World Walker 2: The Unmaking Engine

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  Quickly scrambling back down, he took the bolt cutters from the backpack. The rocks below the loose ones would not be so easy to move. A few blows from the cutters dislodged a fairly substantial piece of stone, which Mike managed to prize out and send tumbling down behind him. The rocks around it were freer now, and half a minute’s work left a gap big enough to get through. Mike took a breath and crawled forward into the darkness.

  The slope on the other side was steeper and Mike cursed as he slipped and slid down to the floor. He felt his pants tear on his left leg and his right shoulder took most of the impact when he landed. He was winded for a moment and crouched until he could catch his breath.

  The flashlight had rolled away a few yards. Mike followed the beam and tried to make sense of what he was looking at. Blood was dripping slowly onto the rock floor a few yards ahead. He stood up, grabbed the flashlight and aimed the beam upward. The blood was coming from the end of a leg. The foot was missing—from the look of the stump, it had been sawn off with a serrated knife. Mike had seen similar injuries before. There was an amateur-looking tourniquet tied tightly above the severed foot to staunch the blood loss. The other foot was also missing, but the injury was older, maybe a few days. Both hands had been removed.

  Mike took a step forward. He gasped as he stood on something and stumbled. The flashlight revealed one of the missing hands. Two of the fingers had been gnawed to the bone—Mike guessed his appearance must have scared away the rats responsible. The other missing limbs were in a similar condition. He swallowed hard and took a couple of deep breaths before moving forward again and shining the light onto the victim’s face.

  Mike had no way of recognizing the man propped against a pile of rocks in the corner. His face was so badly beaten, it was just a mass of swelling and livid blue, black, green and yellow bruises. He was breathing, but the breaths were shallow and irregular. Mike put two fingers on his neck. A faint pulse, but weak.

  “I’m going to get help, ok? I’m a police officer. Just hold on, we’ll get you out of here real soon.”

  At first, it seemed the man was too far gone to be able to respond, but as Mike turned to go, he spoke, although the words were too faint to hear. Mike went back and leaned in, putting one ear close to the cracked, blood-caked lips.

  “Sir? What did you say?”

  There was a pause while the man took a few more shuddering breaths. Then he raised his head slightly and spoke again, the words almost too soft to hear.

  “Never thought the boy had it in him.” Then his head fell forward onto his chest.

  Mike scrambled back over the rock pile. At the top, he turned.

  “I’m leaving my flashlight for you. I’ll be right back when I’ve radioed in for help.” As Mike ran back up to the entrance, taking out his radio and, waiting for enough signal to call in, he wondered why the man hadn’t tried to escape, as terrible as his injuries were. Then he remembered the angle of the man’s legs as he sat awkwardly on the heap of rocks in the corner. Both knees had been smashed.

  ***

  Eliza Breckland’s class was reading Catcher In The Rye. A bit of a stretch for some of them perhaps, and she’d had to deal with a few nervous giggles initially at the frequent use of the word ‘crap’, but she knew the novel would grab them after the first couple of lessons. Eliza’s English Literature teaching method had been tested over many years. She simply had a student read a section aloud, then another, then another. Everyone had to do it. She knew this risked exposing the slower readers to ridicule from their peers, but her own attitude to those who struggled was so supportive and encouraging, it shamed those who might be unkind. That approach wouldn’t have worked with every teacher, but Eliza was so well-liked that she rarely had to raise her voice. A disappointed look from Mrs. Breckland was worse than the slap they might get at home. A smile from her felt like winning a prize.

  Amy—the girl currently reading—had a beautifully expressive voice, and Eliza closed her eyes, feeling that magic sensation as she felt the class come together as a whole, wrapped up in Holden Caulfield’s adventures, allowing themselves to fall under the spell of a master storyteller. So when that spell was abruptly broken, she was initially reluctant to rejoin the real world. Moments like that were rare in a teaching career and she felt a sense of loss as she looked at Amy, her finger on the page where she’d stopped, her mouth hanging open.

