barge in on others’ personal matters, but I couldn’t help but overhear your argument.”

Argument? With the manager?

“I couldn’t help but notice that it didn’t come to blows.”

It hadn’t. I’ve never hurt anyone. Finally someone who sees the truth! When the well dressed man spoke, Vince found himself straining to hear every perfectly enunciated syllable. There was something melodious about it that resonated with his core creating a ringing that beckoned.

“Some just don’t understand us, people like you and me.” He spread his arms, an all-encompassing shield.

“Yeah,” Vince heard himself agreeing. Such a tiny word yet so powerful. “They don’t.”

“It’s a cruel world out there. Banding together just may be our only course of action, wouldn’t you say?”

Vince nodded along. DO NOT TRUST THE WELL DRESSED MAN

And the well dressed man held out his hand, shattering the illusion to a thousand pieces too sharp to grasp, too promising to let go.

Vince backed up again, filling the gulf between them, and he fled.



The manager stepped back in. Davonte watched him squarely until he caught his eyes. He shook his head. Simple as that, it was over. He had been gone precisely 1 minute and 38 seconds. In that time another customer had come in, sat down at the bar, Davonte poured her a shot of bourbon, she drained it, he poured another, she held it ponderously as if the answers of life would seep in through osmosis, the sound that only cash could make as it was slapped down was made thrice, billiard balls clacked (a break, a scratch and a straight shot), a field goal was made and the crowd went wild, a man in a cozy coat keeping his hands warm walked into the restroom never to be seen again and someone had lost their source of income. IRONIC THAT YOULL NEVER SEE YOUR OWN DEATH COMMING

Davonte blinked, slow and deliberate, an attack designed at his contacts. And standing before him was none other than a cop, one of the so-called folks in blue, though to be perfectly honest the dull lighting made his outfit run black as fresh ink.

“I’m looking for a Vincent Walker,” the officer said in a firm voice that carried over the dead din. “I believe he works here.” REVEAL NOTHING

There was only one thing to be said: the truth. “No one works here who goes by that name.”

The woman tapped her glass. Davonte pulled out the bottle to give her another shot until he realized her glass was still full. She burst into laughter.

“Is the manager available?”

“’Round back at the end of the hall. Just be sure to knock. It’s the polite thing to do.”

The officer nodded in automatic response, but he was already steps away, his mind elsewhere.



“I still say we should go in and look around,” Sullivan said.

“Without a permit? Forget it,” Bradley said.

“Come on. Just a quick peep. Peeping never hurt anyone.”

“You mean to say †˜peek.’”

Sullivan waved it off. “Same same.”

“No it’s not. Peeking is looking around. Peeping is spying on someone, like a chick taking a shower. And you will get hurt if she catches you.”

Sullivan tittered. “I hear that.”

“So you agree then that we should stay here like we were ordered?”

“Shit, no. Watching a chick taking a shower and snooping around an apartment for evidence are two entirely different scenarios.”

“How so? They’re both things you shouldn’t do.”

“Shouldn’t, can’t . . . those are the only words coming out of your mouth tonight. You have a serious attitude problem.”

“Then you concede that I’m right.”

“About what?” Sullivan asked in disbelief.

“You switched the topic. That means likely you got nothing to add to the other one.”

“Yeah, so?”

“There going you admit that I’m right; we shouldn’t disobey orders and break protocol.”

Bradley shifted in his seat. The fog was starting to come in nice and thick now. Between that and the steamed up windows, they may as well have been on their own private island.

“I don’t see why you always gotta be so uptight about the rules,” Sullivan said. Bradley turned. There was no smirk on his face like there usually was when his partner was screwing around.

“Because we enforce them.”

“So? Just because we enforce them doesn’t mean we gotta follow them.”

“Yeah it does.”

“You wanna talk about words? Enforcing something and following it are not the same thing.”

“I’m cold. Are you cold? I’m going to turn the heater on. Besides, how the hell are we going to spot the guy when we can’t even see?”

Bradley turned the key in the ignition, and the unmarked car grumbled to life. He turned up the heat and hit the defroster. At the same time, Sullivan tittered.

“What?”

“I’ll tell you what. I just bested you is what.”

“What are you--”

“Bested by your own logic.”

Bradley glowered. “That is not the same thing. I was simply stating that it’s cold.”

“Okay then. Counterpoint, now.”

Bradley opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Should have just kept your mouth shut. That’s when he noticed him. “Is that our guy?”

