Whump-bump.
The ground beneath my feet bubbles down under my weight and springs back up when I step off. I’ve stepped on something. Falling to my knees, I quickly brush away a layer of detritus and several inches of soil. When I’m done, I stare at my discovery. It’s a metal panel, ridged like the surface of Clark Station 2. Was it buried again? I wonder. But I quickly find the outer edges and lift the rusted metal from the ground.
A quick search of the surrounding area reveals more of the same. Clark Station 2 has been destroyed. There’s nothing left.
Sadness grips me. I’m not sure what I expected to find here. Maybe comfort in the familiar, or…the note. I’d forgotten about Mira’s note, but some part of me must have hoped to find it. But it’s long gone now, like Mira herself.
My thoughts turn to Clark Station 1. It’s just five miles from here. Not only is it the place of my birth, but it was also home to Luca, Em and Tobias for a time. If there are any clues to their location to be found, they’ll be there.
Moving fast, I begin a reckless charge through the jungle that will get me to Clark Station 1 in thirty minutes. I’m noisy and leaving a path that is easy to follow. Like I said, reckless. I already knew there are cresties hunting nearby. What I didn’t know was that a different sort of hunter now stalked the jungle—one equally as deadly as the ancient dinosaurs.
16
The man is as surprised by me, as I am by him. He spins around with wide eyes, like a child caught stealing cookies. His complexion and facial features look Arab, and his clothing is modern military—fatigues, boots and weapons. He’s got some kind of automatic weapon slung over his back and a handgun on his hip.
I didn’t see the man crouched by a tree and nearly bowled right into him. But my reflexes are fast and I lunge to the side, avoiding a collision that would have been painful. I roll back to my feet and spin toward the man with open hands—what I hope is still universal for “I mean you no harm.”
Unfortunately, he’s not of the same mind. When his hand comes up, it’s holding a handgun. He aims it at my chest, but doesn’t pull the trigger. He’s no doubt confused by the half-naked teenager standing before him. In all my time below ground, I never felt self-conscious about my scant clothing. Everyone underground dressed like this. Survival depended on it. But under this man’s bewildered gaze, I’m feeling wholly underdressed.
His eyes linger on the sharp blade and spiked mace attached to either side of my waist where Whipsnap is clipped.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say.
Something about my words enrages the man. I can only understand one word of his reply. “American.” And it sounds more like an accusation than a question. What has happened in the world that the first person I come across wants to kill me because I’m an American?
Rather than tempting fate, I shake my head, no, and say, “Antarctican.”
He seems to understand what I’m saying. Antarctica is Antarctica in any language. But as expected, the claim makes no sense to the man. With no way to elaborate verbally, I motion to my lack of clothing and repeat, “Antarctican.” I point to the earth beneath my feet. “Underground.”
Again, I think he understands because his face screws up like he’s just stepped in cresty dung.
He shouts a long string of words I can’t understand. I don’t know if he’s telling me to do something, telling me I’m an idiot or performing last rights before shooting me in the head. When I don’t react, he takes a step closer and waggles the gun angrily in my face. “Knees!” he says.
That, I understand. He wants me on my knees. And as fast as I am, I can’t outrun a bullet. With no powers to assist me, I have no choice but to comply. I drop to my knees, hands still raised.
He puts a hand to the back of his head, pantomiming what he wants me to do and shouts, “Hands!”
I place my hands behind my head and lock my fingers together. I’m not sure if I’m being taken prisoner, or if I’m about to be executed. I’m not even sure what this man is doing here. His presence is an enigma. If twenty more years had passed, and the outside world had been dominated, then there would be no way this man could be here. And he can’t be part of any kind of resistance, not with those weapons. Given his surprise by my appearance, I’d guess that he, and the world at large, has yet to encounter the Nephilim or even a single hunter.
There’s still time, I think. The sudden growth of this rainforest is a mystery, but no more strange than the half-human, half-demon monsters aiming to wipe humanity from the globe. If only I had a way to explain all this to the man. We’re on the same side. He just doesn’t know it yet!
