After recovering from being startled by the man, Whitney realized he was the pastor. He had probably sat there, behind the podium, telling the congregation that God would save them. Seeing the water rush out to sea probably brought people in to the church seeking answers from a higher power, or perhaps just safety on higher ground. When the water rushed in, he would have realized death was imminent and probably talked about heaven, about how death was not the end for them. She pictured him sitting on his chair, watching the people die, one by one, as the cold seized their bodies and hearts. Tears came to Whitney’s eyes and she found a new respect for the pastor. He’d maintained his post until the end. She wondered if now, even after death, he would watch her die in the church turned mass tomb. She lit more candles.
“Don’t worry”—Whitney leaned over and read the nametag scrawled with black ink—“Pastor Jeff, I won’t be dying. Not today. Not here.”
Warmed by the heat from the candles, Whitney unpacked her sleeping bag to spend the night on the floor, hiding behind the podium between the pastor and his flock. It felt surreal to be surrounded by all that death, but Pastor Jeff’s peaceful face made her feel comforted, less isolated. She loathed being alone even more than being surrounded by dead bodies. She set up three more stations of candles, adding more light and heat to the room.
Ready to settle in for the night and maybe longer, Whitney sat in the chair next to the pastor and sighed. She looked over at him and took note of the Bible again. She hadn’t read the Bible since she was a child and thought that now might be a good time. Nothing else to read here, anyway, she thought. Taking hold of the Bible, Whitney gave it a tug. It slipped easily out of the pastor’s hands. She flipped through the pages and became overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the book.
Looking over at the placid face of the pastor, his cheeks and bald head reflecting the light, she said, “So, Pastor Jeff, where do you recommend I start?”
A voice from the past answered her. “Start at the beginning,” her father had said when she had asked him the same question twenty years ago.
She scanned the pages and found Genesis 1:1. She began reading. Without realizing how much time had passed, Whitney read the biblical accounts of creation, the flood, Cain and Abel, and the tower of Babel; all stories she had learned about as a child but which had become dulled in her memory over time. Reading them now, as an adult, she found them much more interesting and full of strange details. As she read through the life of Abraham and into the first pages of the Exodus account, she fell asleep.
Unknown hours later, Whitney opened her eyes. She didn’t move, breathe, or blink. Then the sound that woke her repeated: Clunk clunk clunk. Someone was inside the church, on the floor above. At first she wondered if one of the churchgoers had survived the freeze but knew it wasn’t possible. She’d searched every nook of the church and knew there was no one there; no one alive, anyway. Whoever was walking around had come through the steeple. The dull thud of footsteps grew louder then expanded in all directions. There was more than one person.
Listening to the footsteps, Whitney could hear three distinct patterns. They were searching—quickly. When Whitney had checked the upstairs rooms, her search had been thorough, seeking out useful supplies. But these people seemed rushed, as though they were looking for something specific. She felt a twinge of fear as she realized they might be looking for her. She had no idea how anyone would know she was there, but it was the only answer.
Not knowing the intentions of the people searching the church allowed her imagination to run wild. A year ago, Whitney had learned not to trust in people’s good nature. It had since become her practice to assume the worst of people and let them prove her wrong. This was no different. She assumed the worst case scenario was real—three men were coming to rape and kill her.
If that turned out to be true, they were in for a surprise. Whitney looked back at the pastor, his frozen expression unchanged. “Any good hiding places?” she whispered. She followed his dull frosted eyes back out to the pews where the congregation still sat in silent prayer. She swallowed in horror at the thought of it . . . but there weren’t any other options. “Thanks.”
Whitney snatched her 9mm and blew out the candles. She worked her way through the dark, to the third pew back. She shuffled into the pew, slid past a frosty pair of elderly women, their hands clasped tightly together, took a seat and bowed her head in prayer.
