Westlake sprinted forward as the women fell, pulling the machete from his belt as he did so. With a practiced motion, he jumped just before reaching the nearest body, swinging the razor-sharp weapon over his head. As he hit the ground, the machete whistled past his ear and hit the neck of the burning woman, severing skin, muscle, bone and arteries. He kicked the head away. He had once seen a Manna user re-attach his own head with a last scrap of consciousness, threads of flesh snaking out and snapping the separated neck onto the torso. Westlake had resolved never to make the same mistake. He noted that the nearest member of the unit had decapitated the other woman. Fire or brain-death were the only sure-fire ways of neutralizing Manna users permanently. Employing both methods ensured success.
One woman had escaped the initial onslaught, rising about forty feet into the air on a column of earth. Her power was palpable. She glanced toward Ford and the others, recognizing the source of the most immediate threat. The ground around them suddenly buckled and split, then jerked and threw them backward like a bull at a rodeo. Only Barrington escaped the initial counter attack, rising up on his own column of earth to meet her. Westlake recognized the woman as Diane, a senior figure in the community. He had to admire her tactical thinking under duress. By lifting herself so high, she was beyond the reach of the flamethrowers, and his men were under orders not to use a single bullet, as the risk of leaving physical evidence was too great. But her indisputable talents had been directed mostly toward healing and producing food, so she could hardly be expected to be a match for Barrington, who had devoted much of his life to the study of violence, and knew a great deal about how best to inflict painful, or—if necessary—fatal damage to the human body. As his column of earth reached her, he simply punched a hole through her ribs and ripped out her heart. Knowing she had seconds to repair the damage, the woman looked down at the gaping bloody hole, only to see—too late—the blade in Barrington’s other hand. Her head fell one way, her body another, the column of earth collapsing in a cloud of dust and shards of rock.
The fires from the grenades burned out quickly, just as they were engineered to do. As Westlake and his men checked the trailers and the immediate area around them, they kept a count of fatalities. Eleven dead. Every member of the community was accounted for. Their ruined bodies were lined up and Westlake called over the Manna users—all ashen-faced except Barrington—to remove the evidence by reducing the bodies to individual atoms that would never appear human, even under the most advanced forensic microscope.
“Bring them,” said Westlake. The last trailer door opened, and as the final flames spluttered and died a visibly shaken Meera Patel and a grim-faced Bob Geller were brought out. Both looked around them for the bodies of their friends, confused by seeing nothing after the terrible screams of the last minute and a half.
“You bastard,” said Meera, “what have you done?”
“Things have changed since we last met,” said Westlake. “We need your friend, and you appear to be the only leverage we have to make sure he comes in.”
“We won’t co-operate,” said Bob, stepping forward. “These were peaceful, innocent people. Who the hell are you and what makes you think you can get away with mass murder?” Meera didn’t speak, her arms folded tight around herself, her eyes wide and her shoulders shaking uncontrollably.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” said Westlake. He looked straight into Meera’s eyes. “Mr. Varden will come to us because of you. We don’t need anyone else.” He stepped sideways and the machete in his right hand swept across Bob’s stomach, opening up a deep cut. Bob looked at him disbelievingly and clutched at his own flesh, trying to seal the gap and prevent his intestines spilling out onto the desert floor. In Westlake’s experience, everyone cut across the stomach reacted that way, which left them unable to defend themselves against the killing stroke. Switching to a two-handed grip, he drove the point of the machete through the man’s throat into his brain. Bob fell dead at his feet.
Mee let out a barely audible sigh and collapsed. Westlake gestured to his men. “Bring her,” he said. He gave Ford a look and pointed at Geller’s body. Walter stepped forward to remove the evidence, his face pale.
Bundled into the waiting chopper, her wrists secured to her seat with cable ties, Meera opened her eyes, then closed them again. She hadn’t known Bob for long. You could know some people for years and barely notice if they left the country. Others, they seemed to have a key that opened the usual doors protecting your heart. They just got in there, kicked off their shoes and made themselves at home. And you let them do it, because you knew they were one of the good guys. As the rotors began to whine, she turned her head to one side so Bob’s murderer wouldn’t have the satisfaction of seeing her tears.
As the helicopter took off, Westlake sent a coded email to his employer. Less than twelve minutes had passed since they landed. Effective and efficient. He allowed himself a rare smile.
38
Albuquerque
After disembarking the train in Albuquerque, Seb hired a vehicle for the four hour drive to Roswell, New Mexico. He chose a battered pickup - a vehicle the rental company said was suitable for off-road excursions. As he headed south-east, he played with the dial of the radio, only to find the one station he could detect through the hiss seemed to play back-to-back depressing country songs. He flicked it off and drove on, his thoughts whirring. Would Roswell answer any questions? Or just leave him with more?
After a couple hours on the blacktop, staring at a flat muted landscape, occasionally broken up by the appearance of a gas station, he felt himself start to doze.
“I’ll drive if you like,” said Seb2.
“What? You can do that?”
