Death Springs Eternal

by Robert J. Duperre

  The archipelago was expansive—the island the Perieras were on being the largest in a chain of four, though Eduardo hadn’t investigated the others as of yet. There was abundant plant and animal life to sustain them, with exotic birds and wild boars, and even a few smaller species of bovine populating the dense inland jungle. Eduardo had ventured from one side of the island to the other, from white sandy beaches to craggy cliffs. It was a self-sustaining ecosystem, almost too perfect to have come about naturally. He’d discovered caves filled with pools of fresh water—caves they sometimes used for shelter during the worst of the storms—and there was nary a predator to be seen. At night they dined on fruits and meats, much like they would back home. He rarely had to row back out to the ship and retrieve supplies, as the island gave them everything they needed.

  But it was the reflection that caught his eye one morning, like glass catching the sunlight at just the right angle, which pushed him to explore deeper and deeper. It had come from the top of the green, mountainous center of the island, a constant flash of light that blinded him whenever he glanced at it directly. It came from out of nowhere after a rather intense storm, like a gift to his psyche from the Virgin, Herself. A sense of adventure filled him, a break from the monotony of survival, though he also felt a twinge of jealousy. Though whatever he saw may have been simple detritus brought to the island by a massive hurricane, it was entirely possible that there had been others on this hunk of rock first. And if there was one thing Eduardo brought with him from his former life as sailor, it was the pride of first discovery.

  Grasping small saplings and stones embedded in the mountainside for support, Eduardo pulled his body over the harsh, rocky slope. It was rough going—the incline steep, the footing treacherous—but so far he’d managed to not hurt himself. Soon he left the cover of trees behind and the ground became grassy and covered with slippery moss. It was a good thing they’d landed and set up camp on northern coast of the island. Though precipitous, the grade was a cakewalk compared to the sheer cliffs to the south. At least this way he had a chance to make it to the top before noon.

  Upon reaching the open air, he heard distant hoots echo around him. He stood straight up, jamming his feet into gaps in the volcanic rock to steady him, and glanced over his shoulder. A panorama of crystalline, green Caribbean waters greeted his eyes, expansive and stretching out forever beneath blue, cloudless skies. It took his breath away, made him feel small; a speck of life in a world filled with surging water.

  The echoing of voices came again, and he lowered his gaze. There was the Bendicion, looking like a mirage in the distance. Further inland there was the beach, and a pair of figures, no more than specks in his vision, standing close to the surf. He lifted his looking glass (an antique gift from his father) and peered through. The magnified circle centered around Lucia, whose sheer white clothing clung to her body as it blew in the wind. Her arm was raised, waving at him. Eddie Jr. stood beside her, echoing her movements. Lucia put her fingers into her mouth, whistled then shouted, though he could barely hear it. The smile on her face was intoxicating, as if the sight of her husband, even at such a great distance, was all she needed to make everything all right. Eduardo lifted his own hand and waved back. “¡Mi amor!” he shouted, hearing his voice reverberate a hundred times against the cliffs and crashing waves. He then glanced to the east, saw the sun high in the sky, and pushed onward.

  It was a little past the high point of the day by the time he reached the peak. The land leveled out, and he whistled between his teeth in awe. He stood on a raised lip, staring down into a valley. It looked like the crater of a long-dead volcano—and a huge one, at that.

  But the valley wasn’t empty, and his heart dropped. Stones gathered in rectangular formations and petrified logs were strewn about. He stepped down from his perch and strode across the grass, between the smaller trees that grew up at that altitude, looking left and right. Though he felt the withering sensation that came from his loss of primacy, his wonder grew. The way the stones were stacked, dead grass clinging to the remains of what had once been thatched roofs, the way the formations were spaced at even intervals, told him all he needed to know. There had been a village here once.

