World Walker 1: The World Walker

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  "Seb mentioned you," said Bob. Meera raised an eyebrow and Bob colored slightly.

  "Nothing, um, personal," he said. "But he told me about the band - and about the original name." He waved his hand at her jacket. She snorted.

  "Yeah, Clockwatchers turned out to be a bigger crowd puller than Crushed Asians. Who'd a thunk it, eh? Thought a name like that would have 'em lining up around the block." Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Bob, her head on one side. Looks a lot like Marcie when she does that. He resisted a sudden urge to throw a stick and see if she'd fetch it.

  "Not like Seb to talk about the band," she said. "Not like Seb to talk about me either." She sighed. "Not much like him to talk at all, really. He must like you. Guess I'll give you the benefit for now. So. Any clue at all what the pyrotechnics were all about just then? I'm no weather expert, but that was pretty weird, right?"

  Bob shook his head. He was trying to tune in to her English accent. She walked toward him, pulling a spliff from behind her back and taking a huge toke. She waved it in Bob's direction.

  "Sorry - thought you were a cop to start with. You've got that look about you. No offense. Want some?"

  "No thank you," said Bob. "Tried it once and it made me fall asleep in the middle of a wedding."

  "Yeah, it can relax you," said Meera, "but where's the harm in that?"

  "It was my wedding," said Bob.

  "Oh God!" said Meera, laughing. "OK, that's not so good."

  "You looking for Seb?" he said. "I normally see him here about this time."

  "He's here," she said. She held up her cell, which showed a map with a flashing green dot. They walked up the trail. The light changed as the sun began to slice through the clouds, smog and trees. Everything around them was a sombre monochrome and it was eerily quiet. Bob heard a distant throb that made his guts churn. Too quiet. He grabbed Meera and half threw her under the canopy of a nearby tree, clamping a hand over her mouth when she tried to protest. The joint had fallen from her fingers and he ground it under his boot, making sure it was out.

  Gunshots suddenly broke the silence. A burst from an automatic weapon - no, two bursts.

  "What the hell is going on?" said Meera.

  "Quiet!" Bob hissed. "You're going to have to trust me." Her eyes widened as the low throb Bob had heard became the unmistakable sound of an approaching helicopter, although much quieter than any he knew. Almost immediately a camouflaged helicopter blocked the light through the trees as it hovered less than a hundred yards away. A dozen heavily armed figures jumped out and formed a defensive circle within seconds with an ease born of years of practice. Seconds later, a tall man joined them, his eyes immediately scanning the area as if to pick out any details his highly trained team might have missed. He spoke quietly into a head mic and the team cautiously moved forward, weapons at the ready. The tall man paused briefly, then followed.

  Bob leaned forward until his mouth was brushing against Meera's ear.

  "Listen," he whispered. "I don't know who those guys are, but they're not wearing any kind of official uniform and the bird they arrived in had no markings. We could be in several hundred kinds of trouble here. I think our friends here may be the 'shoot first, don't bother asking any questions' types, so we need to get out while we can. We don't really know if Seb is here at all, so let's go."

  Meera shook her head furiously. "He's here," she said. "I know exactly where he is."

  "What?" said Bob. "Where?"

  She pointed to a clearing half hidden by bushes. "There," she said. Bob already knew which direction she was going to point in. It was precisely where the guys with half a million dollars' worth of advanced weaponry had just gone. Where, minutes before, some poor fool may have got himself shot. Bob considered his options. Meera saw him hesitate and snorted.

  "You do what you like," she whispered, "I'm going to help Seb." She stood up and started to walk.

  Bob grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

  "I want to help him too," he said, "but we won't be much help dead." She looked afraid but determined. Crazy, stubborn kid. Bob shook his head. He couldn't help liking her.

  He looked around quickly before glancing upwards, coming to a decision. He pointed at the tree.

  "Can you climb that?" he said.

