Antarktos Rising

by Jeremy Robinson

  They both laughed. Merrill pulled away. His eyes were still damp, but he was smiling. “Egyptian ancient?”

  “Pre-Sumerian,” Whitney replied.

  Merrill chuckled. “My favorite!”

  “Ugh,” Cruz’s accented voice cut in. “Cut the father-daughter crap, eh? You’re giving me a migraine.”

  “Did you even have a mother, Cruz?” Whitney said, laying on the sarcasm.

  Cruz searched for a witty comeback but found nothing. He cursed under his breath in Spanish.

  Whitney turned to Wright, who was repacking the contents of his backpack. On the ground next to him was a square of blue material, neatly folded. “Any idea which way around the lake is faster?”

  Wright pointed straight out across the water. “That way.”

  “No kidding,” Whitney said. “But I’m not that good a swimmer.”

  Wright smiled. “Neither am I.” He pulled a cord that Whitney had not seen attached to the blue square. A sudden hiss ripped through the air. In seconds, a sturdy inflatable raft floated on the water’s edge. “Boy Scout, remember?”

  Whitney raised an eyebrow.

  “The lake is on the satellite photos,” Wright said. “It’s generally not a good idea to run a race without knowing what the track looks like.” Wright held his hands out to Cruz, who pulled two folded oars from his pack, snapped them together, and handed one to Wright. “All aboard.”

  Vesuvius cheerfully clambered out of the water and shook a spray of water that covered everyone’s legs. He looked up innocently and barked. Whitney looked at the dog and realized they had a problem. “What about him?”

  Wright bent down to the dog and got his face licked as he inspected the dog’s claws. He glanced at Merrill while dodging more happy licks. “The boat is fairly rugged and should be able to handle his claws, but better not to take chances. Don’t suppose you have any dog nail clippers on you?”

  Merrill shook his head, looking worried. Whitney was worried, too. Just by looking at the boat, it was easy to tell that Vesuvius’s sharp claws would make short work of the inflated pontoons. She was about to demand that something be figured out. She couldn’t stand to see her father lose another family member. But Wright was up to something.

  Digging in his backpack again, Wright pulled out two pairs of socks. He kneeled back down to Vesuvius. “Paw,” he said. Vesuvius lifted a front paw and Wright slipped a sock over his paw. He repeated the process on all four legs until it appeared Vesuvius was wearing dog leg warmers. Wright snapped his finger at Cruz, “Electrical tape.”

  Cruz shook his head. “All this for a dog.” He handed the tape to Wright. “You know, I might need that.”

  “I won’t use much,” Wright said as he wrapped the tape snugly around the socks, holding them in place. When he was done, he gave Vesuvius a pat on the head. “Good boy.” It was enough to earn him a full-fledged smile from Whitney. He returned it and handed the tape back to Cruz. “Good to go.”

  Whitney could see herself falling for a guy like Wright. But she suspected there was something between him and Ferrell. They seemed very comfortable around each other, though they did a good job of hiding it. Call it women’s intuition, but she had sensed his concern when Ferrell went after Popova. Wright had searched for the source of every sound that echoed from the jungle, but not with the look of a defender. His eyes were hopeful, but when no one appeared, no amount of acting could hide his disappointment. The Boy Scout and the assassin. Whitney shook her head. Go figure. She knew leaving Ferrell behind must bother him, but she also knew they had no choice. Ferrell could already be dead, and if they didn’t keep moving, they might be next.

  On the water, Whitney found herself able to relax. Wright and Cruz moved the boat steadily across the lake with the oars. Relieved of her backpack and boots, and with Vesuvius snuggled up against her and her legs dangling in the glacial waters, it was nearly enough to lull Whitney to sleep.

  As slumber loomed, Whitney’s thoughts ran free. She thought about what her father had said about God. He was so firmly rooted in his beliefs that he was hard to ignore. Her father was a brilliant man, she knew that. Yet he was still her father, and his religious beliefs had always worn thin on her. But now, with the dramatic changes in the world and the disasters that had befallen them both, she longed for that kind of assurance.

