World Walker 1: The World Walker

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  "I think he was really sick and had decided this was the way he wanted to go," he said. "He didn't want to hurt you. Or anyone else."

  "Selfish bastard," she said, between sobs.

  "But between writing that note and us seeing him, something happened," said Bob. "And whatever that something was, he went from normal guy to Manna power-user in one night. Diane said it takes years to learn to use that stuff."

  "So what are you saying?" said Meera.

  "I'm saying someone - or something - found Seb that night. They stopped him killing himself and they left him full of Manna."

  "And you think it was another alien? These things running around LA now, are they?"

  Bob shrugged, drained the last of his cold coffee. "Got a better theory?"

  She opened her mouth to reply just as the door burst open and two men in black with automatic weapons burst in. They pointed their guns at Bob and Mee.

  "Just sit there and put your hands on the table. Don't give me a reason to waste a bullet," said one of them. Bob and Mee looked at each other, Bob shaking his head a fraction. Outside the night was suddenly lit up, as if the sun had come out. They could feel the heat on their faces. Then the screaming started.

  Chapter 37

  He knew the operation would have to be fast and precise. Mason had made made that clear enough. Westlake was not a man with any delusions: he had realized early in life that he enjoyed the act of killing, so he didn't try to dress up his pleasure with any kind of patriotic justification. His fondness for the act wasn't some kind of perverse sexual kick; far from it. It was more the professional satisfaction of completing a tidy operation with no loose ends. He wouldn't be happy until the number of corpses on the scene matched the list in his head, and the physical evidence told the story he wanted told. A job well done, a report given, a brief glow of satisfaction. Then on to the next job.

  So, when his watch showed 1:11am precisely, and a buzz in his pocket let him know Teams B and C were in position, blocking any possible road exits from the Order's trailers, with team D ready on the hill behind, he felt a preternatural calmness descend, just as it always did when an operation took the final step out of his head and into reality. He motioned to the pilot to bring the chopper down. As it dropped toward the desert floor, he turned to the men waiting in the belly of the helicopter. His own men he ignored - they were proven, reliable professionals. Instead, he spoke to three men and two women sitting at the front. Two men were known to him - that lightweight Ford and, sitting next to him, the little guy - Barrington - Mason's enforcer, his gaze cold, unreadable. One of Westlake's men had made the mistake of commenting negatively on Barrington's size during an early operation. He didn't work for Westlake any more, as Barrington had broken every one of his fingers. Multiple fractures in each digit. More accurately, he didn't work for anyone any more, as Westlake had put a bullet in his head and had him buried in the foundations of a hotel parking lot. Leaving the unit prematurely didn't mean a redundancy package. His soldiers knew that when they signed up.

  The other man and the two women had been brought in by Mason, so Westlake knew better than to voice any doubts about their credentials. He looked them over.

  "You know what to do," he said, "but let me make this clear. No one other than the target gets to walk away, exactly as our employer has specified. You do your job, so we can do ours." None of the group, with the exception of Barrington, looked remotely comfortable. Ford, in particular, was already sweating and his hands were shaking. Westlake stared at the man until he finally met his gaze. He said nothing. Both of them knew Ford had to do what he had been told to do, if he intended to live past the next hour or so.

  The pilot settled the chopper so lightly onto the ground, only the sudden decrease in vibration as the rotors slowed to a stop let the passengers know it had landed. Westlake opened the door, jumping out and watching his men fall in behind him, forming a line, the black clothes, full face masks and the dark tanks on their backs making their figures nightmarish. He flicked on his night vision goggles and watched the only two soldiers without tanks peel off to the right and head toward the trailer containing Patel and Geller. He never planned for luck in an operation, but when it came his way, he was quick to embrace it. The technology they used to observe the Order over the last few hours gave them a live feed detailed enough to pick out individual faces. The fact that Geller and Patel had decided on a cozy chat in the trailer nearest where the chopper had landed made his job easier. The Manna users stepped out behind him and he waved them forward. They stayed together as a group, stopping about 100 feet from the trailers. They quickly became very still. Westlake was not a Manna user, but experience had taught him the signs of its use. Their job was to suppress as much Manna-based resistance as possible. He turned his focus back to his crew, jogging up to join them. They were all in position. He pushed the button in his pocket, knowing each of his men would feel the buzz and immediately carry out their orders.

  Twenty-three seconds later, two buzzes in his pocket signaled Patel and Geller were secure. Radio silence was no longer necessary.

  "Go," said Westlake.

  The first maneuver was designed to wipe out most of the Order immediately, but the use of his best men plus the addition of the Users proved how seriously Mason took the possibility of failure. Westlake knew not to underestimate the enemy, despite their appearance and hippy commune way of living. Each trailer except the one containing Patel and Geller were hit simultaneously with an particular kind of incendiary grenade banned nearly a decade ago by the United Nations. Each grenade detonated releasing superheated fireballs made up of a chemical solution designed to cling to flesh. The screaming started immediately. Westlake didn't mind screaming, in fact he often likened it to the applause of a satisfied audience at a concert. It showed things were proceeding as planned. In his many years working for Mason, the vast majority of killings had to be silent, which diminished his satisfaction slightly.

  The old trailers would never have passed any kind of fire inspection. They went up like kindling. Another advantage of the grenades was the speed in which they did the damage. By the time anyone had thought to investigate a glow in the distance, it would all be over.

  Three women made it out of their trailers. Westlake discovered later that another two had come out of the back, only to run into team D who ensured they got no further. The three at the front offered more resistance. Only one was alight - she rolled onto the ground and a sudden Manna-produced gust of wind extinguished the flames. Westlake looked sharply at the civilian group he had brought along. They were reacting to developments, but Westlake had forgotten how excruciatingly long the reactions of non-trained personnel could seem to someone of his background and abilities. By the time they were ready to respond, one of the women had raised her hands and a wall of earth had risen up between her and the fire heading toward her from the flame-throwers of Westlake's men. Then the wall blew apart in an explosion of dust and stones as Ford and the others finally responded. The flame-throwers found two targets and they turned into writhing figures from a nightmare, their flesh bubbling and the skin peeling away from their lips even as they screamed. They desperately tried to use Manna to heal themselves, but Westlake's group countered every attempt, and as they drew in breath to scream again, the fire burned away the linings of their lungs.

  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 40 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 12 minutes had passed since they landed. Effective and efficient. He allowed himself a rare smile.

  Chapter 38

  After disembarking the train in Aburquerque, 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 24 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," s
aid 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, 200-300 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 10-15 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.