It was different now that he was so close to the ground. He could see the glowing threads appearing, but there was a far greater impression of depth. He could see them forming four or five feet beneath the desert floor, individual tendrils of light, fragile and translucent. They surged toward his fingertips and he waited without fear, wondering vaguely how it would feel when they merged with his body. Ten thin tendrils reached for his fingertips. Twenty centimeters, fifteen, ten, five, two, then…nothing. The veins had stopped precisely at the moment they touched his fingertips. There was a pause of about a second, then the lights suddenly winked out and were gone.
Seb stood up, brushing the dirt from his knees. He looked at Walt, The older man was frowning.
“Weird,” he said. “Never…” his voice trailed away. He seemed about to say something else, then changed his mind. “Well,” he said finally, motioning back to the gap in the rocks they had entered by, “guess you just don’t need any yet.”
“What do you mean?” said Seb. “This place is like a gas station, right? People like you—and me—fill up here?”
Walt disappeared through the gap and headed back to the car, talking over his shoulder.
“That’s the theory. But I don’t know it all. Only the parts Sid knew and some more I’ve figured out over the years. But almost all of it is guesswork. We tend to be loners, we don’t share much information. And—if you ask me—no one really knows much about Manna. How to use it, sure. But where it comes from? Why so few people even know it exists? I think we’re all guessing.”
Seb caught up with Walt just as they reached the car.
“So what’s going on? Why couldn’t I…connect back there? Is something wrong with me? And you said you’d tell me how you found me. Or I found you. So talk to me.”
Walt looked at Seb.
“I know you’ve had a strange couple days, but things will get easier. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you. But I do think there’s something different going on. Something new.”
“New how?” said Seb.
When someone uses Manna for the first time, we all feel it,” said Walt.
“Who?” said Seb.
“Everyone who uses Manna. It’s like…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Imagine you’re in the middle of a dark forest in the middle of the night.” Seb flinched slightly, thinking of where he had been two nights previously.
“Well,” said Walt, “it’s like someone turning on a flashlight a few miles away. You see it out of your peripheral vision first, then swing around to take a look. After a few seconds it’s gone. But you know where to look.”
“So you saw me like that?” said Seb, “and set out to find me?”
“Actually, it was a bit easier in your case,” said Walt. “You weren’t exactly a flashlight.”
“What, then?”
“You were a flamethrower,”said Walt and got into the car.
The ten-minute ride to Walt’s apartment passed in silence until Seb cleared his throat and looked at Walt quizzically. Walt turned slightly to face him and raised an eyebrow.
“Shoot,” he said.
“Well,” began Seb, hesitantly, “it was back when you were telling me about Sid. The way you described Chicago. The whole gangster scene, the poverty.”
“It was a pretty brutal time,” conceded Walt, flicking a sun visor down and checking his reflection in the mirror.
“That’s what confuses me,” said Seb. “The timeline. The people you described, the conditions. It sounds too long ago. I mean you’re—what—fifty-two, fifty-three?”
Walt laughed and said nothing.
“Ok,” said Seb, “I guess you could be in your early sixties.”
Walt pointed upwards.
“Wow, ok,” said Seb. “Past sixty-five? Possible, I guess, with a personal trainer and a decent plastic surgeon.”
Walt chuckled again but didn’t comment.
“Even so,” said Seb, “that would mean you would have met Sid in the mid-sixties. And there was no financial crisis I ever heard about. People were too busy taking acid, dropping out and enjoying all that free love. And they were all listening to The Beatles.”
Seb stopped and leaned a little closer to Walt. There was a healthy look to his skin that surgery couldn’t fake. If anything, he looked younger than he had the day before.
“Except for you, of course,” said Seb. “Apparently, you’re the only human being I ever met who knows nothing about the Beatles.”
Walt smiled. “I know who they are,” he said, “but that kind of popular music was never my thing. Guess you never really get away from the music you love while you’re growing up. First girl who ever let me kiss her - we were dancing to Mark Isham and his Orchestra singing I’ll See You In My Dreams. Sure don’t write ‘em like that anymore.”
“When was that?” said Seb.
