The Well's End

by Seth Fishman

  It was almost on a lark that he went to the cave the day Mia was born. He was driving home to pick up some supplies from the hospital, after having just left his wife and newborn sleeping peacefully in their room. There was the turnoff, and on a whim, he took it. Greg went there to say good-bye. He was going to write letters to the others, tell them he was foolish, let them get on with their lives (which they were long since doing anyway). He remembered whistling as he took the path, tossing his keys in the air and catching them, outfitting himself in his harness and peeking over the ledge to see an incredibly bright light below him. There was no darkness, no petrified trees. Instead, he found a forest, teeming with impossible life.

  Amanda didn’t know about any of this, and, according to the rules of their little group, she wouldn’t. The others had spread far and wide. Greg went home and made some phone calls, and by the time he returned to the hospital, they had all booked plane tickets, ready to sample the wonder of the well and their long investment. They came ready to work, though there was a palpable tension between Veronica and Blake, who did their best to stay away from each other. Greg skipped out on his newborn as often as he could, feeling only slight guilt—he’d make it up to her, she’d see. Gallons were taken and stored, some refrigerated, some not. Tests began; instead of cutting his own arm to see if the water healed, Greg started to use mice—the water worked. And the reunion was kindhearted and happy. After a week, even Veronica and Blake seemed to be getting along better. Suddenly everyone was closer than they could have ever been, and the project began in earnest.

  Seventeen years. The cycle ran seventeen years. And the water lasted for ten days, at least from the time Greg had discovered it, though he had an unshakeable hunch that it began on the day of his daughter’s birth. He found the coincidence of her birthday timed to the water’s flow to be too much for his proud-father mind to ignore.

  But this time, with the water in storage, the others had all the reason in the world to maintain a constant and regular presence. There was a meeting at Brenda’s Aspen mansion that went particularly well. The biggest difference was in Greg, who had changed when the water came forth again. He carried himself with an air of command and confidence. He knew the Cave and its environs intimately. And he was, importantly, not of their social strata; he was a neutral party. They recognized plainly that this man would take them places, would be in charge, would be their guide. There was a vote, and aside from a brief, perfunctory conversation about the potential of a rotating leadership—initiated by Blake Sutton—Greg was chosen unanimously. Before, he was the night watchman. Now he was their leader.

  The land around the entrance was purchased from the state of Colorado, an impenetrable door implanted, a road built in, the map dug out and placed in an air-controlled environment. Greg tried to call Avery but discovered that he had been dead for some time now, killed in an accidental fire some sixteen years back. With everyone else together, the Cave became a real and complete entity. The well, quite oddly, was an empty abyss when there was no water. The group considered, perhaps, that this was a tributary of some underground aquifer, perhaps an offshoot of the one that fed the town’s aqueduct, but any time they tried to find a source, to follow the tunnels that continued below the well, they failed to make headway. There wasn’t any evidence of petrified plant life deeper within the earth, nothing similar to the cavern with the well and the map.

  Seventeen years until the next cycle . . .

  The group hired Greg’s construction company and used the interim to create a vast complex of caves and tunnels and rooms. After these were in place, Greg sold the company to focus entirely on the project and began a front company, Fenton Electronics. He used his skills in computers to install a state-of-the-art lab and security system. He familiarized himself with everything. Named director, he was rewarded for his faith. He oversaw all aspects of the organization, from Chuck’s purchases of medical equipment to meetings with Blake’s private security contacts about on-site protection.

  Greg sent Veronica and Brenda off to receive degrees in biology and chemistry. He refused such a path, himself, and remained full-time in Fenton to manage construction and be near his growing daughter and loving (but oblivious) wife. Chuck was already a medical doctor; so was Blake, but Blake went to work for the CDC to learn about pathogens. Two doctors were imperative: one for practical medicine (Chuck) and the other for clinical and theoretical (Blake). Early testing was quite successful, and new strains of healthy and insect-resistant plants were bred through research in the greenhouses below. A couple of the more common strains—tomatoes and spinach—went to market, bringing in additional revenue for the project. Farms were purchased in the neighboring counties by Fenton Organics, a well-disguised subsidiary, and it was there that these hyperseeds sprouted.

  It took eight years to fully build the Cave—they expected great things to come of the place, and took advantage of the lengthy dry spell. Day in and day out, the water samples were beaten into submission, endless data charted for everything from sunless crops to cancer remission in mice and monkeys. They worked especially hard to attempt to re-create the water’s effects artificially, reasoning that they would not have enough to sustain its use worldwide over seventeen years when they went public.

  They failed, over and again.

  Seventeen years was a long time, even for such a find. These denizens of the cultural elite couldn’t just drop off the face of the earth for almost two decades. In order to keep everything fair, the entire group of six agreed to spend at least three months a year within three hours, driving distance from Fenton—and to devote most of that time to working in the Cave. As a side effect (perhaps of boredom), most became major sponsors of Westbrook Academy. Chuck built a mansion in Denver and hosted fund-raisers, and Veronica’s family name crested the new gymnasium.

