The Ancient Breed

by David Brookover

  The captain inspected the grisly remains of his altered soldiers. Their skulls were disproportionately large for their shrunken frames, the ears were curved to points, and the teeth were black spikes. Their round eyes bulged and glowed like green lanterns with icy bulls-eye centers.

  Their chests were massive; their feet were thick tripods. His loyal sailors had become bloodthirsty demons, de Leon reflected sadly. Temporary youth had come at a high price – their souls for a few hours of regained youth. Such a pity. At morning’s first light, he and his men would destroy the cursed structure and bury the fountain and its terrifying secret forever.

  Suddenly one of his men gestured toward the columns. They glowed dimly at first, but before long the dull radiance swelled to a blinding white brilliance that dispelled the night inside the sacrificial circle. The manacles rattled and twisted wildly as if some invisible demon was attempting to free itself! The surviving soldiers wheeled toward the river and raised their swords high at the sudden clamor at the jungle’s edge.

  It was only the Arawak. The soldiers returned their uneasy gazes to the columns.

  “Ziiiiii Loooo!” the guide yelled frantically, pointing at the ominous columns. “We must go now!” he screamed.

  Ponce de Leon didn’t need his interpreter to understand what the Arawak demanded. Retreat sounded like a damned good idea.

  “To the river!” he roared to his men, but they didn’t need urging. They threw off their heavy armor and stampeded like frightened cattle toward the river.

  Soulless, unworldly howls raised the hair on de Leon’s neck. Before fleeing, he chanced another glimpse at the columns and wished he hadn’t. The bony skeleton of a horrifying beast came into view between the pillars and struggled fiercely to escape the manacles. The captain rushed through both sacrificial circles, clambered onto the live oak trunk and lowered himself into a canoe. Without a word, the natives dipped their paddles deeply into the onyx waters and headed back toward the Gulf bay.

  The beast’s blood-curdling howls and snarls appeared to close on the group rather than grow distant as the canoes raced away from the sacrificial site. The captain’s canoe overtook the others, because his paddlers were the strongest and most frightened of all the natives.

  The beast crashed through the jungle on a course parallel to the river, its blazing blood eyes searching for the trespassers; the crescent moon provided enough light for it to see well in the thick night shadows. The delicious scent of fear fed its fury. After stalking the canoes for three miles, the beast broke through the dense tangle of jungle growth and stood on the riverbank, seeing but unseen. A growl rumbled in its savage chest.

  Then it charged into the river and attacked the trailing canoe.

  Its ferocious howl echoed throughout the jungle and enveloped the canoes in terror. Ponce de Leon’s head snapped back in time to see a leaping shadow descend upon the last canoe. There was a simultaneous splash and sharp crack in the blackness, and the soldiers’ and natives’ shrieks died swiftly.

  “Fight it!” de Leon shouted to his men. “Kill the blasted thing!”

  But without their heavy weapons and armor, his soldiers couldn’t mount an effective counter-attack. The beast quickly caught and destroyed the speeding canoes in succession, mutilating the hated trespassers before moving on to the next. Every conquest brought the demon beast closer to de Leon’s canoe, which spurred his paddlers to even greater effort.

  “How much further?” he shouted anxiously at his paddlers, but the natives didn’t understand his language. They remained focused on the task at hand – survival.

  Occasionally, his soldiers wounded the monstrous beast with their broad swords, but not seriously enough to slow its progress. The beast was relentless. Mile after deadly mile, the foul stench of grisly corpses enveloped de Leon and soured his soul.

  There seemed to be no escape from it.

  Frenetic shouts from his paddlers momentarily dispelled his thoughts of dying. The two natives swiftly beached the canoe and crashed through the misty jungle toward the beach. The beast’s horrific splashing and grunting was less than fifty feet away.

  Ponce de Leon tried not to dwell on its proximity. It would only slow him down and dull his senses. Demoralize him with the hopelessness of the situation.