  “What’s the matter?” she said, then she followed the direction of Amy’s gaze. Through the long low window at the side of the classroom she saw Mike. He was standing in the corridor, waiting patiently to catch her attention. He still looks good in that police uniform, even if he has put on a few pounds. Eliza was about to smile when she saw the expression on his face. And the color of his skin. He looked paler than she’d ever seen him. And, when she finally met his eye, she knew immediately that whatever he’d come to tell her wouldn’t be something she wanted to hear.

  “Sit down, Amy,” she said. “Silent reading to the end of the chapter, everyone.” She went outside, closing the door quietly behind her. As she did so, Mike’s radio crackled into life. He held up a hand and walked away a few paces, his voice quiet and urgent.

  “Oh, Jesus,” he muttered. He didn’t immediately come back to her, so she walked over to him. He looked up as she approached. His eyes were sympathetic, but his mouth was drawn into a thin, hard line.

  “I went up there,” he said. “You were right to be worried. Found the boy’s father in a critical condition.”

  “His father?” she said, taking a quick glance back at the classroom. The boy’s head was tilted toward the book, but his eyes were shut tight. “How bad are his injuries? What happened?” She gestured toward the classroom. “Do you want me to tell him? Or is that something you need to do? Might be better if I’m here, he knows me.”

  Eliza turned and started to go back to the classroom, but Mike gently took hold of her elbow.

  “Eliza,” he said. She stopped. Turned. Looked at him.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “You followed him up there. Think about it for a second.”

  Eliza hesitated. Mike was looking at her strangely—a mix of love and pity. She realized he was struggling to find the right words. Finally, he settled for the unadorned truth, although his voice stayed gentle.

  “He did it,” Mike said simply, nodding toward the classroom.

  “But he couldn’t-.” She stopped. Remembered the incident with Davy Johanssen. “He wouldn’t.” She tried to take another step, but Mike gently pulled her back.

  “His own father said he did. He had been tortured. I’m sorry, Liza.” He waited, looking at her. Dimly, as if from a great distance, she was aware of noise from the classroom.

  Her eyes filled with tears and she swallowed. She knew Mike too well.

  “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  Mike rubbed her upper arm as she hugged herself, feeling suddenly cold. The noise from behind her grew in intensity and she started to turn.

  “I just had an update. He died before we could get him to a hospital, Liza. I have to bring the boy in on homicide charges. The mother is being notified. I need to take him now.”

  Suddenly, the door of the classroom was flung open and a group of pupils rushed out, talking over themselves in their rush to get to her.

  “Mrs. Bre—,”

  “He’s collaps—,”

  “Get a doctor—,”

  “He’s bleeding, I think he knocked h—,”

  Eliza rushed in, closely followed by Mike. There was a huddle of children at the back of the class. They cleared a path for her. One girl was trying to cradle the head of her most promising student. The suspected murderer. While Mike called 911, Eliza bent down and held the hand of the thin, pale, gifted boy as his body jerked uncontrollably, his lips drawn back from his teeth, a mixture of froth and blood running from the corner of his mouth.

  Chapter 16

  New York

  Present Day
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  “Scrooge?” said Seb2 as Seb watched fire trucks scream up the hill toward the fiery beacon that used to be Cubby Vashtar’s house.

  “I couldn’t think of anything else,” thought Seb. “Anyway, it worked, didn’t it?”

  “It worked,” said Seb2. “The look on his face when he couldn’t shoot you…”

  “I know,” thought Seb. “Brilliant. Mee’s gonna love hearing about it.”

  He turned away from the conflagration and Walked, appearing in the hallway of their Mexico City apartment. He could appear anywhere he liked, of course, but after Mee had screamed and dropped whatever she was holding the first few times, they agreed it would be better if he gave her a little more warning.

  “I’m home,” he said. The TV was still on in the other room. “Mee?”

  “In here,” she said.

