He loved classical music throughout his teens, but could hardly avoid the rock and pop music scene in New York. St Benet’s was in Brooklyn and there had been live music venues nearby. When the wind was in the right direction, you could hear the bass and drums at night and imagine the packed basement rooms, the sweat, the dancing, the excitement. No wonder the bands always seemed to speed up mid-song. Something in Seb responded to even that tiny hint of the excitement of live rock’n’roll. He took to hanging around the local music store, playing the keyboards he couldn’t afford. Ted, the owner, recognized an opportunity when he saw one and gave Seb a Saturday job, demonstrating home keyboards to middle-class parents shopping for their progeny. Seb could make the cheapest piece of gear sound good, but Ted had him unleash his best stuff on the keyboards with the biggest margin. Ted sold a lot of keyboards, Seb got to play the latest gear and meet some local musicians. So when the manager of a touring band came in looking for a keys player, Ted pointed at Seb. He knew he was losing his best salesman, but he even let Seb have the rig he would need at cost and told him he could pay him back monthly from his tour earnings. Ted was a good guy.
Seb was seventeen when he joined The Backstabbers for nine months schlepping round a couple hundred second-rate bars and venues across America. He loved it. He sent postcards to Father O, Sister Barbara and the other kids at St Benet’s for the first month, then he stopped. He had never been back. He’d often meant to go, had often intended to pick up a phone. But when weeks stretched into months and years, it became more difficult, then seemingly impossible. Years later, when his song Sunburst Sunday had been used as the theme tune for a daytime soap, he’d arranged with his agent for fifty percent of the royalties to go to St Benet’s. Anonymously. He had harbored no ill-feeling toward his childhood home. It’s just once you’ve decided to go forward and you’ve started putting one foot down after another, it gets harder and harder to look back over your shoulder at where you started out.
The Backstabbers had long since decided that a derisory pay check and a life of tour buses and cheap hotels could be partially compensated for by the allure of small town girls. Groupies were considered an honorable tradition by band, crew and the girls themselves, though no one could really say why. Girls offering their bodies to strange men simply because they could play a guitar didn’t make much sense under any kind of scrutiny. Seb thought it was the fantasy of freedom. The band breezed into town, played up a storm and were gone in the morning to continue their glamorous lives elsewhere. The groupies never seemed to consider that their little town—the cheap hotel where they’d snorted cocaine with the drummer then shared him with the girl from the diner—was anything but unique. It was just another part of the routine for the band, alongside crappy road food and bad quality VHS porn on the tour bus. But the groupies wanted to feel special, chosen. And that’s exactly how they did feel. For one night. Then it was the early morning walk home in last night’s clothes, carrying their heels and hoping not to see anyone they knew.
Seb indulged, of course. He was seventeen and women were making themselves available. He threw himself into it whole-heartedly at first. But eventually he started to feel bad every morning, feel used. It was Jerry the drummer’s comedic refrain on the bus: “Man, I feel used, I feel dirty. The world is a wicked and terrible place. Let’s do it again.” But Seb started to take walks after the gig, get back to the hotel later, alone. Keep himself to himself a little more. He tried blaming the feelings of guilt on his Catholic upbringing, but he couldn’t make it stick. He loved sex, that much was obvious, but he’d like to experience it with someone who’d remember his name. Not just in the morning, but preferably during the act itself.
The drugs had been fun, too, for a while, but the torpor of a day smoking weed followed by the manic coke-fueled gigs, bourbon at the hotel and the inevitable 5am heart-hammering insomnia made for a soul-sapping routine. When the band fell apart in LA, Seb was happy to take a piano residency in a hotel, clean up his lifestyle and spend his days writing songs.
Now, at thirty-two years old, after reaching another turning point in his life two days previously, Seb sat in a huge jacuzzi with seven naked women and Walt. And—much to his amazement—it felt good. Real good.
Walt was pretty happy, too. “About now,” he said, “any normal degenerate with unlimited funds, surrounded by beautiful women in a hot tub would probably start taking some high quality drugs. Trix here is known for her ability to procure fine Columbian product and I’m sure she didn’t come empty handed, did you, Trix?”
