If you could live forever, what would you die for?
Five hundred years ago, a group of Spanish conquistadors searching for gold, led by a young and brilliant commander named Simon De Oliveras, land in the New World. What they find in the sunny and humid swamps of this uncharted land is a treasure far more valuable: the Fountain of Youth. The Spaniards slaughter the Uzita, the Native American tribe who guard the precious waters that will keep the conquistadors young for centuries. But one escapes: Shako, the chief’s fierce and beautiful daughter, who swears to avenge her people—a blood oath that spans more than five centuries. . .
When the source of the fountain is destroyed in our own time, the loss threatens Simon and his men, and the powerful, shadowy empire of wealth and influence they have built. For help, they turn to David Robinton, a scientific prodigy who believes he is on the verge of the greatest medical breakthrough of all time. But as the centuries-old war between Shako and Simon reaches its final stages, David makes a horrifying discovery about his employers and the mysterious and exotic woman he loves. Now, the scientist must decide: is he a pawn in a game of immortals. . . or will he be its only winner?
Here's an excerpt of Christopher Farnsworth's The Eternal World:
CHAPTER 1
C
I UD A D J U Á R E Z , M E X I C O T W O W E E K S A G O
THE
BUTCHER CROSSED the bridge on foot at El Paso. With a few days in the
sun, he was dark enough to pass as one of the many day laborers on
their way home to Juárez for the evening after long hours cleaning,
cooking, and mowing the lawns of white people.
He
wore sagging dad jeans and a T-shirt that said Metallica and a
sweat-stained trucker cap, all fished out of a Goodwill bin. His face
was still unlined, his body strong and young. One woman glanced in
his direction and gave him a friendly smile. He smiled back, showing
all his fine white teeth. She looked away quickly, and
surreptitiously crossed herself.
He
tried not to laugh. It wasn’t easy. He wanted to tell her that he’d
believed once, too. Now he knew better.
Now
he was God, or as close as any of these people would ever see. Once,
he had been Juan de Aznar y Sandoval. For a while, he’d variously
been known as the Moonlight Murderer, the Servant Girl Annihilator,
Bible John, and the Torso Killer. Now he was known best as El
Carnicero, El
Ver- dugo,
El Sanguinario—the Butcher of
Juárez.
Juárez
was a city regularly drenched in blood. People died every day in the
relentless drug war between the cartels and the military. So many
died that the government was unable—or unwilling—to keep an
accurate body count. The usual estimate was about eight murders a
day. In a city where life was so cheap, it was easy to lose track.
It
took real effort to rise above the usual background noise of gunfire.
But
over the years, people began to notice: young women—girls, really—
who worked at the maquiladoras,
the factories that straddled the border, were turning up dead.
In
1993, seventeen women were found slashed, strangled, mutilated, and,
in one case, burned. They all suffered similar cuts to their breasts.
The next year, at least eleven were killed. Eighteen the year after
that, and more the year after that, and after that.
The
victims, all girls, were drawn to Juárez from their villages in the
country with the promise of good jobs. Their pictures began to appear
in the newspapers, the faces beaming right next to graphic
descriptions of the rape and mutilation their bodies had endured.
People
finally began to count all those faces, and all the bodies found in
fields or vacant lots or back alleys. Some people got as high as four
hundred over a ten-year span.
The
police said that was impossible. They said no one man could be
responsible for so many deaths. When the outrage over their inaction
became too much, they would arrest someone and try to pin all the
murders on him.
But
the girls kept dying, no matter what the police did or said.
Now
most people, if they thought of him at all, believed he was an urban
legend. There was even a song about him. He heard it played on a
cheap portable stereo as he was walking over the bridge one night. It
took him a moment to realize that someone had composed a narcocorrido
about him:
Oh
little girl,
watch
where you walk tonight,
Oh
little girl,
watch
where you go,
Don’t
you know the Butcher is waiting for you,
Stay
here with me tonight,
Idiots,
he thought. Singing hymns to the man who was slaughtering them. The
narcocorridos
were full of praise for the lords of the cartels, or their
gunmen—he’d even heard one about Osama bin Laden. It only
confirmed his belief that these people were in love with death, a
whole culture bent on suicide, like a herd of cattle running over a
cliff.
But
he had to admit he found himself humming the tune. It was catchy.
Aznar
was not stupid. He was careful. He changed his signature style every
other victim now, so that he could not be tracked by the slashing of
breasts or a particular weapon or method of murder. He could control
the urge for months at a time, staying in his cheap little hovel on
the Texas side of the border, keeping quiet, keeping to himself.
