World Walker 2: The Unmaking Engine

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  Seb glanced down, but even as he did so, a firefighter’s uniform grew out of his flesh, a visored helmet momentarily obscuring his vision. He looked back at the woman, who had evidently decided she had just hallucinated a naked rescuer. Possibly a side effect of smoke inhalation.

  “This way!” shouted Seb, “quickly.” He shielded the worst of the flames with his body as they followed him into the apartment. The heat would have burned them, but an invisible barrier extending five feet on either side of Seb, protected the family from the flames. When she realized they were heading for the window, the woman shook her head and pulled her children closer.

  “No!” she said. “No stairs!” Seb saw something give way in her face as she accepted they’d lost all hope of getting out. She began to sit down, pulling the children with her. The baby began to wail, but stopped in a fit of coughing.

  Seb put his hand under her chin.

  “Felicia! Felicia!” he said. At the unexpected use of her name, she looked up slowly. The man above her was trying to say something. He wanted something of her. But she was so tired. He saw him look at the necklace she always wore. It was a cheap wooden thing, but she had worn it ever since her mother had passed. It was an angel. The man looked back at her and smiled. She couldn’t move. Then she saw it—wings began to unfurl on his shoulders. He stood up and let the beautiful white wings open out on either side of him, nearly touching the apartment walls. She began crying. A miracle. He held out a hand. She felt new strength fill her, and she placed her own hand in his.

  When they reached the window, the stairs were in place; solid, safe, bolted securely to the side of the building. Felicia didn’t hesitate. She sent her eldest boy out first, followed by his brother and sister. Lastly, she climbed out with the baby. She looked back once as they made their way to safety. The angel was smiling. He turned and walked back into the burning building. She kissed the angel hanging on the chain around her neck and thanked God for sending her deliverer.

  When the family walked to the front of the building, they were immediately surrounded by firefighters who hurried them to a waiting ambulance.

  The chief fire officer, who—minutes earlier—had given up all hope of any more survivors after seeing the state of the fire escape, turned speechlessly to the rest of his crew. They looked at each other in disbelief as a roar behind them signaled the fact that the fire had finally consumed the interior of the building. No more than a blackened shell would be left within a few hours.

  “An angel saved us—sent by God—an angel! It’s a miracle!” The chief thought he might not mention her explanation on his report, but as of now, he couldn’t think of a better one.

  ***

  Cubby Vashtar looked at the lion’s head mounted on the wall of his study. It was his latest trophy, brought back after a safari in Nairobi the previous month. The poachers had been hard to find at first and they had been extremely reluctant to trust him, suspecting some kind of law enforcement sting was behind his request. But as usual, cold hard cash—and plenty of it—had persuaded them that Cubby had no interest in their illegal ivory trade. He just wanted to kill a lion. A really, really big one. A ferocious one. A really big, ferocious lion he could safely kill using a high-powered rifle with telescopic sights from a jeep a quarter mile away.

  “Magnificent,” Cubby murmured as he raised a glass of champagne and toasted the golden shaggy head.

  Cubby was an intelligent man and had made his life choices with his eyes well and truly open. His father had come to America with nothing but his dignity and had died without even that. Cubby was a believer in the American Dream. His father had believed in it, too, but had never found his true calling. He had entered the system, followed its rules, obeyed the law, paid his taxes and accepted the hardships that came along as an inevitable part of life. “Bad things happen,” Cubby’s father had said, as he lay dying from a disease that better health insurance could have treated. “It’s the immutable law of the universe.” Immutable my ass, thought Cubby.

  His cellphone vibrated in his pocket. He opened his humidor and selected a fat Cohiba Behike Laguito cigar, rolling it between his fingers, bringing it to his nose to appreciate the subtle fragrance. The cell stopped, then immediately started vibrating again. He sighed and answered it.

  “What?” he said, taking a last look at his trophies. The brown bear was spectacular, and he’d always had a soft spot for the silverback gorilla, possibly due to the insane amount of money it had cost him to hunt it, but the lion was definitely his new favorite. The king of the jungle. He walked outside onto the verandah as he listened to Sanjeev describe the evening’s events.

