The Immortality Curse: A Matt Kearns Novel 3

by Greig Beck

  About The Immortality Curse

  What would you give for eternal life?

  An impossibly old man, a family gruesomely murdered and a woman whose collection of mythological artefacts defies belief: Professor Matt Kearns knows they are connected. These ancient clues bring Matt out of his self-imposed solitude to seek the fabled Fountain of Youth.

  This brings on a perilous odyssey across deserts, oceans and into the heart of a mountain, Matt must overcome horrifying adversaries, creatures of legend, and also unravel a 5000-year-old mystery that will tear at his very sanity.

  In a hidden place, Matt finds that some gifts have a terrible price, and some are not gifts at all, but curses that can last for an eternity.

  The Immortality Curse

  Greig Beck

  Contents

  About The Immortality Curse

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Author’s Notes

  About Greig Beck

  Also by Greig Beck

  Copyright

  Surely God would not have created such a being as man,

  with an ability to grasp the infinite, to exist only for a day!

  No, no, man was made for immortality.

  Abraham Lincoln

  Chapter 1

  Ragged Falls Park, Muskoka Region, Canada

  “Look, Mommy!” At the picnic table the small boy held up one chubby arm, tiny finger extended towards the wall of pine trees.

  Lauren followed Jamie’s gaze to where a solitary man staggered toward them, his suit looked woolen and heavy, and strangely old-fashioned for someone so young. He paused to sip from a small clay bottle, but found it empty and dropped his arm that now seemed way too heavy. He waved to them and began quickening his pace.

  “Oh shit.” Lauren got to her feet. “Jamie, come around here.” She kept her eyes on the approaching figure.

  “Phil…?” She half turned. “Phil…?” Her husband was a federal officer and always knew what to do in these situations.

  Phillip Jefferies was a large man with a broad face and an easy smile. He was throwing a sodden tennis ball to Rufus, their overweight Labrador.

  On hearing his wife’s strained tone, Phil spun and stared. So too did Harry and Beth Freeman, their best friends, with whom they shared the picnic that day. The two families had been friends for years and had driven up together from their home in Vermont for a week’s vacation. The park region was open, safe, and they nearly always had it to themselves.

  Harry and Beth reached Lauren first, and Beth lifted her phone to record the man’s approach.

  “He looks sick, or maybe drunk.” Harry said. “Or just come from some sort of drunken fancy-dress party – what is that, 1940s chic?”

  Phil picked up Jamie, holding the kid on his hip. “Either/or. Best if we don’t let him get too close.” His hand went to the rear of his belt, Lauren knew he was feeling for his gun, but it was in the glove compartment – her rule when they were out picnicking and one she never regretted.

  Phil held up his hand, flat at the man. “Okay buddy, slow it down right there.”

  The man kept coming, but slowed to a stagger. He didn’t seem overly powerful or menacing, but for some reason, Lauren sensed danger and backed up a step.

  “Phil, I think he’s hurt, but…”

  The man stopped and held up a hand. “Please.” His voice was little more than a dry croak.

  Beth continued to film him, squinting into the small screen. “Hey, there’s something on him.”

  Lauren grimaced; small lumps were beginning to form on the man’s face and arms, but moving in waves as the skin rippled and shifted. It looked like there was liquid just beneath the dermal layer of flesh.

  He looked at each of them and then groaned. “Please, I don’t have much time.” He looked quickly over his shoulder and then went to his knees. “Tell her I found it.”

  “What?” Lauren said.

  “The wellspring.” He roared in pain then and held his stomach for a moment, before reaching out again. The skin on his hands rippled and slid.

  Lauren and Phil backed up, bumping into Beth who jiggled her camera phone.

  “Jesus Christ, don’t let him touch you.” Beth’s husband, Harry, tugged on her arm, but she shook him off.

  “Leave it, Harry; this is important. Fox will want this for sure.” She continued to film.

  “Call a paramedic.” Lauren whispered. “Phil, get me some water.” She went and knelt in front of the man. “Who are you? Are you okay?”

  He laughed softly. “I was somebody once.” He shook his head. “Now I’m a dead man.”

  Phil held out a water bottle to her. Lauren took it and offered it to him. “How can we help you?”

  He didn’t take the water bottle, but instead reached out to grip her wrist.

  “Hey!” Phil lunged forward, but Lauren quickly held up her other hand to her husband.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay.” She turned back to the man. “What is it?”

  “My beautiful Eleanor… tell her…” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a roll of ancient paper and held it out. “Tell her I found it. Akebu Lan; I found it.”

  His voice had become thin and reedy.

  Lauren pulled her hands away. “Tell who? Eleanor who?”

  Before her eyes the man shriveled. His eyes sunk into their sockets, and the muscles in his arms and shoulders withered to sticks. It was like watching a speeded-up film of something blooming, now working in reverse. His head dropped as if now too heavy to be held up by a scrawny neck.