Chapter 15
The interior of the science tent had gone from an ascetic space that held Merrill’s notebooks to a cluttered mass of hastily organized specimen samples. Merrill cataloged every new species of plant and flower he came across. He even found two very small insects crawling about beneath some loose stones by the stream. He had yet to catch or even see one of the small creatures Vesuvius had trapped, but he was confident they would return.
He counted seventeen varieties of flowers, three grasses, and four larger plants that were sprouting fast. He had no idea what these plants would become, but the outer skin was firm and he could literally watch them grow. He’d sat and watched one for a half hour. During that time, it grew six inches and sprouted three leaves. Life was expanding on the thawed Antarctic continent like a sponge toy in a bowl of water.
It had been three days since Merrill had activated the GPS distress beacon, and he hadn’t even seen so much as a helicopter in the distance. He had intended to explore the exposed wall earlier but was afraid he might miss his rescue. He was beginning to think help might be a long time coming. There were more pressing matters in the world than plucking an old man from his self-inflicted exile. He was sure of that.
That morning, after collecting several new species of plants and placing them in the science tent, Merrill and Vesuvius climbed the valley switchback trail, now slippery with moss. At the top, Merrill could just make out the top of the wall. If the newly uncovered wall was designed similarly to the crumbling one within his valley, he guessed it was only a mile away.
Merrill took a swig from his canteen, which was filled with the glacial water trickling through the valley. It was cold and refreshing, unlike the now-tropical Antarctic air, which had laid down a thick blanket of humidity. Wiping his brow clean of sweat and condensation, Merrill whistled for Vesuvius to follow and headed for the wall.
The stone wall ran across the horizon, from the mountains to the Ross Sea. Merrill figured that its placement alone had helped it survive the great thaw. Had it been built along the coast, it would have been peeled away and strewn about as the glacier melted. As Merrill passed the one-mile mark, he began to rethink his distance to the wall and its overall size.
Rather than spend time contemplating the matter, he increased his pace. An hour and three miles later, Merrill began to see the details of the stones. He was almost there. He could tell even from a distance that the wall was massively tall. He looked down, noting the new species of flowers and grasses as he crossed an open field, and began jogging.
It had been a while since Merrill had gone for a run. He was happy that his body hadn’t fallen too badly out of shape and that the exertion wasn’t too taxing on his heart or lungs. As Merrill ran, he found himself speeding up with every step, allowing the sweet-smelling air to invigorate him. Vesuvius kept pace the entire time, his tongue flapping wetly to the side. If not for the sudden cool darkness of the wall’s shadow, he would have careened straight into it.
Merrill stopped ten feet from the wall and looked up.
“Oh, my . . .”
The wall stood twenty-five feet tall and was constructed using carved blocks of stone the size of station wagons, all fit perfectly, almost seamlessly, together. Merrill’s first thought was that no man or group of men could have made the wall without the use of modern technology. Then he remembered that many people said the same thing about the pyramids and the Great Wall of China. No, he thought, this is man made . . . but by whom?
Merrill guessed that the wall would have taken a massive slave force to build, and
that there should be evidence of such a mass of humanity. He felt a pang of nervousness as he realized it was very probable that the ice flow had carried all of those priceless artifacts out to sea. His life’s work may have just been scoured off the continent.
There must be something, Merrill thought. There has to be.
He turned to Vesuvius, who had kept a wary distance from the wall. Merrill’s eyes lit up upon seeing the dog. “Vesuvius! Get the bone!”
Vesuvius had a penchant for burying bones, tennis balls, and sticks. If given the command to unearth one of his previous treasures, the dog sniffed around until he discovered something worth digging at, even if it was a location he’d never been to before. He assumed something fun was buried somewhere. The dog didn’t disappoint. With his nose to the ground, Vesuvius began sniffing in a zigzag pattern that brought him close to the wall, then away and back again. If anything, the dog was thorough.
