The Eternal World

by Christopher Farnsworth

  She had been here, but now she was gone. Simon didn’t believe it, but it looked as if she’d left before he could get here. Would she really do that? Would she run?

  “Spread out,” he ordered the men. “Everyone off the trail, into the grass. Make as wide a net as we can, and keep moving forward.”

  This caused a few looks of dismay, but the men obeyed. They were experienced enough to recognize that while breaking formation was bad, staying in one place as a target was worse. They chose the least bad option, just as Simon had.

  They crept closer, each man a point on a wide semicircle, walking the tall grass on the way to the hill and the clearing.

  They were perhaps a hundred yards away when Simon began to believe Shako might really have fled. There was no sign of any other human life.

  Then he heard the first scream.

  Followed by another. And another. And another.

  IT’S A MYTH THAT the eastern diamondback rattlesnake will shake its tail before striking. It does not warn its prey, and often makes its distinctive rattle only while launching itself to strike.

  The buzzing sounds of the snakes’ tails came from everywhere at once, drowning out everything but the screams. His men stabbed with their bayonets at the ground in a mad panic. Simon saw movement at his feet and looked down, barely in time to avoid the rattler’s bite. There were at least three of the snakes within two feet of him. One slithered away while the other two reared up. He stepped back and felt something writhe under his feet. Something plucked at his pant leg, and then he felt the searing pain as the needle-sharp fangs pierced his skin.

  The entire area was infested, he realized. There had to be hundreds, maybe even thousands, of them. They were biting everything that moved. Some men were already down on the ground, bitten multiple times, their skin already swelling from the venom.

  For a split second, Simon was utterly lost. The snakes would never gather like this on their own.

  Then the grasses in front of them erupted. Seminole warriors appeared from their holes, tossing away the carpets of saw grass they’d used to hide themselves.

  A few had bows and knives, but most carried rifles. They opened fire on the U.S. troops, who were still trying to stab the snakes on the ground.

  The first round of shots took down roughly half of Simon’s men.

  He missed being shot only because he was already bent over, pulling the snake’s fangs from his pants where they were stuck like fishhooks.

  Bullets flew past his ears. He could feel the heat.

  On top of the hill, he saw her. She stood there, arms at her sides, without even a weapon. As if nothing would ever touch her. He could not see her face, but Simon imagined she had to be laughing at him.

  Of course it’s a trap, he’d said.

  The rage took over then, and he ran forward, bayonet fixed to his rifle. A Seminole warrior rushed to meet him. Simon stabbed him directly under the breastbone and pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through the man’s back.

  He yanked his bayonet from the corpse and pulled out his pistol to aim at the next warrior who came at him. He shot that man in the face. Then he stabbed the next man and the next. He was a demon, screaming obscenities, slashing with his sword when the rifle and bayonet were stuck in the ribs of another dead Indian. He felt a bullet punch him somewhere in the side, but it was not enough to stop him. Nothing would stop him.

  He saw that he was not alone. On Simon’s left, Carlos was an elegant dancer, slicing his way through the Seminoles with his sword, weaving among them, never once where they were putting their own blades and bullets. On his right, Max and Aznar were in a scrum of U.S. infantry, the men who’d somehow survived the snakes, and they were fighting the Seminoles hand to hand, face-to-face.

  Simon saw an open spot of ground and ran for it.

  Shako was no longer on top of the hill.

  He knew where she’d gone. She was in the cave. He ran to catch her.

  The blow from a war ax rang against his skull. He’d turned with it, but he still felt the blood rush from his scalp and saw stars in the air.

  The Seminole rose up above him, and Simon realized he was on the ground. The warrior brought up his ax to deliver the final blow, but he was so slow. So slow compared to Simon. Simon already had his other pistol out, and fired. He could not miss at that range. The bullet went through the man’s mouth and out the back of his head.

  Simon was back up and running before the body hit the ground.

  There was no one else in his way. He reached the mouth of the cave.

  He stopped. His vision blurred. He was losing blood fast. It didn’t worry him. He had his flask, safely tucked in his hip pocket. All it would take is a sip, once this was over, and he had no doubt he would end it quickly when he saw Shako. Now he understood that she truly meant to kill him, and any tender feelings he once held for her burned up completely in his rage.

  He stopped. He had to. For a moment, he couldn’t understand what he saw.

  The mouth of the cave was clogged with barrels, one after another, leading down into the dark.

  It was so odd, it made him pause, even as he heard the battle and screams continue on the other side of the hill.

  “Simon,” her voice called.

  He turned. She was only a dozen yards away. He must have lost more blood than he thought. He hadn’t even seen her.

  The venom, he realized. It was working fast. His vision was narrowing to a tunnel. He needed a drink. But first he needed to make her pay.

  He staggered forward, sword in one hand, knife in the other. It was not the knife she’d given him. He’d replaced the handle and the blade. That made it new. That made it his.

  Simon was trembling now. He was not thinking clearly. He knew it. But he could do this. He could finish this now.