But
eventually, he would realize, why bother?
He
had passed from reality into folklore. No one would ever catch him,
because he was like the weather now: simply a condition of life,
inevitable and uncontrollable. The police would not even try to stop
him, be- cause that would be admitting he existed. The citizens would
simply accept him, and every time another body turned up, they would
shrug and move on. People still had to go to work, go shopping, and
raise their kids. They had their own problems. That was Juárez:
proof that people could get used to anything.
This
is why he loved the walk across the bridge. For him, Juárez was a
playground, and every time, it made him giddy as a child.
Tonight,
the Butcher was back.
-----
THE
GIR LS FILED OUT of the factory like an offering made just for him.
He scanned their faces, looking for the right one for tonight as they
hurried back to their little shacks. They would get some food or some
sleep or change into their good clothes and hit the clubs that stayed
open into the early morning to cater to them.
No
one heeded the warning in the song about the Butcher. There was
simply no way for women to stay off the streets in Juárez after
dark. The factories worked around the clock, manufacturing plastic
toys and gadgets to fill the shelves of the stores up north.
Every
night, he had his choice of targets. A seemingly endless supply.
That’s not to say he didn’t have a type. He did. Anyone looking
at the photos of his victims would see the common threads binding
them all together. All were young, late teens or not far into their
twenties, attractive, and, at least superficially, resembled one
another. They could all have been sisters, or cousins, from a very
large and very unlucky family.
But
no one would know the real reason he chose them all. They all looked
like her. He would never get tired of killing her. He thought of it
as practice for the day when he’d finally get his chance at the
real thing.
For
tonight, he’d have to be satisfied with another stand-in.
He
waited outside the gates of the factory—this one assembled toys
from plastic components made in Taiwan and then shipped them back
across the Pacific. Many of the girls on the line weren’t much
older than the children who’d play with the finished products.
He
ignored them. It wasn’t that he valued them or thought them
innocent—none of these mongrels were innocent, in his mind—but
they did not look enough like her.
Then
he caught a glimpse of an older girl, already turning in a different
direction from the stream of night-shift workers.
He
caught himself. She looked so much like her, he had to be careful not
to stare too hard. He didn’t want anyone to notice him. But the
resemblance—it was too close to let her go. She would be perfect.
He
waited an appropriate length of time, and then was drawn after her
down the same dark streets.
-----
JUÁR
EZ WAS BOTH TOO poor and too corrupt for streetlights or side-
walks off the main avenues. The shadows were deep enough for him to
hide every time the girl looked over her shoulder. She knew he was
there, but she couldn’t see him.
She
must have lived in the cheapest possible rentals—the
slapped-together houses on the far end of the city, parallel to the
river and near the railroad tracks. Quite literally, the wrong side
of the tracks: bodies were dumped here all the time, along with
whatever trash and waste that couldn’t be recycled by the countless
scavengers and pickers. The shacks were often just four walls and a
roof put up over a dirt floor, without water or heat or electricity.
The people who lived there were either new to Juárez or had simply
given up.
She
looked new. Her dress still had some white in it, and there was still
some life in her movements.
Aznar
was happy; she was going to be worth his effort.
She
abruptly turned into an alley between the shells of two buildings
near the tracks that had been burned out in a recent dispute between
the cartels and the military.
It
was time for him to show himself.
He
moved out of the shadows, almost gliding over the dirt and broken
concrete. He’d try to take his time with her, but he knew it was
going to be over quick. The first one of the night always was. And
anyway, he could still catch at least two more before morning.
Aznar
entered the mouth of the alley and deliberately knocked over a pile
of trash. Old cardboard slithered to the ground, taking several wads
of plastic bags with it. It sounded nicely ominous to him.
He
already had his knife in his hand. He’d planned on gutting his
victims tonight, pulling out their entrails and showing them off in
the moonlight. It was a cheap, handmade thing—once a kitchen knife,
now wrapped with duct tape for a handle, sharpened to a razor’s
edge. It was ugly and mean and perfect.
He
wanted her to turn and see him. He wanted to see the fear in her
eyes. She wasn’t there.
Impossible,
he thought. He was faster than her, faster than anyone could be, and
there was nothing big enough for her to hide behind here.
He
ran to the end of the alley, frantic with disappointment.
He
saw a soiled dress, still white in places, in the corner of his eye.
She dropped on him from above, leaping from one of the dead windows
in the empty building.
It
was a twenty-foot fall from the window to the alley. No ordinary
girl could have made the leap without breaking bones.
But
then, no ordinary man could have taken the force of her landing
without breaking his neck.