Five minutes later, Vesuvius barked happily and began digging. Mounds of dirt and new vegetation flew out from between the dog’s hind legs. His hole was a foot deep by the time Merrill arrived on the scene. Vesuvius paused to look at Merrill, barked, and continued digging. After another minute of fervent unearthing, the dog’s paws scratched at something solid.
“Vesuvius, heel.”
The dog obeyed instantly, knowing that his master would finish the job and reward him by tossing the object for him to fetch. Vesuvius watched from the edge of the hole, ears perked, as Merrill climbed in. Something was buried beneath the dirt. A small bit of something white had been exposed. Merrill started there, brushing the soil away. After clearing a long strip of the hard surface, Merrill paused and scratched his head. He had no idea what it was.
Placing his fingertips on the object’s cool surface, he ran them forward into the dirt he had yet to clear. He pushed through the dirt with his fingernails until he felt a rise in the object. It ended abruptly. Merrill locked his fingers around the end of the artifact and pulled. The ground still had a firm grasp, but Merrill felt it give a little. He bent his knees, gripped with his other hand, and pulled gently.
The object suddenly gave way and Merrill spilled backwards into the hole. When he righted himself, he saw something that boggled his mind. Vesuvius had a large five-foot-long bone clenched in his teeth and was dragging it out of the pit, growling as he did so. It was large enough to belong to any one of several dinosaur species, including Crylophosaurus, but the bone did not belong to any species of dinosaur. It was human.
A human femur, five feet long.
Chapter 16
Having read her share of adventure novels while waiting to capture a rare photo of some near-extinct creature, Whitney knew that most heroes felt a sense of reassurance when gripping their favorite weapon. Somehow the cold steel and weight of the thing gave them supernatural confidence. Wielding his single gun, the hero could do just about anything, often with only one shot remaining. She had twelve but was so nervous she doubted she could wound a water buffalo ten feet away. She was used to aiming a camera, not a gun, and the thought of shooting a bullet into something alive made her sick to her stomach.
But someone was coming for her. The three distinct sets of footsteps echoed through the sanctuary. Two were moving slowly; one was heading for the stairs.
Whitney opened her eyes wide and looked around the sanctuary. The room was pitch black. Windows were covered in snow that she knew rose up above the church’s roof and part way up the steeple. The snow formed a perfect barrier, blocking all light and sealing Whitney inside. The only way out was through the steeple, past her three hunters.
She squeezed the 9mm in her hands, longing for that heroic rush of confidence to sweep over her. The doors to the sanctuary squeaked open and slammed flat against the walls.
Though every sinew of her body told her to jump, to flee, to fire the gun, she sat as still as possible, willing her heart to stop pounding and her short quick breaths to remain silent. She took the chance to glance toward the doors. A tall figure wielding a flashlight stood in the doorway. From the broad shoulders and stance, she could tell it was a man. But he wasn’t moving, wasn’t searching the room with the light.
Whitney listened. Barely audible, even though the room was silent, was the sound of sniffing. The man was smelling the air. Damn it! Whitney thought. The candle smoke. He knew she was there.
The man stepped into the room, his booted foot clunking on the polished wooden floor. He stopped again and played the flashlight across the room, sweeping back and forth in slow, wide arcs. He did not react to the pitiful frozen congregation but kept searching, insistent.
Keeping her head bowed, Whitney did her best to appear as rock solid as everyone else. She knew if the man lingered on her face with the flashlight, he might notice her skin wasn’t glistening like those around her. If not, he might assume she’d left already.
The light crossed over her twice before settling at the front of the room, where it remained for several moments. He’d seen the pastor . . . the candles. But that proved nothing more than he already knew. Someone had been burning candles. For all he knew, it was the pastor’s last ditch effort to save himself. The man kept his light on the podium and clomped towards it, his boots heavy on the floor.
