Patriot (A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella)

by Jeremy Robinson

  The creatures would be nipping at their heels in minutes.

  23

  The moment they reached the river’s far side, King dashed around the embankment, collecting stray bundles of river cane, cattails and Spanish moss, carrying them as close to the shoreline as he could. Though it was dark, his companions could just make out the creatures heading in their direction.

  “What are you doing?” Reardon asked, pointing toward the middle of the river. “They’ll be here in seconds.”

  “Which is why we need to slow them down,” King said. “Now help me. Gather as many flammable objects as you can, and pile them up along the shoreline.”

  Understanding dawning, the captain and Finkle laid Greer on the ground and followed King’s instructions. Soon, they had a pile of debris about three feet high and ten feet across.

  “Won’t they just go around it?” Reardon asked.

  King bent down in the center of the pile, and began striking a fine piece of flint he’d found against the blade of his sword. “I’m hoping they’re not that intelligent,” he said. “They’re coordinated, sure. Organized. But they don’t seem to have much in the way of free thought. I think they’re little more than automatons controlled by a more intelligent mind.”

  “You mean the mambo bokor, don’t you?” Finkle asked, adjusting his soaked pack across his back.

  “Not sure yet.”

  A spark burst from the sword and stone. It flew into the debris, started smoking, then died out. King glanced over the wall. The creatures were now only about twenty-five yards away. He struck the blade again and again, until triggering another spark. This time, it landed in a pile of dry moss and began to glow. Carefully, King blew into it, until a single flame flickered to life and began licking at other pieces of debris. Soon, the entire structure was on fire, and his two companions whooped a cheer of excitement.

  “Okay. We need to get out of here,” King said, standing up and turning to face his companions. “This will only delay them. Not stop…”

  His voice trailed off as he gazed past Finkle’s shoulder. Finkle and Reardon turned, following the direction of King’s gaze, and they both took in a deep breath. Greer lay on the ground, entirely encased in vines.

  A moment later, King pointed toward the forest’s edge. “This way. The Fountain is this way!”

  They didn’t question him. Instead, they all gave one last glance at John Greer’s plant-encased body, then dashed into the jungle.

  24

  They ran for nearly two miles, making brief stops along the way so that Finkle could catch his breath. When King decided they’d put enough distance between themselves and the creatures, he allowed their pace to relax, and they began hiking at a much slower pace.

  “You’re bleeding,” Finkle said. He was filthy. Covered in sweat, algae and grime, and his gait now came with a distinct right limp as he tried to keep pace.

  King nodded at the observation, but kept his eyes fixed dead ahead.

  “Will you change into one of those…those things?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He sliced through a patch of briar, clearing a path for them. From the little bit of the sky that was visible above the tree canopy, it was approaching midnight. The air was thick with swarms of mosquitoes that nipped freely over their exposed skin. King allowed himself a slight smile. The blood-gorging insects were some of the few mundane things they’d experienced since arriving in Florida, and he was grateful for them.

  “Those things are near indestructible, laddie,” Reardon said behind them. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting a vegetative ambush at any moment. “Wonder what a bloke like ye’d be, if ye turned into one of them. I shudder to think of it.”

  King ignored the comment. He needed to think, and conversation at this point was only a distraction. He’d either turn, or he wouldn’t. There was no point in worrying about it now. At the moment, his mind was working over another problem. Two of them, in fact.

  First, was the issue of the creatures themselves and how they fit into this whole debacle. What did they have to do with the Time Folds? What did the Time Folds have to do with the Fountain of Youth? He was beginning to grasp the answer to the second question, but the first eluded him.

  The second issue he needed to work out occurred to him while trapped in the past, earlier that evening. While lying there on the ground, listening to the gentle trickle of the ancient creek, he had thought about Rob Jenkins and his father. How his father had appeared to all of them…a ghost from the past. But there was one major problem. The Time Fold theory only worked with Time, not space. It occurred when two objects from different time periods occupied the same space. It wouldn’t transport matter from one Place/Time to another. King doubted that the senior Jenkins had ever stepped foot on the Florida peninsula, much less into the teeming jungle of the river basin.

