Three hours and thirty minutes flew by, much like a bald eagle chasing a desert jackrabbit, as Hector made tracks to a small compound. Nestled deep in the Sierra Madre Occidental mountains, the compound had for decades been a secret stronghold to those evading the law. It was one of the few such facilities that had not yet been discovered by international authorities- many of the compounds, scattered across the globe, had been raided and shut down long ago. Hector didn’t expect many other people to be there- after all, it was rarely used except in times of emergency.

However, as his dinky truck neared its destination, crawling up and down dirt roads over secluded mountains, Hector noticed new tire marks on the trails ahead. Someone had been here, and recently. What if they’re still there when I arrive? Either it’s my friends, or it’s the police… Who knows? Maybe they conducted a massive multi-part raid that night? Maybe they’re waiting to see who will come here? Maybe… it’s a trap?

Hector suddenly and inexplicably felt a strong desire to get out of the place, but he had made up his mind. There was no turning back, not when his house was unsafe. For all I know, they could be hunting for me right this instant.

Suddenly an idea struck Hector. He pulled over into a ditch beside the dirt track, turned off the car, and slid out. The afternoon air was just a bit warm and of exactly average humidity. Hector’s footsteps were silent as, weapon in hand, he crept up the steep hills without a sound. Hopefully, no one had heard his car’s engine. He might be able to make it up entirely unnoticed.

After 20 minutes of rough hiking, Hector crested the last tree-covered peak and came to a gate. The guardhouse was empty. Total silence reigned. Not a good sign, Hector thought. He stepped around the barricade and went on.

Two minutes and forty-three seconds later, Hector turned the final bend in the road and came upon a collection of industrial white buildings. He crouched behind a bush and reconnoitered. In the gravel parking lot were four vehicles. One, a broken-down fuel tanker, looked as if it had been there for ages. The next was a dusty orange SUV that Hector didn’t recognize. Doesn’t look like a police car…

The third vehicle was the most reassuring. Dante’s dingy blue pickup was easily recognizable for its numerous dents and rust spots. So one person I know is here. Or… was here. The final car was a rugged all-wheel-drive Jeep painted in deep, shining black.

Hector cautiously approached the compound. The few windows facing his direction were dark. There was absolutely no sign of life whatsoever. With sudden resolve, Hector sauntered up to the nearest door and lightly tapped twice. After precisely four seconds he tapped three more times.

The door was opened by a short, stocky man in a red and black shirt, clutching a shotgun. He eyed Hector suspiciously.

“All roads come to an end,” the man growled.

Hector knew the saying. It was a common passphrase employed by the Occidental cartels. “Many in danger, some in death, none in peace.”

The man looked Hector up and down, then nodded, accepting Hector’s countersign.

“Good to see you. There are three more here already.” He moved aside and Hector stepped into dim fluorescent light.

The compound Hector had just entered had evidently once been intended for use as a research center and meteorological facility. Heavy steel tanks filled with a variety of gasses lined one wall, piled in crates and stacked neatly on shelves. Opposite was a long polycarbonate table and a bank of old computers. Everything was covered with a thick layer of brown dust, except for the old couch opposite the computers. On it sat Dante, who looked up in relief on seeing Hector, and Flores, who smiled nervously. Beside the couch two men, one of them clearly Flores’ bodyguard, had stopped talking. They nodded at Hector and continued their conversation. Behind him, the short red-shirted man put down his gun and introduced himself.

“I’m Miguel Torres, arms dealer. You’re…?”

Hector nodded. “Hector Domini. How long have you guys been here?”

“I got here yesterday. Senor Fernandez ran for the compound as soon as he had gotten away from the police raid. Flores got here a little while after him. We’re trying to get a list of drug dealers to contact. As far as we can tell, that raid was planned for months in advance. Several other compounds and cartels have been shut down. It’s no longer safe out there- the whole nation’s swarming with cops.”

Hector’s heart sank. The news was sobering, to say the least. There wasn’t much he could do now but hide until the storm blew over. But how long that will be? There’s no way I can go back home, not yet… my house won’t be safe. Hector lamented over the possessions he had been forced to leave behind- his trusty shotgun and computer most of all. He was not completely unprepared for such an unexpected exodus, however. The old Land Cruiser was fully stocked with provisions, ammunition, a portion of Hector’s illegal profits, and other necessary supplies. He could survive for at least a month solely off of the materials and money in his truck. He hoped.

“Hector. We meet again, and this time in much less jovial circumstances, yes?” Flores jolted Hector out of his thoughts. His voice was grim. “Most of my friends there were either killed or taken prisoner. Truly a bad day for us all, yes?” He shook his head sadly, downcast. Hector was starting to respond, but suddenly Flores blinked, looking shocked, and interrupted. “Wait, Hector, I saw you get shot- how are you still alive?!”

Hector faltered. Drat. “I- I- uh- the fern- er, no, I, uh- er…”

“The what? The fern? What… fern? Hector, is everything all right?”

Hector slapped himself inwardly. He had meant to keep the infinity fern a secret.

“Uh, nothing. I- I meant- Fernandez. Dante Fernandez. He, uh, he…”

Dante looked at Hector strangely. “I did what? Hector, is this about the-”

Hector sighed resignedly. Eventually, he had to tell someone about the strange plant and its even stranger properties. “Flores, Dante, I… is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

***

Two minutes passed as Hector was led to an upstairs room overlooking the gravel parking lot where the four vehicles sat. The room was empty of all but dust, cobwebs, and three crates full of a fine, white, crystalline powder labeled “Cane Sugar.” Hector was pretty sure the vast majority of the substance was not, in fact, cane sugar, but he didn’t mention it. When Dante and Flores were comfortably situated on two of the crates, Hector shifted his feet uncomfortably.

“Yes, Flores, a fern.”

Seconds went by in silence as the two-person audience attempted to comprehend this profound statement. Finally Flores managed a simple “What?”

Hector proceeded to explain in full the discovery of the fern, his concussion-like symptoms after injecting it, what happened at the police raid and how he woke up the day after, perfectly well. With each syllable uttered, Flores and Dante’s disbelief only increased. Hector told of the designated title “Mexican infinity fern” and the Mayan mythology surrounding the plant. When he mentioned the two flashback-like dreams he had experienced, Dante finally interjected.

“So let me get this straight, amigo. You’re saying a fern brought you back to life?!”

Hector sighed. “There’s no other explanation. Flores, you saw plainly that I was shot.” Removing his shirt, he showed them the absence of any wound near his sternum. His leg and forehead were also intact. “I left my other shirt at my house, but you can see the bullet-hole in it.”

Flores stared in amazement. “I- I- well, frankly, I wouldn’t believe you, if I hadn’t seen you shot so many times… Hector, this is- this- it’s the greatest scientific discovery in history! We could- if it really does what you say it does-” The breadth of possibilities filled the three men’s minds like the sea fills the- well, the part of the sea that isn’t water. Suddenly, Flores turned to Hector with a sharp glance.

“Where is the plant?”