Patriot (A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella) (6 page)

9

The darkness embraced him. Blissful oblivion wrapped its cold, apathetic arms around his emaciated frame, protecting him from the life he’d begun to despise. How long had it been this way? A day? A month? A millennium? It was impossible to say, but he welcomed it with all his heart.

His mates—his
friends
, yes, that was the correct word—would say he’d given up. But they couldn’t possibly know. Couldn’t possibly understand. Then again, he wasn’t entirely certain if he even had any friends. Not anymore. They’d gradually started to become lost to him through time. Just as an adult has only the vaguest of recollections of childhood friends long gone, his own memories had begun to fade centuries ago. Only the faintest of recollections could bring them to mind…and then only by chance. The briefest whiff of a fragrance. A particular shade of red. A shadow of a large man standing before the sun. These triggered those fleeting memories he so longed for. But they were growing far too dim for any sustainable accuracy.

There were only two faces from his
First Life
—as he had begun thinking of it—that were ingrained deeply within his soul, though even now he struggled to recall their names in the form of English he’d not spoken in over two thousand years. The woman, he loved dearly. Had been faithful to her all this time. Had not given his heart to another—not even been tempted to do so. The girl was something else entirely. She wasn’t his daughter by birth. That much he could remember. But his heart ached for her more than it would for a thousand daughters. He missed her bright, intelligent smile. That glimmer of mischief in her eyes when she’d done something she wasn’t supposed to. They’d shared so much together in her short few years, but he couldn’t imagine his life without her.

Only, he
had
been without her. And the woman. And it had been eating him alive for centuries. When even their faces had begun to fade, he knew it was time. Time to…

He felt a crushing weight against his chest, twisting his thoughts back to the present. Something pushed against his body. A dull throbbing, vibrating up and down every one of his nerves. Then came a burning sensation. A white-hot fire searing into his lungs. He’d experienced this sensation before—on multiple occasions. But he couldn’t gather enough wits to remember what it had been.

Something…
What was the word? Liquid
. Wet. Salty. Was rushing past his lips, flooding his throat and pouring down into his…his…
lungs? Is that the right word? Yes. Lungs
.

He was submerged. Underwater.

His eyes snapped open. Something hard and flakey cracked as his lids pulled back from his cloudy eyes. The world around him was hazy. Dark. The saltwater burned at his eyes, and he blinked back the pain, trying to clear his vision. But his eyes had been useless within the sarcophagus for far too long. It would take some time to recover his vision. For now, however, he knew the important thing was to pull himself to the surface. Though he knew he wouldn’t die, his brain did need oxygen to function properly. It wouldn’t do him much good to survive, if he spent his immortality on the bottom of the sea, unable to rise from a watery grave.

He tried moving his arms, but they were stiff. Felt brittle, like two old pieces of lumber charred from a campfire. He pushed through it, bending his elbows and hearing the sound of atrophied muscles and tendons tearing and popping as he moved. Instantly a white, hot fire burned at the inside of his elbows, and he winced. Or at least, he made a reasonable attempt. He clamped down on his dry, cracked lips, trying to prevent himself from taking in any more water than he had already. After several long moments, his hands pulled up to his waist to find a thick hemp rope tied with a slip knot. Blindly, he grabbed at the rope and pulled. Immediately he felt the pull returned. Someone was most definitely on the other end of the line. He jerked down on the line again, and felt a second reply from the other end.

Suddenly, he jerked forward in the water as the rope pulled taut around his waist, and he began to be pulled up toward the surface. For the first time since his mind awakened from its slumber, he felt the cool water rush over his cheeks, and through his long tangled hair. It was unnerving to him just how refreshing the sensation was. How it soothed his flaking desiccated skin. He could feel the cells of his body already mending. Already healing the damage that had been done by allowing himself to drift off into undeath. It hadn’t been the first time he’d tried it, but it evidently had been the longest amount of time he’d spent in the grave. The way he felt, he told himself he’d never do it again, but he wasn’t sure that was the truth. It ultimately depended on how much time was left. How much longer he’d have to wait to return to…to…

He screamed a silent scream over the frustration of not remembering their names. Of all people to forget, how could he forget them? They were the reason he’d managed to go on for as long as he had, and…

Something sharp and powerful crunched down on his leg, and yanked him back toward the ocean floor. His ascent to the surface abruptly stopped, and he felt the sharp sting of his tibia splitting in two from the impact. He twisted in the water, focusing his eyes as best he could. He saw a ghastly serpentine shape thrashing through the water on the other end of his leg. The shape was long—easily larger than fifteen feet—with a sharply pointed fin jutting up from its back. A powerful, two-pronged tail whipped back and forth, as its massive hammer-shaped head wrenched at the flesh of his useless leg.