With the gun aimed at my face, he steps closer. I feel uncomfortable staring into the barrel of the weapon. I cast my eyes downward. That’s when I see what the man was doing by the tree. There’s a grenade tied to the tree. The pin keeping it from detonating is attached to a taut wire stretched across the ground, and it’s tied to a second tree. The wire is only partially covered with leaf litter. The man must have been covering it when I showed up.
He shouts something at me, drawing my eyes back up. He’s leaning down, reaching out for Whipsnap. The gun is just inches from my face. He takes hold of the weapon—and tugs. He’s totally unprepared when Whipsnap detaches from my belt and springs to life in his hand. He stumbles backward and squeezes off a shot. The round zips over my head, but I don’t give it a second thought. Once the man recovers from his surprise, I have no doubt he’s going to shoot me.
I charge forward as the man brings the gun back down. When the barrel comes level with my face, I take hold of his hand and push up while ducking my head to the side. The second shot misses, but the violent report in my ear stuns me for a moment. The man takes advantage of my disorientation and whacks me in the side with Whipsnap.
Thankfully, the man has no idea how to wield the weapon of my creation properly and the blow is nothing more than a gentle thump. I keep the gun at bay with my left hand and take hold of Whipsnap’s shaft with my right. This might normally become a contest of strength, but I know my weapon, and despite the man’s tight grasp, I’m able to use it against him. With a quick twist and pull, the top end of Whipsnap bends. Careful not to use crushing force, I bring the mace down on the man’s head.
His grip on Whipsnap falls away. The gun falls to the ground, followed by the man. He’s not unconscious, but he’s stunned. He shakes his head and blinks his eyes. When blood trickles over his forehead, he reaches up and feels the wound, wincing as he touches it. His confusion melts to rage as he screams at me.
“Please!” I shout back, raising a single open hand to the man. “I don’t want to hurt you!”
But the man is beyond reason, even if he could understand what I’m saying. He reaches over his shoulder and starts to pull around his automatic weapon. If I allow him to do that, I’m a dead man. But what can I do? I don’t want to kill a human being. I don’t know if I could live with myself. A harder strike with either end of Whipsnap would kill the man. Then I remember my other weapons, ones I rarely have a need for when I’ve got Whipsnap.
I jump forward and punch the man hard in his face. Pain radiates up my arm, but the effect on him is much worse. He slumps to the ground, unmoving. I stand over him breathing heavily.
Why? I think. Why would this man want to kill me? He didn’t know who I am. Didn’t recognize me personally, or as anything that could be explained by his worldview. But here he is, armed for war, laying traps and ready to murder a perfect stranger. It’s just as twisted as anything I encountered during my time underground, but it makes less sense.
This is not the homecoming I had hoped for.
I take the man’s weapons and look them over. I don’t recognize the handgun, but the rifle is an AK-47. I consider keeping the weapons, but they don’t feel right. They’re designed for killing people, not Nephilim, and could only be useful in the hands of a skilled marksman, which I am not. Not with modern weapons anyway. Tobias trained me on his bow a few times, and
I was pretty good, but that was when I had the wind to assist my aim. I toss the weapons into the jungle in different directions. Removing the man’s weapons might be a death sentence, but I won’t be the one killing him. And I won’t have to wonder if he’s killed anyone else. I carefully cut the grenade free from the tree and wind up to toss it, but pause, wondering if I should keep it. While a gun won’t be effective against a Nephilim, a grenade could certainly do some damage. At least temporarily. But I’ve never used a grenade, and I have no idea how long it would take to explode. It’s being used with a tripwire, so maybe this variety detonates once the pin is pulled? With no way to find out, I decide to err on the side of safety and toss the grenade away.
I search the man’s body and find a knife, which is duller than mine, so I toss it. I’m surprised that he’s not carrying any other grenades. Then it occurs to me that he probably was carrying more grenades. There might be tripwires set up all through the jungle.