  So how did he appear? How could he have possibly been here?

  Did it really even matter? He wasn’t sure, at this point, that anything mattered. For the first time in his very long life, he saw no way out. Sure, he wasn’t really worried for his own life. He’d survived a great many strange and terrible things since being tricked into drinking the elixir that had made him near-immortal. This shouldn’t have been any different. It was Finkle he was most concerned about. Finkle had to survive. For the future of the nation. For what America was to become.

  As he glanced over at the old man’s stooped form, his face downcast and understandably afraid, King found it difficult to be optimistic for the man’s chances.

  “Do I see a light up ahead or are my aged eyes playing tricks on me?” Finkle asked. His voice was weak. Hoarse.

  King brought them to a sudden halt as he scanned ahead. Sure enough, there was the faint flicker of light dancing in what appeared to be a clearing, about a quarter of a mile ahead. His heart began to race. A campfire. Was it the British? Asherah? Or someone else? Perhaps the Native Americans that still called this land theirs. None of these options were particularly reassuring.

  “Stay here. Rest,” he whispered to them. “I’m going to take a look.”

  He handed Reardon his sword. Their powder was still wet from the swim across the river, and the captain had lost his sword in the fight. King refused to leave the two of them there defenseless, but he would be able to move much quicker and more silently on his own. Reardon accepted the sword with a grateful nod, and King crept away toward the light.

  He snuck through the bramble and vines, unconcerned any longer about infection. He came to the perimeter of an open marsh. Algae-infested scum blanketed the stagnant water being fed from underground springs. From its filth, King guessed the marsh had no outlet.

  A massive live oak, sixteen feet in diameter, sat in the middle of the marsh. Its roots, stretching for more than a hundred feet in every direction, jutted up from the water in several places. Its limbs, almost as long as its roots, branched out like the legs of an enormous upside down spider. Their own weight, however, was such a burden that they hung low to the ground.

  The entire tree—something of wondrous beauty to King—was covered in a thin film of velvety moss, which was accented by more of the familiar Spanish variety hanging like tinsel from a Christmas tree. The entire thing looked as though elves should reside inside it, making cookies. There was something utterly magical about it, which set King’s nerves on edge.

  He glanced down at the base of the tree, where a large obsidian-like boulder sat in the mud. The oak appeared to have grown up around the stone, wrapping its trunk around it, like a child hugging a rubber ball.

  Pulling his eyes away from the oak, he surveyed the rest of the marsh. On the northwest bank, there was a small campfire burning. Though it was the only sign of recent human activity, no one seemed to be tending the fire now.

  He held his breath, focusing his hearing on the slightest trace of movement. Telltale signs of a trap. But there was nothing.

  He looked back toward Finkle and Rea
rdon, but the darkness and thick woodland obscured them from view. As long as they stay where they are, they should be fine, he thought. Which gives me the luxury of throwing caution to the wind.

  King was just preparing to step out into the clearing when a feminine voice spoke. “Welcome, Lanme Wa. You are most welcome.”

  The voice was distinctly Asherah’s, but something was wrong. It sounded different somehow. Muffled and amplified at the same time. Still, he was getting no closer to the answers he sought by crouching where he was. And the mambo bokor obviously knew he was there.

  He stepped out from his hiding place, and into the knee-high water of the marsh. His boots sank deeply into the muddy bottom, as if it was working desperately to suck him down into the bowels of the Earth.

  “Asherah!” King glanced around, wrinkling his nose at the fetid waters. If this was the ‘Fountain of Youth,’ it certainly wasn’t living up to the hype. “Show yourself!”

  “Not just yet, monsieur. First, we talk. Then, we see what happens, no?”

  “Fine. Talk to me, witch.”

  She let out a soft tinkle of laughter, then mewled like a satisfied kitten.