  Seb walked through. Mee was sitting on the couch, hugging her knees. Seb could see she’d been crying. He knelt down beside her and kissed her neck.

  “What’s up?” he said. She didn’t say anything at first, then motioned toward the TV. Seb twisted to look at the screen. It was the New York apartment building, the fire now finally out. All the windows had exploded during the blaze and there were black streaks on the walls. A reporter was speaking, but Seb’s attention was caught by the headline at the bottom of the screen: Single mom and four children die in apartment fire.

  Seb didn’t know what to say. He reviewed the last few hours in his mind. He felt as if he was suddenly caught up in someone else’s nightmare.

  “What happened, Seb?” said Mee. “Why couldn’t you save them?” She started crying again.

  “I did save them,” said Seb. “I was there, I got them out. They…” He looked back at the screen in disbelief. Footage from earlier in the evening was now playing. Body bags were being lifted into an ambulance. The last one was tiny. Seb looked away.

  “We need to talk,” said Seb2.

  “What?” thought Seb. His mind was whirling, images of the children following their mother through the apartment as he shielded them from the heat. The sudden hope in Felicia’s eyes when he had unfolded the wings and given her the strength to save herself and her family. The look of disbelief on the Fire Chief’s face when he’d seen the survivors emerge.

  “I know what happened,” said Seb2. “Bring Mee. She needs to hear this.”

  “Bring Mee?” thought Seb. “Bring her? What do you mean?”

  “Tell her to hold your hands, close her eyes and trust you,” said Seb2.

  Seb looked at the TV one more time, then back at Mee, tears still falling slowly from her eyes.

  “Ok,” he thought. “Ok.”

  ***

  Mee sat on the bench in Richmond Park, dozing. It was July or August, judging by the sun, which was hot enough to make her begin to sweat slightly. For a moment she felt relaxed and content, forgetting the turmoil she’d been in only moments before. This felt like a dream. A pleasant one.

  Richmond Park was the place she’d brought Seb on their first date, years ago. They’d drunk gin and made out in the sunshine. He was a good-looking American songwriter helping her band record an album. She had found him a little too…intense for her taste at first, but something about Seb had brought out the devil in her. When she saw that slightly furrowed brow, that day-dreaming expression…well, it made her want to be naughty. And when Mee wanted something…

  She sat up straighter suddenly, opening her eyes fully. How could she be here? She’d accepted it for a few seconds, her consciousness totally enmeshed with the illusion around her. All her senses told her she was in London, in the park, in the middle of a sunny day. But she knew she was sitting on a couch in Mexico City, holding Seb’s hands. Then she remembered the fire, the horrible moment when she’d realized the young family had died, that Seb hadn’t saved them. That had been bad enough, but the couple of hours following had been worse, when Seb hadn’t come home. If he had got there too late to save them, he would have come straight back, surely?

  “I saved them,” said Seb. She turned to her right. He was seated beside her, his expression serious, worried. His brow was furrowed—her mind flashed back to that first afternoon. She’d smoothed the worry lines from his forehead and licked his nose. Now, she watched the corner of his mouth twitch slightly. He remembered it too.

  “Where are we?” said Mee. “I mean, I know where we are, but we aren’t, are we? We can’t be. Can we? You said only you could Walk, that you couldn’t take me with you. Has that changed?”

  Before Seb, could reply, she held a hand up.

  “Wait a second, it’s too quiet. There’s no bugger here.” She looked around to confirm her suspicions. Not a single figure in sight. Just her and Seb. She nodded, beginning to feel a little more in control.

  “So, we’re not here. This isn’t real. This is where you have your little chats with Seb2, right?”

  “Right.” It was Seb’s voice, but it came from her left where, a second earlier, there had been no one.

  “Shit,” said Mee, and turned, shading her eyes against the sun. She had once dated a twin, so she didn’t expect to be freaked out much by seeing a second version of her boyfriend. When she did see him though, she was completely freaked out. She stared for a few seconds, then leapt off the bench and turned to face the pair of them.