  And there were, of course, some major pauses in construction and research. Alex’s family lost their wealth in the dot.com bust, and he disappeared for a few years. Brenda’s husband was elected a senator of Connecticut and she was often away in DC or campaigning. And Greg’s daughter, Mia, fell down a twenty-two-foot well. The hole was only eighteen inches wide. National media swarmed. The country watched, held vigils and dug up background stories for anyone involved. The group had to use all of its influence to keep the press from the Cave, no easy feat considering the parties involved and the mysterious nature of the shell corporation. For most of six months, Greg barely went to work.

  Ten years later, when Amanda lay bleeding beneath a tree trunk, Greg had a choice. He could stay with her as the blizzard raged, scooping snow away from her mouth and nose. Or he could race to the Cave, break his own rule, and steal some water for his wife, even though it was surely too late. He heard Mia call his name, back on the porch. She couldn’t see them. She didn’t know her mother lay dying thirty feet away. Greg stayed, held Amanda’s hand and missed only three days of work after. He barely left the Cave again.

  Despite his renewed vigor for their cause, failures continued and until the well sprang to life once more, they’d have nothing but a limited supply of the most valuable item in the world.

  Greg was convinced they’d found the Fountain of Youth. He started tasting the water when no one was looking.

  They all did.

  Greg aged slowly, never had a cold, never broke a bone, never needed glasses. He could hold his breath underwater for fifteen minutes at a time. He could remember things photographically. Everyone at Westbrook was smart, but this group became more so. Their extra studies took no time. They excelled at all things but solving the mystery of the water.

  And now there was but one diluted vial left. On the morning of the next cycle.

  Mia’s seventeenth birthday.

  19

  THE LIGHTS GO ON, AND I FEEL LIKE I’VE BEEN IN A planetarium. During the entire story, Dad showed as many pictures as possible. Of the lab, the dead forest, the well. Of the
group of students standing in black-and-white, my father is clearly recognizable by his thick shock of hair, his tepid smile. Veronica did, in fact, look like a typical pampered richie. There are two others I don’t recognize, the kids from the story who aren’t here. Maybe it isn’t their “turn.” Dad had slides, he says, to help document the entire process for when they “went public.”

  When he first said Sutton’s name, we all looked at each other. Dad had paused, his face grim. He gave me an apologetic look. My face went cold, but I never bothered to interrupt (and neither had anyone else). Now, though, even with so many unanswered questions, there’s nothing more pressing than the sixth kid.

  “Sutton didn’t seem like such a bad guy in your story,” I say, remembering the man walking easily through the Westbrook halls. “Why’s he doing all this?”

  “You said he was with the CDC, so is he, like, working for the government now or something?” Rob adds on. He’s up and staring at the map again. I’d like to join him, but looking that close at anything gives me a headache.

  Veronica clears her throat, her stern face a bit stricken. I can only assume that knowing what her ex-husband is doing out in the world is killing her.

  “He wants the water. He knows it’s coming later today. And when he asked nicely to be let back in, your father said no.” There’s some vitriol to her comment, some real spite. Dad flinches.

  “Veronica,” he says, spreading his hands out before him, “we all agreed on that course. I had no idea he had stolen samples of the virus. Or samples of the water.”

  “He’s killing innocent people!”

  “We’ll save them,” Dad says, his face determined. “The water is coming, and we’ll save everyone as soon as it does—”

  “You’re too late,” Jo interrupts, her voice sad. That shuts them up. And it should have. It’s ridiculous to see them like this, even my dad, bickering like little kids.

  “What happened to him?” Odessa asks. “Why did you kick him out?”

  Dad and Veronica exchange glances, another secret to tell.

  “Come,” Dad says, “we’ll show you.”

  • • •

  We follow him out the door, walking woodenly, dazed. How far will the virus get before Dad opens the door to Sutton’s men?

  We make our way past a few rooms that look like laboratories until we arrive at one that is sealed off with duct tape and plastic sheeting. From a window, we can see that the inside is a dusty white, a ghost room, the beakers still partly full of moldy liquid. The place looks like a video game, or a horror movie set, with an emptiness that hints at happier times gone wrong.

  “This used to be his lab,” Dad starts, indicating the place with a needless gesture. I am standing next to Brayden and find myself leaning against him. I’d like him to put his arm around me, but I don’t think he will in front of Dad. “Blake’s time at the Centers for Disease Control was supposed to provide insight on cures and antidotes, research into properties of healing and how that might relate to the water. At first, that is what he studied. He managed to stretch a single drop of the water far enough to eradicate stage-four cancer in a full-grown chimp. But what he really wanted to do was to enable that one drop to create a series of antibodies that could stop cancer in more than one chimp at a time.”

  I press my nose to the glass and look again, and sure enough, there are large cages stacked against the far walls, empty now.

  “Blake tried to isolate the blood of the healed chimp and use the antibodies found there to create a vaccine for other chimps, thus negating the need for an endless supply of water.”