  Her father was confident he would see her mother again. But she knew she’d never see Sam again. He was gone. That was what she believed. Her father clung to a hope that she could not comprehend. Not just a hope of being reunited with loved ones; something deeper, something more profound, something that had not changed when the rest of the world went to hell. No, the only thing about the world that had not changed was her father’s faith, and that spoke volumes. For the first time in her life, she felt . . . interest in what he believed. She knew the standard things that were taught in church, but she didn’t know how her father could believe such outrageous things so earnestly, or how he reconciled what he knew about ancient history with what was recorded in the Bible. She made a mental note to ask as her mind slowed and gave in to sleep.

  The last thing she heard was the sound of lapping water and the gurgle of rising bubbles from the depths beneath.

  Chapter 38

  The inward barrage of self-deprecating insults Popova hurled at herself was worse than any physical pain she’d endured. For the first time in her career, she had missed. And of all people to miss . . .!

  She had no idea how Ferrell had sensed her presence. She had been so completely concealed that sight was not a possibility. She wore no perfume and was covered in earth and detritus. She was upwind, so Ferrell couldn’t have smelled her. She had remained perfectly still, buried in shrubs, looking down from a hilltop, when she’d seen Ferrell creeping through the jungle.

  How fortunate she had been to come across Ferrell first. She took aim through her scope, placed her finger gently on the trigger, and squeezed. Through the sight, her aim had appeared true. Ferrell fell backwards. But as she neared the ground, she did not fall limp. Ferrell flung herself back, tucked into a roll, and dove behind a tree.

  Popova had sprung to her feet only a second after realizing she’d missed and torn off into the jungle. She knew her position had been exposed and that retaliation would be forthcoming. A violent explosion ripped her hiding place to shreds seconds later, knocking Popova off her feet. She scrambled up and wove haphazardly through the forest so that her trail would be harder to follow. She knew Ferrell would give chase, and it brought a smile to her face.

  The game of cat and mouse had begun. The only remaining question was who played the cat and who would be the mouse.

  After a mile of running Popova slowed, not because of exhaustion, but because she’d spotted the perfect place for an ambush. A mound of tall stones that looked almost carved rose up thirty feet off the ground, topping out near the green leafy jungle ceiling. As she climbed the rock face higher and higher, more of the jungle came into view. She’d be able to see Ferrell coming with ease.

  Reaching the top, Popova assembled her rifle and set it down on the flat stone surface. As she turned to lay down behind the large rifle, she looked for the first time over the back side of the rock mound. What she saw held her gaze steady. A large depression in the ground, perhaps a quarter mile in diameter, had been carved out. More large stones were scattered around the interior, some still imbedded in the earth and others partially-carved statues, blank-faced versions of the ones she’d discovered previously.

  It was a quarry. The stones were hewn by men.

  While intriguing, the stones could not hold her interest. Not while Ferrell was out there. Popova would deal with her first and when the Americans came looking for her, they would fall next. She slid down to her belly and gripped the rifle. She scanned back and forth, searching for any sign of movement, no matter how obscure. Ferrell would not be an easy target, especially now that she was aware of the danger, but she could not approach Popova’s hid
ing spot without exposing herself.

  Ten minutes passed quickly. The following twenty minutes dragged. And the entire following hour became torturous. She wondered if Ferrell had rejoined her team and moved out. She quickly dismissed the thought, remembering how slowly and methodically Ferrell worked. Popova, on the other hand, was a swift killer.

  She realized that Ferrell had most likely identified her as the sniper. The bullet, if recovered, would be a dead giveaway. That was why Ferrell moved so slowly. She was trying to wear down Popova’s patience.

  It won’t work, Popova thought. She conceded to waiting all day and night, if need be. Ferrell could move as slowly as she wanted, but the moment of her death would come just as surely either way.

  As the day lingered on, Popova’s thoughts drifted while her senses remained on guard. She considered how quickly Ferrell had literally dodged the bullet. She couldn’t imagine how Ferrell had detected her presence. She’d heard, through mutual acquaintances, that Ferrell, dubbed “The Kat,” had a kind of sixth sense that warned her of danger. She’d always assumed that it was propaganda spread by Ferrell herself to intimidate her enemies, but now she wasn’t so sure.