  “Which building?” he said. “Oh, ok, it’s insured. It’s good news, actually. I’ll rebuild and get some bankers in there. It’s an up and coming area—don’t you read the New Yorker, Sanj?”

  He chuckled as he sat down and took the cigar cutter from his pocket, neatly severing the end and lobbing it into the artificial lake he’d had built in the garden. As he listened to Sanjeev talk, he frowned.

  “So, what’s the problem?” He put the unlit cigar onto a glass ashtray on the cast-iron table. He wouldn’t be able to enjoy it until he got rid of Sanjeev.

  “Yes, I know, I know, the smoke alarms didn’t work, the fire escape collapsed, there was lead in the paint, blah, blah, blah. Sanj, little brother, if you’re ever going to learn how to run this business, you’re going to have to understand the importance of planning ahead. Never mind, you’ll see soon enough. Just stop nagging me, you old woman. Go away. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He ended the call, turned the cellphone off and threw it back into the house over his shoulder. It made no sound as it landed, so it must have hit the tiger skin rug.

  “God, I’m such a cliché,” he said to himself, smiling. He lit the cigar, took a few initial puffs and leaned back on the cushioned chair, sighing contentedly.

  Cubby had chosen crime as his route to pursuing the American Dream. Low-level stuff at first, a little drug dealing in school, which financed a protection racket, then a downpayment on a repossessed house a block away from where he’d grown up in Queens. He’d divided the house into five tiny apartments and rented the rooms to immigrant workers who didn’t mind paying a little over the normal rates to someone who didn’t ask many questions. The first time someone got behind on the rent, they had experienced a nasty fall, breaking a leg in three places, before being evicted. After that, his tenants were prompt with their payments.

  Cubby worked, ate and slept, no more. No luxuries, no vacations, no women. He’d given himself five years to make his first million as a landlord in his father’s adopted city. He had got there in three. He did it by cutting corners, by overcharging, by ignoring maintenance requests, staying on the right side of the law by the narrowest possible margin. And on the occasions when he crossed the line, he had a very expensive lawyer who was worth every cent.

  The fire in his apartment building tonight was arson, of that Cubby was quite sure. He was sure because he’d paid $20,000 to get the job done. Even better, the trail he’d carefully left made it look like a rival landlord might have been behind it. Despite Sanjeev’s misgivings, Cubby knew there would be no trouble with the City. Most of the building’s occupants would be too scared to testify against him. And as an insurance policy, he always kept a few tenants on the payroll. They would swear under oath that the smoke alarms had been regularly checked, the building was safe and the fire escape—if it could be proved to have collapsed—must have done so during the fire because it was definitely there that morning.

  Cubby slowly blew a cloud of smoke into the night air. He wondered if there would be any fatalities this time. People dying meant paperwork, lawyers and expense, as he knew to his cost. Everything was more straightforward when the only damage was to property.

  There was a movement in the bushes beside the lake. Cubby sat up straighter and felt under the table for the shotgun. It was there, securely cradled in its brac
kets. Oiled, loaded and ready to fire. Cubby’s house featured at least one concealed weapon in every room. Sanjeev thought he was paranoid. Cubby knew he was merely being realistic. He was a ruthless crime-funded slum landlord, living like a prince while his tenants scraped by in conditions unfit for dogs. Who wouldn’t want to kill him? Cubby checked the safety was off and eased the weapon onto his lap.

  “Don’t be shy,” he called. “Come on out. I would rather you had made an appointment, but if you’re so desperate to talk to me, let’s talk.” He put the cigar in the ashtray and had another sip of champagne. He’d had angry tenants try to break in before, but a high fence, razor wire and warnings of guard dogs were normally a sufficient deterrent. He didn’t actually own any dogs, just a movement-sensitive device that played recorded growling whenever it was triggered. He hadn’t heard it tonight, though. Strange.