  “It was brilliant, actually,” Chuck says from behind us. Veronica scowls, but he just shrugs. “What? Treating cancer as a virus worked. These blood cells were primed by the water to defeat all forms of illness, and if they could be replicated, they could act against cancers, filoviruses, bacteria, any type of pathogen. If we don’t have an endless supply of the actual water and can’t replicate it, the next best thing is the research Blake was working on.”

  “What I figured out from his progress,” Dad says, his arms crossed in front of his chest, “was that if a sovereign nation controlled the water that granted immediate healing and growth, it could create global conflict. Think about it,” Dad goes on, pointing into the lab, “if a nation had access to the water they’d have the means to grow endless crops and no illness.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” I ask. It seems too conspiracy-theory. So vast. But I’m standing in front of a lab underneath thousands of tons of earth, so it’s all real. Chuck smiles a pasty smile at me. “In theory, yes. But that’s only if everyone is granted the same access. I’m not too confident that would happen. Blake believed that if he could replicate the effects of the water, we could distribute the healing properties of the water without being chained to the time line and limited quantity or the geographic location of the actual source. In other words, America wouldn’t have the monopoly, and therefore wouldn’t have any reason to keep the water’s healing properties from the rest of the world. Blake’s research wouldn’t fulfill all the potential the water had, but it would be a major part.”

  “So what happened?” Jimmy asks.

  “Exactly what you think,” Veronica replies. “At first it seemed like his serum worked. The cancers in the monkeys went into remission, but then they died, aging quickly, abnormally.”

  “We told him to stop,” my dad adds. “And he did for a while. He went to work on hybrid vegetation. Plenty of exciting and important things you can do with the water in that area of research.”

  “Like the coconut bananas and those blue eyeball berries from the greenhouses,” Rob offers, looking expectantly at Odessa. I’m sure she’d rather hear their proper names, but she seems interested enough.

  “Exactly like those,” Dad says. “In a way, they are a perfect metaphor for what he was doing. The coconut ones, they’re new and healthy and wonderful, and the things you called eyeball berries, they turned out to be more poisonous than the worst mushroom. This went on for some time, but then his mother got ill. Turns out she had cancer all along and that was part of what was driving him. He started to work again in secret.”

  “Why didn’t you just give her some water?” Rob asks. Brayden nods his head in agreement.

  “We had a rule,” Veronica replies, her eyes far away. “No water was to leave the facility without a unanimous vote of approval. We didn’t want anyone sharing its secrets with the world yet.”

  “Not very trusting are we?” Jo asks.

  Veronica eyes our group with amusement. “Would you be?”

  I think about us. About how I’d trust the world to Jo and Rob. But Jimmy and Odessa? I feel the heat of Brayden against me, his shoulder against mine. I see the shadow of stubble on his chin, and watch him flick his hair back to look at me. Would I trust him with this? Haven’t I already?

  “Where are the other two members?” Rob pipes up. “Brenda and Alex?”

  “They aren’t here. They were due to arrive today, but we haven’t heard a thing from them, and we can’t open the doors.” Dad looks worried and chews on the inside of his cheek. “Blake might have them.”

  “So he stole the water?” I ask.

  Veronica shrugs. “Blake adored his mother, but he wouldn’t take the water out of the Cave. So he did what he knew how to do—he secretly went back to his work.” She touches the glass door of the lab, almost tenderly, as if she were remembering watching him here those nights, the lights dim, his doctor’s coat splattered in monkey blood. “All night long, without us knowing, he’d be in here killing animals . . . He used to say that by understanding death, he could better understand life. He purposefully manipulated the water’s properties into a virus.” I can barely control my shivers thinking of him in there.

  “He always was the best of us in the labs,” Chuck adds, his voice a mixture of
jealousy and disgust.

  “I remember the night I found out; at first I couldn’t believe it,” Veronica continues. “I just sat there watching him kill mouse after mouse. He was using the same antibodies he’d developed before, forcing cancer out of their bodies and then watching the animals die, cutting open their brains and organs to learn more. I could see the monkeys in their cages, dangling against the bars, their arms limp and tired.” She shakes her head, and Dad pats her shoulder, his lips tight. “He found a way to turn the water upon itself, to kill rather than to heal. We are a secure facility,” she says, pointing at a sign above the door that reads BIOHAZARD LEVEL 4. “And even after he created the virus, he didn’t bother to wear a hazmat suit. He just started taking a drop of the water after every test session to protect himself—he told me this later. I think about how I was standing right here outside the lab, so close to that killer virus, completely unaware.”

  I look down at the bottom of the door to the lab, relieved to see it sealed shut. The dust in the lab seems deadlier now, sinister and teeming with the virus.

  “After a while,” Chuck cuts in, “he could accurately predict just how long it took a mouse to die. He showed me once. He’d say ‘seven seconds’ and then, sure enough, the mouse would die. He could literally time death with that virus. It was the worst thing I could imagine, and he refused to see that instead of the perfect cure, he was creating the perfect instrument of death.”