  His sunken cheeks pulled his lips up at the corners. He tried to lift the parchment again but couldn’t this time. Lauren took the parchment, and then went to reach out for him.

  “Don’t.” Phil said, turning Jamie slightly away. The man seemed to be winding down like an old clock.

  “My angel, my beautiful little angel; I used to call her that.” His head came up. “Eleanor van Helling; tell her it’s real. I found it.” His head dropped again. “And tell her I love her.”

  Lauren unrolled the paper, running her eyes quickly down the page. “It doesn’t even look like writing. Just symbols. I can’t read it.” She frowned. “But there is a map of sorts, I think.”

  Beth held the phone over Lauren’s head, and tried to focus on the page. “Stay still for a second.” But Lauren’s hand moved when she snapped it and she only got the top half.

  Lauren glanced back at the old man. He remained kneeling before them, exhausted and his oversized head lolling on his shoulder.

  “What we need is emergency medical for this guy. He’s not going to make it.” Phil stared into the old man’s face. “Weird; he looks about a hundred now.” He turned and moved to get out his phone preparing to call an ambulance.

  “Hey.” Beth pointed to the forest line. “Look’s like he’s got friends.”

  Two men in black suits sprinted towards them. Both looked young, fit, and formidable. One held a carry-all bag. The old man slowly tilted his head to fix one eye on Lauren.

  “Run,” he croak
ed.

  “About time.” Phil waved to the pair as Rufus began a manic barking.

  One of the men pointed at the old man. “Everyone stay back.”

  They slowed as they approached, and the nearest immediately crouched beside the ancient figure. He smiled grimly.

  “Hello Clarence; long time no see.”

  The other remained standing and looked at each of them, his face devoid of expression like he was examining bugs on a windowpane.

  “Who is he?” Phil asked.

  “He’s no one.” The first suited man stood. “Did he say anything?” His eyes bored into Phil’s.

  “Everyone is someone. And this guy has got something seriously wrong with him.” Phil handed Jamie to Lauren, his jaw set in a challenge.

  The suit ignored him. “Did anyone touch him? Take anything from him?”

  Lauren bobbed her head. “Not really, but he asked about a woman: Eleanor van Helling. And he gave me… um.” She suddenly didn’t want to tell these people anything she didn’t have to. She folded the scroll in under Jamie’s rump. “Did you say his name was Clarence?”

  The men just stared. There was silence for several seconds that was only broken by Rufus perhaps sensing the rising tension and raising his level of barking to an aggressive warning level.

  “Are you alone?” The first suited man's eyes were unblinking.

  “Yes, it’s just…” Lauren began. She lowered Jamie to the ground and pushed him behind her.

  “No, we’re with a larger group. They’ll be back in a minute or two.” Phil put his hands on his hips. “I think it’s time you guys showed me some ID.”

  “They’re alone.” The second man said.

  Phil’s jaw jutted. “Listen, mister, I’m a federal officer, and I am requesting you show identification, right now.”

  Beth lifted her phone. “Smile, assholes.”

  The man raised a hand to shield his face. “Time to clean.”

  In a smooth and practiced motion small black guns appeared in each of the men’s hands. The first bullet passed through Beth’s phone and continued on through her orbital socket into her skull.

  Phil went for his gun that wasn’t there again.

  The second two bullets were for Rufus, the dog’s tiny yip of pain the last noise it would make. Then, the killing began in earnest. Bullets thwacked into Harry and Phil and then Lauren felt the mule kick to her chest followed by a sensation like a hot vice tightening around her ribs. Her breathing sounded squashy; her lungs filling with her own blood. There was no pain, and she guessed the bullet had probably severed her spine.

  The suited pair didn’t hesitate for a second when it came to Jamie’s turn. The small boy stood confused and staring down at Phil as they casually shot him in the head. The small body crumpled as though just laying down for a nap.

  Lauren felt tears run from only one of her eyes, but couldn’t move, speak or even react. She could just watch as the last moments of her existence counted down.

  One of the man knelt to open his bag and pull free a long-bladed knife. He leaned forward to look into the old man’s face.

  “You see, Clarence? See all the trouble you’ve caused?”

  He then set to sawing at the old man’s scrawny neck. Even as the blood spurted, the skeletal old man didn’t resist, and his face showed no expression. In seconds, the head came fully from the neck, only to be dropped back onto the corpse like a large discarded fruit.

  The first man paused, turning slowly. “Clean everything.” He looked at his partner. “Everything.”

  They stared at each other for a moment, before the second man grunted and nodded, and then he and his partner began to drag all the bodies into a pile around Clarence. He grabbed Lauren’s arm, and the scroll rolled free. He picked it up to examine it.

  “Father was right.” His lips set in a line and he shook his head. “Those that take have everything taken from them, hmm, Clarence?”

  He tucked the scroll into a breast pocket and continued dragging Lauren to the pile, while the other opened the carry-all bag and removed two canisters of liquid. He began to empty one of them over the human pile. It stung one of Lauren’s eyes, and immediately everything went blurry.

