I know who owns this bandana.
The dig site, its location on the continent and the scent of Old Spice permanently bonded to the fabric leaves no doubt in my mind.
Dr. Clark has been here.
Merrill.
My friend, Aimee’s husband, Mira’s father, has returned to Antarktos.
I try to push myself up. Look for other clues. But the world is spinning now. The fever has returned in force.
“Merrill,” I mumble.
The words of my dream return to me. “I’m here,” I say. “I’m right here.”
20
Memories mix with dreams. I vaguely remember standing up on the wall. The ocean lay in one direction and the endless stretch of gray wall, about eight feet across, led inland—the direction I picked. I stumbled along the top of the wall, nearly falling over the edge on more than one occasion. I kept my gaze turned down from the sun, but even with the sunglasses on, the reflected light on the stones stung my eyes.
I have vague memories of strange sounds, distant and close. Popping like fireworks. Snapping tree limbs. The wind shifting through leaves. Screams. The sounds, perhaps distorted by my fever, sounded like ghosts haunting the endless jungle that hugged the wall on either side. Eventually, perhaps hours after beginning my delirious hike, the jungle began to encroach on the wall.
It has now entirely overtaken the structure. Tree limbs stretch over the wall from either side. Up ahead I can see where the jungle canopy envelops the wall like it’s a subway car moving underground. While it will be nice to be back in the shade, the limbs make moving more difficult as I have to climb over them. This might not normally pose a challenge, but in my current state, I find walking on even ground to be difficult, never mind an obstacle course.
I stumble and catch myself on a branch. I close my eyes for a moment, and when I open them again, the jungle is moving around me, spinning in slow circles. But within that spin, I see something wonderful.
A centipede. The foot long creature clings to a branch just a few feet ahead. Its head is twisted in my direction, its antennae twitching, and like all the other creatures from the underworld, it doesn’t flee from me, as it should. It looks identical to the underground variety of centipede, though there is a little bit of red in its shell now. Still, it must be the same species. I can use its flesh to ward off this infection. And since it’s not the giant-sized Behemoth-eating variety, I shouldn’t have any trouble catching it, that is, if I can focus on it for more than a moment.
I reach for Whipsnap, but find the weapon already in my hand. I vaguely remember using it as a walking stick. I would normally skewer the centipede through the head, ending its life quickly, but I can’t trust my aim. So I opt for a different tactic.
Moving slowly, with my eyes closed, I turn Whipsnap so the mace end is on top. I open my eyes and the world shifts from left to right. I close them again. And every time I open them, the shift begins anew. Assuming I’m seeing things right during that first fraction of a second, I open and close my eyes over and over, until I have a good sense of where the creature really is. Then I close my eyes, steady myself and strike.
The swing is fast and solid, connecting with a branch on the way down. There is a snap and then a clang as Whipsnap’s metal mace strikes the stone wall. I open my eyes to look, but I’m off balance from the strike, and I spill to the side. I drop my weapon on the wall as I careen over the side of it, but my descent is arrested by two thick branches that catch me under my armpits.
As my head clears, I push myself back onto the wall and look back at the tree whose branches saved my life. “Thank you, Ent,” I say with a delirious grin. If only I had an army of trees to help. Right now, all I have is a very dead, very squished, centipede. I kneel next to the shattered body, scooping its small amount of flesh out of its carapace and off the stone wall. When I have a handful, I rub it onto my chest wound. I can feel the rough scabbing break away as I rub the goop in, but that’s good. The centi-flesh needs to get into the wound.
The pain of the freshly opened wound is intense, but I finish the job, confident that the healing properties of the centipede’s meat will do its work. Exhausted and doubting my ability to navigate the congested path in my current state, I find a spot shaded by some large, palm-like leaves, and lay down with a branch under my head.
