Antarktos Rising

by Jeremy Robinson

  “Good enough for me,” Wright said. “I need to know everything there is to know about these things. Mobility, weaknesses, attack capabilities—everything.”

  “The crylos are theropods, like Tyrannosaurus. They hunt prey and eat it, probably alive. Their teeth are serrated for slicing through flesh, which they would swallow in chunks. Scientists have assumed that based on their size, they were most likely solitary hunters . . . but from experience I can say that is probably false. We didn’t see the group that attacked us, but we heard them. It was a large group. Maybe twenty or so.”

  Merrill rubbed his hands together nervously. He didn’t like thinking about the crylos. He’d avoided the topic in his mind because he knew that dwelling on the creatures might cause him to turn tail and run. He pressed on. “Each forearm—which is a functional appendage, unlike those of the t-rex—is armed with three razor-sharp claws. The hind legs have three similar claws and a curved, backward-facing talon, like Velociraptors.”

  “I’ve seen Jurassic Park too, Doc,” Cruz shouted back.

  “Imagine the agility, intelligence, and ferocity of a raptor in a body half the size of t-rex, and you have Crylophosaurus. This predator has the best of both worlds. It’s no wonder that it’s survived so long. Only the crocodile has been as successful.”

  Wright looked more wary but held his composure. “Any weaknesses?”

  Merrill smiled nervously. “None to speak of. There isn’t much else known about them. The skeleton I uncovered is the only complete specimen ever discovered, and I didn’t have much time to study it. I don’t know much of anything about their habits, territory ranges, or behavior.”

  “Next time you have intel like that, you tell me,” Wright said. “You could have gotten someone killed.”

  “With all due respect, Captain, if crylophosaurs attack, I doubt there is anything any of us can do but run.”

  “If they can be blown to bits, we’ll be fine,” Cruz said. “In fact, I look forward to it. It’s not everyday I get to demo someone’s imaginary friend.”

  Merrill ignored the comment, which was obviously designed to incite him. He was about to look away from Cruz when he saw the man freeze. Cruz placed a hand on his communications earpiece. “I think I hear Ferrell,” he said.

  As though responding to Cruz, Vesuvius growled. The hair on his back rose and he crouched into an attack position. Something had him spooked.

  Wright eyed Merrill. It was clear that if something had happened to Ferrell along the lines of a prehistoric attack, Merrill would be held responsible. Merrill was relieved to hear Ferrell’s voice return, but didn’t like what she had to say.

  “Wright, this is Ferrell. You read me?”

  “I got you,” Wright said. “What’s up?”

  “We got company.”

  “How many?”

  “Just one.”

  “Have you made contact?”

  “In a sense,” Ferrell said, sounding angry. “I was hit.”

  “Details.”

  “Sniper round. Took a chunk out of my arm, but I patched it up.”

  Merrill had no idea what to think. Moments ago he feared a creature straight out of a child’s nightmare, and now he faced a very modern fear. A sniper was taking shots at the team. He wondered how long his aging mind and body could handle this kind of excitement.

  “Lingering threat?”

  “Negative. She left.”

  “You were that close to the shooter?”

  “Negative. I never saw her.”

  “Her?”

  “I recognize the bullet. I use the same. Homemade, just like we were taught.”

  Under his breath, Wright let loose a string of curses.

  “Ferrell knows this person?” Mira asked.

  “We both do,” Wright said. “Duscha Popova. Ferrell’s contemporary and competitor. Both were minor assassins, taking small jobs until they were recruited by an underground network of mercenaries, Armed Response. They needed women operatives, and recognized the innate talent both women had. They were trained together, both becoming master snipers—and for a few years they fought together, though I gather they didn’t get along. Armed Response dissolved after a CIA investigation and subsequent raid took the group’s leaders out of the picture. Ferrell and Popova became free agents again, though much more deadly. Popova chose to work with the Russians and has been a thorn in our side since. The Cold War may have officially ended in the ‘80s, but the quiet cold war continued right up until the global shift. In a way, it’s still continuing now. We’ve tried taking her out more than once and failed every time.”