Son of a
…

He let go of the rope, and his right hand brushed past something cold and metallic tucked into his belt. He reached for it, and felt the bone-carved handle of some type of dagger. Forcing the pain into the back of his mind—a trick he’d perfected over the centuries—he grabbed hold of the knife, yanked it from his belt and blindly slashed down at the massive hammerhead. The blade glanced across the shark’s rough skin to little effect. But the blow startled the animal enough to ease up on his leg. It was just enough for him to jerk himself outside of the creature’s immediate reach. As he did so, he watched as the unfocused object that could only be his lower leg drifted away and slowly sank to the ocean’s floor.

The hammerhead, sensing the limb’s descent, dove headfirst toward it. Its tail wagged frantically to propel it toward its leathery meal. Fortunately, the old pirate had very little blood left within him to bleed out. He watched as only a small, six-inch cloud of dark fluid leaked from his leg wound.

Sensing this was his chance, he tugged on the rope once more with his free hand, and felt it jerk him toward the surface once more. He glanced up. Though his vision was still hindered by years of slumber, he could just make out the darkening sky above him. It appeared that clouds loomed overhead. The makings of a storm. And rocking from side to side, just a few feet to his right, was the keel-shaped shadow of a small ship—a cutter of some kind, not his own frigate.

As he ascended, propelled by reformed muscles and sinews, he peered down again just in time to see the hammerhead rushing hungrily toward him. Even worse, two others were approaching from just under the ship. The puny purge of blood that had seeped from his leg had drawn the creatures straight to him. Tethered to the rope as he was, he was little more than fish bait with no room to move around. The sharks had the advantage of the sea at their disposal, but he had millennia of experience. It was he, not these creatures, that was the apex predator here, and before this day was out, he was going to show them.

With a flick of his wrist, he cut through the rope securing him to the cutter, whipped around in the water, and immediately began swimming toward the closest shark. The grin on his face matched those of the animals he faced. Sharp and infinitely deadly.

“Cap’n!” cried one of the sailors on the other end of the line.

Reardon turned to see the man gripping the sliced end of the rope.

“Bloody ‘ell.” He stalked over to the man, and took the rope from him with a jerk. A brief glance revealed what happened. “He cut the blasted thing.”

Finkle moved over to them, and examined it. “Now, why on Earth would he do something like that?”

Reardon shrugged. “Maybe he saw the
Hound
? Maybe he’s attempting to swim his way to them?”

“I don’t think so, Cap’n,” another sailor, Mr. Leighfield, said. “We felt him pullin’ on the line. We begun draggin’ him back up, then something yanked him back down hard. Figure he was maybe bein’ attacked by one of them sharks we seen earlier. Then a minute later, he tugged again. We began pullin’ him back up… Then we had nothin’ on the line.”

Reardon whipped his head around toward the mambo bokor. “Witch! What do you think this means?”

“Got no idea,
Capitaine
,” she said, cocking her head to the left, as if listening to something. “But I think your sailor dere be on to something. If dere be sharks in dose waters, and dey be after Lanme Wa for supper, den Lanme Wa is likely to fight back. Leashin’ him to da ship will only hinder his power. Make sense for him to cut hisself free. It why I insisted he be given da dagger.”

Reardon rolled his eyes. He was beginning to wonder if the rewards from this expedition would ever outweigh the ordeal itself.

“Mr. Winfield!” he cried.

“Aye, Cap’n!” Mr. Winfield responded from behind the wheel.

“Turn us about! We need to go back for our cargo!”

“But Captain, I have to protest.” Greer jogged up to the captain, dabbing a handkerchief across his brow. “Those pirates out there will blow us from the water if we stray too close. It’s foolish to go back for that…that corpse.”

“Beggin’ pardon, sir,” Leighfield said, raising a hand humbly. “Wasn’t no corpse tuggin’ on the line. Wasn’t snagged on anythin’ either. There was intelligence behind the pull, I can tell ye that much. Whatever he is down there, he ain’t dead. Least, not when he gave the tug anyway.” Then, as if the concept fully dawned on the young sailor, he crossed himself, bowed his head and mumbled a quick prayer to St. Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors.