He
fell and rolled away from her, and regained his feet instantly. They
stood and faced each other.
It
wasn’t a girl who looked like her. It was her.
In
disbelief, he said her name: “Shako.”
She
returned his greeting. “Aznar,” she said. Then they went for each
other.
-----
SHE
WOULD HAV E LIK ED to be able to deal with Aznar from a distance. He
was dangerous. But she had to be sure it was him. She had to see him
face-to-face.
He
was good with the knife. He turned it expertly in his hands as he
advanced on her, alternating between short, stabbing thrusts and wide
slashes that drove her back. He moved so fast the blade seemed to
flow like water in the dim light. But she’d seen it before. He’d
changed nothing, apparently learned nothing, since their last
encounter.
And
she was not defenseless.
She
took a flat wedge from the holster she wore like a garter on her
thigh. With the press of a button, it sprang a telescoping handle.
She took the grip in her left hand, and then, when Aznar stabbed at
her again, swung hard for his skull.
He
barely dodged in time, the metal ax coming within millimeters of his
eyes. It was crafted of a titanium alloy, a high-tech re-creation of
a tomahawk.
She
was not above using guns or bombs or even missile strikes if it came
to that. But it was important to her that all of the Council see her
face before they died. Given the chance, she would stick with the old
ways.
Aznar
fell on his back, his feet sliding out from under him in his sudden
retreat. She slashed downward, and realized her mistake. This was a
feint, meant to get her overextended and off-balance. He stabbed
upward, coming out of a crouch.
She
pulled back and caught his knife with her ax hard enough to send
sparks flying, but not hard enough to knock it from his grip.
She
didn’t let up. Didn’t let him up. He was still kneeling, still
slashing desperately at her. She swung for his head again, and, when
he ducked, drove her foot into the bridge of his nose. There was a
sharp cracking noise and Aznar flipped over onto his back.
He
thrashed wildly, scrambling on the ground on all fours. She realized
Aznar
was going to run.
No.
Not this time. She thought she’d had him in Serbia; she wasn’t
going to let him get away again.
She
leaped forward and sliced through the meat of one of his legs with a
stroke that almost looked like a golf swing.
He
screamed and bucked as if electrocuted. He never could handle pain.
Not at all, she remembered.
Before
she could lift her ax again, however, he turned and threw his knife
at her.
It
buried itself in her left shoulder, up to the hilt. Her arm went
numb: he’d taken out the nerve cluster there as deftly as a
surgeon.
He
struggled up from the ground and gave her a lupine grin.
“Don’t
look so pleased,” she snarled. Wincing, she yanked the knife from
her body. A fresh gout of blood ran freely, soaking the top of her
dress. “I’ve got your knife.”
She
held the knife in her near-dead hand and clumsily transferred her ax
to her right.
His
grin grew even wider. “Keep it,” he said. “I’ll use this
one.”
And
he drew another, just as large and ugly as the first, from under his
jacket.
She
staggered back a few steps. He came after her, limping.
He
adjusted the rhythm of his attack now, putting his weight on his good
leg as he stabbed at her, then dancing back, favoring the bad one,
when he dodged.
She
clumsily parried his blade with the ax, but he broke through her
defense easily. She thought he might have nicked her lung. Breathing
was becoming difficult.
Within
a few more seconds, he’d opened shallow slashes on her arms, her
breasts, and her legs.
He
was enjoying himself now. She could see it in the orgasmic light in
his eyes, his smile now almost serene. This was what he lived for; he
was toying with her.
She
wasn’t worried. The cuts Aznar had inflicted were superficial. They
would have closed instantly if her body were not already trying to
heal the major wound in her shoulder. Even the nerves would knit
themselves back together, good as new, in a matter of hours.
After
all, it wasn’t like Aznar had dipped his blades in poison. She had.
A
little of the light went out of his eyes at first. A string of drool
fell from his lips, and he began to look confused. He redoubled his
efforts, pushing harder, stabbing, trying to close in for the
deathblow.
He
couldn’t do it. He was getting slower. His leg still dragged, when
it should have healed as fast as she could. Sweat drenched his face
for the first time, despite the warmth of the night.
The
next time he brought up his knife, she swung and knocked it away
easily. He looked shocked, and then it finally occurred to him what
had happened.
She
saw it then, in his eyes. The hate was still there. The rage, and the
sense of wounded vanity. He never believed he was subject to the
rules, even when they were all still mortal.
But
above all, she saw the helplessness.