  “That’s because you never sent me,” Ferrell said over the com. “And thanks for the trip down memory lane.”

  Wright seemed to know what Ferrell would do next and spoke very loudly. “Ferrell, do not pursue. You hear me, Kat?”

  After a moment of silence, Ferrell said, “Sorry, Wright. I’m the only one who can take her out. Hanging around with you makes me an easy target.”

  “You?” Cruz said. “What about us?”

  “She’ll want me out of the picture first. She knows I’m the only real threat.”

  “What happens if you fail?” Whitney asked.

  “You’re all dead.”

  It was the last thing they heard Ferrell say before she switched off her com. Wright’s expression soured for a moment, but his look was quickly squelched. Drawing his machete, Wright moved past Whitney and Merrill. “Until we hear from Ferrell, we’re double-timing it.”

  “And if we don’t hear from her?” Merrill asked.

  “Then we don’t stop running.”

  Merrill had been afraid of that. He was in fairly good shape and could run for some distance, but he feared his aging body couldn’t keep up with the rest. The weight of the backpack and the enormous XM-29 he’d been granted made walking a task; running for hours on end was not possible for him. As Wright plunged into the foliage, hacking and slashing as he ran, Merrill looked at his daughter. She looked concerned. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’ll keep up.”

  But that was a lie. If Ferrell didn’t succeed, he would be the first to fall. The weak member of the herd that fell behind was always the first to be killed by the predator. It was a law of nature. Merrill was beginning to realize that nature’s laws ruled Antarctica.

  He charged ahead with Vesuvius at his heels. Mira came after him, followed by Cruz, who had waited behind. They moved at a marathon pace, dodging in and out of trees and tearing through brambles and thorns without pause. It was as though the jungle itself was trying to impede their progress. Merrill closed the doors to his imagination and focused on running. He knew that to dwell on the forces working against them would labor his breathing and tax his energy.

  Merrill recalled President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s famous statement: “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” Merrill now knew that Roosevelt had been wrong. He’d never been to Antarktos.

  Chapter 36

  Ian Jacobson was glad to see that the others could keep up with his pace. He didn’t bother hacking at the brush. He didn’t slow when thorns scratched at his legs. Plowing through at near top speed worked well; so well that they were a day ahead of schedule and probably the front runners in this race. Of course, getting to the goal wasn’t necessarily going to be the hard part; holding it would be. The only advantage to securing the goal first would be time. Time to prepare.

  As Jacobson breathed heavily through his mouth like he’d been taught not to do, he tasted something foul in the air. Like death.

  Just as quickly as it came, the taste and smell were gone with the wind. The trees swayed above, creaking in the breeze. The large leaves slapped against each other. The trees made a considerable amount of noise. Jacobson knew that they would have trouble hearing danger because of the noise created by their running, as well as the wind in the trees, but at their pace, running into an enemy force was unlikely.

  That and the fact that he enjoyed
extreme physical activity—he loved the runner’s high. It allowed him to relax and let his thoughts wander. Antarctica had become a mystery for the ages. Not only had it thawed, but it was full of new life. He thought back to his collection of mythology books and wondered if any of the ancients had ever visited these lands before.

  He’d been transfixed when, as a boy, his family visited Loch Ness. After a three-day stay at the loch, his family had not seen anything unusual, but the stories told by the locals had him hooked. He returned as a teenager and launched an expedition of his own. Not having any equipment aside from an old 8mm camera with a 2X zoom didn’t discourage him. He rented a boat and set out by himself for an entire day. At the end of the day, he had a ten-second clip of a three-humped object cutting through the water. It was enough to get him on the news and propel his hobby forward.