“That would have been in the early months of the Depression,” said Walt.
“The Great Depression?” said Seb, eyes widening. But it can’t—I mean you can’t be—er, wouldn’t that make you…”
“I’m four months shy of my hundredth birthday,” said Walt, smiling.
“Wow,” said Seb, conscious that his mouth was hanging open. “I want some of whatever you’ve got.”
“Son,” said Walt, “you might have more than I ever dreamed of.”
18
Seventeen Years Previously
St. Benet's Children’s Home, New York
Hindsight is, of course, a frustrating rather than a wonderful thing. To know the course of action you should have taken in a given situation, or, more usefully, to identify what you should have avoided is a fairly useless exercise. This is because the decisions that look foolish in hindsight, tend to be those made when under stress. Hindsight is a calm and considered process, applied when the brain is capable of reason, rather than acting purely on instinct. So, much later, when Seb was in a fit state to look at the events of that afternoon without being overwhelmed by anger, grief, sadness, regret and residual rage, he knew he should have gone to the Sisters and Father O’Hanoran first. They would have called the police, Jack would have been arrested, Melissa would have told them the truth. Jack would hopefully have ended up in prison and they would never have seen him again. But that’s hindsight for you. Frustrating.
Seb ran the half mile back to St. Benet's and raced through the building when he got there. One or two Sisters called after him as he flew by, not so much angry as surprised to see their quiet musical prodigy flying through the halls, sweating and panting, his face grim.
It was Wednesday evening - movie time in Fall when the light failed too early for outdoor activities to continue. Almost every kid in the place would be in the dining room; the tables pushed back against the walls, chairs lined up in rows and—more often than not—the smells and percussive sounds of corn popping in the kitchen, ready to be brought out in steaming bowlfuls. Seb had forgotten what day it was and ran straight to the dormitory, barely seeing where he was going, the image of Melissa’s battered ribs and bruised face burned into his mind.
Stevie looked up when the dormitory door was suddenly and violently flung open. Seb tore in, breathing heavily. Stevie, his arm still in plaster, had barely spoken to anyone since coming back from the hospital, avoiding company whenever possible. He quickly looked down again, ashamed that Seb would have seen the terror in his eyes before he recognized him.
“Where is he,” said Seb, still gasping. Stevie didn’t ask who he meant, just pointed into the hallway.
“Trunk room,” he said and returned his attention to the comic book he was reading, his hand shaking as he did so.
The trunk room was really the attic. It had never been called anything other than the trunk room by the occupants of the dormitories below it, because that was where your cases went when you arrived at St. Benet's. When you left, your case left with you, although that had not always been true, judging by the dozen or so old wooden trunks stil
l there. Some were banded with iron hoops, fastened with huge padlocks, others tied with rope. All were covered in a thick layer of dust. A great deal of St. Benet's folklore originated from the romance of the trunk room. Where had those boys gone? Did they die and never leave - is that why their luggage remained? Was the scratching sometimes heard at night really mice and squirrels, or were the bones of young Hodgkins trying to free themselves from his padlocked trunk in the cobwebbed room above? Ghost stories and adolescence have always gone together and the dim attic provided plenty of material for generations of St. Benet's boys.
The trunk room ran the length of the hall and the two dormitories beyond. The only access in or out was a trapdoor reached by a stout old wooden ladder, usually hanging on hooks fastened to the wall. Today the ladder was in place, the trapdoor open and a faint smell of cigarette smoke detectable from below.
“Jack,” said Seb, and began to climb.
Many of the boys smoked at St. Benet's. A rite of passage for the younger boys, it was also a symbol of maturity and—just as it was in prison—a common currency. The older boys had recently started aping the way Jack Carnavon held a cigarette: the filter pinched between thumb and first finger, the lit end heading back into the cupped palm. Seb guessed Jack thought it evoked the war heroes and spies often portrayed on TV, smoking like that to avoid detection as the burning end was hidden by the hand. Seb had often wondered why the spies or soldiers didn’t just give up smoking and avoid any possibility of detection, but smart-ass opinions were usually best kept to yourself in an institution full of boys and young men.