  The sparse trees parted, revealing a clearing covered with more stones. He put his hands on his hips and walked along the edge. These stones were large and gray, inconsistent with the volcanic rock that made up the majority of the mountain. There were words etched into them, long faded, written in a language he didn’t understand. The place reminded him of a crude cemetery. The wind blew and a flash of light caught his eye.

  At the edge of the clearing, positioned along the eastern ridge of the crater, was an impossibly tall stack of rocks. He ran across the field, tripping over the gravestones more than once, and excitement bubbled in his gut. What he saw was another obviously man-made construction, large stones heaped upon each other perfectly, forming a pyramid. The flash of light reached him again, coming from its peak. He moved his feet faster.

  Each weathered stone making up the pyramid was huge, almost as tall as him. They must have weighed a ton. The process by which anyone could have dragged them up the side of the mountain was beyond him, but the how didn’t really matter. The why and who were what drove his desire to investigate, what made him drape his arms around the first huge stone he came across, find his footing, and begin climbing the ten-meter-high structure with the giddy zeal of a child on Christmas morning.

  The stones were solid and, unmoving, easily holding his weight, positioned in such a way that they formed a massive staircase. It didn’t take very long to reach the top, and once he did he collapsed, breathing heavily, and stared at what awaited him, unsure of what he was seeing.

  The stone at the apex was five feet wide and just as long. In the center was a crack, and from that crack jutted the source of the light he’d seen—a bejeweled handle. He crawled forward. It was a sword of some sort—no, a dagger. He placed his hand upon it, felt the warm metal on his palm, heated by the intense, burning sun, and ran his fingertips along the precious stones. There were rubies and emeralds, moonstone and onyx, cut small and embedded in the steel.

  He wrapped his fingers around the handle and pulled. At first there was no give—of course the thing was lodged in there tight, since it had obviously survived Lord knew how many thousands of years of harsh weather—but as he worked it back and forth it started to come loose. Slowly the blade slid from its sheath of rock, grinding against the stone, causing a high-pitched whining sound. When it ripped free, Eduardo held it in the air, feeling like the King Arthur from his storybooks of old, and a hysterical cackle escaped his lips.

  When his histrionics died down, he lowered the blade and stared at it, flipping it over in his hand. It was gorgeous, crafted with such care and ingenuity that it seemed to come from a different place and time entirely. It was one piece of metal forged to look like two, the handle black, the blade glimmering silver. There were words and symbols etched on the edge of the blade, in the same style and language as had been on the rocks in the mortuary below. He touched the edge and accidentally cut his finger. He sucked the blood from until the flow stopped.

  He glanced up and watched the sun begin to recede to the other side of the horizon. It had taken him a good four hours to get to the top of the mountain. If he wanted to get back to camp before nightfall, he’d have to get moving. He took a long swig from his canteen and momentarily considered shoving the knife back into its resting place. Then he heard a soft hum, like an ethereal vibration, and noticed his fingers were shaking. It was the same feeling he’d gotten when collecting items for his journey, back when the Virgin guided his every action. A sense of purpose refilled him, and he almost jumped for joy as he removed his shirt, wrapped it around the blade, and tied it to his canteen with a length of homemade rope. He then tossed the canteen over his shoulder and sprinted across the grassy flatlands, easily skipping past the grave markers this time despite his excitement.

&nbs
p; He’d reach the bottom in no time, and then he’d show Lucia and Eddie Jr. his thrilling new discovery. He wasn’t sure what it meant—hell, he didn’t understand most of anything that’d happened over the last half-year—but that didn’t matter. His life had been given new meaning once more. The meaning of the blade, its history and purpose, would make itself known in time. Of that he was certain.

  INTERLUDE

  THE ARRIVAL OF THE BLACK SHIPS

  The dagger in her hand shimmers in the late afternoon sun. Izzy stares down at it, gazing at the intricate markings emblazoned on the blade. It feels light in her hand, as if it’s not a tool but a part of her fourteen-year-old body. Which it is, she realizes. The words written on it are those of her people, after all. It has been meant for her all along.

