World Walker 1: The World Walker

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  "Form an orderly line, girls," Trix said behind him as he left the room. "There's plenty for everyone."

  Chapter 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 20 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 endorphine-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 acce
lerated 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.

  "48 hours," said the voice. Not so much said, as whispered.

  Chapter 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 80-105 ºF, 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 40 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.

  Dawn was a pinky yellow of promise as they reached the outskirts of Las Vegas. The flashing lights were off, the tourists finally in bed apart from the hardy few, slack-jawed and dead-eyed, feeding quarters into the slots as the shadows lengthened outside. The early morning light made the whole place look grimy, tired and sick. Lo turned east away from the road as they neared the city limits, heading onto a dirt track that the Galaxie handled by throwing them around like rag dolls on its ancient shocks.

  "Sorry," called Lo as Bob put a hand on the dash to steady himself and Mee suddenly bounced into view in the rearview mirror, makeup running, looking like an extremely surprised panda.

  "Wassat? What?" said Mee. She was well known for her inability to string together words into coherent sentences until at least one joint and three cups of coffee had fired up her synapses.

  "Nearly there," said Lo. Eight minutes' drive took them into rockier terrain, the landscape undulating slightly. As they rounded a corner, a trailer park of sorts hove into view. It looked like it had been there for decades, the newest of the seven trailers had probably rolled off the line circa 1977. The trailers were in a horseshoe formation, the open end of the U-shape closed by the hill it backed up against. The area behind and between the trailers was covered by faded gazebos, garden parasols and tarpaulin, all of it the color of the surrounding desert. Two motorcycles, a pickup truck and a minibus were parked to one side.

  Lo brought the Galaxie to a shuddering stop about 30 feet from the nearest trailer. The three of them were silent for a moment, looking out through the dirt, dust and insect corpses caking the windshield. Eleven people stood between them and the trailers. Ten women and one man. All of them wearing cheap canvas pants and olive or tan t-shirts that looked like they'd been bought in an army surplus store. Each of them held a small purple flower. Bob thought he had seen similar flowers in the scrub of the Verdugo Mountains.

  "Did you phone ahead?" he said.

  "No need," said Lo, smiling. "Please give me a minute."

  Without waiting for an answer she got out of the car and walked toward the line of people. When she was about ten feet away, she knelt in the dirt and leaned forward. Bob and Meera couldn't see what she was doing, but when she stood up again, she too was holding a purple flower. As she stepped forward, the group moved to meet her and then they were all hugging and laughing in turn, the delight at seeing her evident on their faces. After exchanging greetings, Lo turned and jogged back to the car. "Come on," she said, "they all want to meet you."

  Bob and Meera got out of the car. Bob stopped and gently moved his left leg forwards and backward, bending it a little more each time. Walking eased the pain, but he avoided sitting down for long periods as it could become hard to bear. Sometimes, while walking upstairs, the sounds coming from his knee made him wonder how much cartilage was left and how much had been replaced by shrapnel. This had been the longest car journey he had made for a while and he knew he'd suffer for it. He put his weight on the leg carefully, then limped toward the waiting group, putting out his hand. "Bob Geller," he said. "Good to meet you folks."

  Meera hung back and lit another joint. She had checked her stash in the car and calculated if she went to the extreme of limiting herself to four spliffs every 24 hours, she might make it for another five days before she would feel like tearing anyone's head off. She looked at the scene in front of her. They were hugging Bob now. She had an innate distrust of physical contact with anyone other than very close friends, partly because of her upbringing in Britain, but mostly because of some unwise relationship decisions in her teens. When the hugging had died down and a few looks were being directed toward her, Lo waved her over with a smile.

  "Hi," said Meera, ambling over, arms crossed and a cloud of heady sweet smoke drifting up from the joint, "I'm Mee. I don't hug."

  Introductions were made, then a matronly woman said she was going to make pancakes and coffee if they were interested. They were.

  Ten minutes later, they were sitting in one of the trailers which had been converted into a communal dining area with two long tables and benches. The matronly woman - Jackie - brought the coffee first, in tin mugs with a jug of cream and bowl of sugar, coming back a few minutes later with a steaming pile of pancakes. Another jug contained warm maple syrup. There was a bowl of blueberry jelly, a platter of chopped fruit: bananas, strawberries, blueberries and grapes with a side of whipped yoghurt. There were no cooking facilities in the dining trailer - Bob assumed another trailer had been converted to serve as a kitchen. The food and coffee was fresh and amazingly good. Bob couldn't remember ever having had better pancakes and the coffee was strong and rich. Mee was equally impressed, but put it down to the fact that she hadn't had any hot food for nearly a week.

  The food was consumed in near silence. Understandable from the point of view of the visitors, who were exhausted, but unusual in most social situations. Bob glanced up as he finished a fourth pancake and washed it down with the last of his coffee. Jackie ca
me over with a refill, smiling. Then Bob really noticed it for the first time. Everyone was so damn quiet. And kind of happy looking. The weird thing was, he would expect a room full of silent smiling people to freak him out. He had once been invited to church by a lady he'd met buying groceries. He had gone along that Sunday, partly out of curiosity, more because he thought there was a chance he might get laid. They'd all smiled there. From the moment he walked in and was welcomed with smiles, all the way through the service which featured a sermon in which the young smiling preacher had expressed his support of carrying concealed weapons 'for Christ' and his great sadness that sodomites had turned their backs on Jesus and would go to hell. Smiles all the way through plates of cookies and weak coffee afterwards where he was asked at least nine times if he was saved. Smiles, smiles, smiles. Right up to the point where he'd asked his "date" if she believed in sex outside of marriage.

  "Of course not," she said, primly, looking around her fellow churchgoers who gave her some smiling nods of confirmation.

  "Well, that's a shame," said Bob, "since I was planning on taking you to bed this afternoon and having a great deal of sweaty, fun and downright dirty sex with you." There was a gratifyingly sharp intake of breath from the half-dozen people close enough to hear. "Two or three times at least," he said. His intended bedfellow's smile had finally slipped, but - to his surprise - Bob was sure he could see lust in her eyes behind her feigned shock.

  He stepped in closer. "And I'd keep an eye on that preacher of yours," he said. "Think he was just a little too fired up about the evils of gay sex. Check his phone for a grindr account if you get the chance. Bit of rough trade last night, I wouldn't be at all surprised. And get someone to sort out the coffee, it's god-damn awful." He had left in silence, but, to his satisfaction, at least they weren't smiling any more.