Patriot (A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella) (14 page)

22

As the creature’s claws came within an inch of King’s chest, the world suddenly grew dark. It wasn’t the hazy blackness of unconsciousness that dimmed his vision, however. As he prepared to fend off the blow, he suddenly found himself completely alone in the woods. Where it had been near dusk just a second before, now it was deep into the night, just at the start of the twilight before dawn. The sky above swirled with hues of midnight blue and purple, trimmed at the horizon with a ribbon of pale blue. Stars flickered high above, with constellations completely alien to King.

Propped on his elbows, he glanced around. The river was much narrower now, little more than a creek really. The vegetation was denser. The air more tepid, almost suffocating.

Where am I
?

Though the landscape was vastly different, his instincts told him he was precisely where he’d been when struck by the plant creature.

So what happened
?

He knew the answer before it even fully formed in his mind. Somehow, like the plastic army man and the iguanodon, he’d slipped into Time. The question, of course, was when? The past or the future? Considering the size of the river and lack of erosion marks near the water’s edge, he was guessing it was the past.

Deciding he needed a better look around, he tried picking himself off the ground, only to find himself pinned to the moist soil underneath him. He jerked his arms, struggling to propel himself up, but it was as if a five hundred pound weight was sitting atop his chest.

“Well, this is just great.”

He tried again, but still, his body wouldn’t so much as budge, other than to sink deeper into the wet, muddy soil. He lay there, struggling futilely to rise but failing every time. Minutes passed, and all he could do was keep constant vigil for any wild beasts that might be roaming the jungle. Eventually, boredom overtook him, and he decided to sleep, hoping his situation might improve under the light of day.

At sunrise, he awoke, but still was unable to move. Though he knew it was a ridiculous notion, it felt as if the Earth’s gravity had quadrupled overnight. Then, there was also the dull, throbbing bite of pain welling inside his gut. He couldn’t quite identify the source, but it was there all the same, and he didn’t know why his body wasn’t healing itself to remove the discomfort. After nearly eight more hours of increasingly intense pain, he fell asleep once more.

He awoke in the dead of night. An explosion, followed by a great rumble in the air had startled him from his sleep.

“Geez. What now?” He was beginning to think he would have been much better off sequestered in his sarcophagus on Kavo Zile.

He glanced up, homing in on the direction of the sound, just in time to see a blinding streak of red-orange light burning away the darkness. The falling object rumbled, the sound waves jarring King’s bones from even this distance. It shot diagonally toward the ground. From its trajectory, he figured the object would strike the Earth three or four miles to the west, on the other side of what would become the St. Johns River.

The moment the calculation was completed, he was struck with another horrible realization. He was nearly at ground zero for a Volkswagen-sized meteorite that had broken through the atmosphere and was about to hit the planet. It was hardly a ‘world-killer’, but it would certainly play havoc on the general landscape for the next few millennia. And he wasn’t entirely sure what its effects would be on even his incredible regenerative capabilities.

“Yep,” he mumbled to himself, as he clenched his eyes shut and braced for the fiery tempest that was about to come. “I would have definitely been better off in my damned coffin.” He inhaled deeply, then growled. “Well, shi—”

King returned to the future past in the blink of an eye, and he quickly discovered what had been causing the sharp pain in his abdomen. The plant-creature’s spindly arm was pinning him to the ground with twelve-inch thorny talons. It had sliced him straight through the gut, exiting out his back. He screamed in agony, then opened his eyes to see the creature up close for the very first time. He stared into the monster’s grisly face. Jenkins had been right. The creatures had once been human. Now, there was a complex webwork of hardened, bark-like vines covering every inch of their flesh in a mesh netting. Their bodies were pocked with sharp, curved thorns. Looking past the thorns, where human flesh should have been, the body was stripped of skin and muscle tissue. The face, covered in a soft blanket of lush emerald green moss, was little more than a skull now. Dark recesses marked where the man’s eyes had once been, completing the cadaverous appearance.

King wasn’t sure whether the man had been one of Finkle’s expedition or that of the British, but it didn’t matter. He could see, however, that the human being that once was, no longer existed. He was dead. Which meant that King wouldn’t have to pull any punches in this fight.

The thought brought a hungry grin to his face.

With a roar that matched the creatures’, King’s fist lashed out, pounding his attacker across the jaw. The flesh of his hand shredded against the thorny impact, but the force was enough to knock the monster aside. King watched as it tumbled over; its twelve-inch claws tore free from his torso. Blood gushed from the opened wound, but the injury healed rapidly, and King climbed to his feet.

With the brief moment he had, he gave a quick sweep of the landscape. The only men from the expedition still upright were Finkle, Reardon and Greer. But the quartermaster was on his knees, holding his stomach, as if in extreme agony. Finkle and Reardon stood back-to-back, swords outstretched and protecting their sickened comrade. King rushed over to them, scooping up his fallen sword along the way, and he turned his back to them as well, giving them a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree wall of protection for Greer.

The creatures lumbered toward them, not nearly as swiftly as before. King didn’t know what was slowing them, but he wasn’t going to look a gift-horse in the mouth. All around them, the remaining members of the crew—including Rob Jenkins—lay curled in fetal positions on the ground. The strange vines were working their way around the bodies, forming cocoons in which their transformations would occur. Eight creatures were bad enough. They needed to be long gone when the others emerged from their dormant states.

“Help Greer up,” King said. Their backs were now to the river, and they were surrounded on all other sides. The vines still loomed behind them, but if King was right, he was already infected. He hoped his condition would help stave off the transformation, but for now, he was certain he could be quick enough to do what needed to be done. As long as his three living companions could follow through with their part.

One of the plant monsters suddenly lunged. King sidestepped, whirled around and brought his sword down across its overextended back. The creature wailed in pain, and stumbled to the ground. Before it could roll over, King was on top of it, hacking deep into its pulpy flesh.

“Run!” King cried. “Into the river.”

The two men, Greer leaning on their shoulders, hesitated. They looked out at the tall, waving vines, then at King.

“I’m coming! Just go!”

This time, they obeyed. Kicking up their legs, they splashed through the shallow water as fast as they could. King gave one final swipe across the creature’s neck, and then bolted after them. He passed them with little effort, swinging his sword as he ran and slicing through the tangle of malevolent vines. They reacted by whipping down upon him with a monstrous rage. Their thorns ripped and sliced at King, as he spun back and forth, cutting the vines at the base of their stalks and clearing a path through which Finkle and Reardon could carry Greer. A minute later, they were on the other side of the wall, and swimming across the river. Fortunately, the current was weak, and they managed to stay on course, straight across. Not so fortunate, there were splashes behind them.

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 Reardon, 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.