World Walker 2: The Unmaking Engine (22 page)

“What?” said Walt. “Why?”

“I’m just a program,” said Seb. “An app. A sub-routine. A virus—that might be the closest analogy. Seb2 transferred me to you back in Vegas. I’ve been dormant ever since, a tiny coil of genetic material at the top of your spine.”

Walt shivered. “Seb2?” he said.

“Too long a story.”

“I’ve been carrying you around?” said Walt. “You’ve seen everything I’ve seen, heard my thoughts? All my thoughts?”

“Relax,” said Seb, “I haven’t been spying on you. Like I said, I was dormant. It took a combination of triggers to activate me. And here I am.”

“Triggers?” said Walt.

“Yeah. First trigger, you had to leave Mason, go on the lam. You’ve always chosen the easy way, the path of least resistance. But Seb thought you could change. Some might call it naivety, but since you’ve proved his hunch right, maybe not.”

“You said there was more than one trigger,” said Walt. He leaned over to the minibar, unscrewed a small white wine and started drinking it out of the bottle.

“I’d slow down, if I were you,” said Seb. “It’s not as if you’re going to be able to use Manna to get rid of the hangover.”

“The second trigger?” said Walt.

“Right,” said Seb. “You’ve actually gone cold turkey. Given up Manna. Even under duress, when you had the chance for one last fix. You know you’re gonna get sick, age and die just like regular folk, but you’ve done it anyway. Kudos.”

Walt stopped drinking. Seb was probably right about the hangover.

“You don’t talk like Seb did,” he said, replacing the wine with a bottle of water, pouring it into a glass. He caught sight of the minibar prices. Central London hotel prices. Might be time to cash in another $10,000 of bearer bonds.

“Yeah—I don’t have his memories, just a kind of cut-down, abridged version,” said Seb. “I’m the same person, but without the unnecessary baggage. I can use Manna, but I’m far more limited. More like you were.”

He pointed and the sheets on the bed reared up like a terrified horse, its head brushing against the light fitting on the ceiling. When he dropped his finger, the sheets fell back in an untidy heap.

“Well, I don’t
use
Manna, as such,” he said. “I’m made of the stuff.”

“
Made
of it?” said Walt. “What do you mean?”

“Like I said, I’m like a virus. But I do have a physical presence, it’s just sub-atomic. A few molecules of your body is roomy enough for me to stretch my legs around in. If I need more room—like I did just now, so I could get your attention—I can just expand, grow. I’m a lump about the size of a California raisin on your brainstem right now.”

Walt’s hand went involuntarily to the back of his head.

“It won’t do any damage,” said Seb. “It just means I can access your aural and visual centers. Much easier to communicate with you if you think you’re seeing and hearing me.”

“You mean, I’m not hearing or seeing you for real?” said Walt.

“Put it this way. If the hotel maid is standing outside your room, she’ll think the poor old American guy in 114 has lost the plot. She’ll hear you, but only you can hear me. Let’s hope she’s not listening, otherwise you’ll be getting a visit from a very sympathetic doctor soon.”

“Maybe I am losing my mind,” said Walt. He suddenly threw the contents of his glass over the other man. Seb remained completely dry, but he stood up and showed Walt the stain on the chair.

“Maybe,” said Seb. He sat down again. “You wanted to help Meera, you wanted to warn her about Mason.”

“But now I don’t need to,” said Walt. “You’re here—I guess the real Seb knows what you know, right?”

“In theory,” said Seb. “I should just be able to drop a packet of information online, get a message to him almost instantly. But there’s a problem.”
 

The younger man looked lost for a moment. Suddenly, he lost some of his resemblance to Seb, looking younger, with a teenager’s mixture of confidence and barely disguised terror.

“What’s the matter?” said Walt. “What’s happened?”

“It’s Seb,” said the other man. “He’s missing. I’ve checked and double-checked. He’s not here.”

“Here?” said Walt. “London?”

“No,” said the other Seb. “He’s not
here.
Not on this planet.”

Walt looked steadily at the other man and saw genuine, barely disguised fear in his eyes. He was telling the truth. Walt stood up, closed his case and put on his coat.
 

