And if that happens, I need to be as far away from this horrible place as I can be. I head for the large staircase and glance to the left, looking at one of the largest of the liquid filled tubes. It’s nearly fifteen feet tall, and it’s occupied. The shape inside makes me pause.
It’s not human. For a moment, I mistake it for one of the oversized centipedes, but it’s not even a body.
It’s a body part, the likes of which I have only ever seen once.
In Tartarus.
Cronus’s tail.
The long, scorpion-like tail and stinger are impossible to mistake. For a moment, I’m filled with dread. Did Cronus trick me? Was he captured and experimented on? Both of these concerns are quickly discounted. Cronus couldn’t have been taken here, dismantled and pickled before I got here. The timing is all off and the scent of his blood would still hang in the air. This place hasn’t been used in some time.
The tail belongs to someone else.
Or, like all of my dead duplicates, it was grown here. But for what purpose?
A question for another day, I decide. But I can’t let this appendage be used for anything sinister, so I climb up on top of one of the Nephilim-sized operating tables and whack the glass with Whipsnap’s mace. The cylinder shatters, spilling gouts of purple fluid, and the tail, onto the floor.
As the liquid spreads toward the staircase, I leap from tabletop to tabletop. I beat the purple fluid to the staircase by a few feet, and as I start down the stairs, the trickling sound of flowing liquid follows. I quickly reach the crack through which I entered the smooth tunnel and slip back into the craggy, rough underworld. As I backtrack through the tunnel, I feel calmer, more in control, but the disturbing discoveries I made in the lab haunt me like specters.
14
I head up through the underground as quickly as I can. Not just because I want to reach the surface, but because I know time moves more slowly the deeper you are. If I linger in the depths too long, the conflict on the surface will flash past before my arrival. There is no rhyme or reason to my path; I’m just heading up. But after miles of walking, it happens. I recognize a tunnel. I’m not far from New Jericho. And from there, it’s an easy trek to the surface and then…Clark Station 1? Clark Station 2?
Part of me says this is a very bad idea. My nostalgia has made me predictable before. It’s how Ninnis found me. It’s also what led to Tobias’s death. I might walk into a trap. That said, no one knows I’m here. Ninnis and the Nephilim, if they’re even still on Antarctica, won’t be looking for me. And both Em and Kainda are smart enough to not return to those places. Not for long anyway. But maybe long enough to leave a clue. It’s the only starting place I have that might help me find my friends, and help. As much as I’d like to finish my journey, and fight, without endangering anyone else I care about, it’s just not possible. I need help.
To find the Jericho Shofar, I first need to locate Hades. But I have no idea where to find him. I assume he resides at the Olympus citadel, like the other faux-Olympian-god Nephilim, but I’ve never been there. I need a guide. And without my powers, I’ll need back-up. Significant back-up. I was able to kill Ull using my powers, but I’m fairly certain such a thing won’t be possible without them. Even with Em and Kainda fighting with me, I doubt we could manage to slay even one of the warriors.
But this is my fate, so I strike out for New Jericho, and for the surface. My thoughts drift to Pilgrim’s Progress. Christian faced trials along his path, and accepted aid from others to overcome those trials. But the pearly gates that were his ultimate destination are a far cry from the bloodshed that likely waits at the end of my path. Still, I see no alternative and continue on the path laid out before me, which for now, leads ever upward.
Several hours later, I’m standing at the top of what was once a three hundred foot waterfall. I jumped from its ledge to escape the hunter, Preeg. Using my control over the wind, I slowed my fall and survived. Preeg leapt after me and died on impact. If I were to make the same leap now, without my powers, I would share his fate. That is, if the massive chamber containing the ruins of New Jericho weren’t flooded. The three hundred foot drop to the water’s surface has been reduced to twenty. Not even the tallest temple of New Jericho is visible. While I’m happy to not have to walk through the ruins and past the statue and gravesite of my former master, the Nephilim known as Ull, this also puts a damper in my plans. The tunnel I had planned to take to the surface is now under hundreds of feet of water.
A distant roar reminds me that there is a waterfall on the other side of the chamber. By the sound of it, it’s pumping more water than ever before. The cliff edge I’m standing on was also a waterfall at one time, but it’s now dry, its water source either gone or redirected. The flooding must be coming primarily from the other waterfall, which is fed by meltwater from the surface.
That’s a lot of melted water.