Whitney chanced another glance. The light seemed unbelievably bright and she felt naked, exposed to the world. Before returning her eyes to the floor, she noted what the man was carrying in his other hand—an assault rifle. It was large and foreboding. Suddenly her 9mm seemed impotent. If the man had been carrying a knife or bat, she and her twelve shots might have been able to escape, but she was out of her league. The man was most likely some New Hampshire hick survivalist, she thought. What he wanted was a mystery, but the gun in his hand led her to believe his intentions were less than noble.
She heard the man step up onto the stage. The clunk of metal on wood told her he’d put down the weapon. She contemplated shooting him. She’d been to the range a few times and was a decent shot. Though she was by no means a sharpshooter, she figured one of the twelve shots would hit the man . . . if she could keep her hands from shaking. No, she thought, I’d never make it past the other two people with him. Sitting tight, hoping she wasn’t discovered, was her best bet.
The man chuckled. “I know you’re here, chica.” The man had a thick Latino accent that was tinged with an air of bravado.
Great, Whitney thought, my Latin lover has arrived just in time. She stayed silent and kept her prayerful pose.
“The wax is still warm,” he said.
The man scanned the room with his flashlight, pausing on each body. When the light set on her, she felt pain throughout her body as every muscle clenched. Then the light moved on.
After a minute of searching, the man sighed, picked up his weapon, and moved to the front pew. He moved from left to right, tapping the cheeks of each frozen body with the butt of his metal flashlight. Clink, clink. He moved on. Clink, clink. After searching the front row of twenty-two people, the man moved more quickly. He started on the second row, tapping the faces of each victim, sometimes tapping only once.
The second row was finished in forty seconds. He started on the third row, her row, moving faster. Probably hoping to flush me out, Whitney thought. And it almost worked. Her legs longed to jump up and carry her like a cheetah toward the door, but her plan wouldn’t allow it. She remained rooted to the pew.
The man shuffled past the extended kneecaps of the frozen churchgoers like he had to pee before the sermon started. He was two bodies away from her. Clink, clink. Clink, clink. Thud, thud. The softness of the flashlight’s hard handle on her thawed flesh felt like a painful blow.
Then, with suddenness Whitney had never experienced, a feeling surged into her body. Confidence, strength, and ferocity coursed through her, carried by waves of adrenaline. Just as the man turned, she sprang from her place on the pew. One hand grasped the man’s weapon and pushed it away. Her other hand, the one gripping the 9mm, swung up. She plac
ed the barrel of the gun under the man’s chin and thrust upward.
“Drop the gun or I pull the trigger,” she said.
The man relaxed his grip on the weapon without saying a word. It fell between the pews with a loud clack.
“Now the flashlight.” She knew a heavy flashlight in the right hands could make a deadly weapon.
The flashlight fell into the lap of the woman seated next to Whitney. It landed at an upward angle, casting light on to both their faces. For the first time she could see the face of the man hunting her. His skin was dark and his wavy hair was slightly askew, probably from wearing winter gear outside. His eyes were dark brown and glowing. What bothered her most about his eyes was that they revealed no fear and reflected the smile that spread across his lips.
She couldn’t fathom what kind of man would smile while being one false move from getting a bullet in the head. He must be insane, Whitney thought. Better pull the trigger now, before he fights. She tightened her grip on the trigger.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the man said. “You could really hurt somebody with that thing.”
Whitney pushed the 9mm harder against the man’s throat. He gagged slightly.
“Give me one good reason not to,” Whitney said.
The man raised an eyebrow and his smile shot up on one side of his face. “If our date ends badly, you might not get lucky, eh?”
Whitney squeezed the trigger but her finger was stopped halfway by a booming voice. “Stand down and drop your weapon.”
Another man. Not Latino. Whitney looked toward the door without moving the 9mm away from the man’s neck. Standing in the doorway were two more people, a man and a woman, both aiming their weapons at Whitney. She might kill the Latino, but the other two would shred her before the man hit the floor. She was trapped.
“We don’t want to hurt you,” the big man said.
Antarktos Rising Page 6