Several needs strike me all at once. In the three months I spent in Tartarus, I neither ate nor drank. Sustenance was not required there. I slide down to the water’s edge, dip my good arm into the frigid water and cup several mouthfuls to my lips. While I’d like to dunk my head in the water and drink until my belly distends, I remember my hunter discipline and ration it out, careful not to shock my dehydrated system. After drinking, I wash the dry blood from my arm. The river sweeps the red powder downstream. A predator is eventually going to come calling.
Momentarily sated, I slide back up the bank and turn my attention to the centipede. The small knife I carry is quite sharp. It’s the perfect tool for separating the sinewy flesh that holds the centipede’s shell together. I carve along both sides, and then reach under the base of the carapace, which was severed from the head when I crushed it. With a quick yank, three feet of segmented centipede carapace peels away, revealing a row of segmented dollops of rank, white flesh. At first glance, the meat looks solid, like lobster, but when removed from the body, it turns to something like pasty oatmeal slathered in lard.
I scoop some of the flesh paste onto my fingers and rub it over the wounds inflicted by the centipede. It’s disgusting, but the flesh expedites healing and fights infection. With the wounds covered, I flick the paste off my hand and wrap my arm with cloth bandages I’ve used in the past.
My wounds have been tended to. My thirst has been quenched. All that’s left is my hunger. I scoop out a larger wad of centi-flesh and slop it into my mouth. I wince at the flavor. The normally offensive food is bad enough when eaten regularly, but after three months without food, it’s downright vile. After swallowing the mouthful, I nearly throw up, but manage to keep it, and three more bites down. As I eat, I remember the last time I had this meal, with Em, just before facing Ninnis and Nephil at the gates of Tartarus. Centipede is far more bearable when shared with a friend. At least then, you can laugh at each other’s disgusted expressions.
Thinking of Em gets me to my feet. I stretch and twist my body in preparation for traveling in the underground. I’m still cold, but it pales in comparison to the chill experienced in Tartarus. I can manage it, I tell myself, and I can always build a fire. Dung is the fire fuel of the underworld, and it’s usually not hard to find. Feeling slightly more prepared for the journey ahead, I look to the stone wall, find a fissure and slip inside.
Moving through the underworld puts me at ease. It’s like returning home after a long vacation. Its familiarity is welcome. Now if only I had a destination.
I need to go up. To the surface. It’s where Em and Luca will be hiding. But Antarktos is the size of the United States. Finding someone on the surface could take a lifetime. Maybe longer. Especially if they’re hiding and skilled at it. Even if I did know where they were, I don’t know where I am. I’ve never been in this part of the subterranean world. But I’ve got a good sense of direction, even without the sun to guide me. And sooner or later, I’m bound to come across a tunnel I recognize.
But everything seems different. Not only are these tunnels unfamiliar, but the scents of the underworld are off. Actually, they’re gone. I should be able to smell traces of animal feces, urine, fungi and blood almost everywhere. Fresh blood stands out from the rest, but there is always an underlying stench of life in the underworld. But there is none of that now. It’s like the whole place has been scrubbed clean.
Could the flood that killed Behemoth have affected the entire underworld? Could everything be dead?
No. I’d smell the decay.
Unless everything were swept away.
But to where? There would be pockets of trapped flesh everywhere. The underworld would reek of death, even three months later. No, this is different. I think everything, and everyone, has left. All the flood did was clean away the filth.
But not all of it. A strange odor reaches my nose. It’s like a mix between Nephilim blood and something antiseptic. Or chemical. It’s a smell that makes no sense in the underworld. Curious, I follow the scent path and exit into a large, unnatural tunnel leading up at a steep angle. The walls are smooth and barren of decoration except for two lines of glowing yellow stones spaced four feet apart. A large staircase twisting up through the tunnel sports four-foot tall steps—sized for a Nephilim warrior. A second staircase, with steps sized for human beings, runs parallel.