  The men scanned the area slowly, and then looked back to each other. They clasped hands.

  “Farewell, Brother Konig.”

  “Farewell, Brother Montague.”

  From Lauren’s one good eye she saw both men step up onto the pile of bodies and sit down cross-legged. They carefully removed their coats and tore open their shirts. Underneath, their hugely muscled chests had the mark of two keys crossed over each other emblazoned there. But the images were not tattooed; instead the raised red and disfigured flesh told of some method that involved searing heat.

  The men then took turns pouring the liquid from the second canister over themselves and began to pray for a few seconds.

  “Amen.” They finished. They lifted their hands, palms toward each other showing the flesh that was also raised red in the design of the crossed keys.

  The fumes were becoming unbearable, and Lauren strained to lift her head, just as she heard the strike of a matchstick. Her world turned a brilliant, agonizing red.

  Chapter 2

  Mavericks, Pillar Point Harbor, Northern California

  Matt Kearns sat on his new surfboard, a 6’8” Hayden Shred-Sled, which Matt regarded as the best on the East Coast. He looked down at the powder-blue deck. It was a thing of beauty with soft rounded rails, a deep single concave through the front, blending into a double vee out through the tail. It almost seemed a sin to ride it.

  At 36, Matt was one of the oldest out the back of the island break that day. But with his long hair, youthful features, and smooth, tanned limbs he could have passed for years younger. He was taking some vacation time from his duties as languages professor at Harvard – he needed it. He had been doing a lot of fieldwork that lately had proven dangerous to the point of testing his sanity.

  He inhaled the warm salt air as he and his board lifted on the hump of a large swell. Though the break at Mavericks had a fearsome reputation for winter swells that could power up to 80 feet in monster sets, today it was relatively small at around 15–18, with the occasional 20-footer rising out of the warm Pacific like a long, blue hill.

  It was early, but already a dozen people fought it out at the break zone, with only three souls, including himself, waiting out the back for the next big one.

  “Set!”

  The yell snapped every head around. Those in at the break area began to paddle furiously to ensure they didn’t get caught under the wall of water when it broke. Matt and the other two surfers out back started to stroke hard to get into position. In a set break, the waves usually came in three – with the final one, the third wave, being the biggest, baddest of them all.

  Matt led the charge, stroking hard. One of his fellow surfers turned to take the first wave. Rising up over the peak, Matt looked back and down the 20-foot, blue cliff. Wind whipped the spray into his face, and he smiled at the terrified looks of the surfers who paddled and kicked to either get up over the lip or try and burrow through it. Some gave up, and tossed their boards aside and dived deep to hug the sea bottom.

  He turned away and dropped into the trough between the waves and saw the massive peak showing behind the second wave, and yet still far out the back.

  “All yours.”

  His remaining surf buddy turned and paddled into the break area to take the second wave.

  Matt felt the electric tingle of excitement run from his chest to his toes as he stroked hard. He started to move into position, angling slightly, and then he was being lifted up the face of the third wave. He was picking up speed as the crest started to take him with it, and he looked down on a few scattering surfers, paddling like the devil himself was after them. Wind slammed into his face, and he began to gather speed – a hellova lot of speed.

  When he was at 45 degrees and beginning to fly, he pus
hed upright. Even though the wave was glass smooth, the smaller board jumped and bucked against every tiny trough and ripple.

  He was flying across the face of the blue mountain, and as the wave deepened and kicked up as it hit shallower water, he found that the speed of the wave was beating his drop down its face. He’d be left at the peak when it started to fold, and that meant a long fall to the bottom. He turned down its face, accelerating, his long hair whipping back behind him, arms outstretched, and knees bent.

  A furious wind rushed into his face and Matt gritted his teeth, as the massive wave began to throw its lip over behind him. The sound was a near-deafening roar, like some sort of giant beast venting its anger at the puny human fleeing from its jaws. Matt reached the bottom of the wave and skidded out in front of it – way out front.

  Shit, he was too flat, and on level water the board immediately decelerated – a rooky mistake. As he slowed, the wave caught up with him, and lifted him up its face. He was stuck as though in mud, and even though he changed angle to try and slide again, the wave had other ideas.

  He went up, stuck at the lip for several heart-stopping seconds before it then folded over him. He managed to draw in a single breath, before he and the board parted company. He went over the falls, floating in what felt like zero gravity for a seeming eternity, before about a million gallons of high-force water came down on top of him.

  Matt went down, deep, the weight pummeling him and forcing him to the bottom. There was a sharp tug on his ankle, and his leg rope snapped. Matt rolled into a ball, covering his head, and conscious of the rocks he knew were underneath him, and was pummeled in nature’s washing machine.

  The pressure came in on him from all sides, adding to his disorientation. Which way is up? His addled brain asked. One thought stayed with him – get the hell out of here. He was in the churn zone, and that meant that the next wave might crash down on him just as he was bursting up for air – he needed to make it to clear water, now!