The
poison was only slightly weaker than the one she used on the tips of
her arrows. It paralyzed before it killed. But that only meant it
worked slower. It was still working, implacably shutting down the
connections between Aznar’s brain and his body, like turning off
light switches in a house one by one, until the entire structure was
completely dark.
It
was almost over.
Aznar
knew it, too. He was many things. But he was not stupid. He ran away
from her.
She
was caught flat-footed, her weight still on her back leg, ready to
parry his next attack. Even with the drug in him, he took off like a
shot.
Damn
it. All this time, and he could still surprise her.
She
raced after him. She would not let him get away. She still wanted
answers before he died. Forever, this time.
-----
AZNAR
FELT SUR PR ISI NGLY CALM, even as his breath hitched and his legs
went numb. He did not expect it to end like this, in the ass end of a
diseased slum.
But
he always knew it would end somewhere. And he knew, with un- shakable
faith, that nothing waited for him. There would be blackness, and
then, whatever he was, whatever he had been, would be gone.
It
occurred to him that he had nothing to fear. That his faith had
always been much more about suffering through Hell than embracing the
joy of Heaven.
Shako
was right on top of him now. He turned to look at her, could see the
triumph and determination in her eyes.
Then
he tripped and went down hard.
His
skull rang against metal. He realized he’d fallen on the railroad
tracks. He got to his knees and brought up his knife again, just in
time to keep her from leaping atop him and finishing this.
She
stood back, wary. He kept the knife up. She could afford to wait. His
arm already felt heavy. The poison was still working in him. Soon
he’d be helpless.
He
could see that she had something to say. Of course, she would want to
talk first.
“Where
do you keep your source?” she demanded.
He
almost felt cheated. She wanted to collect the Water. How boring. She
was speaking in the formal, correct Spanish of the old days. It
sounded almost like a foreign language in this debased time and
place.
He
did not return the courtesy. “Go fuck yourself,” he said.
She
grinned and danced forward, blurring quick, and sliced open his cheek
with his own knife.
He
hadn’t seen it. He was too dull now. The pain burned as if his skin
was etched with acid.
He
screamed. Blood and tears poured down his cheeks.
“It’s
amazing how the poison paralyzes but doesn’t numb, isn’t it? You
can still feel everything. At least, that’s what I’m told.”
He
unleashed another stream of obscenities at her.
“Such
language,” she said. “They used to call you the Saint, behind
your back. Saint Juan. Did you know that?”
He
nodded. He knew. He could still hear the jealousy and bitterness in
their whispers, even now.
“You
were always so pious. So correct. And look at what you’ve become.”
She glanced around the alley and then back at him. “I can’t say
I’m surprised. I always knew what you were, deep inside. I always
knew what you said about me to Simon. How he should not defile
himself, laying down with the lower creatures.” Aznar wheezed, as
close as he could come to a laugh. “If only he would have
listened.”
Another
quick slice with the knife, and the tip of his nose was gone. He
growled rather than screamed this time. The indignity of this was
beginning to gall him.
“Yes,”
she said. “If only. But he didn’t. Now we’re here. Now you
only have a few moments left to live.”
She
showed him the knife again.
“If
you want to live them as a man, Saint Juan, you should tell me where
you keep your supply.”
Aznar
felt his first stab of genuine fear. He would not allow himself to be
violated like that. In all his years, he’d never allowed that.
He
tried to stall. “You must know. You must have been following me.”
“I’ve been watching you for weeks. I’ve seen you come in and
out of that little hole where you hide. I know there is some there,
but you need more. You couldn’t hold enough there to survive for
this long. Where do you go when you need more?”
The
world was growing dim, but something still clicked in Aznar’s
brain. He felt a vibration in the tracks. She’d just given him the
key. With that one word.
“Weeks?”
he asked.
She
seemed to realize her mistake. She ignored the question. “Where is
it, Aznar?”
“You’ve
been following me for weeks?” He wheezed, laughing again. “Then
you must have seen. You must have watched.”
He
saw the shame in her eyes and wanted to get up and dance.
In
the distance, the sound of the train whistle. She heard it, too, but
she was distracted.
Because
he had taken another girl, only last week. She had seen. She must
have known. That’s how she knew his patterns, how she put it all
together, and how she set this trap.
And
she did nothing to stop him. She let him kill an innocent, just to
see if she could find out where he kept the Water.
“You
let me kill her. Her blood is on your hands.” “I didn’t—”
“That’s
right. You did nothing. Nothing at all. Oh, Shako. Perhaps I was
wrong. Perhaps there is a Hell after all. And I will be so happy to
see you when you join me there.”
Her
face went dark. He’d seen that look before—just before she killed
him the last time, in Serbia.
