World Walker 1: The World Walker

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  Seb leaned in. Westlake's right hand was in his pocket and as Seb came closer, it came out fast. Westlake was holding something and Seb flinched as it headed toward his face. Even as he recognized it as some kind of small aerosol can a fine spray hit him as he was breathing in. He staggered, his legs suddenly unable to support him. The taller man caught him by the shoulders as he stumbled, maneuvering him in the direction of the waiting car. An old couple with bags of shopping hesitated as they watched Westlake push Seb onto the back seat. Westlake turned toward them.

  "Likes his drink a bit too much," he said. The old woman grimaced and pulled her husband away. Westlake got in and pushed Seb into the far corner of the car. He shut the door and caught the eye of the driver in the rear view mirror.

  "Go," he said.

  Ten minutes later, Bob and Meera walked into an empty apartment. Meera had kept a key for a couple of years, partly because she occasionally stayed over, partly because Seb would occasionally leave his somewhere on one of his lost weekends.

  "No sign of a struggle," said Bob, picking up the water glass and sniffing it. He turned to Meera, who was looking at her phone.

  "He's ten blocks away," she said. "Think he's gone for another run?"

  Seb felt like he was at the bottom of a deep well, lying with his head lolling uncomfortably on his shoulder. Drool slid down one cheek. The well was pitch black and he had the sense that he was moving. He could hear a man's voice, muffled at first then quickly getting clearer.

  "Asgert acwurwf," came the voice. A picture came into Seb's mind of a tall, dangerous man. "Yus, na prublush. Yus, sir. I've given him enough to knock out a horse. He'll sleep like a baby for about 12 hours. Agreed. Yes, sir. I'd suggest the Shit Station. Everything is in place there, our security hasn't been breached. No witnesses and any shots can be dismissed as a training exercise."

  Seb was now fully conscious. He kept his eyes shut and breathed deeply, listening intently.

  "That's right, sir, they both confirmed he had been shot. No doubt at all, sir. Well...not as such, sir, no...but he was lying in a pool of his own blood...No, I have no idea, we're running background checks now. Seb Varden, 32, an orphan - no really close friends. Musician. Yes, sir, thank you, sir, I'll brief the team at the Station."

  The car slowed. Seb carefully opened his left eye. They were approaching a traffic light. His fingers brushed against the door handle and he pulled gently, ready to run. Nothing. The door was not only locked, there was no conventional lock at all in sight. Seb guessed anyone who got a ride in the back of this particular model often did so against their will.

  "No sign at all, sir. The soldiers' statements agree on every detail but it doesn't help us. The creature has gone. We never found a way of tracking it anyway. Yes, sir, this is our best chance. Whatever the connection is, we'll find it. We'll trace any known associates."

  Seb tensed slightly. He was aware of Westlake suddenly turning toward him.

  "Wait a second, sir," he said. Seb introduced a slight snore to his breathing, hoping he wasn't overdoing it.

  "It's nothing. Yes, sir, will do." Westlake leaned forward and spoke to the driver. "Take the freeway. Break some traffic laws."

  Seb felt the car accelerate. He began to panic and forced himself to keep his breathing steady. He drew on his contemplation experience and drew his attention back to his breath. As he stilled his mind, his awareness seemed to broaden slightly, a tilting in his consciousness, as if he had simultaneously withdrawn from the moment and reached out toward it. His fingers against the door seemed to melt into it - there was no gap in sensation - the metal and flesh both reacted to his impulses.

  Opening his left eye again, he saw the freeway as they pulled into light traffic. He guessed their speed to be around 80mph as the car accelerated again. The outside lane of the freeway was closed for repairs, but there was no evidence of any work being done - just a long stretch of cones. Seb felt something in the door begin to move - metal begin to melt away from the lock and the hinges. The freeway began a long curve to the right and, as the car turned, Seb saw his chance. He tensed. Westlake reacted next to him, his hand coming up to grab him. Seb put all his weight against the door and pushed with his shoulder. There was a moment when he seemed to hang in space, Westlake's face a mix of shock and anger as he reached across the empty back seat. Then the door - with Seb now crouched on top of it, hit the surface of the freeway with a scream of metal and a shower of sparks.