  Someone approaches from behind her, and fingers run through her hair, breaking snarls, flattening curls. She turns and sees her mom standing there, a sad smile on her face. Izzy doesn’t smile back. It would be false if she did, and her mom would know. Her mom always knows what she’s thinking. Has for as long as she can remember.

  “You’re beautiful,” her mom says.

  “Thanks,” Izzy replies.

  Her mom continues to fiddle with her hair, now tying it back with a piece of twine. Izzy is more comfortable now, without strands constantly blowing into her face. Just like always, her mom knows how best to make her feel comfortable. Too bad that comfort is fleeting.

  “You have your mother’s hair,” says her mom. “Did you know that?”

  Izzy rolls her eyes. “Yeah, dad’s told me that before.”

  “Well, it’s gorgeous.”

  This time her spirits stay lifted a bit longer. She loves it when her mom casts praise upon her, just as she loves it when she remembers how dad used to hold her at night before the fire, telling her stories of the past, of how he and mom met. It’s like a gateway into another world, one that holds only a sprinkling of the beauty she’s grown up with but is in many ways more fulfilling.

  With thoughts of her dad, she allows her eyes to track down from her perch upon the green mountain, gazing upon the bustle of activity on the beach below. The island is inaccessible on all sides save one, Teacher has told her. The invader’s only choice is to arrive here, at the thin, rocky inlet. It is on this beach that the battle will take place, and now the people who stayed behind, her friends and family, are busy stacking rocks, sharpening spears, building blockades, erecting walls made from the remains of their homes. She cannot see their faces given the distance, but the anxiety each of them feels is as real to her as her own, flooding her senses in waves, invading her thoughts. She is able to hold these impressions at bay for the most part, as her mom has taught her well, but there are two she cannot. Her dad is down there, as is teacher, and they are both afraid. She looks up and over her shoulder and sees her mom’s expression of lock-jawed concentration. Yes, mom feels it as well. The emotions are overbearing.

  Again she glances at the knife in her hand, and a part of her desires to spin around and bury the blade in her mom’s sternum. With the thought of this comes shock, and she stumbles backward. Never before has an urge toward violence breached her waking mind. She is taken off guard, unaware, and her head feels faint. It is only her mom’s steady grip on her shoulders that keeps her from tumbling off the ledge.

  “It’s all right,” her mom says. “Stay strong. It will pass.”

  Izzy nods.

  “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  Again she nods.

  “Look up.”

  She does as she’s told, and her vision follows the line of the horizon. Unlike the blue skies above, those in the distance are flooded with dark clouds and mist. It is from within this mist that the first of the vessels approaches, rounding the distant sea from the east. Though it appears small, like a toy, she knows how huge it is, how many of the enemy it contains. She closes her eyes and wills herself to see clearer, and she perceives the blackened boards, the creaking hull, the rotting, hole-peppered sails. It is the Ship of the Dead, the one she has dreamed about since she was old enough to remember. Her body shivers at the thought.

  He is here.

  She concentrates all the harder, bringing her mind’s eye onto the ship. Now she sees through her opposition’s eyes, watches the twisted deformities as they scuttle about the deck, winding the sails, lowering smaller boats to the water. Such hatred accompanies these visions, though excitement weaves in, as well. The confidence the other feels is palpable. He knows that victory is a foregone conclusion. And with herself immersed in these sentiments, Izzy agrees.

  The other passes a broken piece of glass, and for the first time she is able to see him in his entirety. Unlike the others, the perverse creatures under his control, he is beautiful. His hair is golden, his eyes clear blue. There is strength in his expression, with lips curled in a sneer and eyes squinting. Yet there is something else there as well, something darker, full of lies and treachery. The façade is beginning to shatter, and with that comes a glimmer of hope. She knows he can’t feel it. He is so obsessed with his goal that he can sense nothing but his own eternity.