  From the corner of his eye, de Leon noticed a swift moving shadow following him along the path to the Gulf shoreline. The Arawak! The young guide’s fist clutched the oilskin pouch that contained the crudely drawn map depicting the location of the fountain of youth. The captain seized it on the run a split second before the demon’s lethal claws penetrated the screaming guide’s chest and ripped him into quivering pieces.

  It swiped at the retreating de Leon with its free hand, but the keen points merely grazed de Leon’s back and shoulders. The captain maintained his pace, oblivious to the pain. He had to make it to the shore. He didn’t want to die in that godforsaken place.

  Sweat scorched his eyes as he plowed through the slapping palm fronds and thorny vines. He felt the beast’s pounding footfalls behind him. Smelled its acrid breath. Heard its raspy and uneven breathing. A ghastly shadow obliterated the moon and engulfed de Leon like a black tsunami. It was over. He was about to die. If only he could have reached . . .

  The beach!

  The captain stumbled onto the soft sand and loudly hailed his men as he shoved the closest longboat into the calm water and worked the oars like a madman. The creature halted beyond the reach of the lapping surf and curled its splayed toes deeply into the damp sand.

  It snorted angrily, sliced the air with its lethal claws and retreated into the jungle.

  Ponce de Leon related his adventure to the sailors and soldiers aboard the San Cristobal, but he altered the facts so that the world would never know about his tragic discovery. They listened soberly as he recounted the appalling details of a native ambush down the river and how his men had fought valiantly, but in the end they had succumbed to the savages’ superior numbers. He told them that he had been wounded during the fierce fighting, but he’d killed dozens of the savages on his return trip to the bay. And, he added, there was no fountain of youth. The Arawak’s story had been a ruse to lure his men to the slaughter.

  The outraged men pleaded with their captain to return to the beach and exact a bloody revenge on the murderous curs, but de Leon refused to acquiesce. Maybe another time, he told them, in an attempt to subdue their misguided passion.

  Ponce de Leon knew in his heart that this would be his final voyage. The beast’s talons had singed his soul and injected death into his blood. He was certain that the evil malignancy would spread throughout his body until it claimed his life.

  He was a dead man walking.

  After the San Cristobal had sailed safely out of the bay, the captain stuffed the Arawak’s oilskin pouch and the bladder that was swollen from the cursed water into a golden chest. As dawn dispelled the sky’s raven shroud, de Leon limped to the ship’s stern rail, made certain that no one was watching, and dropped the chest overboard. It sank quickly into the ship’s foamy wake.

  No one will ever suffer the fountain of youth’s curse again, he vowed. Stretching, he inhaled the crisp sea air. It was time to visit his beloved Havana and celebrate life during his remaining days.

  Death would come knocking soon enough.

  1

  T

  he couple moved gracefully, hand-in-hand, along the weathered concrete dock to the slip where their chartered twenty-four-foot Boston Whaler awaited. The owner had informed them that the boat was fully outfitted with diving equipment and state-of-the-art electronics, and when the young woman saw it, she exploded with gleeful laughter.

  “It’s perfect,” she shouted and clapped her hands. “Just like the man said.”

  The young man smiled broadly. “Nothing’s too good for my woman.”

  She gave him a quick hug and then climbed aboard the Whattadive. After thirty minutes of inspecting the gear, tanks, electronics and boat con
trols, they paused for a kiss. Then another.

  A brisk June breeze rustled the Florida palms lining the shore.

  “Are you sure we can actually see something down there,” the young man asked as he pointed out past Charlotte Harbor to the Gulf of Mexico. “After all, it’s only been three weeks since that hurricane blew through here.”

  “Minimal hurricane,” she stressed, “and yes, we should be able to see the bottom just fine.” She smiled seductively. “What did you have in mind anyway, Clay, skinny dipping?”

  Clay Corey had been her steady boyfriend since they met last Christmas at a sorority fund-raising carnival. They graduated last month with master’s degrees from Florida State University – his in computer science and hers in archeology. At the present time, they were out to have some outrageous fun before the real world slapped them with the reality of full time jobs.