Steeling myself for the cold water, I dive into the lake. I arch my body and return quickly to the surface, taking fast, shallow breaths. There was a time when it took me twenty minutes to jump into a pool in the middle of the summer. And when I did, I would holler about how cold the water felt. Swim, my father would tell me, kick your legs and you’ll warm up. I never listened. I would dog paddle to the ladder, yank myself out, wrap up in a towel and help myself to potato chips and a Coke like they were a reward earned in battle. But I take his advice now. I point myself in the right direction, and swim for all I’m worth.
When I reach the other side, I’m exhausted. Few things wear the body down like a long swim. And I can’t stay in the water. Treading water will only make me more tired, and if I lose consciousness, I could slip beneath the surface and drown. But the only escape is the waterfall. And it rages.
Undeterred, I swim around the water pouring out of the gap in the solid stone wall. The surface is smooth and slick with moisture. Even the strongest hunter couldn’t climb this surface—that is, unless, they have climbing claws capable of clinging to the minutest blemishes in the stone. I put the climbing claws on my hands, reach up and drag the first one down against the stone until it catches on something. I yank myself up, all of my weight pulling on that one arm and the feeder teeth. Luckily, the Nephilim have strong bones, and my conditioned arms, while tired, are up to the task.
The rest of my body, however, is straining. The shallow incision across my chest, given to me by the now dead thinker abomination, stings sharply with every twitch of muscle. The wound scabbed over quickly, so I never gave it much attention. The intense pain makes me think I should have. The sealed wound has been soaking in the lake water. It might have reopened when I was swimming. Could be deeper than I first thought, too.
Later, I tell myself. Right now, I have to climb.
I pull myself up the wall slowly, dragging the claws, finding a hold and pulling myself up again and again until I’ve covered fifty feet. The pain in my chest is intense, but I can’t let it distract me now. I’m focused. Determined. And possibly, at a dead end.
The waterfall roars to my left. There is no ledge to step on and entering the water here is impossible. The strong current would yank me back into the lake and I lack the strength to repeat the climb. I scuttle across the wall, clinging to it with the climbing claws, and maneuver myself so I’m above the waterline. As I round the bend into the tunnel, I find footholds big enough for my toes and moving becomes easier. A few minutes later, I’m free of the wall, standing on the shore of a river that is at least ten feet deeper than I remember.
I turn my head up river and smell, searching the air for signs of life, human or otherwise. At first, I detect nothing. No blood. No rot. Nothing.
But then, there’s something faint. Something out of place. It’s earthy, but not stone. It’s more like dirt. Like soil. Damp and fragrant.
Like spring.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply. A blanket of air rushes past, pushed by the river. It carries the scent of vegetation, flowers and water. It smells like…l
ife. And then I feel it.
The air.
It’s warm.
15
To say I’m confused is an understatement. The air flowing through this tunnel should be icy cold. Granted, I couldn’t feel the temperature during my previous time here, but the science—
My eyes pop open as I remember the cause. When I bonded with Nephil, he reached out and became bonded with the Earth. The bond lasted just a moment, but it was long enough for him to reposition Antarctica at the equator. Billions died. I sensed it. But I hoped it wasn’t true. But now there can be no doubt. The world has been remade. Antarktos has thawed under an equatorial sun. It explains the flooding. The air. The smell. And the disappearance of most subterranean species.
They’ve headed to the surface.
Back to the surface.
Most of the creatures eking out a living in the underground were originally surface dwellers. Like the Nephilim, when the continent froze, they moved beneath the surface. If not for the strange properties of this continent, they would have most likely died out long ago. But they are once again enjoying their time in the sun.
The sun.
I haven’t seen it in years. And as I head for the surface, following tunnels I know well, I’m filled with a sense of dread. The feeling is similar to what I felt when I was first dragged underground by Ninnis. The surface is an unfamiliar world now, even more so now that the snow is melting.
When I reach the final tunnel leading outside, I pause. There’s the crack where I hid the Polaroid photo of Mira and me. Not far away is the section of wall upon which I carved the words, “I forgive you,” for Ninnis. The words are illegible now, scratched away, most likely by Ninnis himself. Up ahead is the tunnel exit through which I would normally see a deep blue sky. Now the sky is full of thick, dark clouds. Thunderheads. The kind you see in New England in late spring.