“Where does he live?” he said. “I mean where should we start looking?”

“Mexico City.” The younger man stood.

The thought of getting straight onto another plane and heading back west was hardly an attractive one, but Walt had to help if he could. He started pushing clothes into his bag.

“Let’s go there, then. You coming? How does this work?”

“Yeah, I’m coming. I’ll ride with you. Just remember no one else can see me, ok? Or would you rather I just stayed in your head.”

“No, thanks, Seb,” said Walt. “Call me old-school, but I’d prefer to have you somewhere I can see you, rather than think of you as some kind of growth on my brain.”

“Ok. One thing, though?”

“What?”

“You can’t call me Seb. I’m not him. I’m just not. You need to think of something else.”

Walt opened the hotel room door and looked back, thinking. “How about Parasite?” he said.

The young man winced in mock-offense.

“Ouch,” he said, “I’m hurt, Walt. And I’m certainly not a parasite. I can help you—I
am
helping you. Our relationship isn’t parasitic, it’s symbiotic.”

“Ok,” said Walt. “How about I call you Sym?”

“I like it,” he said. “Sym it is.”

Chapter 25

Upstate New York

Thirty-four years previously

It was the giggling that woke Boy. He still couldn’t open his eyes, but he felt awake and alert. The headache had become a slow throbbing background to his every conscious moment. He was getting used to it. He guessed that was the painkillers. A few more days, and it would be gone for good anyhow. Along with him.

The giggling, as unlikely as it seemed at first, was Mom. Mom and the churchy woman he’d heard before. Underneath the giggling was a deep, loud rumbling which lasted a few seconds, building dramatically in volume, stopped for another few seconds, then repeated the process. The noisiest part of the rumble seemed to set off the gigglers again, followed by the pair of women shushing each other just as loudly.

A few minutes listening provided an explanation. The cop on night shift outside his room had been given a few crumbled sleeping pills in his coffee, resulting in a comically loud snore.
 

“Loretta—quiet—you’ll wake him,” he heard.

“Ma’am, I think we could bring a marching band in here and he’d snore right through it.”
 

As they lifted him carefully and lowered him into a wheelchair, Boy realized the tube down his throat had gone, as had the one up his nose. No needles in his arm, and no noisy machines. For a moment, he wondered if he had begun to recover. Then, he understood the real reason: they had withdrawn life support. These were his last few hours. He knew his conclusion was right: the handcuffs had been removed. Handcuffs on a dead kid wouldn’t look good.

There were no footsteps or voices in the corridor as Mom and Loretta wheeled him through a few corridors and out through the back, where they lifted him into a car, putting the wheelchair in the trunk. There was a slight lightening behind his eyelids as they left the building. Boy guessed it must be sometime before dawn. It was a small town hospital, no security, probably one nurse on duty and a doctor on call, dozing in one of the smaller rooms.

Boy must have fallen asleep again during the journey, because the next time he became aware, there was the sound of someone hammering on a door. His periods of consciousness were getting shorter and shorter.

“Reverend Jesse! Reverend Jesse! Please, it’s an emergency.”

Boy heard the sound of chains being unhooked and bolts being drawn back.

“Loretta, it’s five in the morning and despite years of fervent prayers to change the fact, I am still very much
not
at my best in the morning. Now, what’s so important that it brings you to my door at—what on earth? Loretta, let go of my sleeve, what’s got into you. Why are—? Oh.”

The voice had got closer and, now that it had stopped, Boy could hear its owner taking a deep breath, then letting it out in a long sigh.

“Is that who I think it is?”

Mom spoke up.
 

“Reverend Jesse, this is my son. Now, I know you’ve read about him in the papers, but let me tell you, he’s the sweetest, gentlest, cleverest boy you’ll ever meet. The doctor said it was the cancer made him…do what he did. The tumor, pressing on his brain.”

Another sigh.

“The devil is inside the boy.”

“Well, I guess—allegorically—you could say—,”

“The devil is inside him,” said Reverend Jesse, warming to his theme, “and you want me to cast him out.” The familiar, almost sing-song tones of the preacher rose in volume as he spoke.
 

“You want me to rid this child of the unclean spirit, the demon that drove him to do unspeakable things, commit terrible sins, turn away from the Lord and embrace evil.”