“I knew it!”

“No. Look. Doesn’t that look like a tattoo on his cheek?”

Bradley didn’t wait for his partner’s response. He grabbed the receiver of the radio. “This is Bradley. Suspected spotted wearing a gray hoodie outside the apartment.”

The radio crackled. “Copy that, Officer.”

“Moving in.” He put the receiver down. Sullivan nodded. They stepped out of the car at the same time and approached the kid.

Shit, you’re old enough to be his father. Bradley’s gut feeling told him that once again--and unsurprisingly he might add--somewhere in some little white box a lab tech screwed up. But Bradley didn’t get paid to follow gut feelings.

“Hey there,” Sullivan called, all smiles.

Vincent Walker stopped at once. At that distance it was easy to tell that his cheeks were flushed, and he was breathing hard. This kid was on the run from something.

Bradley tensed up immediately; prepared in the case he made a break for it. Sullivan on the other hand took another precarious step forward, utterly oblivious to the distressed state of the kid.

“We don’t wanna hurt you. We actually want to protect you. That’s right. My partner and I here? We’re here to take you into protective custody.”

“Stay back,” the kid roared.

Bradley and Sullivan exchanged looks.

“Now listen here, punk. We can do this the hard way or the . . .”

Sullivan trailed off as he looked back at the kid. Bradely stared, mouth agape. His eye were glowing, all six of them, a deep red. He didn’t even have a chance to reach for his holster. Officers Sullivan and Bradley were there one second and gone the next.

Vince watched in horror as the cops exploded, sending blood and red matter flying everywhere. I LOVE THAT NOISE

It’s just like before. Why? What did I do to deserve this? Now they’ll think I did it for sure! WHO CARES? THEY HAD IT COMING.

Vince pulled off his sweatshirt. He wiped away at the splattered blood on him as best he could before throwing it away in disgust. He looked for others, but the early morning fog clung to everything, turning buildings and cars into ominous shapes. He couldn’t shake the foreboding feeling of invisible eyes watching his every move, brimming with sinister intent.

He couldn’t stay there; it was too dangerous. He had to move, but where? He had nowhere else to go. The apartment was his final haven. Vince tiptoed around the bodies--he wasn’t sure why when dead was dead--and went off into the uncertain night once more.

Emily. It was a single word that appeared in his mind. From where or why was anyone’s guess. He hadn’t seen her in . . . two years? Doesn’t matter. She might be my only hope.



Unsurprising when he got to Emily’s house, not a light was on. The house stood dark and impassive, a silent witness to the times. He realized he was holding in his breath and let it go in a whoosh.

He set one hand on the rough wooden gate but before he could open it, before its squeaky hinges could cry out, something called out from behind him. Vince turned and nearly tripped; he would have if not for the gate to stop his fall. The well dressed man from before was before him, cane in hand and hat on head.

“Who are you?”

He smiled “I told you. I’m just a wanderer. Here one instant, gone the next. Nice house.”

“I didn’t kill the cops. They just . . .” Just what?

“Cops? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Liar! You’re with them, aren’t you? None of this is my fault, I swear it.”

The well dressed man lifted his cane and tapped the ground several times creating a seductive rhythm that called for order. “You need to be less obsessed with what others are up to and more concerned about your next move.” That whimsical nature of his voice pressed in force, threatening to disarm.

Vince did the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. He slackened his grip on the gate little by little until it was gone altogether. He stood up straight until it was no longer supporting his weight and stepped forward. His hand slipped across the top, snagging on a splinter that embedded itself in a finger, but it could fester for all he cared. “My next move,” he mouthed.

The well dressed man didn’t miss it. Vince doubted if he ever missed a beat. “What will it be? Will you turn and walk through that gate? Will you wander the earth until you wander right off the edge, never to be seen again?”

Do you even want to be seen again? Vince asked himself. WOULDN’T IT BE BETTER TO LIVE OUT THE REST OF YOUR LIFE IN A DARK HOLE WHERE NOONE CAN DISTURB YOU? LISTEN TO ME

Vince’s leg muscles tensed. Despite the raging voice inside his head that hounded him like a hurricane, he took another step forward. And another and another until there were no more steps to take and nowhere to take them even if there were.