The scent of ozone lingers in the air. Lightning, I think, just before the sky flickers with a brilliance that makes me shout in pain. The dark clouds had made the light of day bearable, but the sudden flash is as bright as the sun. I clench my eyes shut, holding my hands over them, and I see the bright green image of a lightning streak as though it’s etched into my eyelids.
Everything about my return to the surface feels awful. That is, until the booming thunder rolls past, vibrating the ground beneath me. It’s like Behemoth has just fallen down next to me. The power in that rumble brings a smile to my face. I used to lie on my bed and watch thunderstorms, as they swept past and out to sea. I’ve missed them.
After donning my sunglasses, I inch toward the surface. I’m sure I look like a fool—a long haired, Tarzan-like, bearded teenager wearing sunglasses. But unlike during my years in school, there will be no one around to point out my ridiculous state. As I near the end of the tunnel, light fills the sky again. I squint against the light, but the dark sunglasses take the edge off.
Even with the cloud cover, when I step out of the tunnel, the daylight hurts. I close my eyes as I step out into the world. The first thing I notice is the land beneath my feet. It’s soft and squishy, like the remains of some dead creature. Through squinted eyes, I look down and see a dark goop pushing up between my toes.
Mud.
I crouch and scoop some of the soft earth into my hand. The grainy wetness feels similar to the insides of a centipede. I bring it to my nose and inhale slowly and deeply. The scent triggers memories. Playing in the back yard with Justin. Gardening with my mom. Exploring a swamp with my father.
I wasn’t dreading the surface. I was dreading the memories a thawed Antarctica would bring. Just the smell of mud is potent enough to send me back in time. It’s not that I don’t want to remember, or that the memories are bad, it’s that they hurt. I’ve been here for more than twenty years, even though from my perspective it’s been closer to three. I can’t return to the life I knew. It’s gone for good and now, thanks to Nephil’s repositioning of the world, potentially destroyed. My parents could be dead. And if I give these things any attention, I will enter my own personal Slough of Despond.
I flick the mud off my hand and stand up. My eyes slowly acclimate to the sunglass-darkened, cloud-dimmed daylight. I look up and find the world remade.
Where a glacier once slid slowly into the ocean, there is now a lush, green valley. A variety of tall trees, few of which I recognize, cover the land. The barren, frozen desert of Antarctica is now a thick, green jungle.
How is this possible? I think. Cronus said I’d been away for just three months. And my time in the deep underworld was brief. It couldn’t have added more than a few more weeks. These trees couldn’t have sprung up so quickly. This looks more like twenty years worth of growth!
Have I been gone for another twenty years? My stomach twists at the idea. Not only would my parents certainly be dead, but the outside world would have been dominated by the Nephilim long ago. Em, Kainda and Luca will all be adults, if they’re even still alive.
Don’t get distracted, I tell myself. You don’t have the answers. Stay out of the Slough.
I step into the jungle, heading downhill to where Clark Station 2 once stood. The thick canopy of large leaves far above is a relief. It blocks out so much of the light that I’m able to take off my sunglasses. It’s almost like the under-ground, but above the ground. As my eyes continue to adjust, my senses that are unaffected by light, take in my surroundings. The smell of earthy decay reaches me first, and then the scent of animals, some familiar, some new. But there is no doubt that the denizens of the subterranean world now inhabit the surface. If the smell alone didn’t convince me, the sounds permeating the jungle would have. Though I have yet to see a living creature, I can hear them loud and clear. A cresty barks in the distance. Other creatures call out warnings as the hunt plays out. All around, I hear birds.
There were no birds in the underworld, so where did they come from? I’ve read that birds can sense things like volcanic eruptions and earthquakes, just before they strike. The birds take to the sky. If the same thing happened when the Earth’s crust shifted, it’s possible that the world slipped by beneath the airborne birds and they found themselves transported to a new continent. I know my theory is sound when the distinct red, blue and yellow plumage of a macaw flaps past overhead. The bird is a native of Brazil. It must feel right at home in this new rainforest.
Advancing carefully and quietly, I move down the grade, deeper into the forest, where the trees grow to impossible heights that could easily conceal an army of Nephilim. When I’ve covered the precise distance between the cave exit and Clark Station 2, I stop. There’s a tree where the metal hangar-like station should be.
I creep forward. Maybe the land has changed? Maybe it was pulled away by ice as it flowed out to sea. It seems unlikely, because ice melted by the sun would melt from the top down and the buried structure would have been freed from it slowly and gently.
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.”
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