Antarktos Rising

by Jeremy Robinson

  “Bullshit.”

  The man lowered his weapon and walked around the pews, calmly striding down the aisle toward her.

  “Stop. I don’t want to kill him.”

  The new man laughed lightly. “Easier said than done.”

  “What—”

  A blur of motion and a sharp pain in her wrist was all Whitney’s mind had time to register before the Latino had her gun in his hand, pointed at her face. “Like the man says, chica, easier said than done.”

  “Who the hell are you people? What do you want with me?”

  The big man placed his weapon on a nearby pew, set his flashlight down so his face could be seen, and extended his right hand. “Captain Stephen Wright, U.S. Special Forces.”

  She looked into Wright’s gray eyes and saw no ill will in them. He was telling the truth. “Are you a rescue team?”

  “No, Ms. Whitney, we’re here for you alone.”

  The Latino removed the 9mm from Whitney’s face, turned it around, and handed it back to her. His smile faltered. “Besides, chica, there is no one else left to rescue.”

  Chapter 17

  The daylight hours stretched longer and longer since the great quake shook Antarctica and melted the ice. Merrill had grown accustomed to working in the constant twilight that glowed on the continent’s horizon during this time of year, but now the days were as long as summer days in New Hampshire.

  Still the vegetation grew, sprouting faster than anything Merrill had ever seen or read about. The fastest growing trees he’d ever heard of were the Asian paulownia trees which grew about twenty feet per year. By the looks of it, some of the vegetation growing up here could outdo the paulownia without breaking a sweat . . . or a branch. It was almost as though the land were enchanted. An enchanted forest. Merrill smiled at the thought and shook his head.

  Several of the short tree species were now flowering, blooming crimson petals as vibrant as any rose. The sky was bright azure, dotted with cotton ball clouds. He’d been transported to paradise. If not for the many new species of biting and bloodsucking insects, the new Antarctica would soon become a tourist attraction, bringing the world’s resorts and theme parks in droves. The new trees would be cleared, the unique species displaced, and the shorelines coated in fresh sand, all for what? Antarctic Disney? A roller coaster? Phony thrills did nothing to further humanity.

  All the more reason to keep working, Merrill told himself.

  He’d returned to the wall, which had been grown over by thick purple moss, several times. At every return trip he sent Vesuvius searching for more bones. He never had to travel far. It seemed the poor oversized-man’s body hadn’t been too disturbed by the ice flow. They had found a humerus, a few metacarpals, and a radius, all belonging to the man’s left arm. There was evidence of a fracture halfway up the radius, but it had been set so well and healed so firmly that it was almost impossible to tell. It was only after scrutinizing the bone under a magnifying glass that he saw the distinct fracture line. His most profound and telling find had been the man’s lower mandible. Five teeth were still intact on the right side. The back two were jagged molars, but the next three were sharp, as though filed to a point. But there was no scoring, no evidence that they’d been filed. They had grown that way. This man, with his size and teeth, could have rent flesh from bone as easily as a lion.

  Unfortunately, Merrill and Vesuvius had yet to uncover another skeleton. Merrill would liked to have known if the man was a natural aberration or if there were others like him. He was a giant to be sure, like Goliath in the Bible. Based on the size of the femur, he would have stood at least twelve feet tall. That was several feet taller than history’s tallest recorded man, who didn’t quite top nine feet. For people that tall, physical activity was a challenge. Their unnatural size and weight contributed to early arthritis and other joint ailments, especially in the knees. Walking was sometimes difficult, to say nothing of the physical labor that must have gone into building the wall.

  It occurred to Merrill that the skeleton he’d uncovered might have been a king of sorts. If the man was an aberration and as immobile as Merrill believed he would be, people may have worshiped him as a god. He may very well have been carried everywhere. Why then would he have been left to die? A disaster? Merrill wondered if the man had been overseeing the construction of the wall when the continent flash froze so many thousand years ago.

  Merrill rubbed his temples. He was getting a headache. He stood up, looked away from the bones laid out on the desk, and stretched. Headaches weren’t normally a problem for Merrill, unless he forgot his reading glasses. But he was wearing them now. He removed the glasses, placed them on the desk, and walked out of the tent.