  By the time the driver had started to stop, Seb, kneeling on the car door, had slowed to about 50mph as he shot through the cones, sending two of them flying into the air. He was aware of the sound of screeching tires and honking as the door slowed further and he could see he was heading directly toward a parked tow-truck. He had two, maybe three seconds before he hit it. With no time to think, Seb launched himself off the car door, sending it spinning and flipping into the truck. He crossed into the opposite lane in mid air, managed to right himself and landed on his feet, skidding to a stop. He had just enough time to congratulate himself on the style of his landing before he looked up to see a van, its driver's face a mask of shock as he stamped fruitlessly on the brakes.

  The van hit him. It must have hit him. He had no time to avoid it. But there was no pain, no noise, no sensation of impact. He just heard a hurricane rush in his ears, felt his stomach feel like the world was turning upside down and his head spin in a split second to a tiny point of consciousness which winked out like a blown match.

  Then nothing. Again.

  Chapter 7

  17 Years Previously

  St. Benet's Children's Home, New York

  In the TV room, Jack Carnavon was holding court, as usual. At 17, he was two or three years older than most of the other boys, which gave him a physical and mental advantage. Not that he needed it. If he had been ten years old and a foot shorter than everyone else, he would still have emerged as a leader. Some people seem to carry off an effortless charisma just in the way they hold themselves. Jack Carnavon wasn't particularly tall, at 5'10, he was almost exactly Seb Varden's height, despite Seb being two years his junior. But where Seb was still skinny and awkward, Jack was compact, wiry and surprisingly well-muscled. He moved gracefully, with an easy charm. He teased the Sisters in a way that equally horrified and thrilled his peers, though he was careful not to overstep the mark.

  Since arriving at St. Benet's a few months previously, Jack had quickly put his power structure in place. It had been a subtle process, showing favor to certain boys who bore grudges against other, bigger, rivals, then delighting his new lieutenants by dealing out minor humiliations to those who had wronged them. His background was unclear and he obviously enjoyed the mystery, occasionally hinting at a violent - but romantic - past.

  Like a new alpha in a pack of chimps, Jack knew he would have to see off a challenge at some point. The way he dealt with it, when it came, showed him to be a ruthless enforcer, not just a tough, good-looking kid with a winning smile. To no one's great surprise, it was Stevie who took him on.

  Stevie was a bully, no one would deny that. He took what he wanted, he used violence liberally, although it was never serious, just a case of pinning someone on the floor until they gave up their soda, their comic book, the couple of dollars they'd saved. But Stevie's bullying was a product of his environment. It wasn't nature, it was nurture. He wasn't that bright, he was overly sensitive, he stuttered. But he was heavy, strong and could take punishment. His personality made him a natural victim, his build gave him the opportunity to avoid that eventuality. So he became a bully. And, contrary to the prevailing wisdom about bullies, he wasn't a coward. You could punch him and he would just swat you away as if he hadn't felt it. So when he saw Jack Carnavon establishing himself as de facto boss, he knew he would have to be pre-emptive, put him in his place. Hard. He was no planning genius, but knew enough to understand his move would have to be public - he had to humiliate Carnavon, make his fair-weather friends desert him. Isolated, he would
be easy pickings.

  The TV was on, but the sound was muted as Jack was reading the funnies. The four boys in the room were keen to earn his favor, and it was only ten minutes, after all. Stevie walked in, glanced around the room, then strolled over to the TV and put the volume up. Loud. Jack looked up from the paper.

  "Stevie," he said. "Be a pal. I'm reading here. Just kill the sound for another few minutes, ok?"

  "Watcha reading?" said Stevie, ignoring his request and walking over to where Jack was sitting. Stevie wasn't tall, but he was broad and squat. A wrestler's build.

  "Stevie, please," said Jack, not even lifting his eyes from the paper. He waved his hand casually toward the TV. "The volume."

  Stevie responded by leaning forward and snatching the paper from Jack's other hand. "Thanks, Carnavon," he said, "I haven't read that yet."