The
ground shook under them both. The train was hurtling toward them.
Those Walmarts up north were hungry. They needed to be filled. The
trains had to run on time.
Now
or never.
With
all his might, Aznar flung his second knife at her.
This
time her shoulder wound and her distraction made the difference. She
had to fall over backward to avoid the blade plunging into her
throat.
Aznar
forced his nerveless limbs to move.
He
flopped off the tracks just as the freight train barreled between him
and Shako.
With
his last bit of strength, he reached out and caught one of the cars.
He only barely felt his legs bouncing and dragging on the gravel as
the train pulled him up and away.
His
blood ran onto the dirt. His body was filled with toxins and he la-
bored for every breath as he rolled himself into a filthy boxcar.
None
of it mattered. His long, happy life would continue. He had beaten
her again.
-----
SHAKO
WATCHED ALL THE cars of the train pass along the tracks. Grit and
dirt blew into her eyes. He was gone. But she had to be sure.
She
found his blood on the other side of the tracks. She followed it for
a mile, until the splatters became drops, then the trail ended
completely.
He
was gone. This time, unlike Serbia, she didn’t even have the
satisfaction of killing him temporarily.
Shako
walked back toward the city center, where she had a hotel room
waiting with a change of clothes and identity so she could get out of
this place.
She
did not feel any guilt. She told herself that, over and over. It was
not her fault, or her responsibility, what the men of the Council
chose to do.
What
mattered was making them pay. That was enough for Shako. She had her
mission, and if there were innocents who died along the way, then so
be it.
She
had her mission. That was enough. It had to be.
-----
FROM
THE NEW YORK TIMES BUSINESS SECTION, PAGE ONE:
CONQUEST
BIOTECH’S STOCK PLUMMETS AFTER SON STEPS INTO FATHER’S JOB
Simon
Oliver III, the chief executive officer and chairman of the leading
biotechnology firm Conquest Biotech, passed away unexpectedly late
Sunday night, according to company officials.
The
same press release also announced that his son, Simon Oliver IV, was
elected to the chief executive’s position in an emergency board
meeting convened via telephone.
The
news hit just before stocks began trading on Monday. By noon,
Conquest had lost nearly thirty percent of its value.
Although
the stock price stabilized before the end of the day, analysts said
that the reason is obvious: Mr. Oliver is not ready for his father’s
job.
Mr.
Oliver, 23, is better known for his activities outside of work hours.
He has been linked romantically to everyone from supermodels and porn
stars to reality-TV mainstays such as Kim Kardashian. (A
representative of Ms. Kardashian said that she and Mr. Oliver were
simply good friends.) His only previous attempt to involve himself in
Conquest was a disastrous attempt to diversify the company in movies
and music videos, which ended in several lawsuits. A 2009 drug charge
against him was dropped after he agreed to enter a rehabilitation
program.
Conquest,
best known for its series of antiaging pharmaceuticals, has met or
beaten earning expectations every quarter for the past five years.
But it is facing an expiration on the patent for Revita, its most
popular—and profitable— drug, which is used to increase cell
vitality and spur synapse growth in elderly patients.
This,
plus the selection of Mr. Oliver, has big investors looking for the
exits, said Irfan Khan, an analyst with Bank of America Securities.
“Right
now, Conquest needs another home run, and they’ve brought up a kid
from the minors who’s basically in- capable of finding a bat, let
alone hitting it out of the park,” he said.
But
the investors are essentially powerless to change the selection, no
matter how far the stock drops. While anyone can buy common stock in
Conquest, the Oliver family, which founded the company in 1946 as a
manufacturer of pharmaceuticals for the U.S. military and other
customers, still controls the majority of special voting stock—giving
them a 3-to-1 advantage over other voters. Every member of the board
is either related to the Oliver family or one of the original
employees of the company.
Until
now, investors have been willing to trade their lack of control for
the exorbitant profits and dividends that Con- quest has always
delivered, Mr. Khan said. But with someone like Mr. Oliver at the
helm, the big financial firms have decided the trade-off is no longer
worth it.
Through
a representative, Mr. Oliver and Conquest declined to comment for
this article.
--------------------
Christopher Farnsworth: Website / Facebook / Twitter / Good-reads
The
Eternal World: Amazon / Barnes
and Noble / Book
Depository / Books-A-Million / Indiebound / Powell's / iTunes / Kobo / Goodreads
Christopher
Farnsworth is the author of THE
ETERNAL WORLD. You can find out more at
www.christopherfarnsworth.com
or follow him on Facebook
or Twitter.
No comments:
Post a Comment