  Thirty seconds later, they were both halfway up the tree, hidden by the summer foliage. Their vantage point gave them an excellent view. Six of the soldiers had taken up positions around the clearing. The rest of them had formed a ring around something lying on the floor. The tall man was talking to two uniformed soldiers. One of the men pointed at whatever was on the floor and the tall man seemed to be asking questions. Bob knew enough about body language to see that the two men being questioned were terrified of the taller man. Who the hell is this guy?

  Just then, two things happened simultaneously that made Bob feel like his heart might stop beating. First, one of the soldiers moved and he could see it was a body on the ground between them. Second, one of the two scared soldiers handed a backpack to the tall man. Bob recognized it immediately. He turned to look at Meera and the tears running silently down her face told him she recognized it too.

  The tall man turned toward the body and the other soldiers made room as he approached. With every minute, the light improved and Bob could now see clearly. More clearly than he wanted to. Seb's shaggy brown hair hung across his face and his body was surrounded by blood-stained earth. Bob had seen enough fatalities to know when someone was gone. He felt a deep quiet anger burning away his fear. What the hell was going on here? Seb was one of the gentlest people he had ever known. None of this made any sense.

  The tall man knelt beside Seb's body, putting a couple of fingers on his neck. He said something into his head mic and within seconds the sound of the rotors was back. Bob guessed it must have gained altitude to be out of hearing until needed. Two soldiers went to Seb's head, two to his feet. As they flipped the body over, Seb's face came fully into view and Meera choked back a sob. Bob glanced at her and as he did so, her eyes suddenly widened in disbelief. There was a shout from the clearing. Bob snapped his head back.

  Seb opened his eyes. The soldiers around him involuntarily took a step backward in shock. He sat up and looked around him, spitting out a mouthful of dirt. He remembered falling. He remembered shots. He stood and the soldiers backed up a few more steps, their guns pointing at him.

  "Don't shoot!" came a voice. Seb turned as a tall man walked toward him, exuding authority. He eyed Seb steadily and motioned at the men. They all lowered their weapons.

  "Son, I represent the US Government. You and I need to have a little talk." He nodded toward the helicopter.

  "Shall we?"

  Seb barely knew what he was thinking. In fact, the thought that he didn't know what he was thinking was the only thought his brain seemed capable of handling. He looked at the tall man. Behind him, Seb saw two vaguely familiar faces. The men who had shot him. He had no idea what was going on, what had happened to him, whether he was really dead or alive. The whole scene might just be a lucid dream as he lay dying, his blood pouring from slit wrists as he sat under a tree in the Verdugo Mountains. But he felt alive and he knew these guys were far from friendly. He made his decision. He ran.

  The soldiers began to raise their weapons but it all seemed to happen in slow motion for Seb. He was out of the clearing and crashing through the bushes before the first gun barrel had been raised more than an inch. By the time the tall man had screamed "Follow him!" Seb was out of sight. As the soldiers began their pursuit and the tall man jumped back into the helicopter, Seb was running faster than he had known possible. He felt stronger than he had in years and would have laughed out loud if he hadn't needed all his breath to draw enough oxygen to keep his legs pumping. It seemed - but couldn't possibly be - only a few minutes before he rounded the corner of his block. He wasn't aware of the moment he stopped running, he just found himself walking through the door and heading up to his apartment, vaguely aware he'd ju
st run faster than he'd thought possible. And he wasn't out of breath.

  Back at the clearing, all the soldiers gone, Bob and Meera climbed down in silence and stood facing each other. Neither knew what to say. In the end they both spoke together.

  "We have to -"

  "Seb needs _"

  They stopped talking. Bob nodded.

  "Whatever just happened, Seb's in trouble. And now he's on the run. We have to find him." He moved into the clearing and started looking at the bushes, peering at bent branches and patches of flattened grass.

  "What are you doing?" said Meera.

  "I know one or two things about tracking," said Bob. Give me some time and I think we can find him."

  "He's in his apartment," came Meera's voice behind him.

  "Possibly," said Bob, "but we don't know that for sure. We need to -"

  "No," said Meera, "he's in his apartment."

  Bob turned and looked at her. She had her phone. She turned the screen to face him and he saw the map with a pulsing green dot.