Trix smiled and shook her head. Seb had often wondered if artificially enlarged breasts floated or sank in liquid and Trix had provided him with an answer. If she ever found herself the victim of a shipwreck far from land, she wouldn’t have to waste any energy treading water. In fact, she could probably save at least three other people. Surely they were uncomfortable? He had never found “enhanced” breasts remotely arousing. They were like a traffic wreck - you might slow down to look at them but you felt slightly sick and ashamed the longer you hung around. Trix got out of the tub and swayed over to an attaché case she had brought with her, lifting it onto a marble table. Inside was a bag of cocaine crystals, a battery powered coffee grinder, a square mirror and a pile of crisp one-hundred dollar bills. Trix filled the grinder and, while it was buzzing away and jittering across the table top, she started rolling a bill into a tight tube. She saw Seb watching and laughed.
“Just doesn’t feel right using smaller denominations,” she said.
Walt hoisted himself out of the bubbling water and shrugged on a robe.
“Come on, Seb” he said, “let’s give the ladies some privacy. Something I want to show you.”
Seb gently and somewhat regretfully moved one of the girls’ hands from his groin and tried to think of something capable of making an erection subside quickly, a difficult feat at any time, now rendered virtually impossible by the sheer quantity and quality of naked flesh surrounding him. Even Seb’s go-to image to delay an imminent orgasm—that of Woody Allen playing the clarinet—wasn’t getting the job done on this occasion.
Walt, guessing Seb’s predicament, laughed.
“I think you’ll find you can control that, now,” he said.
Seb thought for a second then understood. Very gently he turned his attention to his genitals and imagined his penis in its resting state. The erection disappeared. He was surprised how much more control he had over his use of Manna. It had almost been instinctive this time. He was about to get up when he decided his flaccid manhood might not be that impressive emerging from water. Especially in front of this particular audience. Sending up an automatic silent apology to any higher power, he added some length and girth to his penis before climbing out of the jacuzzi, putting on a robe and following Walt into his study.
“Form an orderly line, girls,” Trix said behind him as he left the room. “There’s plenty for everyone.”
24
Walt was already sat behind his desk, studying a screen.
“I’ve set wheels in motion to get some information on our attacker,” he said. “She wasn’t trying to kill you, she was aiming for me. And I don’t think I would have come back from being a human kebab the way you did.”
“She wanted me alive,” said Seb, “but drugged.”
“Casino Security has been interviewing her friends,” said Walt. “They have an array of impressive injuries—well done—and they’re being treated for them. There’s a very luxurious suite in the top northwest corner of the building. It’s completely secure. We’ll keep them there until we get some answers. The medical guy with them is in a coma and seems likely to stay that way for weeks, if not months. Whatever they were planning to inject you with was intended to keep you down for a while. She knew you were powerful, but she thought a huge hit of anesthetic would stop you for a few hours. Would it?”
Seb thought back to whatever it was Westlake had sprayed in his face. It had been incredibly fast-
acting, although his Manna-enhanced metabolism had brought him out of it within minutes. But if he had been injected with something more powerful while unconscious, would he have been able to pull the same trick?
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”
Walt finished reading, clicked the mouse and swiveled the display around so Seb could see. The woman from the casino’s classically beautiful features filled the screen.
“Sonia Svetlana,” said Walt. “It’s her real name. She doesn’t consider there’s any reason to hide it. She’s recently risen to the top of an organization no one’s ever taken seriously - Acolytes of Satan, they call themselves. Laughable, in some ways, but brutal and, it would seem, more of a threat than we thought.”
“We?” said Seb.