He walked on marred concrete to the click-clack of fine leather shoes. He did not need to tread lightly for there was no need; there was in fact a need not to for it was the world that tread all too lightly. And so he in his best suit of the deepest crimson and matching scarlet hat and checkered vest complete with a tie that would make anyone jealous and a shirt of the most evanescent white he walked. All night and all day he walked, gold tipped cane in hand.

Here and there, to and thro (fro?) through neighborhoods that’d seen better times and places as of yet in their primes. Where he had yet to go no body knew; where he would not go was any body’s guess.



“Another shot, bartender,” Mr. Gorgeous called with his obnoxious, head-pounding voice. At least, that was the name Vince gave him. He was a little too well dressed just to go out, get hammered and make an ass out of himself. Did he think the clothes would somehow make it more acceptable?

Ice clinked as he set his lonely glass down on varnished maple. The billiard balls clacked in the corner.

“Yo! You hear me?” NO ONE WILL HEAR YOU WHEN YOURE CHOKING ON YOUR OWN BLOOD

Davonte didn’t budge an inch, eyes smug, no better thinking he was so much better. “I think you’ve had enough, sir.”

Gorgeous slammed his hands down, a disharmonious shockwave that did little to interrupt others. “You trying to tell me how to--hic!--how to spend my money?”

“Didn’t you here him,” Vince asked. “You’ve had enough.”

“Now you list--”

Vince grabbed him, and threw him out of his stool. Gorgeous tried to gain a foothold to retaliate, but Vince shoved him toward the back door. He fell forward through the wispy smoke air.

“Vince,” the manager said.

“Just taking out the trash, Boss.”

“We need to talk.”

He ignored him. Another shove and Gorgeous flew out the door into the dank alley. He tripped across a puddle. The lights’ reflection blurred, red like demons’ eyes. He got a good look then (You can remove this so that the sentence sounds and flows better) at Vince for the first time since he’d set foot in the bar. Three hours intoxicating and this had been the first. Vince returned his gaze with all six eyes. Any hint of resistance faded, and Gorgeous slipped away, no remorse held.

“Vince.”

“Yeah, what is it?”

“Remember the day I hired you? You lied to me, Vince.” The manager’s voice was calm, no animosity, but Vince didn’t kid himself. The manager’s fangs were bared.

His hand went unconsciously to his tattoo: Two two black skulls, one staring dead ahead, lower jaw missing and the other roaring, threatening to fly off his cheek. Oh how he regretted ever getting it, and it was all because of a chance encounter that spawned a moment’s impulse.

“You told me you weren’t involved with any gangs.”

“I’m not.”

“Sure, you don’t have any felonies, but that doesn’t mean you your record’s scot free. I run a respectable business. I can’t have people like you working for me.” The manager shifted uneasily; searching for something more to say when there was nothing more.

Images flashed through Vince’s head like a broken TV with so much white noise no one could quite guess their entirety without having stood witness to the show before. Unfortunately for Vince, he had.

Mush that used to be people. Blood, so much blood, splattered on him, on the walls, on the floor, anywhere it could reach, it influenced with its taint. Their screams. No. They were Vince’s resounding throughout and echoing back like a cruel joke played by a child who had no notion of what he was about. The others only popped like paint-filled balloons, there one second and then gone the next.

“Are you okay?”

Vince opened his eyes and peered through his fingers, half open blinds failing to keep out the blinding light; useless like so much else.

DON’T FALL FOR HIS FAÇADE. HE CARES NOT.

He swatted away his outstretched hand. When at last he was able to remove himself from the iron grip that his hands had become, he was all alone. When the manager had left he could not say. He let his breathing run ragged. Sweat ran down his face, a product of his body heat in spite of the night’s chill.

“Not the best reaction I’ve seen.”

Vince turned. He wasn’t alone. It seemed the world refused to leave him be. The most well dressed man he had even ever seen stood before him straight backed yet at the same time, he couldn’t have been more at ease. His cane twirled leaving a blur his eye eyes couldn’t follow before coming to rest with a click at his feet.

Vince took an uneasy step back seeking ever so desperately the cold void of the night. “Who are you?”

“Hard to say. I suppose you could call me a wanderer.”

“So you’re not from around here?”

“No. I’m not. I’m not a man to barge in on others’ personal matters, but I couldn’t help but overhear your argument.”

Argument? With the manager?

“I couldn’t help but notice that it didn’t come to blows.”

It hadn’t. I’ve never hurt anyone. Finally someone who sees the truth! When the well dressed man spoke, Vince found himself straining to hear every perfectly enunciated syllable. There was something melodious about it that resonated with his core creating a ringing that beckoned.