  His eyes fell to where Vesuvius lay. The dog’s position looked uncomfortable and his tongue hung out. “Vesuvius!” The dog didn’t move.

  Merrill knelt down next to Vesuvius and placed his hand on the dog’s chest. His breathing was slow and shallow. The tightness in Merrill’s own chest took his attention away from the dog, and he noticed that the scenery had changed again. The flowers which had sprouted from the tall branchless tree trunks that filled the valley had opened up wide. Thousands of them pumped out small plumes of yellow dust that filled the air.

  Pollen, Merrill thought. Vesuvius must be having a reaction. Merrill reached under the dog’s bulk and hoisted him up, intending to drag him back into the tent where he hoped the pollen wouldn’t find them. But the tightness in his chest spread up through his throat. Merrill felt his own airways becoming constricted.

  Merrill heaved himself and the dog back toward the tent in a panic. Every pull brought fresh pinpoints of light that danced in Merrill’s vision. As he approached the tent’s entrance, he felt consciousness slipping away. With one final effort, he pushed his wobbly legs to the limit and threw himself and Vesuvius into the tent. They landed in a heap, limbs entwined, both unconscious.

  When Merrill awoke he was unsure of the time, but given the failing light, he knew it was evening. He looked down at Vesuvius. “Hey, boy,” he said.

  The dog’s eyes opened, and he made eye contact with Merrill. Loud thumping filled the tent as the dog wagged his tail, smacking it on the floor. Merrill sat up. His head was still spinning, but the grip on his lungs had relaxed and he could breathe freely.

  Vesuvius sat upright like a bolt of lightning had struck him. His ears were raised, his eyebrows high.

  “What is it, Vesuvius?”

  The dog snarled then looked up at Merrill with a concerned expression. Merrill furrowed his brow. Only vacuum cleaners spooked him so.

  Merrill opened the tent and stepped outside. The world had gone and changed again. The trees had doubled in size, and from their tops sprouted several branches loaded with oval-shaped leaves. The canopy above was near impregnable. Only a few stabs of sunlight made it through. Had all this grown in one day, or had Merrill been unconscious overnight? He had no way of knowing, but the bubbling in his stomach told him the latter was more likely.

  The red flowers had fallen away, coating the newly formed forest floor. It was a red carpet fit for Hollywood’s finest. Vesuvius stepped next to Merrill, sniffing the ground and sneezing. He was still unsettled. The air was thick with smells of earth and vegetation. He could hear the nearby stream but could no longer see it. And the walls of the valley had disappeared, covered by the thick growth that showed no sign of slowing.

  Merrill noticed the hair on Vesuvius’s back rise. He’d never seen that before. The dog sensed something. Whatever primal instincts he retained from his wolf lineage were warning him of danger. But from what? Merrill scanned the surrounding area. He heard nothing, saw nothing, and smelled nothing new.

  A sound like a deep-voiced clucking chicken reverberated through the jungle. It was unlike anything Merrill had heard before, like a large mammal mimicking a birdcall. Then Merrill sensed it, too. The thing lurked in a patch of brush, not twenty yards away. Merrill could feel its eyes on him, appraising. It co
uldn’t be too large, concealed as it was by the bushes, but Merrill knew that some of the world’s most savage predators were its smallest.

  It occurred to Merrill that given the circumstances, every living creature that had recently emerged from dehydrated hibernation would be voraciously hungry. The most dangerous time to approach a grizzly bear was just after it emerged from its long winter sleep. The creatures in Antarctica had been sleeping for thousands of years. He imagined that every predator, perhaps even otherwise vegetarian creatures, would eat everything in sight. That put him and Vesuvius, two large, well-fed mammals, squarely on the menu.

  Merrill felt his muscles tighten as Vesuvius let out a series of savage barks. Then the creature exploded through the brush, clucking loudly. But the charge was not directed toward Merrill. It was running away, seemingly scared off by Vesuvius’s violent bark.