Going to have to be more careful, I think, and I look around me for anything that looks like a concealed wire. Finding nothing, I search the man’s pockets. He’s got a canteen of water and some dehydrated food supplies. Enough for just a few days, which makes me think he’s not alone out here, or he’s stashed the rest of his gear some place else. In his breast pocket, I find a folded piece of paper.
I unfold the paper. It expands to the size of a poster. In fact, it looks a lot like the poster of Antarctica that hung on my bedroom wall before Justin and I coated it in volcanic red dye. I can’t read the words. They’re all in Arabic, but the South Pole has been flagged.
Is this man traveling to the South Pole? He doesn’t seem like any explorer I’ve ever heard of. He’s more military than anything. After folding up the map, I place it in a belt pouch, return Whipsnap to my waist and without a second glance back at the unconscious man, resume my trek toward Clark Station 1, only much more slowly, and much more carefully.
I arrive fifteen minutes later and despite finding the place of my birth still standing, I also find it inhabited. And the squatters are decidedly not happy to see me.
17
Eight heads crane around in my direction. Fifteen black eyes stare at me, waiting for me to move. The one with a missing eye steps to the front of the pack, his head poking forward with each step. Brave for a turkuin, I think. The name ‘turkuin’ is my own. I’ve eaten three of them over the past years, and they’re pretty tasty, but they’re also rare in the underground. They’re skittish, running at the slightest hint of odor or shift in the breeze. That the one-eyed male, the largest of the bunch, is staring me down is strange.
Turkuins are, as my oh-so-creative name insinuates, something like a cross between a turkey and a penguin—on steroids. Their bodies are covered in tightly bunched, small feathers—white in the front and black in the back. They also have long, bright orange feathers over their eyes that wrap around the sides of their heads like some kind of sci-fi movie mascara. They’re usually about three feet tall, but they have powerful legs that make them fast, and sharp claws that make them dangerous. Their hooked beaks are also quite sharp. But turkuins are not at all aggressive.
Until now.
The male bobs his head and takes another step toward me. He’s acting like a male ostrich protecting his harem. The orange feathers over his eyes and on the side of his head flare out. He’s trying to intimidate me.
Me. A hunter.
Turkuins are normally skittish, but if they get a whiff of—or see—a hunter, they squawk in panic, bolting in whatever direction they’re facing. It’s the easiest way to catch them. Just jump out and watch as one inevitably careens into a wall and knocks itself silly.
So why is this turkuin not panicking? More than that, why does old one-eye here look like he’s about to attack me?
“I’d like to leave you alone,” I say to one-eye, “but I need to have a look inside.” The birds have built a nesting area inside Clark Station 1, gaining entrance through a large rusted out hole where the front door used to be.
I take hold of Whipsnap and pull. It springs open in my hand. The sudden appearance of a weapon should have been enough to sap the bird’s bravery, but it just stops for a moment, rotates its head back and forth and blinks its lone eye at me. Then it steps forward again and lets out a squawk that is nearly a growl. The feathers on its head shake and rattle. The seven other birds fan out and join the hunt.
I nearly laugh. The outside world equivalent might be a pack of snarling Chihuahuas. Then again, a pack of Chihuahuas could probably get in a few good bites. And these birds’ beaks are sharp enough to take off a finger or take a scoop out of an arm, never mind their claws, or the fact that I’ve never actually seen them fight. I’m not sure what to expect.
The predatory pack lowers their heads like stalking cats.
I shout, “Heeya! Heeya!” and shake Whipsnap at them.
Eight sets of orange feathers flare out and shake. It’s a rather spectacular display, the purpose of which still eludes me, that is, until they attack. The vibrant feathers held my gaze for just a moment, but it was long enough for me not to see the muscles in their legs coil. All eight birds rush me as one unit. One-eye leads the charge, followed by four on the ground. The other three leap into the air, flapping their feeble wings hard enough to carry them the distance to me.
The sudden and coordinated attack surprises me. I flinch and stumble back, nearly tripping over the ground. Clumsy!