  The bushes rustled some more, then a figure stepped forward. It was a man in his fifties, Hispanic, tired-looking. Kind of familiar, although Cubby couldn’t think why. The man was wearing a janitor’s uniform exactly like the Supers in Cubby’s tenements. Cubby knew it was exactly like it because he’d bought a box of five hundred in that baby-shit yellow color no one else wanted to buy. They were dirt cheap, that was the main thing.

  The man took a step forward. He had slicked down hair. The name badge over his pocket was close enough to read now. It said Hector. He was about ten feet away. Cubby lifted the shotgun off his lap and swiveled it around to point at the intruder.

  “That’s close enough, Hector,” he said. “I guess you work in one of my buildings. What’s the problem?” Cubby didn’t want to have to shoot the guy—it made such a mess—but he was well within his rights. He was a trespasser, after all. More importantly, Cubby had a reputation to preserve. It wasn’t as if he could let the man walk away with no consequences. He decided to aim low. A kneecap shot was his best option; maximum pain, permanent debilitating damage and a clear signal to any other unhappy employees to keep their heads down and their mouths shut. Before he could pull the trigger, the man spoke.

  “You don’t remember me, do you, Mr Vashtar?”

  Cubby snorted. He owned more than thirty buildings in New York and staff turnover was high. Sanjeev had delegated the hiring and firing to others years ago. If Hector thought Cubby had a clue—or gave a shit—who he was, he was going to be sorely disappointed.

  “Don’t know, don’t care. Enjoy the ambulance ride.”

  Cubby pulled the trigger. Well, his finger closed on the gap in the trigger guard where the trigger should have been. He would have sworn blind he’d had his finger on the trigger for the last thirty seconds while he’d watched this loser walk out of the bushes. But now, there was nothing. He looked at the gun in disbelief. There was no trigger. Not only that, there was no evidence there had ever been a trigger. The shotgun just looked like an expensive toy.

  In his business, Cubby was used to making quick decisions and staying one step ahead of the game. Thinking fast, he decided his best bet would be to get into the trophy room behind him. There was a pistol in his desk drawer and an Uzi in the drinks cabinet. He’d only bought the Uzi because owning one made him feel like a proper gangster.

  He got up and turned toward the verandah door. Hector was blocking his way. How the hell had he moved so fast? Cubby took an involuntary step backward. Seeing the man so close triggered a faint memory…there was something about him.

  “Got it yet?” said Hector. He leaned toward Cubby. Cubby flinched backward. There was something wrong about Hector—the gray pallor of his skin, the slow, slightly stilted way he spoke. Cubby didn’t want to be touched by him.

  Hector picked up Cubby’s cigar and took a few puffs, his dark eyes never leaving the other man’s.

  “You do like the finer things in life, don’t you, Cubby?” he said.

  Cubby clenched his fists. He never let anyone other than family call him Cubby. He was a big, intimidating man, and he’d never been afraid to fight his own battles. As long as there was no chance that he would lose. He swung a loose heavy roundhouse at Hector’s face. Which—somehow—missed.

  “I’ll give you two clues,” said Hector, calmly. “See if they help you remember.”

  Cubby gaped at him, thrown off-balance by the force of the punch he had thrown. How was it possible he’d missed? This guy could move fast. Real fast. Cubby re-evaluated his position. Might be best to keep Hector talking, keep things friendly until he could reach one of the weapons in the room behind him.

  “Ok, Hector,” he said, “you have my attention. Who are you? And what do you want?”

  “I worked for you a long time ago,” said Hector. “Not long after you started out. Clue number one: Mumbai Heights.”

  Cubby stared. Mumbai Heights had been the joke name he and Sanj had given to the two-story warehouse he’d rented over a decade ago. The warehouse had been cheap, as it had been recently condemned. Cubby had sublet it to a clothing manufacturer whose workers had no visas, no work permits and no rights. They only wanted the building for three months to cope with the Christmas rush.

  Mumbai Heights had only ever had one resident. Despite the City ordinances expressly forbidding it, Cubby had put living quarters in one corner of the second floor and told Sanj to employ a cheap security guard to keep an eye on the place at night. It was a condition the clothing company had insisted on, and they were paying handsomely for the space.