  “Oh, we have much to discuss, O’ Man Who Never Dies. Great King of the Sea.”

  King tried to focus on where her voice was coming from, but was unable. It was as if she was everywhere at once.

  “For years, I was terrified of you, mon cher. Fearful of da power you yielded. It is why I continued serving you, even after da death of my grandmamma. Da l’wa of Kavo Zile were weak. I knew dey could never protect me from you, should da day ever come. But things are different here in da New World! Things are better with Papa Guillaume at my side.”

  King stepped closer to the tree. His hands curled into white-knuckled fists, ready for whatever the witch threw at him.

  “Papa Guillaume?”

  “William.” Finkle’s voice startled King. He spun in its direction to see both the old man and Reardon standing at the edge of the marsh. Three of the plant creatures stood behind them, blocking their retreat. A fourth stood off to their left. Its shoulders sagged, and King could tell its flesh had yet to be removed. Somehow, he knew he was looking at what was left of Quartermaster Greer. “The slave,” Finkle continued. “The slave that you killed on Kavo Zile. That’s Papa Guillaume, isn’t it?”

  Asherah laughed again. “You silly boy! You know I didn’t kill da man. It was da Brave Ghede did dat…most pow’rful of da l’wa on my islands. A payment for da honor of waking da doomed Lanme Wa.”

  Something unseen plopped in the water in front of King, triggering ripples that extended out toward him with ominous intent. A moment later, a human head rose up from the murky marsh, followed by a slender neck, shoulders and bare, round breasts. King gasped at the sight.

  A network of vines clung to her flesh like long, wooden leeches. They spiraled down her arms and legs, around her torso and behind her neck, where the tip impaled itself into the back of her skull. Unlike with the other plant creatures, her skin had been left intact, though her face was drawn up, as if she hadn’t eaten in months.

  “Asherah, what have you done?” King asked.

  “Oh, dis? Ain’t not’ing. Dis is just me in da embrace of Papa Guillaume. He strengthens me, and now, I am very much like you, Lanme Wa. In his arms, I can’t be killed. My heart will beat forever, and I’ll be da most powerful mambo bokor who ever lived.” She giggled. “And you, brave Capitaine, will be my servant forever.”

  An intense stab of pain shot through King’s gut. His muscles spasmed violently, sending him to his knees. He clutched wildly at his stomach, as he screamed in agony. He felt something inside him, growing—tearing at his insides to escape.

  “Now you see,” Asherah said, walking up to King, and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Papa Guillaume is da forbearer of a whole new tribe of l’wa. You got da seed of Papa Guillaume inside you, and soon, you will be his Baron and my consort.”

  King ripped the front of his shirt open and looked down. Something large, and snakelike writhed inside his gut, until muscle and skin tissue began to rip apart. He watched as a thorny, green tendril slithered out from the opening, and began wrapping itself around his body, starting to form a cocoon. His arms still free, he reached for it, trying to rip it out from his insides, but the roots were far too strong. Soon, the vines coiled around his arms, locking them in place and immobilizing him, working their transformative magic.

  25

  “Stop it!” Finkle shouted. “You’re killing him!”

  Asherah glared at the old man. “We’ve killed lots of men today, mon cher. What’s one…no, three more?”

  She moved toward them with effortless grace. Where the mud and muck worked to suck them down, Asherah seemed to skim the water like some humanoid dragonfly. When she reached them, she stepped toward Finkle and stroked the stubble of his chin.

  “I have to admit though,” she said. “You are a fascinating man. Unlike any of da men from dis one’s crew.” She nodded at Reardon, as she said it. “You were never afraid of me, and for da most part, you treated me kindly. I want you to know, I appreciate dat.”

  “If I knew what you would become, I might have acted very differently toward you, young lady.”

  She laughed at that. “No, you wouldn’t. You don’t got it in you to be rude to a woman.”

