The World Walker Series Box Set

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  “In theory,” said Seb. “I should just be able to drop a packet of information online, get a message to him almost instantly. But there’s a problem.”

  The younger man looked lost for a moment. Suddenly, he lost some of his resemblance to Seb, looking younger, with a teenager’s mixture of confidence and barely disguised terror.

  “What’s the matter?” said Walt. “What’s happened?”

  “It’s Seb,” said the other man. “He’s missing. I’ve checked and double-checked. He’s not here.”

  “Here?” said Walt. “London?”

  “No,” said the other Seb. “He’s not here. Not on this planet.”

  Walt looked steadily at the other man and saw genuine, barely disguised fear in his eyes. He was telling the truth. Walt stood up, closed his case and put on his coat.

  “Where does he live?” he said. “I mean where should we start looking?”

  “Mexico City.” The younger man stood.

  The thought of getting straight onto another plane and heading back west was hardly an attractive one, but Walt had to help if he could. He started pushing clothes into his bag.

  “Let’s go there, then. You coming? How does this work?”

  “Yeah, I’m coming. I’ll ride with you. Just remember no one else can see me, ok? Or would you rather I just stayed in your head.”

  “No, thanks, Seb,” said Walt. “Call me old-school, but I’d prefer to have you somewhere I can see you, rather than think of you as some kind of growth on my brain.”

  “Ok. One thing, though?”

  “What?”

  “You can’t call me Seb. I’m not him. I’m just not. You need to think of something else.”

  Walt opened the hotel room door and looked back, thinking. “How about Parasite?” he said.

  The young man winced in mock-offense.

  “Ouch,” he said, “I’m hurt, Walt. And I’m certainly not a parasite. I can help you—I am helping you. Our relationship isn’t parasitic, it’s symbiotic.”

  “Ok,” said Walt. “How about I call you Sym?”

  “I like it,” he said. “Sym it is.”

  25

  Upstate New York

  Thirty-four years previously

  It was the giggling that woke Boy. He still couldn’t open his eyes, but he felt awake and alert. The headache had become a slow throbbing background to his every conscious moment. He was getting used to it. He guessed that was the painkillers. A few more days, and it would be gone for good anyhow. Along with him.

  The giggling, as unlikely as it seemed at first, was Mom. Mom and the churchy woman he’d heard before. Underneath the giggling was a deep, loud rumbling which lasted a few seconds, building dramatically in volume, stopped for another few seconds, then repeated the process. The noisiest part of the rumble seemed to set off the gigglers again, followed by the pair of women shushing each other just as loudly.

  A few minutes listening provided an explanation. The cop on night shift outside his room had been given a few crumbled sleeping pills in his coffee, resulting in a comically loud snore.

  “Loretta—quiet—you’ll wake him,” he heard.

  “Ma’am, I think we could bring a marching band in here and he’d snore right through it.”

  As they lifted him carefully and lowered him into a wheelchair, Boy realized the tube down his throat had gone, as had the one up his nose. No needles in his arm, and no noisy machines. For a moment, he wondered if he had begun to recover. Then, he understood the real reason: they had withdrawn life support. These were his last few hours. He knew his conclusion was right: the handcuffs had been removed. Handcuffs on a dead kid wouldn’t look good.

  There were no footsteps or voices in the corridor as Mom and Loretta wheeled him through a few corridors and out through the back, where they lifted him into a car, putting the wheelchair in the trunk. There was a slight lightening behind his eyelids as they left the building. Boy guessed it must be sometime before dawn. It was a small town hospital, no security, probably one nurse on duty and a doctor on call, dozing in one of the smaller rooms.

  Boy must have fallen asleep again during the journey, because the next time he became aware, there was the sound of someone hammering on a door. His periods of consciousness were getting shorter and shorter.

  “Reverend Jesse! Reverend Jesse! Please, it’s an emergency.”

  Boy heard the sound of chains being unhooked and bolts being drawn back.