“Sure. I don’t need as much rest as you. Couple of hours in every twenty-four and I’m as good as new. I usually grab them while you’re asleep. But no reason I can’t take over while you get some shut-eye. You’re the part of us that intersects with the outside world - your consciousness is the busiest. I’ll wake you up when we’re close.”
Seb laughed and shook his head at the sheer craziness of his life. “Yeah, sure, why not,” he said. “Beats cruise control.”
When he opened his eyes, the pickup was nosing into a space outside a busy diner, full of families and couples. He was hungry.
“Welcome to Roswell,” said Seb2. “It’ll be a few hours before it’s dark, no hurry.”
Inside, it was bright, clean, and the service was quick and friendly. Seb ordered the deviled eggs, apple pie and black coffee, all of which were hot and good. He looked around and felt himself relax a little. The buzz of end-of-the-week conversations sounded like a strange kind of optimistic ambient music to his ear; he could almost imagine writing a song using the soundbites grabbed from around the room.
“So he gunned the engine and”
“But the chicken wings were burned”
“We all just laughed and laughed. That damn dog wouldn’t let go.”
“Then we headed out to Maisie’s. Have you seen what she’s done to that kitchen?”
“Eight bucks for a beer, I couldn’t believe it”
Seb felt a smile creep onto his face as the waitress gave him a refill. He felt normal. Sitting in a diner on a Friday evening, eating good food, folk around him talking about the stuff that actually matters. No superpowers, no miracle healing, no pursuit by shadowy military organizations. No aliens - not even in Roswell, New Mexico. Just apple pie and good coffee. It felt like the eye of the storm, he knew it couldn’t last. But he was determined to enjoy it while it did.
When it was fully dark, he left, driving the pickup out of town to a dirt track, following Seb2’s directions.
“How’d you know where to go?” he said.
“Internet,” said Seb2. “Plus hacking into satellites. Don’t ask me how. I don’t understand it any more than you understand how typing something on a phone or a laptop can connect you to information 10,000 miles away. I just think it and it happens. Pull over
here.”
“Here” was two big red stones at the side of the track. Seb jumped out of the pickup and walked up to them.
“They’re just markers,” said Seb 2. “It’s about a five minute walk. But we have to deal with the tripwires first.”
“Tripwires?” said Seb.
“Just a turn of phrase. Manna users have been desperate to access the tech buried here for well over half a century. They may have given up on being able to do it themselves, but they want to know if anyone else manages it. You get any closer, there’s enough electronic surveillance equipment planted in the bushes to open a wholesale store. Motion detectors, cameras, high sensitivity microphones, infrared beams, night vision gear. I shut down the peripheral alarm systems about a mile back.”
“What?” said Seb. “So someone knows we’re here already?”
“Doubt it,” said Seb2. “Imagine a circle with a radius of a mile around the crash site. No one’s going to worry immediately about systems failing a mile out - it probably happens fairly regularly, usually just weather conditions or local wildlife. But when I shut down the inner systems, all hell will break lose. At the center of the circle, two to three-hundred yards radius, the very latest technology monitors every movement, calibrated to report on everything: every rattlesnake, jackrabbit or spider that wanders across the crash site. We must be talking about hundreds of readings every minute. Years of constant information builds up a picture of normal activity. Anything bigger than a desert wolf, they’re gonna take a look. Curious people get out here fairly regularly though, so no one’s going to stress about human activity immediately. Particularly as Manna users see it as almost a pilgrimage. The Manna they can’t have.”
“But I guess most folk head out here during the day,” said Seb, thinking about rattlesnakes.
“Yep,” said Seb2. “And we’re about to switch all their toys off. What we are about to do is a bit like poking a stick in a wasps’ nest.”
“Great,” said Seb. “Good plan.”
“Sarcasm noted,” said Seb2, “but by my reckoning, we’ll have ten to fifteen clear minutes. By the time the various Manna-heads get here to check out why all their equipment is fried, we’ll be long gone.”
“You sure about that?” said Seb.
“We are about to upgrade,” said Seb2. “And the first thing we should be able to do is Walk.”
“Walk?” said Seb.
“Capital ‘W’,” said Seb2. “It means consciously doing what we did instinctively when the truck was going to hit us in LA.”
“Well, I can see how that would be useful. But I note you used the words ‘should be able to’. Hardly fills me with confidence.”
“Only one way to find out,” said Seb2. Seb shrugged and headed along the track. He could feel Seb2’s activity at another level of consciousness. He was aware of tendrils, threads of power reaching out across the desert floor, of electronic circuitry suddenly overloaded and burning out, the tiny hum of dozens of advanced examples of technology simultaneously disappearing.
At the end of the path was another stone, this one with letters cut into it:
WE DON’T KNOW WHO THEY WERE
WE DON’T KNOW WHY THEY CAME
WE ONLY KNOW THEY CHANGED OUR VIEW OF THE UNIVERSE
THIS UNIVERSAL SACRED SITE
IS DEDICATED JULY 1997
TO THE BEINGS
WHO MET THEIR DESTINIES
NEAR ROSWELL NEW MEXICO
JULY 1947
“If only they knew,” said Seb2. “Now step forward about ten paces. This may sting a little.”