  Merrill sighed with relief and petted the dog. “I knew I brought you for a reason.”

  Chapter 18

  The newcomers had come blessedly equipped. They were traveling on snowmobiles, each pulling a trailer mounted on skis and full of survival gear. They’d unloaded several battery-powered lanterns which illuminated the sanctuary in a dull yellow glow and gave the frozen congregation a warm, lifelike aura. Next came a propane gas stove big enough for two pots. Both were filled with dehydrated soup mixes, the kind which typically made Whitney’s nose cringe; but a warm meal was a warm meal, and she was in dire need of nourishment. Lastly—Whitney let out a joyful laugh upon seeing Wright pull them from a backpack—were four portable propane heaters and enough replacement tanks to last for days.

  After initial introductions, the four set to work preparing a comfortable place to settle for the night before the long journey south. The Latino man’s name was Victor Cruz. He was a demolitions expert with the United States Marines—a handsome man who knew he was handsome—with sharply defined cheekbones, suave black hair, and electric brown eyes. The man exuded confidence. Like the heroes in novels, Whitney thought. He had been checking and rechecking their supplies, making sure they had enough to get home. Where home was, they had yet to reveal.

  The three had been painfully quiet about what was happening in the world. Whitney realized they were sizing her up, deciding whether revealing what they knew would freak her out and make their mission that much more difficult. She’d had plenty of tearful nights already and was no longer likely to be shocked. She knew millions of lives had been lost. She knew her home had been destroyed, along with all her friends. Whatever they had to say couldn’t be any worse than that.

  Whitney looked at the woman, who was cleaning her sniper rifle for the second time. Her name was Katherine Ferrell, but she corrected Wright’s introduction with a quick “Just call me ‘Ferrell.’” Since then, Ferrell hadn’t said a word. She seemed able to interpret everyone’s body language, constantly one step ahead. Whitney watched as Wright approached Ferrell. Without a word, she picked up a propane tank and handed it to him.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Ferrell nodded and he turned away, affixing the tank to the last of the portable heaters. Whitney thought the woman must have ESP. She decided to test her theory. She stared at Ferrell, thinking about how the woman would be perfect for one of those B-movie babes-in-jail skin flicks: she’d be the tough one that beat up newcomers. Quicker than Whitney could move her eyes, Ferrell glanced up and held Whitney’s gaze. “You wanna knock that off?”

  Whitney swallowed. The woman was psychic!

  “Only my lovers can look at me like that,” Ferrell said.

  Cruz plopped himself down next to Whitney, a smile already on his face. “That’s why I always look at her like that. Eh, Ferrell?”

  Ferrell smiled with her eyes, squinting at Cruz. “I can hit a mouse from nine hundred meters. You want to find out how I do at close range?”

  “You’re a sniper?” Whitney asked.

  “Kind of obvious,” Cruz said. “You think that pig shooter is for show?”

  “This pig shooter,” Ferrell said, growing truly agitated for the first time, “is a Parker Hale M85. At six hundred meters, I could take off both your arms in two shots. Before you even felt the pain, I could bury a third in your head.”

  “I heard the British L96A1 was better,” Cruz said.

  Ferrell raised the rifle and aimed it at Cruz’s forehead. The woman had reassembled the rifle in seconds without Whitney even noticing. Whitney’s heart thumped in her chest. Ferrell wasn’t psychic; she was a cold-blooded killer.

  Not that Cruz noticed. The man actually had the gall to blow Ferrell a kiss and wink. “Be a shame if you pulled that trigger, Kitty Kat. I might flinch.” He motioned to the side with his head. Down next to his knee he held Whitney’s 9mm, pointed at Ferrell’s chest.

  Ferrell smiled. “Nicely done.” She lowered her rifle.

  “I try,” Cruz said. He spun the gun on his finger and grabbed the barrel. He handed it to Whitney. “Thanks for letting me borrow it.”

  Whitney was confused. With the exception of Wright, these people didn’t act the way she pictured disciplined military people would. They were like a couple of cutthroat pirates. “So what branch of the military are you with?” she asked Ferrell.