  “Loretta, it’s five in the morning and despite years of fervent prayers to change the fact, I am still very much not at my best in the morning. Now, what’s so important that it brings you to my door at—what on earth? Loretta, let go of my sleeve, what’s got into you. Why are—? Oh.”

  The voice had got closer and, now that it had stopped, Boy could hear its owner taking a deep breath, then letting it out in a long sigh.

  “Is that who I think it is?”

  Mom spoke up.

  “Reverend Jesse, this is my son. Now, I know you’ve read about him in the papers, but let me tell you, he’s the sweetest, gentlest, cleverest boy you’ll ever meet. The doctor said it was the cancer made him…do what he did. The tumor, pressing on his brain.”

  Another sigh.

  “The devil is inside the boy.”

  “Well, I guess—allegorically—you could say—,”

  “The devil is inside him,” said Reverend Jesse, warming to his theme, “and you want me to cast him out.” The familiar, almost sing-song tones of the preacher rose in volume as he spoke.

  “You want me to rid this child of the unclean spirit, the demon that drove him to do unspeakable things, commit terrible sins, turn away from the Lord and embrace evil.”

  “Hallelujah, hallelujah,” muttered Loretta. She sounded suspiciously like she was enjoying herself.

  Mom was silent for a few seconds. Boy knew—in her mind—that this was his last chance. She wasn’t going to ruin it now.

  “Yes, Reverend Jesse. You’re right. That’s why we came to you. Only you can save him.”

  “Only the power of Jesus can save him,” said Reverend Jesse, although Boy could hear the pride in his voice. “Bring him to the church, bring him to the altar. Let us present this sick child to God in humility and pray for His mercy. Let us cast out this demon and—”

  There was talk of smiting. Boy faded out again.

  When he next became aware, he knew they must be in the church. There was a feeling of vast space around him. Reverend Jesse was mumbling softly and his muffled words bounced back from the distant walls and ceiling. Boy could hear Mom whispering prayers too, and the louder voice of Loretta, adding occasional amens and hallelujahs. She had dropped all pretense now and was obviously having a fantastic time.

  Boy felt his strength ebbing away. He fully expected to die very soon, right there in church. He wondered what that would do for Mom’s newly-restored faith, Jesse’s reputation and Loretta’s entire life. Then, something entirely unexpected happened.

  Jesse went very quiet. The two women were still praying, but something started happening of which they seemed utterly unaware. A powerful hum began underground, but Boy knew he wasn’t hearing it with his ears. It was as if a new sense had opened up and begun feeding information to his brain. He knew—somehow—that this hum had split itself into fine lines, each carrying some kind of intense, white-hot energy from below them. These lines were now racing upward, toward them.

  Boy made a huge effort, knowing—as he did so—that he was now very near death. He opened his eyes.

  Ahead, at the modern, massive, blond wood altar, lit by dawn’s first rays coming through the huge window behind them, Reverend Jesse knelt, his arms thrust skyward, his head back. Boy could see the lines of energy now, like lightning arcing through the rock beneath the church, heading straight for the preacher’s body.

  Boy knew—suddenly, and with absolute certainty—that Reverend Jesse was waiting for that energy, that he had summoned it somehow. That it
was in this place, waiting. That was why he hadn’t offered to help Boy at his home. That was why he had built his mega church in such an unpromising location. He had built the church over this source of power.

  Boy watched, fascinated, as the lines reached the kneeling man. His body twitched, he gasped. He seemed lit up like a firework display.

  Neither woman saw anything unusual at all. They carried on praying as if everything was normal. As soon as he noticed this, Boy felt an entirely novel sensation, as if he had been looking at a picture upside-down and had suddenly seen it right way up for the first time. There was far more to life than he had suspected. There was power beyond imagination. He could feel it prickle at the edges of his being, a tiny hint of the potential surging underfoot.

  Boy took a ragged breath. He could feel his body starting to shut down. He hadn’t had any feeling below the waist since he’d first regained consciousness, and the constant headache had increased its assault during the couple of hours it had taken them to get him out of the hospital, wake up the preacher and get to the church. He could feel himself losing the fight with the part of him that had taken control when he’d killed Pop. It was over, either way. He was about to die. What did any of it matter?