“Some just don’t understand us, people like you and me.” He spread his arms, an all-encompassing shield.

“Yeah,” Vince heard himself agreeing. Such a tiny word yet so powerful. “They don’t.”

“It’s a cruel world at out there. Banding together just may be our only course of action, wouldn’t you say?”

Vince nodded along. DO NOT TRUST THE WELL DRESSED MAN

And the well dressed man held out his hand, shattering the illusion to a thousand pieces to too sharp to grasp, to too promising to let go.

Vince backed up again, filling the gulf between them, and he fled.



The manager stepped back in. Davonte watched him squarely until he caught his eyes. He shook his head. Simple as that, it was over. He had been gone precisely 1 minute and 38 seconds. In that time another customer had come in, sat down at the bar, Davonte poured her a shot of bourbon, she drained it, he poured another, she held it ponderously as if the answers of life would seep in through osmosis, the sound that only cash could make as it was slapped down was made thrice, billiard balls clacked (a break, a scratch and a straight shot), a field goal was made and the crowd went wild, a man in a cozy coat keeping his hands warm walked into the restroom never to be seen again and someone had lost their source of income. IRONIC THAT YOULL NEVER SEE YOUR OWN DEATH COMMING

Davonte blinked, slow and deliberate, an attack designed at his contacts. And standing before him was none other than a cop, one of the so-called folks in blue, though to be perfectly honest the dull lighting made his outfit run black as fresh ink.

“I’m looking for a Vincent Walker,” the officer said in a firm voice that carried over the dead din. “I believe he works here.” REVEAL NOTHING

There was only one thing to be said: the truth. “No one works here who goes by that name.”

The woman tapped her glass. Davonte pulled out the bottle to give her another shot until he realized her glass was still full. She burst into laughter.

“Is the manager available?”

“’Round back at the end of the hall. Just be sure to knock. It’s the polite thing to do.”

The officer nodded in automatic response, but he was already steps away, his mind elsewhere.



“I still say we should go in and look around,” Sullivan said.

“Without a permit? Forget it,” Bradley said.

“Come on. Just a quick peep. Peeping never hurt anyone.”

“You mean to say †˜peek.’”

Sullivan waved it off. “Same same.”

“No it’s not. Peeking is looking around. Peeping is spying on someone, like a chick taking a shower. And you will get hurt if she catches you.”

Sullivan tittered. “I hear that.”

“So you agree then that we should stay here like we were ordered?”

“Shit, no. Watching a chick taking a shower and snooping around an apartment for evidence are two entirely different scenarios.”

“How so? They’re both things you shouldn’t do.”

“Shouldn’t, can’t . . . those are the only words coming out of your mouth tonight. You have a serious attitude problem.”

“Then you concede that I’m right.”

“About what?” Sullivan asked in disbelief.

“You switched the topic. That means likely you got nothing to add to the other one.”

“Yeah, so?”

“There going you admit that I’m right; we shouldn’t disobey orders and break protocol.”

Bradley shifted in his seat. The fog was starting to come in nice and thick now. Between that and the steamed up windows, they may as well have been on their own private island.

“I don’t see why you always gotta be so uptight about the rules,” Sullivan said. Bradley turned. There was no smirk on his face like there usually was when his partner was screwing around.

“Because we enforce them.”

“So? Just because we enforce them doesn’t mean we gotta follow them.”

“Yeah it does.”

“You wanna talk about words? Enforcing something and following it are not the same thing.”

“I’m cold. Are you cold? I’m going to turn the heater on. Besides, how the hell are we going to spot the guy when we can’t even see?”

Bradley turned the key in the ignition, and the unmarked car grumbled to life. He turned up the heat and hit the defroster. At the same time, Sullivan tittered.

“What?”

“I’ll tell you what. I just bested you is what.”

“What are you--”

“Bested by your own logic.”

Bradley glowered. “That is not the same thing. I was simply stating that it’s cold.”

“Okay then. Counterpoint, now.”

Bradley opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Should have just kept your mouth shut. That’s when he noticed him. “Is that our guy?”

“I knew it!”

“No. Look. Doesn’t that look like a tattoo on his cheek?”

Bradley didn’t wait for his partner’s response. He grabbed the receiver of the radio. “This is Bradley. Suspected spotted wearing a gray hoodie outside the apartment.”