“Hallelujah, hallelujah,” muttered Loretta. She sounded suspiciously like she was enjoying herself.

Mom was silent for a few seconds. Boy knew—in her mind—that this was his last chance. She wasn’t going to ruin it now.

“Yes, Reverend Jesse. You’re right. That’s why we came to you. Only you can save him.”

“Only the power of
Jesus
can save him,” said Reverend Jesse, although Boy could hear the pride in his voice. “Bring him to the church, bring him to the altar. Let us present this sick child to God in humility and pray for His mercy. Let us cast out this demon and—”

There was talk of smiting. Boy faded out again.

When he next became aware, he knew they must be in the church. There was a feeling of vast space around him. Reverend Jesse was mumbling softly and his muffled words bounced back from the distant walls and ceiling. Boy could hear Mom whispering prayers too, and the louder voice of Loretta, adding occasional amens and hallelujahs. She had dropped all pretense now and was obviously having a fantastic time.

Boy felt his strength ebbing away. He fully expected to die very soon, right there in church. He wondered what that would do for Mom’s newly-restored faith, Jesse’s reputation and Loretta’s entire life. Then, something entirely unexpected happened.

Jesse went very quiet. The two women were still praying, but something started happening of which they seemed utterly unaware. A powerful hum began underground, but Boy knew he wasn’t hearing it with his ears. It was as if a new sense had opened up and begun feeding information to his brain. He knew—somehow—that this hum had split itself into fine lines, each carrying some kind of intense, white-hot energy from below them. These lines were now racing upward, toward them.
 

Boy made a huge effort, knowing—as he did so—that he was now very near death. He opened his eyes.
 

Ahead, at the modern, massive, blond wood altar, lit by dawn’s first rays coming through the huge window behind them, Reverend Jesse knelt, his arms thrust skyward, his head back. Boy could see the lines of energy now, like lightning arcing through the rock beneath the church, heading straight for the preacher’s body.
 

Boy knew—suddenly, and with absolute certainty—that Reverend Jesse was waiting for that energy, that he had summoned it somehow. That it was in this place, waiting. That was why he hadn’t offered to help Boy at his home. That was why he had built his mega church in such an unpromising location. He had built the church over this source of power.
 

Boy watched, fascinated, as the lines reached the kneeling man. His body twitched, he gasped. He seemed lit up like a firework display.
 

Neither woman saw anything unusual at all. They carried on praying as if everything was normal. As soon as he noticed this, Boy felt an entirely novel sensation, as if he had been looking at a picture upside-down and had suddenly seen it right way up for the first time. There was far more to life than he had suspected. There was power beyond imagination. He could feel it prickle at the edges of his being, a tiny hint of the potential surging underfoot.

Boy took a ragged breath. He could feel his body starting to shut down. He hadn’t had any feeling below the waist since he’d first regained consciousness, and the constant headache had increased its assault during the couple of hours it had taken them to get him out of the hospital, wake up the preacher and get to the church. He could feel himself losing the fight with the part of him that had taken control when he’d killed Pop. It was over, either way. He was about to die. What did any of it matter?

It’s a curious fact of human nature that, for some individuals, when death comes—even when all hope seems completely lost—there still remains an instinctive, raging desire to live. As the energy continued to flow, Boy called out to it with all of the strength he had left, what little of it there was. He slumped forward and fell out of the wheelchair, hitting the ground hard. He heard Mom gasp. Even Loretta shut up for a blessed moment. Jesse gasped too, but it was a sound of shock and disbelief. The energy pouring into him had been abruptly cut off. He turned in confusion and watched the dying child, lying twisted on the polished floor.
 

Boy’s face was a ghastly gray white, his hair plastered to his forehead with cold sweat. He managed to slide his arms over his head and put both palms flat onto the floor. The instant he did so, the lines of energy—which had pulsed away from the altar toward him—raced up to his fingertips and entered his body like a million miniature lightning strikes.
 

Loretta started rapidly crossing herself as Boy’s body twisted and writhed. Rev. Jesse looked on aghast, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. Mom sat perfectly still, her eyes shining with tears as she looked on.