  Finkle glanced over at Jack Sigler, writhing in chest-deep water, as the tendrils continued to encase him. Unlike with the others, the vines hadn’t come out of his body’s orifices, but instead had exploded from his chest. Finkle wasn’t sure why, but he hoped it had something to do with the man’s amazing physiology. He could only hope that Mr. Sigler could find a way to beat the infection, and it was up to Finkle to buy the man more time.

  “So tell me, you said this new loa of yours is William. How did you manage that?”

  Smiling provocatively, she leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “It was my promise to him, mon cher. If he sacrificed himself to da Brave Ghede, I would make him greater dan anyt’ing he could ever imagine.” She kissed Finkle’s cheek and took a step back. “I collected his blood and brought it to dese dead waters. Poured da blood after da proper incantations back on da ship, and young William’s spirit took hold. T’was da most amazing thing I ever did see, too. He took to l’wa life like a dove to da air, and within minutes, he was da most powerful l’wa ever to exist, with a reach far and wide within dis New World.”

  “I…I…can tell you…grrrrr…why,” Sigler said between gasps.

  Asherah whirled around. “What could you possibly know, dat I don’t?”

  Despite the obvious agony he was enduring, the pirate laughed. “I know what this place is. How it works.” He broke down in a fit of coughs before he could continue. “The Spanish…they didn’t mistranslate, as I had thought.” Blood began trickling from Sigler’s nose and mouth as he gritted his teeth in another spasm. “It’s just that the Caribe Indians didn’t have a word for this. They…they had to use a word closest to what they were experiencing, only it wasn’t the ‘Fountain of Youth’. It was probably something more akin to the ‘Fountain of Life’.”

  Though wracked with pain, the fact that Sigler was talking brought a well of hope springing up in Finkle’s chest. Hope that the man’s body was expelling the strange infection and that he would soon be free.

  “Time.” Sigler jerked into a sudden convulsion, grasping his abdomen fiercely from another attack. “The Caribe Indians had no concept of time, not like we do. But they…they understood. Understood that this place can transport someone backward and forward in time. Make one experience life as…as a child again. Or show them a glimpse of what’s to come.”

  Asherah’s eyebrows arched. “What does dis have to do with Papa Guillaume?”

  “Simple. Point of origin to the temporal…” More coughs. “Temporal anomalies, is that tree. More specifically, that hunk of rock it grew around. I saw it fall to the Earth. Thousands of years ago. It’s a
meteor. Probably emitting some type of radiation and…”

  “Radiation?”

  “Invisible. Energy. Somehow, its radiation is…is tangling up Time. Messing with it somehow. When you dropped William’s blood in that marsh, he was instantly and simultaneously at the beginning of time and at the end. However much of Time is wrapped up in this tangle, that’s how long his consciousness has been around. Millions of years to grow stronger and stronger.”

  Asherah’s eyes sparkled at the news, and she twirled around in the water in joyful adulation. “Dis is even better dan I ever imagined. Not just an immortal l’wa, but an eternal one.”

  A splash pulled Finkle’s attention away from the mambo bokor and back over to where Jack Sigler had been only moments before. Now, there was only a ripple, where he’d apparently collapsed into the marsh.

  “Captain Sigler!” Finkle shouted.

  Asherah turned to where Sigler had been and suddenly grew pale. After a moment, he exploded from the water, gasping for air. Finkle’s hope instantly deflated, however, when he noticed the man still tangled by the web of vegetation. After a few minutes, expelling water from his lungs with deep, hacking coughs, he looked back over at the bokor.

  “Look, I’m not certain if that’s your William…or not.” Sigler whipped his head around to clear his long hair from his vision. A stream of blood poured from his nose, but somehow, it didn’t look as bad as it had before. In fact, there was hardly any sign of pain in the pirate’s face. “Chances are, you just poured someone’s dead blood into this cesspool, and something else entirely has been pulling everyone’s strings. A parasite in the meteor, perhaps. Who knows? I’ve seen a lot of weird shit in my time on Earth. But there’s one thing you need to be asking yourself right now, Asherah. Something important.”