  She held up a small, burning wick. She had nothing else.

  “Don’t die yet, Simon,” she said. “I want you to see this.”

  She dropped the wick on the ground. A trail of oil and black powder, leading to the cave, began to burn and spit immediately.

  Simon finally recognized the smell that was burning his nostrils. It had blended with the other scents of gunpowder and smoke.

  Oil. A lot of it. The barrels must have been soaked in it. They would go up like dry tinder. And inside them . . .

  He put it together just before the fire reached the first barrel.

  He could see Shako clearly, even though everything else was going dim. And yes, she was definitely smiling.

  She turned and ran. He did the same.

  The explosion picked him up like a giant’s hand and pitched him through the air. He bounced once or twice. He couldn’t tell. Rocks and dirt fell like a rain shower, half-burying him.

  He couldn’t hear anything. He was blinking, desperately trying to clear his eyes.

  He felt too weak to raise his head, but he knew he had to see. She’d gone to so much trouble to show him, after all.

  The mouth to the cave, the cave itself, the hill and the tree above—they were all gone. Just gone. The cave had collapsed in on itself, leaving a wide, deep depression in the earth.

  Shako was gone, too.

  Max found him a few moments later, took his flask from his pocket, and forced him to drink.

  It didn’t matter. She’d already killed them all.

  LATER, THEY COUNTED THE DEAD.

  Nearly two hundred of the U.S. troops were killed, either by snakebite or by the Seminoles. The rest were wounded. Simon had no idea how long they’d live once they returned to civilization, even if they made it back. No matter what, they were done as soldiers. Those who, somehow, survived the snakebites—they must have gotten less venom than the others—were barely able to stand. Their limbs would be weak until the day they died, their bodies damaged on some fundamental level. Those who stoo
d against the Seminoles were all cut or shot or both. And every soldier was taking home a piece of the cave with them. The blast had sent splinters of rock flying faster than bullets in every direction. Everyone got at least one chunk driven into his skin.

  No one escaped unscathed.

  Shako left behind about fifty of her soldiers, killed either in the battle or in the massive explosion. The rest of her people, however many there actually were, were gone.

  Shako herself had vanished. Carlos suggested that perhaps she died in the blast as well, but none of them really believed it.

  They sat within sight of the ruined hill, waiting for the survivors to be ready to march. Deckard, who’d been spared the worst of the battle in the rear, was doing his best to get the troops prepared. No one wanted to be here when night fell, and the wounded needed medical attention. Anyone with two working legs would help carry a stretcher. The men were on the point of open rebellion now. Not only had the Spaniards led them into a humiliating defeat, they’d been forced to leave a number of bodies in the grass, because the snakes were still there and more agitated than before.

  “She must have spent months gathering them,” Max said, not for the first time.

  He and Simon and Carlos and Aznar were all sipping from their flasks, watching Deckard threaten and cajole the men. This would probably not help the soldiers’ morale, but they were tired, and they needed to heal as well. Shako had come very close to killing all four of them in one stroke. Worse, that did not even seem to be her main intention.

  “She wants us to suffer,” Aznar said. “She knows our dying will be slow and painful without the Water. She wants us to endure that.”

  Simon shook his head. “No. That wasn’t her aim.”

  They all looked at him with disbelief. Aznar practically spat at him. “You are still going to defend her?”

  Simon should have punished that disrespect, but he was too tired. Instead, he said, “She didn’t care what happened to us, as long as we saw that we’d lost the Fountain. This is all a distraction. Her people, her followers—they’re gone. She wanted to save them. From us. I will lay odds they are so deep in the swamp now we never see them again, no matter how long we live.”

  “However long we live,” Max said, “is much shorter now, thanks to her.”

  “We are not dead yet,” Simon said, standing up. He saw Deckard approaching. It was nearly time to be on the move.

  “Simon, the Fountain is gone.”

  “And we have thousands of gallons of the Water left,” he said. “We have a long time left to us. We can still accomplish our goals. The world is not perfected yet. We are not done.”

  He looked at each of them in turn. “Perhaps we are no longer Immortals, but I refuse to lay down and die here. We still have centuries. If that is not enough, then we are not the men I thought we were. We can still achieve greatness if we do not weaken.”

  He saw the words strike home with each man. They all nodded.

  Deckard waited for them.

  “Now get up,” Simon ordered. “We have many miles to go, and our work is only beginning.”

  They rose and began walking to the troops, calling out to some of the soldiers, assuming commands. They stood straight and tall again. The miracle of the Water. You’d never know any of us were injured, Simon thought.

  Nothing was certain in this life. There were still wonders to be discovered. Perhaps they would find another source of the Water.

  Perhaps someday they would even learn the secret for themselves.

  Wouldn’t that be something.

  Simon slung his rifle over his shoulder and began the long march back.

  THE BATTLE, WHICH WAS never recorded in any history book, turned out to be a pivotal one in the Second Seminole War.