Hours later, more fireworks start. They’re far away, just echoes really. The finale comes with an unbelievable crescendo of pops. Am I really hearing this? I wonder. The sound is so out of place. I listen for more, lying with my face turned toward the shaded jungle, but hear nothing. Movement in my periphery—the sky—catches my attention. Without thinking, I look up. The bright blue sky makes me shout in pain and close my eyes. But in that brief look, I saw something.
A man.
Flying?
Not possible.
I replay the second-long image.
The man was dressed in beige, his arms and legs flailing.
Was he falling?
Couldn’t be. Not straight down anyway. There’s nothing to fall from. The motion was from right to left, but also downward. He was falling, but in an arc, like he was launched from a cannon.
Or thrown by something very large.
Then it hits me. The fireworks are gunshots. And if the man sailing by overhead was thrown… Modern man is meeting the Nephilim for the first time, and the results are exactly as I expected—disastrous.
I sit up, and I’m happy to find the world no longer spinning. I’m still feeling tired, and my chest is burning, but I recognize the healing pain as different from that of the infection. Thanks to the centipede’s sacrifice, I’ll be back to full health within a day. For now, I’m tired and slow, and I won’t be much good in a fight, but I need to find out who that man was. Based on his speed and direction, I’m pretty sure I can figure out where he landed.
Instead of scaling down the wall, I find a tree full of twisting branches and easily make my way down. Using the wall as a guideline, I turn in the direction the man flew, and begin my search.
The job is easier than I thought it would be. My health is returning, the ground beneath my feet is even for the most part and nothing tries to eat me. A hole in the canopy reveals where the man’s body re-entered the jungle. His body lies in a twisted heap, thirty feet beyond. His limbs are all broken, as are, I suspect, his spine and nearly every other bone in his body. But somehow, his face escaped without much more than a few scrapes.
Crouching next to him, I look at his closed eyes. He has Asian features, but I’m not sure what country he’s from until I see the red flag. Chinese. The man’s uniform looks like any average soldier’s, designed for trekking through the jungle, but the single star on his shoulder identify him as a low ranking general.
What is a Chinese general doing on Antarktos?
Avoiding the blood soaked into his uniform, I search his pockets for clues. The first thing I find is his identification. It looks official, but most of it is in Chinese. The only English lettering I see is his name. I read it aloud. “Zhou Kuan-Yin. What are you doing here, General?”
His other pockets reveal nothing, but I find a package of dried meat, a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. I toss the smokes, but keep the lighter and the food. The only pocket I haven’t checked is over his chest, and it’s covered in blood. But the boxy lump beneath the fabric hints at something worth finding.
Using a stick, I pry the pocket open and try to see what’s inside. All I can see is something shiny. Like plastic. I try to fish it out with the stick, but it’s not happening. Using the stick to hold the pocket open, I reach my other hand toward the pocket. I feel like I’m playing a game of Operation, trying to remove the funny bone without hitting the metal sides and setting off an unsettling buzzer. But the buzzer here is my nerves. I have dealt with a lot of dead creatures over the past few years, and even held Riodan’s dead body, but human blood is something I’m still not used to. My own, sure—there’s been an abundance of it spilled�
��but not someone else’s. No thanks. The smell alone is bad enough, but the sick angles of this man’s broken limbs and the knowledge that he was killed by a Nephilim, have me unsettled enough. Getting his blood on me would just be the last straw.
I find the hard plastic object with my thumb and index finger. I pull it out slowly until my finger scrapes across something sticky wet. “Gah!” I shout. I flinch and yank my hand out, flinging the thing onto the jungle floor.
After wiping my hand off on a leaf, I find the object freed from Zhou’s pocket. It’s hard white plastic with a rubber-sealed seam around the middle. Waterproof, I think. I flip the thing over, looking for blood, and finding none, I pick it up. It fits nicely in the palm of my hand. There are four small snap locks on each side of the rectangular case. I pop the locks and slowly open it.