  After joining the military, ever seeking out action, he used his leave time to hunt for other mysteries. He journeyed to Canada in search of Sasquatch. Mexico for la Chupacabra. The Congo for Mokèlé-mbèmbé. He had traveled the world in search of its greatest living wonders, and now he was running a race in the world’s most extraordinary wonder. He felt privileged, awed, and humbled to be there. It was like suddenly being able to travel to Mars.

  Lost in thought, Jacobson didn’t see the sudden dip before him. He tumbled forward and fell. The ground opened up in front of him and dropped ten feet. As he tumbled, Jacobson stretched out his arms, snagging a low branch and sparing himself a broken bone or two. His upper body swung out over the drop with his feet still on the ground, and was quickly pulled up by one of the Frenchmen.

  Before he could thank the man, his senses came alive. A smell like rotted steak struck his noise. A cacophony of noise like shrieking birds rang in his ears. The racket came from below, where he’d almost fallen.

  He shared a look with the Frenchman as the rest of the team slowed behind them, instinctively drawing their weapons. Jacobson crouched low and crawled toward the edge. Looking over, he saw the most unusual thing: a flock, if it could be called that, of large birds that stood at least three feet tall. They had the coloration of penguins, black on the back and white on the front. Long, bright orange feathers grew from above their eyes in a crest and spread to each side of their heads. They had feeble wings that couldn’t possibly achieve flight but stood on powerful-looking legs and were adorned with sharp, curved beaks. Five of them squawked and picked at a dead body.

  The carcass was unidentifiable but had obviously been dead for some time. The Frenchman crawled up next to him, “Mon Dieu, what are they?”

  Jacobson shook his head. He had no idea. Not even in mythology was something like this recorded. They were like penguins on steroids crossbred with an ostrich. Whatever they were, the team didn’t have time to deal with them.

  The Frenchman had different ideas. “I wonder,” he said, taking aim, “what they taste like.”

  Jacobson put his hand on the man’s gun. He shook his head again.

  “Why not?” the Frenchman asked. “We’re ahead of schedule and there is no better time for a break.”

  “We’ll break when I say . . .” Jacobson noticed that the birds had fallen silent. He looked back down. Four of the five stared up at him, their dark eyes stabbing into his. The fifth was nowhere in sight.

  A flash of orange to his left betrayed the attacking bird as it hopped through the brush and lunged for Jacobson’s throat. His rifle was too ungainly and heavy to aim in time, so Jacobson whipped his knife from its sheath and cut out in a wide arc. He felt the blade slice flesh and heard the bird’s squawk become a gurgle. Jacobson ducked as he swung and the bird soared over him to land on the Frenchman. The man jumped up shouting. The bird was dead, but a spray of its blood coated the Frenchman from head to chest.

  Jacobson turned to the other birds. All four were still there, watching. Sizing him up. They showed no fear of humanity. Jacobson had stared down some of the world’s most dangerous predators while searching for myths and had seen the worst of them shrink away from people. These creatures were different. He didn’t like it.

  He raised his rifle and prepared to cut the gaggle down. But before he fired a shot, something else caught the birds’ attention. All four whipped their heads to the right and gazed into the jungle depths. Their feathers fanned up on their heads, an unmistakable warning. Without making a sound, all four birds leapt away, bounding quickly into the forest.

  The Frenchman held the dead bird high and said, “Now can I eat it?”

  The French were too concerned with food, Jacobson thought. He slapped the bird from the man’s hands. “Put that down, you baboon!”

  The Frenchman looked offended for a moment then noticed the rest of the team aiming their weapons at the surrounding jungle, in the direction the birds had looked before fleeing. He brought his weapon up and took aim.

  “What is it?” the Frenchman whispered.

  “Something worse,” Jacobson said, nodding to where the birds had been feasting. A tree in the distance swayed, cracked, and fell over. “Something much worse.”

  Chapter 37

  Whitney noticed the chill as their group descended the hillside, but the jungle canopy kept the reason for the temperature drop a secret until they reached the bottom. As the hill became level, the trees thinned and a large swath of blue cut across the spaces between the trees. Another minute of hiking brought them to the shore of an immense lake.