  Izzy opens her eyes. The call to cruelty lessens until it is nothing but a speck on her soul. And as it leaves a part of her pleads for it to stay, yearning to feel its virtue, its primal realness. It is as if she’s been given a fleeting glimpse of forever, of unity, and now the lack of it hurts.

  Her mom spins her around and leans over, coming face-to-face with her.

  “It’ll all be over soon,” she says. Her expression is strong, confident, much like the others, only more sincerely so. “Remember what we taught you. Everything is in your hands now.”

  “I know,” Izzy replies, and plants a kiss on her mom’s cheek.

  Together they lower themselves to the ground and sit on the edge of the cliff, watching the dark clouds roll back, revealing two more ships, just as haunted as the first. Her heartbeat picks up, so she grips the jeweled handle of the blade all the tighter, picturing it melding with her flesh, becoming an extension of her. With this action the urge to strike out returns, this alien sensation unlike any she’s known. Only this time she pictures the shearing edge ripping into the throat of her other, slicing in beneath that confident, pale face, ripping out his jugular, letting the blood flow over her.

  His blood. Her blood. The blood of man.

  Her mom pats her on the back of her head. Izzy grits her teeth and grins.

  CHAPTER 10

  WELCOME TO RICHMOND, PART I

  BRIGHT LIGHTS, BIG CITY

  “All right, everybody out!”

  The doors swung open, and brilliant white light flooded Billy’s eyes. He squinted and raised his hand, blocking its intensity as best he could. The drive had been long and he was teetering on the edge of exhaustion, but the prospect of seeing the sun gave him a shot of vitality. He leaned forward and tapped a sleeping Christopher on the knee. The youngster’s eyes flittered open, and he mirrored Billy’s reaction to the newfound luminescence. They’d been in the dark, humid rear compartment of the van for more than two days, only getting out for bathroom breaks, and even then only at night, because the soldiers feared running into trouble if they stopped during daylight hours. What kind of trouble they wouldn’t say; it was just one of many subjects their transporters refused to broach.

  As he climbed out of the van, his arm under Marcy’s to keep her steady, he realized the light he was seeing wasn’t from the sun, but from the open garage of the building before them. It was night, the sky was black and starless, and he could barely see the outline of the moon through the thick cloud cover. When everyone was situated, he put his hands on his hips, staring at the building. There was something odd about it, and it took him a moment to figure out what made him feel that way. He cocked his head, eyeing first the bank of spotlights set up on either side of the garage, then the hanging bulbs glowing within. There were lights on, real, working, honest-to-goodness electric lights.

>   He heard Forrest’s heavy boots thud to the ground behind him. “Generator, you think?” the old cop asked.

  “I do not think so,” replied Billy.

  “That’s right,” said a voice. A shadow emerged from the garage, approaching them with a noticeable swagger. It was a man wearing gray fatigues with a crisp blue sash over his shoulder. The letters SNF were stitched on it, just like those worn by the soldiers who’d brought them here. The man stopped in front of them, slammed his feet together, and saluted, a gesture Forrest, and only Forrest, returned.

  “First Airman Robert Lumley,” the man said, now joined by at least fifteen more soldiers from inside the garage. “Pleased to tell the new arrivals that the power grid is up and running.”

  “I told you there’d be electricity,” said a familiar voice. “Don’t look s’damn surprised.”

  Billy turned his head to see young Sergeant Jackson hop out of his jeep. He hurried up to the gathering and stopped, lingering just beyond their circle, a little too close to a still-groggy Marcy, who rested against Leon’s shoulder.

  “Sergeant,” said Lumley, again saluting.

  “Rob,” replied Jackson with a nod.

  The military man winced, obviously taken aback by the young soldier’s lack of respect. A hint of a sneer crossed his lips, but he kept his composure. Turning back to Billy, he said, “I’d like to personally welcome you to Richmond, the capital of the new United States.”