The tunnel is curved, so I can’t see what lies in either direction, but I sense up is the way to go, and I begin my ascent. Despite the odd smell, I haven’t detected any trace of something living. The Nephilim blood is disconcerting, but it smells old. Dry and powerless. Still, I keep a hand on Whipsnap, just in case.
The smooth stairs, so unlike the rest of the world, feel strange beneath my feet. In fact, everything about this tunnel is odd. I run my hand along the wall as I follow the steps up. The surface feels polished. Like velvet. It speaks of a precision I didn’t believe the Nephilim capable of. They’re more brutish. And violent. More likely to create a tunnel by smashing the stone with their bare hands than something so…clean.
The feeling of cleanliness increases. The tunnel feels more than clean.
It feels sterile.
I reach the top of the stairs and quickly understand why. Though to say I understand what I’m looking at isn’t accurate, because it makes no sense.
12
The space is more like a modern room than a cavern, in that it, like the tunnel, was carved from the stone with precision. It’s a giant rectangle, fifty feet tall, maybe two hundred wide and three times as long. The ninety degree angles where the walls meet each other, the floor, and the ceiling are all perfect, and seamless, hewn right out of the solid stone as though with lasers. Rows of oversized light bulbs, like those found in the library of Asgard, line the ceiling and cast the room in light so bright that it stings my eyes.
Why Nephilim would require such bright light is beyond me. Like other denizens of the underworld, they have grown accustomed to the dark. I fish around in one of my pouches and dig out my sunglasses. After putting them on, I check out the rest of the room.
Rows of large glass containers full of purple liquid line the walls. But that’s not what’s strangest about them. They appear to be attached to some kind of machine. A modern machine built of metal, each with a terminal that looks like…a computer, but far more modern than anything I saw in 1988—the year I was taken from the world outside. The size of the stations is also confusing. They look like they were built for humans.
Not humans, I realize.
Thinkers.
The thinkers are Nephilim who are renowned for tinkering with living things, and are apparently technologically advanced. While I haven’t seen a thinker before, judging by the size of the terminals, they must be similar to the gatherers and seekers, whose lithe bodies, large egg-shaped heads and oval eyes give them an alien appearance.
The center of the room holds lines of tables, some large enough to hold a thirty foot Nephilim warrior. Some small enough for a human child. But all of them are just a few feet off the floor. And all of them have troughs running around the edges. To siphon away blood, I think. Operating tables.
This is a laboratory!
As I walk into the room, I see purple stains around many of the largest tables and around the drains in the floor. Several warriors recently went under the knife. But why? Nephilim are impervious to harm. For what reason would they need surgery? Knowing no answers would come from this line of questioning, I move deeper into the lab. To my left, the purple liquid-filled tanks grow smaller, as do the tables to my right. The space is very organized.
Thinkers, like human thinkers—scientists, doctors, philosophizers—appear to crave order on the level of someone with obsessive compulsive disorder. Everything about this place is in order. Symmetrical. Which I normally appreciate. When I was five, I had these flat wooden shapes. I sorted them by shape and color and arranged them into symmetrical patterns that my parents would tape together. I’ve always ap
preciated symmetry, but here, in the underworld, I find it unnerving.
Though not nearly as unnerving as what I see next. A body. It floats in one of the smaller purple tanks. I can’t take my eyes away from it as I walk closer. It appears to be a child, free floating in the purple liquid, which I now realize must be diluted Nephilim blood. When an operation is complete, the subject, if needed, can be immersed in a bath of healing Nephilim blood. I look at the still form of the body inside the tank as it slowly rotates. Apparently, this one couldn’t be saved by the blood of the Nephilim.
The body is upside down and spinning, like there’s a gentle current in the tank. I can hear the whir of equipment working. There must be a filtration system in each tank, but they’re efficient and well maintained. I can barely hear the sound. The face comes into view and I step back. The eyes are big and black, like a gatherer’s. The body is skinny, also like a gatherer’s, but that appears to be more from starvation than natural physiology. In fact, the ribcage and other bone structures appear to be human.