  It’s a curious fact of human nature that, for some individuals, when death comes—even when all hope seems completely lost—there still remains an instinctive, raging desire to live. As the energy continued to flow, Boy called out to it with all of the strength he had left, what little of it there was. He slumped forward and fell out of the wheelchair, hitting the ground hard. He heard Mom gasp. Even Loretta shut up for a blessed moment. Jesse gasped too, but it was a sound of shock and disbelief. The energy pouring into him had been abruptly cut off. He turned in confusion and watched the dying child, lying twisted on the polished floor.

  Boy’s face was a ghastly gray white, his hair plastered to his forehead with cold sweat. He managed to slide his arms over his head and put both palms flat onto the floor. The instant he did so, the lines of energy—which had pulsed away from the altar toward him—raced up to his fingertips and entered his body like a million miniature lightning strikes.

  Loretta started rapidly crossing herself as Boy’s body twisted and writhed. Rev. Jesse looked on aghast, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. Mom sat perfectly still, her eyes shining with tears as she looked on.

  The energy flow lasted for about fifteen seconds. That was how long it took for Boy to die and be reborn into his new life. The color returned to his face, his body seemed almost to shine with an inner light as he pushed himself up from the floor and dragged his body over to the nearest chair, leaning against it. His legs were still useless, but he no longer cared. The throb of the headache had stopped abruptly. He may have been a crippled twelve-year-old boy, but at that moment he knew for an absolute certainty, he was the most powerful being on the planet. He started to laugh.

  Loretta finally found her voice again.

  “It’s a miracle,” she said, but she sounded a little dubious, looking over at Rev. Jesse, who was sitting on the altar steps, breathing heavily, gaping like a beached fish. It was hardly how she’d imagined it. Other healings—like Joe’s asthma, or Amy’s bowel problems—had only occurred after much laying on of hands by Rev. Jesse, accompanied by a great deal of loud praying and praising. This time, the preacher hadn’t even gotten around to touching the boy. Still, a miracle was a miracle, right? She raised her hands, palms up.

  “Hallelujah” she said, her voice slightly watery at first, but strengthening as she repeated the familiar words. “Hallelujah, praise Jesus, praise the Lord.”

  The boy looked her way. Her throat dried up a little. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. She didn’t like it one little bit, no sir. She made herself look away, turning her head heavenward.

  “Hallelujah,” she said again. “hallelu-,”

  She stopped suddenly. Her throat closed as if a vice had been applied to it and was being rapidly tightened. She took a short breath, then another. The third attempt failed as no air could make its way through the passages which had squeezed together inside her neck. Her hands fluttered in panic and she looked left and right for help. Rev. Jesse seemed to have lost any ability to move or think. The boy’s mother was smiling and crying, her eyes fixed on the miracle of her son, back from the brink of death.

  Loretta took a few stumbling steps toward the woman, but before she got halfway there, the edges of her vision beginning to fog, her neck suddenly snapped and her head jerked back. For a second, her body stood there. From the front, she gave the illusion of being headless—it was only from behind that her head was visible, hanging like a heavy bag of shopping between her shoulder blades. Her lifeless body fell heavily, landing directly in front of Rev. Jesse.

  Her body’s last unconscious action—evacuating her capacious bowels—finally galvanized the young preacher into action. He got up, and stepping over the corpse, walked over to Boy, stopping a few feet away.

  “Give it back,” he said, his voice trembling with indignation. “That’s power sent by God for his true ministers and you have no right. You have no right. YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!”

  His voice was shrill and bordering on hysterical. Boy started to laugh at the comical sight of the red-faced apoplectic preacher almost dancing with rage in front of him. But he tired of it quickly and reached out a hand. He felt his awareness race toward the direction his hand indicated. He thought of what he wanted to happen.

  Rev. Jesse screamed in pain and clasped both hands to his head. Blood began to stream from his nose.