“Your misgivings have been heard and duly noted, Mr. Greer,” Captain Reardon said with a sneer. “And also ignored. The
Presley’s Hound
’s no’ moved an inch since we submerged Lanme Wa, and there’s no reason to expect ’em to attack now, while their captain is in such a harrowing position. Now return to your post, and keep an eye on that man-o-war, sir. Just in case.” The quartermaster sniffed, and then returned to the port side rail to keep watch on the frigate. Reardon watched him leave, then turned back to the bokor. “You realize if he was attacked by sharks down there, there’ll be little left of him to collect, lass.”

She shrugged, but maintained her usual cool smile.

“And you also know what happens to you should our cargo become unusable to us?”

“What are you suggestin’,
mon cher
? You brought me on to awaken him. From your own men’s account, I did what I was employed to do.”

“I’m suggestin’ you may want to start prayin’ to those heathen gods of yours. Work whatever vile magicks at your disposal to see that walkin’ corpse keeps a’walkin’.”

Her smile broadened. “Der’s no need to fear ‘bout dat. You just go back to where we lost him, and Lanme Wa will handle da rest. You just watch ’nd see.”

10

The first of the sharks rolled over on its side, a jagged gash stretching underneath its jaw and gushing a crimson fount into the water. The man once known as Jack Sigler, callsign: King, the immortal leader of a twenty-first century black-ops group known as Chess Team, who was sent back and lost in time, tried yanking the dagger out of the creature’s rough hide. The blade, however, snagging against cartilage, snapped in two, rendering it useless. Unperturbed, he dropped the knife handle and whirled around to face his two other attackers. His lungs throbbed. His vision, still cloudy but improving, was dotted with splotches of red and green. The oxygen in his blood was running low, and his lungs were filled with water. If he didn’t do something about that now, he would pass out soon. He’d been through a great deal throughout his long life. Being eaten and digested by a large, hungry predator was not something he wanted to experience again. He wasn’t certain either, how exactly he’d regenerate if his pieces were scattered between two different creatures.

Fortunately, the rush of blood flowing from their fallen comrade sent the other two hammerheads into a frenzy. They shot past him, lunging toward the dead shark drifting to the bottom. They wrenched flesh away from its bones with whipping snaps of their heads. Using the distraction, King shot toward the surface. Although his ascent was encumbered by his severed right leg, he broke through and gulped in a heaving breath. The moment the air coursed down his trachea, his body convulsed in a fit of hacking coughs. Doubling over, he began sinking again, managed to regain a modicum of control and paddled up to the surface once more.

Treading water, he cleared his mind. Focused his thoughts on slowly working his lungs and diaphragm, and eased the excess water up past his lips. Once satisfied his lungs were clear, he cautiously inhaled another deep breath, and he savored the blood-nourishing oxygen. Immediately, he felt a tingle in his lower leg. The addition of air had already set his body to mending his injuries. It was only a matter of time before his severed leg would be whole once more. He need only hold out long enough and he’d soon have the mobility needed to deal with the predators hunting him.

Relaxing, he took the briefest of seconds to collect his thoughts. They were still sluggish. Primal even. If he hoped to endure, he needed to take stock of his situation.

He glanced out over the horizon, scanning from right to left. To the southeast, the cutter was turning about in a slow sweeping arc. The crew was apparently returning for him. Further south, the dark clouds of the oncoming storm loomed. Streaks of searing white energy flashed through the angry sky, while sheets of rain pelted the sea just twenty miles away. It wouldn’t be long before the ocean would become enraged, tossing him about like a broken rag doll within the tempest.

Behind him, and to the north, he caught sight of a three-masted ship with gray, square sails. A black flag flapped near the stern of the large frigate, but the crew made no attempt to come to his aid. He smiled. Of course they wouldn’t. Not until the clouds had completely blocked out the sunlight, or night fell. Whichever came first.

But he was running out of time. The two sharks would soon be finished with their meal, and they would be on the hunt for him again. And this particular species of shark tended to travel in schools ranging within the hundreds. The fact that he’d seen only three of them so far didn’t mean that dozens more weren’t lurking about nearby. The blood from their companion would draw more sharks and ignite their hunger. Despite the fact that the cutter was coming about, King knew they would never arrive in time to pull him from the water before the sharks renewed their hunt.

He sighed, raising his hands above the water to brush his tangled hair from his eyes. For the first time, he noticed the dried leathery texture of his skin—blackened from dehydration in a way similar to cured jerky meat. Though it was to be expected, the sight was still unnerving, to say the least. Like his hair and beard, his fingernails had grown to extraordinary lengths while he’d slept. He studied them closely. They were now at least two to three inches long, thick and yellowed with age. But despite his disgust at seeing his hands so ungroomed, the nails felt solid. Strong and healthy.