  "I gave Seb my old phone," she said. "He never was much of a geek. Never even changed the password. So I just used 'find my iPhone'. He's in his apartment. Even though that's impossible."

  "I'm not much of a one for technology either," said Bob. "You telling me you can find him with that thing?"

  "As long as he has his phone with him," said Meera. Bob put down the twig he had been studying.

  "You're the boss," he said, then stopped. "What do you mean, it's impossible?"

  "Seb's apartment is about three miles away," she said. "What did he do? Fly?"

  Chapter 6

  Seb stepped into his apartment and leaned heavily against the door. He closed his eyes and slid to the floor. What the hell is going on? A jumble of images raced through his head: the half empty whisky bottle slipping out of blood-drained fingers, the mountain cat eying him hungrily, the tall, graceful alien creature that had somehow saved his life, the look on the soldiers' faces as they emptied their weapons into his body. The soldiers had looked scared.

  But they still shot me.

  He opened his eyes and walked over to the kitchen. Pouring a large glass of water, he took it through to the open-plan living space and sat on the piano stool, his back to the instrument. He had never gone for more than a day without playing it until his illness had forced him to stop. He drank deeply, tasting the fresh, cold liquid in a vivid way he'd never experienced before. Setting the glass on the floor, he suddenly shocked himself by bursting into laughter. He'd packed most of his belongings into boxes over the last week, so his laughter bounced off bare floors and walls. He laughed and laughed at the sheer joy of being unexpectedly alive. He laughed until his chest ached. He put his hand up to his shirt pocket and felt the bullet holes. His laughter slowly subsiding, he walked over to the mirror. He unbuttoned his shirt, unsure what to expect. Moving closer, Seb ran his fingers over his chest. He remembered the bullets ripping into him from left to right. He remembered the sensation of his heart bursting and all the blood in his body succumbing to gravity, no longer driven by his pulse. He remembered all of this, yet his chest was totally unmarked. Not a single blemish. In fact, his body looked like it did in his early twenties, when he was working out five days a week.

  "What the-," Seb took a step backward in shock, his fingers moving to his belly, looking for the scar that had run from his hip to his navel. The scar that Jack Carnavon had given him in New York at the age of 15 at St Benet's Children's Home, pulling a knife from his pocket to settle an argument the only way he knew how. Seb touched that scar dozens of times every day. It reminded him where he came from. But now his skin was unmarked, anonymous, clean. He gasped.

  "No," he whispered. He stared at his reflection, numb with shock. His mind started to dart around like a frightened animal, refusing to settle anywhere. His old scar. Jack Carnavon's face. Melissa turning away from him. Meera taking a huge toke from a fat joint. Father O'Hanoran's office. The girl who had unexpectedly kissed him at that club in Manhattan. The Burning Man festival where he'd snorted something that made him talk like Stephen Hawking for two days. The scarred face he sometimes dreamed about, wondering if it was his father. His first show with Clockwatchers. The famous video call he'd made to the rest of the band after writing Sunburst Sunday - forgetting he was naked.

  Seb groaned and walked closer to the largest window, pulling up a hard wooden chair. He sat facing the morning light and closed his eyes, feeling warmth as he looked at the deep red behind his eyelids. He took three long breaths, inhaling through his nose, exhaling through his mouth.

  Father O'Hanoran had taught him the technique of contemplation when everyone else seemed to be writing him off as a disturbed teen. Although the weekly meetings had begun as a tedious chore for Seb, he'd soon realized that some of the things Father O talked about made sense. Sense was the last thing 15-year-old Seb had expected from a Catholic monk, but as he gradually overcame his initial misgivings, he began to try the technique he was being taught. He had let it slip lately, but now his body and mind moved quickly into the first stage. Within minutes, he had taken a step back from his chaotic thoughts and was calmly watching them enter and leave his consciousness.

