World Walker 1: The World Walker (6 page)

"No," he whispered. He stared at his reflection, numb with shock. His mind started to dart around like a frightened animal, refusing to settle anywhere. His old scar. Jack Carnavon's face. Melissa turning away from him. Meera taking a huge toke from a fat joint. Father O'Hanoran's office. The girl who had unexpectedly kissed him at that club in Manhattan. The Burning Man festival where he'd snorted something that made him talk like Stephen Hawking for two days. The scarred face he sometimes dreamed about, wondering if it was his father. His first show with Clockwatchers. The famous video call he'd made to the rest of the band after writing
Sunburst Sunday
- forgetting he was naked.

Seb groaned and walked closer to the largest window, pulling up a hard wooden chair. He sat facing the morning light and closed his eyes, feeling warmth as he looked at the deep red behind his eyelids. He took three long breaths, inhaling through his nose, exhaling through his mouth.
 

Father O'Hanoran had taught him the technique of contemplation when everyone else seemed to be writing him off as a disturbed teen. Although the weekly meetings had begun as a tedious chore for Seb, he'd soon realized that some of the things Father O talked about made sense. Sense was the last thing 15-year-old Seb had expected from a Catholic monk, but as he gradually overcame his initial misgivings, he began to try the technique he was being taught. He had let it slip lately, but now his body and mind moved quickly into the first stage. Within minutes, he had taken a step back from his chaotic thoughts and was calmly watching them enter and leave his consciousness.

Thirty minutes passed as Seb watched his thoughts and his breath. At the deepest point of awareness, he found something new. A presence - passive but awake, vast, powerful - waited for him in the place of silence. He felt no threat, no fear. He was there and he/she/it/they were there. He opened his eyes. A feeling of someone being close to him lingered for a few seconds, then dissipated. He stood, stretched. His hand went to his scar and his eyes widened when he discovered he could feel it again. Turning to the mirror he confirmed its reappearance, the thin white line curving slightly where, 18 years earlier, Seb had grabbed Jack Carnovan's wrist and stopped him carving him up like a joint of meat.

He walked into the kitchen and drank three glasses of water. He was hungry - hungrier than he should have been considering the amount of sushi he'd consumed the night before thinking it was his last meal. Opening the ice box, he found a bag of spinach that had probably been there since he moved in. Tearing open the plastic, he began tearing off dark green chunks and stuffing them into his mouth, crunching them like cookies. His cell phone rang.

"Hi, Mee," he said, his mouth full of frozen spinach. "Guess what? I don't have sensitive teeth any more."

"No shit," came Mee's East London tones. He could hear her smiling. "And that's the most important thing going on at the moment?"

"Well," he said. "It's pretty weird, don't you think?" He poured another glass of water and washed down the last handful of spinach.

"I think I've had to redefine weird this morning," said Mee. Seb looked at his watch.

"Mee!" he said, "it's before noon. What are you doing out of bed?"

"It's a long story," she said, "but you and I need to talk. The main thing is, are you ok?"

"That's another long story," said Seb, "but the short answer is yes. Come on over."

"Be there in ten," said Meera.
 

Seb sat at the piano and gently placed his hands on the keys. He smiled and began to play, the music flowing again, his fingers moving seemingly ahead of his brain's signals as he improvised. Almost immediately he felt himself approach a similar state of consciousness to when he sat in contemplation.
 

A phone rang. He put his hand on his pocket. Not his. He ignored it and went back to the piano, but it continued to ring loudly. He sighed and stood up. The noise was coming from the door of his apartment. He checked the spy hole but there was no one in the hall. He opened the door cautiously and looked down. On the floor outside his apartment was a cell phone, still ringing. He picked it up and held it up to his ear.

"Mr. Varden, my name is Westlake. I represent the United States Government. I know you're scared, but I am not here to hurt you in any way. Please come to the window of your apartment and look outside." Seb walked to the window but hung back, remembering the soldiers. He flattened himself against the wall, then took a quick glance before jerking his head back. No uniforms, just one guy in front of a long black car. The tall guy from the clearing.
Well, if he has a long, black car, he must work for the government.
 

"The soldiers with you shot...at me," said Seb. "Why? What the hell's going on?"

"Mr. Varden, believe me, what they did was contrary to their orders and they will be dealt with. I have sent my squad away. It's just me and a driver. I have answers to some of your questions, but you're going to have to trust me and come down here."

"Give me a couple minutes," said Seb and hung up. He considered his options. He could run again, but this guy had found him pretty quickly. He certainly didn't trust him, but maybe he could get answers to a few questions. Start with the simple ones like, "Did you see that alien?" and, "Any idea how I can recover from massive blood loss and survive being shot in the heart?" before moving on to the tougher stuff like, "Think my brain tumor's disappeared too?". And Mee would be turning up soon. He didn't want this Westlake guy knowing about Mee. He could send him away, agree to meet later. He opened his closet and pulled out a black suit and shirt. A girlfriend had once called him vain because he wore black so much, not realizing that he only did it because he hated shopping and buying everything in one color made life easier.

Five minutes later he walked out of his apartment building. Westlake stuck out a hand. Seb stayed out of reach. Westlake shrugged.

"I can't blame you for being cautious, Mr. Varden," he said.
 

"You said you have answers," said Seb. "Well?"

Westlake shook his head slightly.
 

"Not outside. What I have to say concerns information vital to American national security. Step into the car, please."

"Oh, come on," said Seb, "there's no way I'm getting into a car with you. Despite the national security bullshit." He thought of Meera again. "There's a coffee place around the corner. Let's go there."

"Very well," said Westlake. He took a step toward Seb. He spoke quietly. "But there's one thing I need to tell you right away."
 

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.