The fact that he could even see these details at all was testament to just how fast his vision, and thus his entire body, was being repaired. With this in mind, he turned his gaze toward the surface of the water, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face, but he was distracted by the sight of two sinewy bullets closing in on his treading form from below. The sharks, obviously finished with their cannibalistic meal, had resumed their pursuit.

It was time to finish this.

Taking a series of quick, shallow breathes followed by a single deep one, he dove headfirst back into the abyss, and swam directly toward his prey. While the sharks were faster and more maneuverable in the water, as well as immensely strong, cunning killers, King had one major advantage. Imagination. And he was more than prepared to use it.

The two hammerheads were now circling him, nearly fifteen feet below the surface, biding their time to strike. With their cephalofoil—the hammer-shaped head that gave them their namesake—King knew the creatures had an almost perfect three-hundred-and-sixty degree view of the aquatic landscape. There could be no sneaking up on them. No ambush from below or behind. And no weapons to be used against them even if he could find a way inside their field of vision. So, he stopped swimming, hovered patiently and waited.

One heartbeat. Two. Three. The shark to his right charged. Its eyes rolled back into its head as its maw stretch open and snapped. King twisted at the very last second, avoiding the attack. But his reprieve was only temporary. As he adjusted his spin, he caught sight of the second shark speeding toward him. This time, when he spun out of the way, his right hand grabbed hold of the creature’s snout, and he was pulled through the water behind it. It bucked and thrashed, trying to throw him off, but King’s grip held tight. If he let go now, it would be over. Maybe even permanently.

Taking a tighter hold around one of the eye-stalks, he drew himself closer to the beast until he managed to wrap one arm around the shark’s neck. Its skin, comprised of thousands of toothy scales, sliced into his flesh as he slid across its back. Repositioning himself, he wrapped his legs around the hammerhead’s tail, then flexed his free hand, and sent his long curved nails down near its spine. But its hide deflected the blow easily enough. He jabbed again with no effect. The third time, the nail of his index finger snapped off painfully, and he nearly lost his grip.

The shark, however, wasn’t taking these blows lightly. With the third jab, it dove straight down, pulling King twenty, thirty, then fifty feet deep, and still descended. Its companion followed patiently, as if unwilling to risk injuring the other shark with a premature attack. Instead, it kept pace, its coal-black eye tracking every movement they made toward the ocean floor.

And with every foot they descended, King felt an aching pressure building on the inside of his chest wall. He wasn’t certain, but he imagined he was nearly a hundred feet deep, and still being pulled down.

Realizing that an all-out assault on the shark’s back was futile, he chose to attack once more—this time along the beast’s side, near its pectoral fin, where he hoped the armor would be weaker. Curling his fingers, he brought his arm around to the creature’s side, and slid the nails underneath the scales and struck. The shark bucked beneath him before spiraling around in a desperate move to dislodge him. King’s grip slipped, and he began falling away. But before the other shark could take advantage of the slip, he lashed out with his hand, and caught a handhold on something sponge-like. Fleshy. He glanced up to see his gnarled grip clutching at one of the hammerhead’s gill slits. A small cloud of blood—evidence of damaged capillaries within the gills—plumed out from the slit as he squeezed.

Grinning, King pulled himself back up onto the shark’s back with one hand, and pushed his other hand deeper into the gill. He probed the slit, slashing at the vulnerable viscera with his nails. He was rewarded by an even greater cloud of blood. The second shark, sensing its mate’s billowing blood, quickly changed course. It zipped past King’s head in an erratic motion. Sensing the fight was nearly over, King pushed with all his strength until he broke past the shark’s exposed muscle, and into its throat. From there, he tore and ripped at anything his fingers could grasp, until suddenly, the hammerhead bucked violently, sending King spiraling through the water.

Holding out his arms, he managed to stabilize himself, then hovered in the azure abyss and watched as the uninjured shark swept after its counterpart. It crunched down on the other’s tail, sending even more blood into the water, and then it began dragging its prey deeper toward the sea floor.

King watched for another moment, then kicked toward the surface with his one good leg. A few feet up, he could make out the long, curved form of the cutter’s keel drifting directly above him.

Good
, he thought, while continuing his ascent.
Now it’s time to find out what all this is about
.