  Clay was tall, athletic and had the nicest bronze tan she’d ever laid eyes on. But what she liked most about Clay was his easy manner. His sense of humor. And the way his lips curled up at the corners when he was on the verge of laughing. Of course, there was the kissing, too. His lips were a perfect fit with hers.

  “Skinny dipping sounds fine with me,” he replied playfully. “Real fine, in fact.”

  “Men!” She feigned disgust. “You’re all such pigs!”

  “My only reply to that, Nectar, is oink oink!”

  She slapped him playfully across the shoulder. “You know I despise that name!”

  “Nectar,” he repeated playfully and was rewarded with another slap. “You’re just like your Uncle Crow. He hates his real Indian name, too.”

  “The name’s Blossom, and these lips are off-limits until you get it straight.”

  “C’mon, tell me what your uncle’s real name is.”

  “He’d go ballistic if he even found out I knew. He’d completely disown me if he knew that I told you!”

  “Please,” he pleaded. He grabbed her waist and pulled her close. “Please, Blossom.”

  She nibbled his bottom lip. “Promise not to ever tell him that you know?”

  He held up two fingers on his right hand. “Scout’s honor.”

  She struggled to escape his embrace but not so hard that she’d succeed. “You were never a scout.”

  “Cub Scout, first class.”

  “That’s Boy Scout, first class.”

  “Okay, you caught me. I was never a scout, but I can keep a secret.” His compelling blue eyes captured her gaze.

  “Running Bear.”

  Clay burst out laughing. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Blossom pulled away from him. “C’mon, let’s get moving before the sea breeze storms roll in.”

  The Boston Whaler cut through the light Charlotte Bay chop as it pulled away from the Pirate Cove Marina and headed toward the Gulf. Blossom double-checked the diving gear while Clay guided them through the heavy harbor traffic. After Whattadive finally weaved its way past Boca Grande at the Pine Island cut, Clay and Blossom found themselves in the Gulf and heading for their dive target three miles west of Captiva Pass.

  White calico puffs dotted the cobalt sky. The air was bracing and stimulating, a welcome change from the stifling classrooms, libraries, computer labs and testing centers. The South Florida weather conditions seemed ideal for the start of what they desperately hoped would be a romantic and exhilarating vacation. Each secretly wanted this vacation to launch a happy lifetime – together.

  A school of flying fish burst from the rolling waves and sailed across the bow.

  “Hey, look at that!” Clay shouted as the bow sliced through the hissing swells.

  Blossom’s fingers flashed him the “okay” gesture, and then she finished her work and joined him on the bridge. From the corner of his eye, Clay admired the way her figure filled her very brief bikini. Blossom was a tall, slim and wild beauty who was equally comfortable in a tank top and jeans or a cocktail dress. Her oval Native American face was dark, delicate and expressive, especially her wide mahogany eyes. Her wind-blown hair was a black aura encircling her head and added to her beguiling charm.

  She switched on the fish finder and metal detector that were installed on the Boston Whaler. She studied the screens intently as they approached her target dive point.

  “Cut the throttle,” she said abruptly, “we’re almost there.”

  Clay drew back the throttle, and the hull settled into the water. The diesel engine growled smoothly.

  “What’s out here anyway?” he asked.

  “Old sailing routes.”

  “You’re looking for wrecks?”

  Blossom laughed. “Hardly. Those were found a long time ago by better divers than me,” she replied lightly. “I’m looking for ancient . . .”

  “Treasure?”

  “Treasure to me, but not in the sense of gold doubloons or a king’s ransom in unique jewelry. Just items that old storms may have knocked free from the wrecks and buried in the sandy bottom. Stuff that we archeologists can utilize to get a clearer picture of the older civilizations,” she answered and withdrew a folded map from the pocket of her jeans that were draped over one of the deck chairs.

  “I thought you and Professor Anders were out here diving last spring break,” Clay said as she unfolded the map and checked their GPS coordinates.

  “We were, but since the hurricane blew through here, some buried artifacts might have been uncovered. Let’s stop here.”

  Clay flipped the electric winch switch that sent the anchor plunging easily toward the bottom.