As he climbed the ladder, Seb could hear the rhythmic snick, snick, snick of Jack’s Zippo as he flipped the cover of the lighter back and forth with the pad of his thumb. Jack was smoking in his trademark style; Marlboros, of course, like the eyes-narrowed, lean, king-of-the-world cowboy on the billboards. Jack had made himself a seat by pushing a few soft cases up against the back of a metal trunk, which he’d leaned against the rafters. He looked up at Seb as the younger boy climbed through the trap door, then dropped his gaze back to the porn magazine he held and sneered, blowing a slow thin trail of smoke through his pursed lips.
“Sebastian,” he said. “Hoped I might be seeing you sooner or later. Thought your curiosity would get the better of you. Well, don’t you worry, I don’t mind sharing some of the details of my date with the hot redhead. I should warn you, though, you missed out there, she was practically a nymphomaniac. Just couldn’t get enough. Here, pull up a pew, take a load off.” He kicked out a leg, lazily sending a suitcase skidding a few feet across the dusty boards. He glanced up as he did so and realized—too late—his mistake. If he had been watching Seb while he spoke, he would have noticed his initial absolute stillness, born of a pure single-mindedness of purpose. He would have seen Seb’s hands slowly begin to clench into white-knuckled fists as he was talking, and—most telling of all—he would have read in Seb’s eyes the intention to act recognized instinctively by every living being on the planet. It was fight or flight time and Jack Carnavon was so complacent in his alpha male role that he was utterly unprepared for the onslaught that followed.
Seb ran the few feet separating them and launched himself at Jack. He had never been in a serious fight, just a few scuffles now and then. He had no plan, no thought of defense against whatever resistance Jack might put up. He had only a pure, mind-cleansing rage which admitted no possibility of failure. Jack Carnavon was going down. Seb jumped as Jack began to stand up, intending at first to strangle him, but changing his mind as his momentum grew, instead tucking his hands back and raising an elbow. It would have caught Jack in the throat had he not been moving, but instead hit his sternum, driving him backward into a roof strut. His head missed it by a fraction of an inch but as he fell, his shoulder took the impact and spun him sideways. Both boys fell, Seb onto his knees, Jack face down in a pile of cases. The older boy howled with pain, then suddenly went quiet and still.
Seb got up and looked at Jack. He wasn’t moving. The trunk room was silent other than Seb’s deep breaths. The sudden silence after the noise of the scuffle was eerie: Seb felt his skin tingling, his teeth clenched together, the pulse throbbing in his neck. He took a step toward Jack’s body. That’s when he noticed Carnavon’s left arm. It was broken. It had twisted behind his body when he fell and was now draped across his shoulder blades. Jack was making small whimpering noises. Despite his initial intention to do as much harm as possible, Seb felt the rage drain away at the sight of his enemy helpless and in pain.
“Jack?” said Seb. “Can you move? Don’t try, you might make it worse. I’ll go and get the nurse.” He turned to go but Jack called his name and he turned to see the older boy trying to get up. As he got into a kneeling position, the arm behind his back swung to his side and he screamed in pain.
“It’s dislocated,” hissed Jack, his face pale and beaded with sweat. “Just help me up, will you? I think I’ve hurt my leg, too. Please.”
Seb hesitated, but he could see the pain in Jack’s face and blood on his leg. The trunk room had nails, screws and other assorted ironmongery dating back at least a century. Jack must have caught his calf on something when he fell, and the blood had run down his leg and was beginning to pool in his socks and white sneakers. As Seb watched Jack try to stand, his anger continued to ebb away, replaced by guilt at the damage he had inflicted. As his head cleared and he began to regain some capacity for rational thought, he decided it wasn’t too late to do the right thing and get the authorities involved. He would take whatever punishment was meted out for his treatment of Jack Carnavon. He felt a sense of relief as he made the decision and knew it to be the right one. He walked to Jack’s side and held out his hand.
“Come on, then” he said. Jack took it and, with Seb’s help, pulled himself to his feet. He stood for a moment taking short breaths and screwing his eyes up with the pain.