The radio crackled. “Copy that, Officer.”

“Moving in.” He put the receiver down. Sullivan nodded. They stepped out of the car at the same time and approached the kid.

Shit, you’re old enough to be his father. Bradley’s gut feeling told him that once again--and unsurprisingly he might add--somewhere in some little white box a lab tech screwed up. But Bradley didn’t get paid to follow gut feelings.

“Hey there,” Sullivan called, all smiles.

Vincent Walker stopped at once. At that distance it was easy to tell that his cheeks were flushed, and he was breathing hard. This kid was on the run from something.

Bradley tensed up immediately; prepared in the case he made a break for it. Sullivan on the other hand took another precarious step forward, utterly oblivious to the distressed state of the kid.

“We don’t wanna hurt you. We actually want to protect you. That’s right. My partner and I here? We’re here to take you into protective custody.”

“Stay back,” the kid roared.

Bradley and Sullivan exchanged looks.

“Now listen here, punk. We can do this the hard way or the . . .”

Sullivan trailed off as he looked back at the kid. Bradely stared, mouth agape. His eye were glowing, all six of them, a deep red. He didn’t even have a chance to reach for his holster. Officers Sullivan and Bradley were there one second and gone the next.

Vince watched in horror as the cops exploded, sending blood and red matter flying everywhere. I LOVE THAT NOISE

It’s just like before. Why? What did I do to deserve this? Now they’ll think I did it for sure! WHO CARES? THEY HAD IT COMING.

Vince pulled off his sweatshirt. He wiped away at the splattered blood on him as best he could before throwing it away in disgust. He looked for others, but the early morning fog clung to everything, turning buildings and cars into ominous shapes. He couldn’t shake the foreboding feeling of invisible eyes watching his every move, brimming with sinister intent.

He couldn’t stay there; it was too dangerous. He had to move, but where? He had nowhere else to go. The apartment was his final haven. Vince tiptoed around the bodies--he wasn’t sure why when dead was dead (I'll be honest. I'm not sure what this part of the sentence means.)--and went off into the uncertain night once more.

Emily. It was a single word that appeared in his mind. From where or why was anyone’s guess. He hadn’t seen her in . . . two years? Doesn’t matter. She might be my only hope.



Unsurprising when he got to Emily’s house, not a light was on. The house stood dark and impassive, a silent witness to the times. He realized he was holding in his breath and let it go in a whoosh.

He set one hand on the rough wooden gate but before he could open it, before its squeaky hinges ccould could cry out, something called out from behind him. Vince turned and nearly tripped; he would have if not for the gate to stop his fall. The well dressed man from before was before him, cane in hand and hat on head.

“Who are you?”

He smiled “I told you. I’m just a wanderer. Here one instant, gone the next. Nice house.”

“I didn’t kill the cops. They just . . .” Just what?

“Cops? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Liar! You’re with them, aren’t you? None of this is my fault, I swear it.”

The well dressed man lifted his cane and tapped the ground several times creating a seductive rhythm that called for order. “You need to be less obsessed with what others are up to and more concerned about your next move.” That whimsical nature of his voice pressed in force, threatening to disarm.

Vince did the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. He slackened his grip on the gate little by little until it was gone altogether. He stood up straight until it was no longer supporting his weight and stepped forward. His hand slipped across the top, snagging on a splinter that embedded itself in a finger, but it could fester for all he cared. “My next move,” he mouthed.

The well dressed man didn’t miss it. Vince doubted if he ever missed a beat. “What will it be? Will you turn and walk through that gate? Will you wander the earth until you wander right off the edge, never to be seen again?”

Do you even want to be seen again? Vince asked himself. WOULDN’T IT BE BETTER TO LIVE OUT THE REST OF YOUR LIFE IN A DARK HOLE WHERE NOONE CAN DISTURB YOU? LISTEN TO ME

Vince’s leg muscles tensed. Despite the raging voice inside his head that hounded him like a hurricane, he took another step forward. And another and another until there were no more steps to take and nowhere to take them even if there were.

Wander
1. to move or travel about in, or through without any definite purpose or destination
2. to proceed in an irregular course
3. to go astray, as from a path or course
4. to lose concentration or direction
5. to think or speak incoherently or illogically

Basically, you have a guy who somehow gained special powers, and forces unknown are out to get him because of it.

You creepy magnificent bastard. Such delicious treats awaiting those who know how to look for them. So unfortunately easy to miss.