There’s a device inside. It’s rectangular and has a shiny surface. I take it out of the case and flip it over. The back is smooth and black, but there are a few buttons on the thing’s shiny metal edges. I have no idea what it is, but I recognize the power symbol on one of the buttons.
I push it.
The device nearly falls from my hand as I jump in surprise when a swirling, blue logo appears on what I now know is a small screen. The color is more vivid than any TV I’ve ever seen and the image is far clearer.
It’s been more than twenty years, I remind myself. This is the future.
I smile at my caveman response to technology for a moment, and put my encyclopedic knowledge of computers to the task of figuring this thing out. Granted, my computer was an Apple II C and took up an entire desktop, but I knew how to use it better than my parents. Unfortunately for me, the menu that pops up is labeled in Chinese, so even if there was a keyboard on this thing, I don’t think typing in LIST or RUN is going to do any good. I try to look through the menu with the buttons on the side, but nothing happens. I’m about to give up on the thing when I decide to access a different knowledge-base: science fiction. This is the future after all. I’ve seen more than a few TV episodes and movies where computers are nothing more than hand held tablets…with touchable screens.
Could we really be that far? I wonder, and touch the screen with my finger. The icon blinks beneath my touch and a new menu opens. This one makes even less sense than the first. I click on a left facing arrow at the top of the screen, and I’m delighted by the device’s intuitive design. I look at the small icons and go through the list, hoping to find something that makes sense. I strike jackpot with the fourth icon.
It’s a map, or at least I think it is. It’s hard to tell, and there’s a blinking green dot at the center. “What is this?” I say to Zhou’s still, bent form.
Touching the screen, I’m able to slide the map back and forth, and up and down, but the green dot stays rooted in place. As I’m trying to figure out exactly what this is a map of, my thumb taps the screen. In the moment that both fingers touch the screen, the map image shrinks, revealing more terrain.
“Whoa!” I smile, glance up at Zhou and stop. It doesn’t feel right to smile next to the dead man’s body. So I collect the case and the food, and head back toward the wall, fiddling with the device as I walk. Repeating the motion with my thumb and index finger, I shrink the map repeatedly until I recognize it for what it is—Antarctica. And just like the Arab’s paper map, this one has a red dot blinking right at the South Pole.
Why is everyone trying to get to the South Pole? It’s not even the South Pole anymore.
If the red dot signifies the goal, what is the green dot? I wonder. By pinching my fingers together, I’m able to zoom back in on the green dot. As I’m walking and wondering, something happens. The green dot bounces ahead.
Why is the green dot moving?
My smile returns as I realize what it is and say, “No…” in disbelief.
I walk forward. Nothing happens.
So I run.
Fifty feet into my run, the green dot shifts again.
The green dot is me! Or, at least, this device. Not only is this a map, but it’s some kind of tracking device so you can see where you are and where you need to go. Ingenious! I continue forward, watching the green dot shift with me. I slow as inspiration strikes. I zoom out again, and shift the map to the left, and then to the right. And I see what I’m looking for.
A winding river that leads to a lake.
Like the one from my dream.
“I’m here,” the person said. “I’m right here.”
I begin my sprint anew, now knowing that it will eventually lead me to a river, and then the lake. “I’m coming,” I say.
21
The smell of blood hits me so strongly that I realize I’ve been so enraptured with watching my progress on the map that I missed the first hints of it on the breeze. Or perhaps I was just upwind of it? Doesn’t matter. Because I’m surrounded by the stench now.
I stop in my tracks and slowly pocket the maptrack—that’s what I’ve decided to call it. Not exactly creative, but it has a ring. With the device put away, I focus on my surroundings. The scent of blood is everywhere, which is probably because there are bodies everywhere. Hundreds of men lay scattered over the jungle floor, some crushed, some skewered on tree limbs and some in pieces. The savagery of the attacks reveals the enemy they faced to be Nephilim. The number of weapons I see laying about, along with thousands of scattered shell casings, means that these men were the source of what I mistook for fireworks. The amount of bullets zinging through the air must have been copious. Not even the cresties could stand against such power. But the Nephilim…they wouldn’t have any trouble. In fact, they would likely take pleasure in the pain.