  He walked slowly to the door, then turned back toward his audience. "You make sure that volume stays up," he said.

  Jack sighed theatrically and smiled at the boys, shrugging slightly as if to say, "Hey, I tried to be polite, I gave him a chance." He picked up the remote and muted the sound again.

  "Put it back on," said Stevie, scowling.

  Jack responded by getting up and stretching ostentatiously before walking toward Stevie. The room fell silent. Everybody stood up. A couple of older boys started to follow Jack, but he motioned for them to stay where they were. He stopped just out of reach of Stevie. "There's no excuse for being rude," he said. "And no one likes a bully, Stevie."

  Stevie was so tensed up, the veins on his neck were throbbing. He opened his mouth to respond, but didn't get the chance because Jack's fist hit him so hard, two of his teeth flew out. There was a collective gasp in the room. Stevie took a step backward, which put him just into the doorway. He knew he had to respond, and he knew it would have to be good. He launched himself forward, his hand extended to get hold of Jack's collar. Jack was expecting this and stepped nimbly aside, grabbing the open door. He slammed it as hard as he could, his whole body spinning anti-clockwise, lending extra momentum to the move. The door hit Stevie just below the elbow, instantly breaking his arm. The impact was so hard, the bone broke the skin, exposing glistening muscle and fat as the white splinter poked through. One of the boys threw up as Jack moved forward and clamped a hand over the mouth of the white-faced Stevie, now sweating and shaking with pain. Suddenly there was a knife in Jack's hand. Jack's body blocked everyone else's view, but he showed the knife to Stevie, waiting until he could see Stevie had seen it. He leaned forward and whispered.

  "You tripped, ok? When they ask. You tripped. Anything else, any more trouble, I'll visit you when you're asleep and I'll slice off your balls."

  The atmosphere after Stevie had been taken to the hospital was false, forced, strange. Jack had crossed a line. The boys of St. Benet's were keen to appear self-reliant, tough even, but pretty much all of it was bluster and bravado. Everyone knew a fight would never get serious. Threats were just threats, extremely unlikely to escalate into any real trouble. So Jack did more than break Stevie's arm, he broke the unwritten laws of St. Benet's. At that time, there were 19 boys living there, but those in the TV room after Stevie had been taken away were the top of the tree. They were the oldest boys in a place where age generally implied seniority. The Sisters might run the place, but if you wanted to fit in at St. Benet's, you followed the rules set by the older boys. There was a tense quiet in the room. Everyone knew Jack had gone too far, no one wanted to say it. If they were going to walk away from him, it had to be now.

  Jack sensed the mood and dealt with it quickly. He sat on the sofa and buried his head in his hands, saying nothing. After about thirty seconds, his shoulders started heaving and, when he lifted his head, fat tears were running down his face.

  "I never meant to hurt him so badly. Oh God, I swear, I never meant to hurt him."

  One of the boys sat next to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  "I thought he was going to kill me," said Jack, sobbing. "Did you see the look on his face? He'd gone crazy. Psycho. I thought I was going to die." Two more boys moved back toward Jack and made conciliatory comments.

  "It was self-defense."

  "No one blames you, Jack."

  "Don't be hard on yourself, you had no choice."

  The only boy who hadn't moved was Seb Varden. He had seen the look on Stevie's face very clearly. It was the look of a scared boy who'd suddenly realized there were people out there for whom violence was not just a way of life, but a passion. He had seen the pleasure Jack was gaining from hurting him and it terrified him. Seb knew the other boys had seen it too. They'd just chosen to rewrite reality in a way that allowed them to carry on being friends with Jack. Seb saw through Jack's performance after the incident, too. The tears were real enough, but Seb had once read an interview with an actor who could cry whenever he needed to. On demand. Jack obviously had the same ability, since through his tears Seb had watched him looking around, seeing what effect his performance was having, playing the crowd like a pro.

  Seb felt disgust. Mostly with himself. He had chosen to hang around with Jack Carnavon, had told himself he was a fascinating guy, with some experience of real life. But really, he had known from the start that Jack was something else entirely. He'd felt coldness and emptiness radiating from him. For someone so talkative, who had so many stories, so much to say, he never revealed anything personal. Not really. Seb felt sure no one would ever get to know the real Jack Carnavon. And now, seeing a glimpse of the heart of the boy, he was convinced it was time to walk away.