  “Besides, I thought you were here strictly for the scenery,” Blossom said coyly as she slipped off her bikini top and pulled on a white tee shirt. Her breasts were prominently displayed through the tight-fitting white cotton fabric.

  Clay pumped a fist into the air and hollered. “Now that’s what I call sexy, babe!”

  He helped her strap on the small tank, adjust her goggles and slide her feet into the flippers. His gaze, however, remained locked on the front of her tee shirt.

  “Wish me luck,” she said and kissed him.

  “Luck,” he responded.

  Blossom climbed down onto the stern dive platform and disappeared into the Gulf. Visibility was thirty feet and the water temperature was a warm seventy-nine degrees. Blossom’s dive target area ranged from twenty to forty feet deep, a perfect depth for amateur divers like herself. Normally she didn’t dive alone, but she was comforted by the fact that Clay was monitoring her on the scanners and would be ready to come to her aid in an emergency.

  A curious but ominous bull shark cruised widely around her as she descended. Her heart rate spiked despite all her efforts to remain calm. Sharks, like dogs, were drawn to fear like a bull to a red cape, so Blossom focused all her thoughts on the flat bottom where she visibly set her search perimeter. Trying her best to ignore her dangerous companion, she began the arduous task of swimming across the entire length of the perimeter, one narrow row at a time. It was akin to plowing a rectangular field.

  The shark finally tired of stalking the unappetizing prey, and with a sharp twist vanished into the murky distance. Blossom exhaled a sigh of relief, which sent a flurry of bubbles toward the surface.

  Clay sat watching his beautiful “fish” arduously navigate each row, and he was just as thankful to see the shark vamoose. Occasionally he glanced at the metal detector, but it remained quiet. After twenty minutes he felt like a steak on a grill, sizzling toward well done. He slathered on a generous amount of sunscreen and stuck a FSU Seminoles Football cap on his head with the bill flipped around to the back. He wished he were down below with Blossom but it was safer with him in the boat. According to the marina owner, there had been a rash of thefts on his charter boats while the divers were down, and he had advised the young couple to split up their diving so one could stand guard.

  Clay closed his eyes and his mind drifted to Blossom’s tee shirt. Suddenly, the metal detector chirped and he nearly slid off the captain’s chair
. After catching his balance, he checked the apparatus. There was a faint blinking light where Blossom was hovering at the moment, and he watched excitedly as she remained there. It was as if she sensed the metal detector’s discovery.

  A dim reflection snagged Blossom’s eye as she was about to surface and call it a day. After carefully scooping the sand away from the buried object so as not to obscure her vision, the air froze in her lungs. Two sections of what appeared to be a small gold chest lay exposed at an angle, covered with the usual crustaceans. She gripped the exposed corners and pulled. It shifted slightly but not enough to free it from the sand. She kept trying, but she wasn’t strong enough to pry it from its centuries old resting place. Professor Anders would be so disappointed if she couldn’t bring it to the surface. Damn! It was stuck. Double damn!

  Something brushed her shoulder and she whirled in panic, afraid that the bull shark had returned for a late breakfast. Then her terrified eyes fell upon Clay, who was decked out in his own diving equipment. Her rigid muscles relaxed. He had never looked better to her.

  Clay didn’t wait for instructions. He went right to work and after a few grunting tugs, loosened the chest from the sea floor. He kicked hard for the surface with Blossom’s unwieldy discovery tucked under one arm. She followed him up, and minutes later they lay in each other’s arms on the teak dive platform.

  “Looks like gold,” he said enthusiastically. “We might have struck it rich!”

  “Don’t start,” she admonished him lightly. “This is research. Pure research.”

  “Looks like a new car to me, or . . .” He paused.

  When Clay didn’t finish, she glanced up at him. “Or what?”

  “Or say a diamond ring.”

  “Is that your idea of a proposal?” she asked demurely, hoping it was.

  His gaze never faltered. “Yeah, I guess it is. So what do you say? You, me, and the chest forever?”

  She smiled. “My chest or the gold one?”

  “I’m going for broke here. I’ll take what’s behind door numbers one and two.”