The uniforms on the dead men match Zhou’s, so I know they’re Chinese. This must be where he was thrown from. I stand in silence for several minutes, just listening. I don’t hear anything except a faint rustling in the leaves. The Nephilim that did this have left. And every other living thing in the jungle is avoiding the area. Normally, the smell of death would attract scavengers like turkuins, but there’s another scent in the air keeping them at bay.
Nephilim blood.
A lot of it.
With Whipsnap in my hand, I walk into the field of dead. I try to keep my eyes off the slain men. Most of them are young, not much older than me. And their deaths were gruesome, to say the least. Dark spots of earth, damp with blood, act as a maze. I wind my way through the field of dead until I see it.
A Nephilim body.
I work my way toward the body and discover a purple pool of blood where the thing’s head should be. I search the area and find bits of Nephilim flesh clinging to tree trunks. My eyes widen with the realization that some kind of explosive took the monster’s head clean off. Yet another way to kill them: if you can’t reach the weak spot or drown them, blow their head to bits, weak spot and all.
That it took nearly two hundred men to kill one Nephilim isn’t very encouraging, though. And it was probably a lucky shot. But maybe, if men can be taught how to kill the Nephilim, they—we—might have a chance. Now if only I can find someone that isn’t dead or trying to kill me. That would be a good start.
I try to identify the Nephilim, but it’s hard without a head, and the armor made from feeder leather reveals nothing. What I do know is that it wasn’t alone. Large Nephilim footprints are everywhere. If I had to guess, I’d say there were four of them.
If the Nephilim know people are on Antarktos, and are out looking for them, I’m going to have to be more careful. No more watching myself on the maptrack. The thing must run on batteries anyway. Probably best to shut it off until I need to course correct. But I also need to do a better job of concealing myself. My pale white skin wasn’t a problem underground because there was rarely a long line of sight in the tunnels. But out here, where I can see for hundreds of feet, my white skin is a beacon. Well, it’s not quite anymore. I look down at my body. I wouldn’t say I’m tan, but I’m no longer quasi-translucent, either. Nor am I sunburned, which is odd, but not som
ething I’m going to complain about.
It takes ten minutes, but I find a dead soldier who is in one piece and remove his backpack. Most of the items inside are crushed and ruined, but there is more dried food—fruit this time—and an olive green poncho. Perfect. I take the poncho and throw it over my head. The plastic texture feels funny on my skin, and the shifting sound it makes is annoying—especially with the hood up—but the green hue now covering my body will make for nice camouflage.
As the sun finally begins to set, I make my way out of the killing field and back into the jungle. I travel for several miles, stopping only when the sun has ducked fully below the horizon. I help myself to the dried meat. It’s surprisingly bland—I’ve had better underground—but at least it’s nourishing. I follow the meat with some of the dried fruit—apples, bananas, dates and raisins. The flavor feels so intense that I start laughing. I had forgotten how delightful sugar tastes! I eat half the package and force myself to stop. This isn’t the time to forget the discipline that kept me alive while living underground. That I learned how to ration my food from Ninnis is never a fond memory, but the lesson has served me well.
Some long dormant instinct tells me to sleep now that night has fallen. But I’m not really tired, and night is no longer a hindrance. The light of the moon and stars, even when filtered through the canopy, is more than enough for me to see by. And with my newly acquired poncho, I’ll be able to move swiftly without fear of being detected, at least not by men with guns. Nephilim and other underworld denizens will still be hunting. All the more reason to stay awake.
I set off at a run, occasionally checking my position on the maptrack. I angle my trajectory so that I’m closing in on the winding river, while moving up toward the lake, which, right now, is my destination.
I’m right here…
The Last Hunter - Collected Edition Page 49