Since being healed by Billy Joe and finding himself the center of attention for various groups that would give conspiracy theorists all the validation they’d ever wanted, with power he had never dreamed of and a personality fractured into three parts to deal with it, Seb had remained an optimist. He had a strong sense of who he was and, possibly due to his Catholic upbringing (despite having been nowhere near a church all his adult life), he’d always experienced a deeply-rooted sense that everything would, eventually, work out for the best. But, as he walked into the innocent looking patch of scrub in front of him and began to feel an itchy buzz through the soles of his feet, he felt a genuine, profound moment of existential fear. He could feel the Manna this time, it was nothing like Red Rock. It was as if the biggest engine ever built was buried underneath the desert floor and his presence had turned the key. The ground actually began to shake and a deep bass profundo pedal note whispered, hummed, spoke then roared into existence, his whole body shaking with the force of it.
“Question,” he said. “After this, will I still…will I still be me?”
Seb2 had always answered questions quickly. Since Seb2 was, in fact, Seb, he already knew the question before Seb asked it. This time, however, the long pause before he answered was an answer in itself.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But right now, we’re broken, half-made. This completes us.” The roar grew louder. Seb felt his eyes roll back in his sockets as he fell to his knees. His back arched, his head whipped backward and his arms reached out to his sides.
“Then what?” he said, hissing the words as he felt white-hot silver threads arc from the ground and touch each of his fingertips in turn, caressing and burning them.
“I don’t know,” said Seb2. The hum in Seb’s skull crescendoed into a sudden absence of noise, a sudden absence of anything, his consciousness stretching out to embrace the edges of everything, then shrinking and un-becoming in the white noise of all knowledge collapsing into itself.
The only organized group of Manna users that still kept a physical base going in Roswell itself was the Elohimians. Their founder, Jimmy Michaels, had been a mediocre Manna user who claimed his ability to heal animals and predict deaths was God-given until the alien craft came down twenty miles from his farm in 1947. He was one of the rubberneckers investigating the next day, and he recognized the power he felt there immediately. He started the Elohimians, alien-worshippers who believed their faith was being tested by the unattainable Roswell Manna. The Roswell alien was Elohim, and he would return to bestow the gift of his mighty power upon his followers when they had proved themselves worthy. At first, proving themselves worthy just meant subscribing to Jimmy’s twice-yearly newsletter and buying the “rocks of power” he collected (initially from as close to the site as he could get, but later from his yard) and posted to subscribers as far away as Canada, Belgium, or Australia. When Jimmy developed a liver condition that left him unable to tolerate alcohol, all Elohimians were advised to abstain from drinking “like our glorious alien Lords”. According to an early newsletter, Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha, Krishna, Ghandi and—somewhat incongruously—Buster Keaton, were all Brothers Of Elohim, sent to our planet to spread the message of universal love. And the importance of laughter through means of silent comedy, apparently.
When Jimmy died while investigating lights in the sky and falling down a well, his son Darwin took over. Darwin had no Manna ability at all, and was completely unconvinced by his father’s fledgling religion. He studied business at college, however, and came to see the Elohimians as an almost perfect model of capitalist opportunity. After his father’s death, the newsletter went monthly and the subscription price went up three hundred percent. He churned out books expanding his father’s work at the rate of at least two a year, and when one of his early books, Elohim: The Savior Of Our Sick Planet was cited a decade later as one of the first written works to predict global warming, he found his cottage industry was bringing in a very respectable income. He embraced the internet early on and automated much of the business, bringing it into the digital domain. He knew his dad would have enjoyed the success, but was glad he didn’t have to keep up the pretense of believing in “that alien horse-shit” when he was at home any more.
He kept a complex system of motion detectors set up for two reasons. One was practical: every year, he organized a pilgrimage to the site and, as part of the $10,000 price-tag on
that trip-of-a-lifetime, wanted to show the faithful that, when Elohim returned, Darwin would be the first there to greet him and announce his presence to his followers. The other reason was sentimental; despite dismissing his father’s beliefs, keeping watch like this allowed him to feel he was staying true to Jimmy’s dream. But it was just window-dressing, really.
So when one alarm, then another, then a third, started bleeping from the den while he was fixing himself a beer in the kitchen, he dropped the bottle and ran through, his eyes wide. The first two cameras were standard tech, rugged and camouflaged, unlikely to fail, but not impossible. It stretched credulity for both to fail within seconds of each other. But the third device, buried in the desert, had cost him six figures, used military stealth technology and was in the category of surveillance equipment that the US military, who had illegally sold it to him, liked to call ‘deniable’. He had been assured that anything short of a tactical nuke would simply bounce off it and the battery would need replacing a couple decades after his death, assuming he lived to a hundred. Without thinking of the possible consequences should Daddy’s theory prove to be more than a theory, he grabbed a camera, ran to the truck and drove, knowing he wouldn’t be the only interested party, but sure he would be the first on the scene. Some footage of a genuine alien and he could sell the Elohimian business and retire to Hawaii.
The World Walker Series Box Set Page 29