I look closer and gasp. While the face has the eyes and non-existent nose of a gatherer, it has human lips. They’re pink and full in a way I recognize.
My parents call them Vincent lips.
My lips.
“No,” I whisper. This is one of the failed attempts to duplicate me. “No…”
I spin around, looking at the other tanks. There are a few more on this wall holding bodies, but every single tank on the far wall is also full. Maybe fifty bodies. Fifty dead copies of me.
This is where Xin was created.
And Luca.
And the four other duplicates I have yet to meet.
As anger wells inside me, I turn to the far side of the room and find several surfaces covered with glass tubes, trays of surgical tools and odd-looking supplies whose function I can’t possibly guess. But what I can see is that they’re all neatly organized, waiting to be used by thinkers—Nephilim who have created and killed versions of me, again and again and again. I turn my anger toward their organized stations. I unclip Whipsnap and lash out. Glass shatters. Supplies fly through the air. My rage-filled shouts echo around me. Organization becomes chaos.
But while my vengeance is messy, it is far from satisfying.
That is, until I hear a shriek of despair.
I spin to face the newcomer who has just entered the lab from a small adjoining hallway. The figure is short for a Nephilim, about a foot shorter than me. Its body is concealed by a purple hooded cloak that also hides its face. But its head is the size of a large, egg-shaped watermelon.
Is this a thinker?
I steel my thoughts, preparing for a mental attack. I have no idea if the thinkers are capable of such a thing, but since the gatherers and seekers both can, I decide to ere on the side of caution.
But no mental attacks or communications come.
The thing just stands on the other side of the room, looking back and forth frantically at the destruction I’ve wrought. In fact, the thing doesn’t seem to notice me at all until, still filled with anger, I pick up a glass bottle and smash it against the wall.
The thing’s head snaps toward me. Then it starts walking in my direction. Walking is a generous word. It’s more of a shamble. And it’s speaking. Not to me. It’s more of an angry muttering, like a grandmother tired of loud teenagers. The voice is high and sharp, mixed with the occasional growl. As it moves across the floor, it steps through fields of broken glass, which crunches beneath its feet. A trail of purple bloody footprints forms in its wake. The glass cuts the flesh, but this is a Nephilim. It’s not only healing from the wounds quickly, but it’s also enjoying the pain.
As I take a defensive stance, I feel a prick on my own foot. I glance down and realize that I’m surrounded by glass too. But if I cut myself, I won’t be healing so quickly.
Clack, clack, clack. The thing reaches up and taps its fingertips across the top of a table as it walks past. The impacts sound hard, and I think the thing must have long hard fingernails. But when it closes to within twenty feet and taps its fingers on the next table, I get a look at the hand. Scalpel-like blades have been surgically inserted into each of the thing’s six fingers. Clack, clack, clack. The muttering intensifies. The tapping grows louder. More irritated.
The small Nephilim is trying to intimidate me. And it’s working.
“Stop!” I shout.
The thing’s head twitches up slightly. I can feel the thing looking at my face, but its eyes are hidden in the stark shadow created by the bright overhead lights. I can see its mouth now, small, like a gatherer’s, but full of little, almost needle-like, teeth. The mouth opens and lets out a laugh.
The fact that it finds me funny, aggravates me. I point the blade end of Whipsnap toward its head. Doesn’t this Nephilim know who I am? What I’m capable of? Granted, I rejected Nephil, so I’m no longer his vessel, or the Lord of the Nephilim. But I am the guy strong enough to reject Nephil, who entered Tartarus and walked back out. I’m far from cocky, but I’m pretty sure that after my last display of power, even a warrior might be a little more cautious than this little thinker.
Which means it knows something that I don’t.
Something that it finds funny.
Which I hate. And it seems to know that, because it giggles again.
Clack, clack, clack.
“Who are you?” I demand.
Clack, clack, clack.