“Like I said, there’s a bunch of Manna users that look out for each other,” said Walt. “Nothing sinister, nothing you’d even call a organization. We just want to keep our abilities out of the public eye and be left alone. Other groups using Manna have agendas. The Order is religious, they usually keep themselves to themselves. There are plenty of small groups who use rituals and think they’re channelling real magic - they often call themselves shamans, witches or druids. The Acolytes believe in the existence of demons and their rituals often end with the physical summoning of creatures that convince everyone attending. You and I know it’s an illusion, but the thousands of believers see what they want to see. And they are prepared to fund their leaders’ extravagant lifestyles. It’s a pretty neat con, you’ve got to hand it to them.”
“So what have they got against me?” said Seb.
“Well, you’re not going to like it,” said Walt. “These idiots have worked on their mythology for hundreds of years. They believe Satan, not God, created the world, which explains why it’s such a mess. And their regular rituals, as well as being fund-raisers, are also designed to help bring about their ultimate aim.”
Seb had a bad feeling about where this was going.
“Which is?” he said.
“To bring Satan back to finish what he started. Destroy the world, create some kind of hell, set up an international chain of coffee shops…I don’t know what these maniacs think is going to happen. Most of them are just desperate people who want to kid themselves they know something no one else does. Something that will give them the power they crave, so they can turn their pathetic lives around. No danger to anyone, really. But the last few months has seen a change. Our friend Sonia has whipped them into a frenzy. She’s something special, you have to admit.” Seb could still clearly remember the sensation of his skin burning, the smell, the feel of his tongue crackling and shriveling as his lips peeled away from his teeth.
“Yes,” he said. “Although I don’t think ‘special’ is the word I’d use.”
“Well, she’s certainly stirred things up with the Acolytes Of Satan,” said Walt. “She challenged the leader at one of the big rituals. And when I say challenged, she didn’t just ask for a vote of no confidence. We don’t really have any cast-iron information, but our sources suggest she may have pulled the same trick on him she tried on us. Only he did what you’d expect: went up like a roman candle and died screaming. It’s the only reason we know anything about her, frankly. Even a rumor of someone with that strong an ability automatically gets flagged up. We assumed it was exaggerated. Now we know different.”
“Will she be back?” said Seb.
“Unquestionably,” said Walt. “She’s left town now, I can’t even feel a trace of her. We’ll get whatever information we can out of her crew. I’m expecting an update.”
“You said you thought she knew what she wanted with me,” said Seb. “Well? What do you think it was?”
Walt sighed and rubbed his eyes, before standing and smiling again.
“First of all, know that you’re safe here,” he said. “Like I said, we look out for each other. We’ve set up a perimeter of Users around Las Vegas. No one with any trace of Manna gets in without being cleared first. Like I’ve been telling you, the way you showed up was unprecedented. No gradual process, no learning, just…wham! And there you were. So I’m buying you some time to get accustomed to Manna.”
“You’re not answering the question,” said Seb.
“Ok, ok,” said Walt. “According to Sonia, all the rituals for hundreds of years are about to pay off under her watch. Did you see the look on her face when you got in the way of her killing me?”
Seb thought back. “Yeah,” he said, “now you mention it. She looked panicky, scared. Then when I survived, she looked pleased. Excited.”
“Exactly,” said Walt. “She really believes this garbage. She thinks she is Satan’s High Priestess. And all the literature they’ve been churning out suggests they have to pass some great test before they can bring about Satan’s new empire. They have to destroy all threats, prove themselves worthy. They’ve spent years trying to kill the most powerful users of Manna. They believe the energy released by their deaths brings Satan closer. And now all the planets are aligned—or some such bullshit—and they just need one powerful sacrifice to finish the job.”
There was a long silence.
“Me?” said Seb.
“You,” said Walt.
“Ah,” said Seb. There was another, longer, silence. “I’m not sure exactly how I’m supposed to react to that information.”
“Well,” said Walt, putting an arm around the younger man’s shoulders, “I suggest you forget about all that crap for a while and focus on what’s truly important.”
“And what’s that?” said Seb.
Walt pointed at his study door. “Behind that door, along the hall and through the last door on the right is the room we left about twenty minutes ago,” he said. “That room contains a jacuzzi and, if memory serves, seven naked women, by now coked off their tits, who are expecting a night of debauchery. I think it’s important we don’t let them down.”