In the moment before the birds reach me, I decide that for some reason I can’t fathom, these creatures either aren’t recognizing me as a hunter, or they have somehow forgotten why they feared hunters in the first place. Perhaps they’re inspired by the jungle setting. Or the very different magnetic field at the equator. The reason why they’re no longer afraid of a hunter isn’t important. What is important is that I give them a reason to fear one now.
As one-eye reaches me, he stabs out with his beak, but thanks to the one eye, his depth perception is all screwed up and he pecks the air a foot in front of me. I sidestep and bring Whipsnap’s blade down like a guillotine. One-eye’s head falls to the ground, stopping the other turkuins in their tracks. The three in the air spasm and fall ungracefully to the ground.
One-eye’s headless body keeps right on running until it smacks into a tree and flops over. The legs continue moving, spinning the body in rapid circles and spraying blood like a spin art toy. As the body slows to a twitchy stop, I calmly turn my head back to the flock. Their flared feathers fold slowly down. The birds lean their heads away from me, and take a few careful backward steps.
“Heeya!” I shout and the birds explode into a panicked retreat, squawking as they smash through the underbrush and disappear into the jungle.
“Well, one-eye,” I say, looking down at the severed head. “You kind of brought that on yourself. But don’t worry; I won’t let you go to waste.” I pick up the now motionless turkuin body and carry it to the entryway of Clark Station 1. The bird isn’t that heavy, maybe forty pounds, but when I place it on the ground next to the rusted out hole, I feel exhausted.
I lean against the metal wall and catch my breath. I’m soaked with sweat, too. A cold drip strikes my shoulder. It’s followed by another. And another. That’s when I notice a loud hiss from above. The hiss grows louder by the moment. I turn toward the source of the sound and see the canopy shaking. The hiss grows louder still, but is then drowned out by a massive boom.
The storm has arrived.
And suddenly, it’s on top of me.
The rainwater strikes the canopy first, filtering down to the forest floor as waterfalls pour from large leaves. The already dim forest floor grows darker. It’s as though night has fallen in the middle of the day.
I put my head under a nearby trickle of water falling from above and catch some of it in my mouth. After drinking several mouthfuls, I retrieve one-eye’s corpse and enter the dry interior of Clark Station 1. I’ll need to skin and gut one-eye before I can cook and dry his
flesh, all of which I can do fairly rapidly, but that can wait. Right now, I need to search for clues.
Clark Station 1 is in shambles. The first few rooms are missing walls. The contents of the rooms are wet and rotting, or rusted. Brightly colored splotches of mold cover nearly everything. Tobias’s room is non-existent, any trace of him is destroyed. There are bits of cloth here and there—the remnants of what the turkuins didn’t use to create their nests. Em’s room is the same. The room I lived in during my stay with my adopted family has a large hole in the ceiling through which gouts of rain now pour, and have done so several times in the past. A layer of foul smelling sludge coats the floor.
I’m about to give up when I notice a closed door. Luca’s room. If the door has remained closed all this time, the rot might be far less. I rush to the door, take hold of the handle and yank. Not only does the door open, but it also breaks free. My momentum pulls me back and I fall, taking the door with me. As I lay on the floor, bracing the door above my head, I realize I’ve made a few clumsy errors recently.
With my connection to the continent gone, am I becoming my old clumsy self again?
Pushing the door away takes some effort and I realize what’s happening. I’m tired. Really tired. Strangely tired.
I’ll sleep, I decide, when I’m done with my search.
My legs shake as I stand, and I frown. What’s happening to me?
Pushing past my growing exhaustion, I stumble into the room, bracing myself against the wall. There’s no hole in the ceiling, no water on the floor and no mold anywhere. Luca’s room has been spared. Not for much longer now that I’ve pulled the door off, but long enough for me to find a clue about where the others are, if there is even a clue to be found.
Despite the lack of rot, the room is in shambles, like there was a fight. The small desk is broken and tipped over. Luca’s rock collection is strewn on the floor. And the blankets from his bed dangle from where they snagged a screw in the wall.
The Last Hunter - Ascent (Book 3 of the Antarktos Saga) Page 9