When I get no answer, I sweep Whipsnap out in a wide arc, shattering more glass containers and knocking a tray of large-toothed saws to the floor.
The thing shrieks at me, all humor gone.
I ask again, “Who are you?”
It giggles again, this time more subdued. As I target another tabletop, the small Nephilim reaches up and takes hold of its cloak. The bladed fingertips slice into the thick fabric like it’s not even there. The hood peels back and the thing’s face is fully revealed. With the horrible punch line to the thing’s inside joke revealed, it starts laughing again.
Then it attacks.
13
I have no powers.
My arm is injured.
I’m exhausted.
But none of these things are as dangerous to me right now as my distraction. It’s the eyes. They’re not big and oval and inhuman. They’re mine.
This creature, like everything else in this lab, is part me.
Aimee tried to warm me about the other four living duplicates. She was surprised by Xin’s actions, but held out no hope that the other four could be redeemed. And now, as I look into the light blue eyes that match mine, I see nothing but hatred. The tufts of stiff red hair growing from the prodigious head like stands of grass confirm its corruption. The sharp sting I feel as one of six razorblade fingertips traces a red line across my chest confirms its lethality.
The pain pulls me from my shocked state as the creature swipes at my gut, aiming to disgorge my innards. I block the strike with Whipsnap, spin into a crouch and after bending Whipsnap back, I let the mace end snap out. The strike is fluid, fast and as good as any hunter could achieve. And the results are better than the separate personalities of Ull and Solomon could hope for. Ull would have been all power and no direction. Solomon would have been on target, but lacking commitment. Whereas now, being whole, the blow is the best of both worlds.
The mace caves in the side of the thing’s head. It slumps over, falling into the large-toothed saw blades, some of which dig into its flesh. A killing blow.
If it were human.
As the creature stirs, I remember the color of its blood. Purple. Nephilim. Unlike Xin, whose blood is red, and very human, this half-me is Nephilim through and through. Which not only means I have no problem killing it, despite it having my eyes, but also means completing the task will be quite difficult.
Before it’s even fully healed, the thing lunges. Both bladed hands are outstretched and reaching for my legs. I have no doubt the razor fingers can sever flesh and bone, so I act quickly and
defensively, leaping away. Before I land, I remember the broken glass on the floor. Using Whipsnap like a miniature pole-vaulting pole, I push the mace into the floor and shove myself atop a human-sized operating table.
As I roll over and push myself up, I hear skittering glass. The creature is giving chase. And fast. I get my feet under me and jump away just as the thing lands on the table, gouging its claws across the stone surface.
I land on my feet this time and turn to strike the creature as it leaps toward me. But the thing is frozen atop the first table, looking down at the twelve lines scraped into the otherwise perfectly smooth surface. Its body quakes. And then it screams. Its small chest heaves as its blue eyes lock onto mine.
The continued destruction of this perfect lab enrages the thinker creation. It must have been trained as a thinker, or at least to value order like a thinker. But it was left behind as a caretaker. Or guardian. And right now, it is failing.
With a shriek, the creature dives at me, but falls short and smashes into the side of the table I’m standing on. Its anger makes it clumsy, I realize.
I jump to another, slightly larger, stone operating table where a row of hammers—each designed for a specific task—is lined up along the edge. As the thing leaps back up to a table top, I snatch up a hammer, take aim and whip it toward the ceiling. A sharp crash resounds as the hammer finds its mark on the side of one of the large light bulbs. Thick glass rains down from above and the light winks out. Though the effect on the overall luminosity of the room is negligible, the mess is horrendous.
When the small me-thing cries out, I think that one of the glass shards has landed in its eye or something, but when I look, the creature is unharmed. Just really, really angry. A purple tinged foam oozes from its mouth. Then it speaks, shouting Sumerian obscenities that spray the purple like one of those automatic lawn sprinklers that move from one side to the other tick, tick, tick, tick, pfffft, tick, tick tick.
The Last Hunter - Ascent (Book 3 of the Antarktos Saga) Page 7