Seb, after a moment’s reflection, decided he had to agree.
“Just one thing,” said Walt. “Don’t bother with the drugs.”
“Didn’t have you down as anti-drugs,” said Seb.
“Hardly,” said Walt. “Do whatever you want, whenever you like with whoever will let you, that’s my motto. But you’ll be wasting your time. Remember all those beers and that bourbon from earlier?” Seb nodded. “Feel drunk?” said Walt.
Seb thought about it for a second, checking his consciousness for that blurry feeling of well-being that usually accompanied his fourth or fifth drink. It wasn’t there.
“You’ve had a hell of a day,” said Walt. “Exhausted? Tired, even?”
“No,” said Seb, thinking about it for the first time. He felt utterly awake, that feeling he used to get when he ran - there was a brief period after the first tough fifteen minutes when he felt like he could run forever. He felt that same endorphin-fueled heightened awareness now. He felt it all the time.
Walt watched Seb’s face as he processed another change to his life. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “We can feel the initial effects of alcohol or drugs, but Manna counteracts it pretty quickly. I think it’s like the accelerated healing. These things are poisons, as much as I like them, and Manna flushes them away somehow. But hey, when you feel like we do when we’re full of the real thing, why bother with anything else?”
“Fair point,” said Seb. “So why bother with fine wine?”
“I’ve been using Manna a very long time,” said Walt. “After a few years, I spent some time learning how to disarm its anti-drug and alcohol capabilities. I just like getting drunk too much, I guess. And I can sober up any time I like. But you have better things to do than spend time learning how to get drunk, right? Anyway,” he said, putting his hand on Seb’s shoulder and steering him toward the door, “there are always the pleasures of the flesh.”
Walt’s phone buzzed as they left the room.
“Go ahead,” he said to Seb, “I’ll catch up with you.” He waited until Seb went through the
door leading to the hot tub. The sound of giggling was briefly audible while Seb walked in.
“Yes?” said Walt. The voice at the other end delivered his update clearly and concisely. The guy in the coma had lapsed into a vegetative state. And the three professionals had all decided they weren’t going to talk. Ever. Hollow teeth full of cyanide. Very old school. Very cold war.
He was about to put the phone back in the pocket of his robe when it buzzed again.
“Yes?” he snapped, before looking at the caller ID.
“Ford.” The voice was familiar, although he rarely heard it. Given a choice, he would prefer never to hear it. He swallowed hard and stood up straighter.
“Sir,” he said. His hand was shaking slightly. He clamped the phone more tightly against his ear.
“It would appear Mr. Varden is, as you suggested, somewhat of a prodigy. He will attract a great deal of attention. If he is to be useful to us, we must bring our plans forward. He must be convinced where his best interests lie.”
“How long do I have?” said Walt.
“Forty-eight hours,” said the voice. Not so much said, as whispered.
25
California’s Interstate 15 is famous for nothing. And nothing pretty much sums up what you see while driving it. Scrub, desert, some bushes, the occasional cactus. The blacktop was more of a gray/brown top. Every color seemed to be leeched away, leaving only washed-out tones familiar to anyone who’d seen the desert camouflage uniform of US soldiers. Temperatures varied from eighty to a hundred and five degrees Fahrenheit, so, while trying to fight the urge to sleep brought on by the monotonous view, drivers without excellent AC slowly baked in their own skins. Ford Galaxies over forty years old with a million miles on the clock had no AC at all. Fortunately, Mee, Bob and Lo avoided most of the usual pitfalls by driving through the night. They stopped twice for fuel, coffee and pastries, then waited while Mee smoked a much-needed joint. No one spoke much during the long drive; Lo insisted on taking the wheel, Bob had the retired soldier’s habit of snatching a few hours’ sleep when he could and Meera surprised herself by dropping her initial plan of whisking Lo through a hundred important questions and, instead, succumbing to a sudden and unstoppable onslaught of absolute exhaustion.
The World Walker Series Box Set Page 19