  “Sorry,” said Boy. “First try. Think that might have been a bit clumsy. Still,” he waved a hand at Loretta’s corpse, “it could’ve been worse. Now, be quiet a moment.”

  The preacher moved his hands slowly away from his head as the pain receded to an almost bearable level.

  “What do you want?” he managed to say.

  “The money,” said Boy, simply. “All of it.” He looked around the huge building, its opulent furnishings, thirty-foot high stained glass windows and state of the art sound system. “Who bankrolled you? You’re a little young to be living in a mansion.”

  Jesse looked to one side as if thinking, then spoke up.

  “Donations, mostly,” he said, “charity - aaaagh!” his hands flew up to his face as his nose shattered spontaneously, as if a heavyweight boxer had landed the perfect jab. Without gloves.

  “The truth, please,” said Boy, calmly. “Strange as it may sound, I seem to know when you’re lying to me. So don’t test me again. I’m guessing Daddy has a few dollars, right?”

  The tears streamed down the preacher’s face as he held a silk handkerchief to his ruined nose. His voice had a strange, pinched nasal sound to it when he spoke again.

  “Well, yes, of course. I had help. No shame in that. My father wants to help do God’s work, he wants to help me bring the light of Jesus back to—.”

  “Spare me the sales pitch,” said Boy, “just take me to him.”

  “I can’t just—.” The Reverend Jesse Newman stopped and looked at Boy. “Ok,” he said in a small voice.

  Mom stood up, her smile faltering a little.

  “Go start the car,” Boy commanded. “Jesse here will help me into my wheelchair and bring me out.”

  Mom hesitated. She looked at her son. Alive. Conscious. Speaking. She went to him, knelt and took his hand. She opened her mouth to say his name, but he suddenly squeezed her hand hard enough to make her yelp in pain.

  “Don’t say it,” he said. “That’s not my name. He’s dead. That’s not who I am any more. Now, go and get the fucking car.”

  26

  Las Vegas

  Present Day

  Dawn in Las Vegas was fairly spectacular, but criminally under-appreciated. No one went to Vegas for the view, and those few vacationers who were still awake were in no condition to appreciate the various shades of orange, yellow and red that crept across the desert, illuminating
Red Rock Canyon in a blaze of color. The windows of the massive hotels reflected the splendor of nature, and despite their size, looked comparatively insignificant and temporary. A few workers driving, or walking toward the Strip to start cleaning up the mess from the night before stopped for a moment to drink in the sight, but most had stopped truly seeing it, after their first few dozen weary journeys.

  Westlake was in the belly of a helicopter looking at maps of Mexico City. He didn’t know it was dawn, just that it was 5:37am by his watch and he’d been told he would arrive at Las Vegas just before 6am.

  His team had flown in to Vegas the night before, with instructions to meet him at the airport, 7:30am sharp. Westlake had to pick up Walter Ford first. He had little time for Ford, dismissing him as a lightweight pleasure-seeker who didn’t like to get his hands dirty. But, to make this mission a success, the man’s talent for temporarily re-shaping faces was a necessity.

  Twenty minutes after the chopper had landed, Westlake pushed the buzzer on Walt’s door. He waited and then buzzed again. After a couple of minutes, he picked up a handful of stones and threw them at the master bedroom window. Nothing. The security guard’s hut had a good view of Westlake as he threw another handful of stones. The guard had responded to the Secret Service ID as expected, but even a minimum pay grunt might start to wonder what was going on.

  He walked back to the front door, then—just as he passed behind a palm tree—took two quick steps and launched himself lithely up to the top of the fence, boosting himself over it and landing with virtually no noise on the hard-packed earth on the other side. He unholstered his Glock in a smooth motion so practiced it had become automatic.

  The sliding door leading into the house from the yard was unlocked. Westlake wasn’t surprised. Unlike his neighbors, Walter Ford could rip apart an intruder with a gesture. Without even bothering getting out of bed. Other Manna users were often similarly relaxed about their home security arrangements.