  He stood up and went to leave. The boys surrounding Jack were starting to joke around a bit again, diffusing the tension. Jack was joining in, but still feigning weakness and regret, puffing up the other boys' egos so they felt needed by him. But those cold, quick eyes followed Seb as he left the room and he knew his desertion wouldn't be forgotten or forgiven.

  The trouble - when it came - was worse than Seb had anticipated. He had managed to avoid Jack as far as possible for a few days. Not too obviously, but enough that the clique of boys at the top accepted that he had voluntarily left their number. Seb was popular with the others, quiet but loyal and with a self-deprecating sense of humor. And he was always willing to listen, which was a truly rare quality. So when he deliberately isolated himself, spending more time at the piano and listening to music, his decision was respected by everyone. Everyone but Jack.

  The boys slept in two dormitories, 8-12 boys to a room. A locker beside their bed held clothes, toiletries and a few personal belongings. One late afternoon in Fall, Seb was lying on his bed, supposedly reading but actually thinking about the girl who'd been doing some voluntary work with the Sisters around the Home the past few weeks. St. Catherine's, a local Catholic girls' school, regularly sent small teams of volunteers to help with odd jobs, gardening, or decorating. New faces around the place were nothing new, and Seb was used to exchanging a nod or a polite "hey" with unfamiliar people during the day. But, nearly three weeks ago, that had all changed.

  Melissa Rae was the most beautiful sight Seb had ever seen. He liked to think of himself as a bit of a man of the world at the age of 15. He had talked with girls on four or five occasions without tripping over his words, blushing uncontrollably or completely losing the power of speech. It had taken work to get past those stages, which had previously crippled his efforts at getting close to females at the various social events organized by the children's home.

  The Sisters running St. Benet's were considered progressive by many of their peers, allowing reasonably free mixing of the sexes when possible. They justified their position to their more conservative critics by pointing out that any claim to be "good" or "morally upstanding" was suspect if never tested. Easy to be pure if no one had ever offered you a chance to be dirty. That wasn't quite the phrasing they used at the Motherhouse Symposium they attended annually, but that's what they meant. "Would our Lord be our Lord if he hadn't been tempted?" was the provocat
ive - and often unpopular - question they posed to their colleagues.

  Seb and the other half-dozen hormone-driven boys and young men currently residing at the Home, naturally cared nothing for any scriptural or theological justification, as long as the outcome was the same: girls were made available. They could be spoken to, smiled at, even flirted with. Seb knew of the Sisters' thoughts about temptation, but secretly wondered if Jesus would have been quite so quick to avoid it if he had met Melissa Rae when he was 15. He felt terrible for wondering, but he wondered just the same.

  Lying on his bed that afternoon, eyes closing, Seb decided he was finally ready to ask Melissa out. Their conversations had drifted to the subject of romance recently, and Seb knew that Melissa didn't have a boyfriend. A sci-fi feature was playing at Cap House (no one could remember the real name of the shabby movie theater two blocks away) and he was going to ask her to go with him. His stomach was in knots, but he was ready. He would ask her tomorrow morning.

  He smiled and opened his eyes. Jack Carnavon stood over him, a nasty self-satisfied smirk on his face. Seb sat up against his headboard and closed his book. Jack sat down on the end of the bed. He reached over and picked up the book.

  "Poetry?" he said, and laughed humorlessly. "You're just such a sensitive soul, Seb. I bet your suffer from inner torments. Don't tell me, no one understands you, right?" Despite knowing the cliche would apply to any 15-year old, Seb still felt the sting of an accurate taunt. Jack examined the cover of the book.

  "Philip Larkin?" he said. "Looks like a fag." He read a little of the blurb on the back. "A British fag, too. Thought poets were meant to be sexy. This guy looks like a librarian." Seb considered telling Jack that Larkin was, in fact, a librarian, but decided any attempt to educate him would be wasted. He just patiently held out his hand for the book and waited until Jack returned it.