  Kat smiled. “I’m not military.”

  Cruz leaned back and crossed his legs. “She’s a mercenary.”

  Wright stepped over and sat down, handing Whitney a piping hot cup of soup. “Kat has worked with me and our Special Forces on . . . lesser-known missions.”

  Whitney sipped her soup. Too hot. “What are they called? Black ops?”

  Wright nodded.

  “Doesn’t the Army or Marines or whatever have their own snipers?” Whitney asked.

  That elicited a laugh from Ferrell. “None as good as me, honey.”

  “I still don’t see why—”

  “I’m not shackled by treaties or laws. I shoot whomever they want me to and don’t leave a trail.”

  Whitney’s eyes grew wide. “You’re an assassin?”

  Ferrell nodded. “The best.”

  Whitney grew nervous. She needed to know who these people were and what they really wanted. She looked at Cruz. “And you? Are you really just a demolitions expert?”

  Wright peered over his mug after taking a sip. “Whitney, all you need to know is that we’re the best, and we’re on your side.”

  Whitney raised her eyebrows and glared at Wright.

  “She’s a tough chica, Cap. I better answer her question before she gets rowdy,” Cruz said.

  Wright shrugged and returned to his soup.

  “United States Marines. Demo expert. Like Ferrell, I’m the best.”

  “But?”

  “Accidents happen. When Ferrell misses—”

  “That only happened once,” Ferrell said sharply.

  “Whatever. When she misses, she takes a second shot and finishes the job. If I screw up, there is no second shot. Everybody dies.”

  “How many times have you screwed up?” Whitney asked.

  “Once.”

  “How many people died?”

  Cruz looked at the sanctuary floor, studying the red rug’s weave. “Three hundred plus—men, women and children. It was a cave in Afghanistan some Taliban had holed up in. We didn’t know they’d taken an entire village hostage.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it was your fault.”

  “When three hundred people die, someone takes the fall. It was my op. I should have sent recon first.” Cruz shook his head. “I was in Leavenworth for the past four years.”

  “Strange,” Whitney said.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t hear anything about it on the news.”

  “When three hundred innocents die in the middle of nowhere,” Ferrell said, “no one hears about it.”

  “Oh . . .” Whitney looked at Wright. His scruffy face and steely eyes seemed to absorb the light, hiding his facial expressions. “And you?” she asked him.

  Cruz laughed. �
��You got a bona fide Boy Scout there, chica.”

  “Started out in the Marines and moved up to the SEALs,” Wright said. “From there I started running special ops, working strategy, and commanding a task force.”

  “Like I said: Boy Scout.”

  Whitney felt slightly relieved that at least one of them had a clean slate. She couldn’t help but wonder why, and by whom, the three had been tasked to save her, of all people. She had no military training. She had no knowledge of anything important. She was a wildlife photographer. “Why you three?”

  This question got Wright’s attention. “We’re the best,” he said.

  “Bullshit. I’m sure you’re not the only military left on the planet, because if that were true, you wouldn’t be risking your asses to save my life. There are two things I can’t figure out. First: why you three? Anyone could have come to get me. It doesn’t take the ‘very best’ to pull someone out of the snow. I can’t find anything you have in common, but I know it exists. What is it?” Whitney glanced from one set of eyes to the next.

  “You’re a runner, si?”

  “Answer my question,” Whitney demanded.

  “We’re all runners, too,” Cruz said. “I run away from things that blow up. Kat runs after things she needs to kill. And Wright just runs in circles.” Cruz laughed. “The point is, chica, we can all handle a marathon and more.”

  Whitney bit her lip for a moment, trying to find a point. Nothing came to mind. “Why?”

  “Because where we’re going next, we’re going to be running for our lives.”

  Not good, Whitney thought. “Why me?”

  Wright put his empty mug on the floor and cracked his knuckles. “We need your help finding someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Merrill Clark.”

  Whitney found it impossible to mask her surprise. “What? Why? I don’t understand.”

  “Given your relationship—”

  “Previous relationship.”

  “Right. Given that, we believe you are our best bet for finding Dr. Clark.”