  “Oh no,” she said. “That just isn’t right at all.” The twins had been identical, but she had never had any trouble telling them apart—they were different people. But Seb and Seb2 were the same person. They might be sitting differently, even wearing different clothes (Seb was in jeans and a T-shirt, Seb2 in a linen suit), but it made no difference. They were both Seb. She shuddered.

  “Just so you know,” she said, “I will never, ever get used to this.”

  The two Sebs looked at each other. Neither seemed to know how to respond.

  “Ok, ok,” she said. “Let’s not get tangled up in the weird implications of the shit going on in your head. Just explain what happened in that fire.”

  Seb2 stood up.

  “To do that, I have to show you a little of what’s happened to me. To us. Me and, er, Seb.” He indicated his double, then moved his arm to take in their surroundings. The pond, the trees, the sky.

  “This is a template. It’s a strong memory, so it’s easy to retrieve and use. Much of what has happened since Billy Joe first gave us Manna has happened to me. I had no control, I could only react to changes occurring to my body, brain and consciousness. That changed after I absorbed the Roswell Manna. The process by which Manna communicates and integrates with me has accelerated. Now, there is very little separation between me and the technology.”

  He paused and registered the confused look on Mee’s face.

  “Um, at first, the Manna worked automatically. I—Seb—er, we had very little control. We could direct it and it would work for us. That’s the level Manna use has worked for humanity for centuries. But the Roswell Manna isn’t a small part of Seb. It’s so intimately weaved into his DNA, it almost is Seb.”

  Mee shifted uncomfortably on the bench.

  The Seb sitting next to her took her hand. “I’m still me,” he said.

  “I know.”

  Seb2 paced up and down as he spoke.

  “I—Seb—have integrated with the technology. But that means some of what I can do is automated. It’s considered so basic that I don’t have to consciously control it.”

  “I’m lost,” said Seb. Mee squeezed his hand in agreement. Seb smiled at her. “I should warn you, he’s probably going for an analogy or a metaphor right now.”

  “You got it,” said Seb2. “Ok, try this for size. When we are children, we learn to walk and talk, but once we’ve got it, the process becomes automatic. You don’t have to think about putting one foot in front of the other, transferring weight while staying balanced, keeping momentum going in the direction of travel, constantly adjusting to compensate for uneven terrain. You just do it.”

  “R
ight,” said Mee.

  “Ok, now imagine you never learned to walk at all. You didn’t even know it was possible. In fact, no one in the world could walk, we all just dragged ourselves around on our stomachs. Then one day, you wake up, pull yourself outside, decide you’re going to drag yourself along to the store and suddenly, you’re walking. It’s impossible, it’s some kind of miracle. Everything looks different from your new point of view. You make it to the store in five minutes, when it used to take you hours. And you can walk whenever you like now, you don’t have to think about it. You just do it.”

  “Ok, with you so far,” said Seb.

  “Good. But here’s the thing. For you now, walking—or Walking—is the most natural thing in the world. It’s almost as natural as breathing. You just do it, right?”

  “Yes,” said Seb.

  “But how are you doing it?” said Seb2.

  “I don’t know,” said Seb. “It’s like you said, I’m not consciously making it happen.”

  “Exactly,” said Seb2. “And that’s the situation we’re in right now. If I go back to my metaphor—the crawler who is suddenly walking could only gain a full appreciation of what’s going on by going back to how he was before and trying to work out the stages that might lead to being able to walk. Even then, he might never get it right. He could spend years trying. It might be dangerous—he could fall.”

  “Why would he even bother?” said Mee. “He can walk now.”

  “Yes,” said Seb2. “And that’s what happened tonight. That’s what I need you to understand so I can explain what happened. It was an automatic process, as automatic as walking—physical, human walking—is to all of us. It happened without any conscious decision on our part, because it was natural, expected, inevitable.”

  “Now you’re starting to lose me again,” said Seb. “Answer this: did we save Felicia and her children tonight?”