  Thirty minutes passed as Seb watched his thoughts and his breath. At the deepest point of awareness, he found something new. A presence - passive but awake, vast, powerful - waited for him in the place of silence. He felt no threat, no fear. He was there and he/she/it/they were there. He opened his eyes. A feeling of someone being close to him lingered for a few seconds, then dissipated. He stood, stretched. His hand went to his scar and his eyes widened when he discovered he could feel it again. Turning to the mirror he confirmed its reappearance, the thin white line curving slightly where, 18 years earlier, Seb had grabbed Jack Carnovan's wrist and stopped him carving him up like a joint of meat.

  He walked into the kitchen and drank three glasses of water. He was hungry - hungrier than he should have been considering the amount of sushi he'd consumed the night before thinking it was his last meal. Opening the ice box, he found a bag of spinach that had probably been there since he moved in. Tearing open the plastic, he began tearing off dark green chunks and stuffing them into his mouth, crunching them like cookies. His cell phone rang.

  "Hi, Mee," he said, his mouth full of frozen spinach. "Guess what? I don't have sensitive teeth any more."

  "No shit," came Mee's East London tones. He could hear her smiling. "And that's the most important thing going on at the moment?"

  "Well," he said. "It's pretty weird, don't you think?" He poured another glass of water and washed down the last handful of spinach.

  "I think I've had to redefine weird this morning," said Mee. Seb looked at his watch.

  "Mee!" he said, "it's before noon. What are you doing out of bed?"

  "It's a long story," she said, "but you and I need to talk. The main thing is, are you ok?"

  "That's another long story," said Seb, "but the short answer is yes. Come on over."

  "Be there in ten," said Meera.

  Seb sat at the piano and gently placed his hands on the keys. He smiled and began to play, the music flowing again, his fingers moving seemingly ahead of his brain's signals as he improvised. Almost immediately he felt himself approach a similar state of consciousness to when he sat in contemplation.

  A phone rang. He put his hand on his pocket. Not his. He ignored it and went back to the piano, but it continued to ring loudly. He sighed and stood up. The noise was coming from the door of his apartment. He checked the spy hole but there was no one in the hall. He opened the door cautiously and looked down. On the floor outside his apartment was a cell phone, still ringing. He picked it up and held it up to his ear.

  "Mr. Varden, my name is Westlake. I represent the United States Government. I know you're scared, but I am not here to hurt you in any way. Please come to the window of your apartment and look outside." Seb walked to the window but hung back, remembering the soldiers. He f
lattened himself against the wall, then took a quick glance before jerking his head back. No uniforms, just one guy in front of a long black car. The tall guy from the clearing. Well, if he has a long, black car, he must work for the government.

  "The soldiers with you shot...at me," said Seb. "Why? What the hell's going on?"

  "Mr. Varden, believe me, what they did was contrary to their orders and they will be dealt with. I have sent my squad away. It's just me and a driver. I have answers to some of your questions, but you're going to have to trust me and come down here."

  "Give me a couple minutes," said Seb and hung up. He considered his options. He could run again, but this guy had found him pretty quickly. He certainly didn't trust him, but maybe he could get answers to a few questions. Start with the simple ones like, "Did you see that alien?" and, "Any idea how I can recover from massive blood loss and survive being shot in the heart?" before moving on to the tougher stuff like, "Think my brain tumor's disappeared too?". And Mee would be turning up soon. He didn't want this Westlake guy knowing about Mee. He could send him away, agree to meet later. He opened his closet and pulled out a black suit and shirt. A girlfriend had once called him vain because he wore black so much, not realizing that he only did it because he hated shopping and buying everything in one color made life easier.

  Five minutes later he walked out of his apartment building. Westlake stuck out a hand. Seb stayed out of reach. Westlake shrugged.

  "I can't blame you for being cautious, Mr. Varden," he said.

  "You said you have answers," said Seb. "Well?"

  Westlake shook his head slightly.

  "Not outside. What I have to say concerns information vital to American national security. Step into the car, please."

  "Oh, come on," said Seb, "there's no way I'm getting into a car with you. Despite the national security bullshit." He thought of Meera again. "There's a coffee place around the corner. Let's go there."

  "Very well," said Westlake. He took a step toward Seb. He spoke quietly. "But there's one thing I need to tell you right away."