  Cubby looked again at Hector. Now that he thought about it, the security guard had probably shared the same name. Couldn’t be this loser, though, because that Hector was dead.

  “One more clue,” said Hector. The Hector who—now that Cubby thought back—looked a hell of a lot like the one back then. Was that it? A brother, back for revenge? But the fire department had investigated and concluded the cause was a faulty fusebox. Not arson. The fire chief who had authored that report had been close to retirement, and now lived in a surprisingly good house in a very sought-after neighborhood.

  “Getting warm yet?” said Hector. “Here’s clue number two.”

  He took the cigar from his mouth, flicked an inch of ash from the tip and pressed it onto his upper arm. The shirts weren’t cheap just because of the crappy color. They were highly flammable, too. Hector’s shirt smoldered for a second, then burst into flames.

  “Wha-?” Cubby hadn’t meant to speak, but he couldn’t help himself. Hector was still calmly looking at him, while the shoulder of his shirt burned. Tongues of fire licked around his collar, but Hector showed no sign of being in any discomfort. Even when the oil in his hair ignited and turned into a fiery crown, he continued looking calmly into Cubby’s eyes.

  The fire burned itself out after six horrific minutes. Cubby, boxed in between the wall and the table, had been a helpless observer of the damage wrought by the flames on Hector’s body. Now, a blackened, smoldering husk stood there, smoke rising from the scraps of dark flesh that—here and there—still clung to its bones. Only the man’s dark eyes were undamaged, and had looked directly at Cubby throughout.

  When the horror before him opened its mouth to speak, the lips—which had fused together and knotted into a mass of scorched tissue—cracked, split and fell away from the face, landing close to Cubby’s feet. Cubby shrieked and tried to back away.

  “Now do you remember?” said Hector. His voice box, dried up, cooked and scarred by the fire, produced a rattling scraping sound which made Cubby’s skin go icy cold. And Cubby knew who he was.

  “I didn’t know anyone was in the building,” he whispered.

  “Liar,” said Hector, impassively.

  “Ok,” said Cubby, “you got me. Now what?” He seemed to have developed a healthy case of gallows humor. A distant part of him suggested that he might be in shock. Another, equally distant part, agreed shock was probably a fair diagnosis, considering he was having a conversation with the reanimated corpse of a man who’d died twelve years ago.

  “You ever read A Christmas Carol?�
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  Cubby stared blankly at him.

  “By Charles Dickens?”

  Cubby opened his mouth, but no appropriate words suggested themselves.

  “Heard of Scrooge?”

  Cubby nodded. He’d seen the movie once. This dead ex-security guard seemed to be better educated than he remembered.

  “Scrooge was visited by ghosts. They gave him a second chance. He could turn his life around or be eternally damned.”

  The corpse hesitated. Cubby realized he expected some kind of response.

  “Oh,” he said, then licked his lips and tried again. “Yeah, Scrooge. I remember.” He could have sworn the dead guy tutted.

  “Well, this is your warning, your last chance. But how many people believe in eternal damnation these days?”

  Cubby searched for a reply, but the question proved to be rhetorical this time.

  “So, I have a promise for you instead,” continued the corpse, who seemed unaffected by Cubby’s choking response to the acrid smell of burnt meat. “I’ll be checking up on you in one month. You have until then to fix all of the hazards in your buildings and put into place the most comprehensive maintenance program this city has ever seen. You have an additional six months to complete it. A prominent journalist has already been emailed on your behalf. I offered her an exclusive interview with you, once the six months are up. I told her she can visit any or all of your buildings, bring photographers, talk to whoever she pleases. She will break the news that the worst landlord in New York is now the best. Or…”

  Cubby waited. Nothing. He guessed it was his turn again.

  “Or?” he squeaked.

  “Or I come back and do what I just did to myself to you. It’s not a very nice way to die, I promise. Now, go sit on your lawn, Cubby.”

  Hector backed up and let Cubby come out from behind the table. Cubby pressed himself as hard as he could into the table, desperate not to touch the smoking body as he passed. He stumbled down the verandah steps like a drunk man and sat heavily on the grass, looking at his mansion.