“Are you ok?” said Seb. “Can you walk?”
“Yeah, I think so,” said Jack. He put his right hand at the top of his injured leg and shuffled forward half a step. Then he winced, paused and tried to take a second step. This time, he shouted with pain and looked as if he was about to fall. Seb made a grab for him, avoiding the damaged arm and trying to support him around his waist. As he did so, he felt a sudden searing pain in his stomach. Jack hadn’t been supporting his injured leg, he had been going for his pocket. Seb looked down and saw Jack Carnavon’s knife. The hilt was in Jack’s hand and about an inch of blade was visible. That meant the other two inches of steel were in Seb’s stomach. Seb gasped in agony and looked up at Jack, whose eyes were narrowed in fury.
“You dislocated my shoulder, you prick,” he said and, using all the strength in his right arm, drew the knife in a half cutting, half sawing motion across Seb’s stomach, down toward his hip. The cut was deep, ragged and ugly, and blood was already welling up from the wound, livid and purple, drenching Seb’s shirt and soaking Jack’s hand. Jack wrenched the knife out, twisting it as he did so. If it had been a serrated hunting knife, that action might have done enough damage to kill Seb. As it was, it opened up the cut and increased the bleeding. Seb staggered backward, fell and sat clumsily, both hands holding his stomach. His fall was one of the contributory factors toward his survival, as Jack missed him with the follow up thrust aimed at his heart.
“Spoke to your little girlfriend, did ya?” said Jack. “I warned her what would happen. Gonna finish with you, then I’m going to pay her a visit. After that, I’ll be gone. It’s a big world out there, Sebby, you know as well as I do they won’t catch me. Christ, it’ll be good to be out of this dump, anyway.”
Seb didn’t answer. The edges of his vision had darkened slightly. He realized he was going into shock and knew that if he let that happen, he was going to die right there in the trunk room. Then this madman would go after Melissa. He couldn’t let that happen. He pushed hard on his stomach with both hands as Jack came slowly toward him. This had the effect of slowing t
he blood loss at the same time as increasing the pain, waking him up and keeping the faintness at bay. The knife had entered his body in his lower intestines, doing little damage initially. As Jack had dragged the blade across, it had cut through skin and muscle, but Seb’s intestines had been pushed to one side. The knife had nicked his bowel before Jack had pulled it out, which increased the risk of septic shock as bacteria from Seb’s gut leaked into what would normally be a sterile environment. However, that worrying possibility would take days to develop. Seb’s more immediate, potentially fatal, problem was the stab wound Jack was getting ready to inflict on his throat.
Jack dropped onto his knees directly in front of Seb. He was done talking. He thrust the knife upwards at Seb’s neck. Seb knew he only had one chance. His blood loss was weakening him quickly. He took his hands away from his stomach, moved his head to the right and grabbed Jack’s right hand with both of his as the knife passed his left ear. Using all his remaining strength, and harnessing every ounce of adrenaline while thinking of Melissa’s possible fate, he twisted Jack’s hand and pushed it back toward him. Jack was physically stronger than Seb, but he was pushing upwards with the strength of one arm, while Seb was using both hands, the force of two arms, and the physical weight of his upper body to twist Jack’s hand around, then push it down and forwards. Jack knew he had misjudged the situation, too confident, too quick to think Seb was weak and useless. His eyes widened as his own knife, held tight by his own fingers, penetrated the skin under his ribs and buried itself in his gut. Even then, he might have survived if he hadn’t immediately pulled the knife out. A spray of blood followed it, his suddenly numb fingers dropped the knife and he fell heavily on one side.
“Call for help!” said Jack. Seb pushed his hands back onto the wound in his stomach, staunching the blood flow as best he could. He watched Carnavon twitch a few feet away. Jack’s good right hand was trapped under his body. He had no means of stopping the blood leaving the wound. It wasn’t so much leaking as spurting out, staining the old floorboards a rusty dark red. The knife had punctured his liver, which might have proved fatal on its own, but in pulling it out, he’d severed his abdominal aorta. He would die in minutes without treatment.
The World Walker Series Box Set Page 14