  The Seminole Witch vanished, never to be seen again, as did her band of warriors. Without her, any tactical advantage the Seminoles had was overwhelmed by the number of troops and weapons that President Jackson poured into Florida. The Seminoles fought a brilliant guerrilla campaign, but in the end were broken by the massive force. Along with the majority of Indian tribes in the United States—most of whom had lived peacefully alongside the white settlers for years—they were rounded up and sent west to reservations along what became known as the Trail of Tears, a thousand-mile trek that most of the Indians were forced to make on foot. As many as half of them died along the way due to exposure or starvation.

  A handful of Seminoles went into the swamps, so far and so deep that no government troops could reach them. By the end of the Seminole War, which cost fifteen hundred American lives and $20 million, the army was tired of trying. They were allowed to stay hidden.

  The Seminoles remained the only Indian tribe never to surrender to the U.S. government.

  It was not until after World War II that the Seminoles were finally officially recognized again in Florida. They won back a fraction of their lands in court and eventually built casinos on them.

  Simon, watching this over the years, was not surprised. He had long since learned that his ability to predict the future was limited at best.

  There was only one thing he knew for certain. It had been foolish and stupid, but there was a small piece of him that hoped he could make Shako see things his way. That she might put away her crusade against him and rediscover something of the feelings they had once shared.

  It was idiotic, he learned that day. Aznar, as much as Simon was loath to admit, had made a good point. Shako wanted them to suffer before they died.

  Whatever he believed they’d shared, that was dead and buried, years before. However long he lived, there was no changing the fact that he and Shako were enemies, and their own war would end only when one died.

  And he would not give up his life so that she might live. He still had too much work to do.

  CHAPTER 26

  TAMPA, FLORIDA

  NOW

  SIMON WAS STILL furious as he and Max went to meet the scientists.

  This was Max’s punishment. No matter how much Max protested, no matter how obvious it was that it was the only way to keep Simon alive, Simon still clung to his insistence that even his stupidest orders were to be followed, no matter what.

  The days after the disaster at the party—or the Ballroom Blitz, as one of the wittier reporters at the local TV station called it—were nothing but tooth-grinding humiliation for both of them.

  At heart, Max knew that Simon still believed himself a soldier. His earliest training had been for war. He’d learned patience and strategy over his long, long life, but when attacked, his basic instinct was to respond in kind. He never changed. It was like trying to talk Napoleon out of marching on Russia. That hadn’t gone well, either.

  Simon found himself answering questions from the authorities. First the local police, then federal officials, and then again from the people put in charge of the joint task force that combined both. There were a lot of rich people among the dead, wounded, and frightened, and this demanded a massive response. (Some things really had not changed since they were young; no one strikes at the nobles without paying for it.)

  Now all Simon wanted was a target, someone on which he could vent his frustration. Max was elected. So Simon brought him along for this chore.

  They entered the conference room. The young men and women who’d assembled to meet them all wore their white lab coats. They were scientists, like David. Some of them had worked on Revita, and other pills and wonders that Conquest had discovered and sold while trying to crack the secret of the Water. Some were close to brilliant.

  But David outshone all of them, like a sunrise blazing against a candle. He’d spurned their help in most cases, and treated them like grad students and assistants the rest of the time. He hadn’t done it to be cruel, Max believed. It was just the native arrogance of a genius. David wanted to do everything himself, because if so
meone else could do it, then, by default, it wasn’t worth doing.

  That ruthless process of elimination had created more than a little resentment between David and his so-called colleagues. David’s massive salary and access to Simon hadn’t helped. Neither did the discovery that Revita would cause cancer in one in ten of its users. Simon didn’t care. They had plenty of things to do to keep them occupied with the rest of Conquest’s medicines. He’d believed in David, because he believed it was possible for a single genius to succeed where the crowd of ordinary men would fail.

  Now David was gone, and they were forced to turn to these ordinary men and women to learn what the fallen star had been doing all those months.

  Max expected at least a little triumph from the assembled white coats. They were being recognized while the boy wonder had vanished.

  But the Conquest scientists were not showing him anything like victory. They sat around the table, looking away from him, staring at the walls or into their coffee cups. Some of this had to be shock—many of them had been at the party, and probably still heard the echoes of the gunfire before they went to sleep—but it was something else as well.

  Max recognized it instantly: they were embarrassed.

  Simon looked around the whole table, waiting for someone to speak. His anger was evident. No one wanted to be the focus.

  “Well?” he said.

  Silence. Finally, one of the men in the white coats cleared his throat. His name was Quentin Reed, and he was an exceptional scientist in his own right. Before he came to Conquest, he had a list of publications that filled twenty pages when printed out. He’d done work on HIV and blocking viral contamination of healthy cells by using monomolecular barriers. It was all groundbreaking, but in an ordinary way. None of his work was the quantum leap forward that David Robinton was capable of, and deep down, Max suspected Reed knew it.

  But if there was anyone who could take David’s recipe and start baking with it, it would have to be Reed.

  “We need more time,” Reed finally said.