  It was so large that the opposite shore could not be seen, and from left to right, the shore continued on into the horizon. The air at the edge of the lake felt about fifteen degrees cooler than the jungle air, and a gentle breeze brought the fresh smell of moist earth and blooming trees to Whitney’s nose. It felt like spring in New England and was a welcome change from the sweltering, stuffy forest.

  Vesuvius thought so too. He pranced to the water’s edge, gulped in several mouthfuls, and waded in. His audible panting and dangling tongue had grown worse with every day of rapid travel, but now his expression returned to its naturally jovial state.

  Whitney crouched next to the dog and took some water in her hands. She drank it and felt herself come alive as the cool liquid slid down her throat. She realized she was drinking some of the cleanest water on earth. It had no doubt been a glacier for thousands of years, its bounty of water remaining hidden from the world’s pollutants. She took another drink and smiled. Poland Springs has nothing on this, she thought. Then she remembered that Poland Springs was buried beneath a mountain of snow and ice, and the water didn’t taste as good.

  Wright spoke into his com. “Ferrell, you out there? You copy?” Whitney could hear the loud scratch of static that returned. The cacophony was enough to make Wright tear out his earpiece.

  “Not working?” Whitney asked, though she knew it wasn’t.

  Wright shook his head. “Interference.” Wright addressed the group. “Coms are down, so stay within earshot at all times.”

  Nods all around.

  The lake, though its fresh water and cool temperature was a blessing for them all, presented something of a challenge to their goal. Walking around might add a week’s travel time, or more. Whitney looked at her father. “Do you know where we are?”

  Merrill scanned the surroundings. “Not a clue.” He gave Wright a smack on the back. “Looks like you all picked the wrong guy for the job.”

  “None of this is familiar to you?” Wright asked as he put his backpack down at the water’s edge.

  “Not one bit.” Merrill said. “Keep in mind that this isn’t my hometown. This is an entire continent. I could spend a lifetime here and still not be able to recognize this spot. I—oh . . .”

  Whitney followed her father’s gaze. A distant mountain. “What is it?” she asked.

  “The old goose neck,” he said, pointing at the mountain’s peak where a jut of stone really did look like a goose head, complete with a neck.

  “Then you know where we are?” Wright asked.

  Me
rrill smiled and nodded. “Last time I was here it was covered in a half-mile of ice and snow.” He looked up and pointed. “I was standing up there. Things look a little different now.”

  “I’ve never been here,” Whitney said. “When were you here?” She cringed the moment she asked the question. It was a foolish thing to ask, because she knew the answer.

  “With your mother,” Merrill said, looking out at the azure water. “She would have loved to see this, you know.”

  “I know,” Whitney said. “Maybe she can.”

  “Nice try, young lady.” Merrill gave her a small smile. “But I know you don’t believe in God. And I don’t believe she can see us. The dead are no longer with us.”

  Whitney shook her head. What a depressing belief system. “That’s not exactly comforting.”

  “Of course it is,” Merrill said. “I’ll be seeing your mother again. It’s your soul I’m worried about.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Whitney said, secretly glad her father still had her well-being in mind. He had always been concerned with eternal things—people’s souls—though his obsession with the past held a much stronger hold on his psyche than the present seemed to. She sensed a change in him, though, as if the past was losing its grasp. Thoughts about ancient civilizations, biblical events, and dinosaurs typically filled his conversations, but lately he seemed much more interested in the here and now. In her.

  “I pray for you every night,” Merrill said. “For your protection. And for your forgiveness.”

  Whitney looked into her father’s eyes. They were wet. “Forget about it, Dad. It’s not your fault.”

  “I should have been there.”

  “I don’t blame you for leaving,” she said. “I understand now the void you’ve always felt since Mom . . . You can’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have done anything to stop it.” Whitney hugged her father. “It’s ancient history.” She smiled. That had been her father’s favorite expression while she was young. He always got such a kick out of it. This was the first time she shared in the humor.