  She shook the thought from her mind.

  A stiff wind picked up and the trees began to sway. The large leaves rustled and the tree trunks groaned. If Ferrell was going to make an advance, it would be now. She watched a hundred trees dance back and forth. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, undulating on the forest floor. Popova remained focused, scanning with her rifle, prepared to shoot.

  The light around Popova shifted with the trees, but she suddenly became cast in unmoving shadow. The rest of the forest was still active, alive, but something blocked her light from above. Someone was standing above her.

  Popova rolled over like a cat, drew her side arm, and unloaded the semiautomatic clip in seconds. It wasn’t until her gun ran out of ammo that she stopped firing. She stared straight ahead in astonished silence. She realized that firing as she had was probably the worst thing she could have done. It only seemed to amuse the monster, which had taken every bullet yet remained standing. Blood oozed from bullet holes pocking the behemoth’s chest, but it showed no reaction other than to glare at her the way a magnifying-glass-wielding child does an ant.

  Popova screamed like a banshee, just before her life was crushed from her.

  Ferrell froze.

  She’d heard the shots, the scream. Popova.

  High in the swaying treetops, she’d been making her way slowly forward to where she knew Popova would be hiding. She’d been one step ahead all along. She’d watched Popova hide herself in the brush. She’d even allowed Popova to take the first shot. It was only fair. She knew it was the only shot Popova would get. But she hadn’t counted on someone else getting the best of Popova before she was able to.

  She moved more quickly now, leaping from treetop to treetop with a little less care. Without the fear of a sniper round zipping through the trees, she was free to put her legendary agility to the test. She moved across the trees quickly and when she was over what she believed to be the rock mound, she paused and listened.

  She heard nothing. Scanning the area around her, Ferrell noticed a patch of trees in the distance tipping and bouncing as though a strong wind blew through them. All she could see for miles in every direction was the tops of trees, like an emerald blanket. In the distance was a mountain range, the Transantarctic range, she guessed. Other than that, it was blue skies above and not a thing out of place. She looked back to where the trees had been moving. They were once again gently swaying in the wind. Nothing more.

  Ferrell lowered her head through the leaves and looked straight down on the rock mound where Popova had been positioned. Her sniper rifle sat on the boulder, bent and broken amid a crimson pool of blood dripping down the rocks.

  Ferrell couldn’t fathom what had happened to Popova, but one thing was clear: the woman was dead. All that was left of her was a bloody smear.

  Snap! The tree she clung to shook and fell as though pushed over from below. As the tree fell forward, careening toward the forest floor, Ferrell leapt off and clung to a nearby tree trunk. She loosened her grip and slipped down to the ground. Without looking back, Ferrell ran.

  Somehow, whatever killed Popova had returned without her sensing its approach. Popova had been swatted as easily as a fly. Its skill at stealth—and killing—dwarfed her own. Ferrell knew she didn’t stand a chance in hell. Trees snapped behind her and the ground shook. Something very large was giving chase.

  And it was howling.

  Chapter 39

  Even though Wright and Cruz were making good time across the lake, to Merrill it still felt like a lazy day at New Hampshire’s Lake Winnipesauke. Of course, Winnipesauke was now frozen over, like the majority of the United States, and he would never again see its shores or visit its quaint, historic towns. Wolfeboro, Meredith, Laconia, Alton Bay . . . all gone. Merrill sighed and looked out at the coastline. The old towns of New Hampshire would soon be replaced by new ones on Antarktos.

  Merrill had begun calling Antarctica by its older name: Antarktos. It seemed fitting, though he was sure the continent would eventually be renamed completely, since it was no longer located in the Antarctic at all. Peeling his gaze away from the shoreline, Merrill returned his attention to the large piece of paper spread out in his lap—the Piri Reis map.

  He hadn’t had the time to study the map since he’d first laid eyes on it and was using the lazy trip across the water to inspect it and commit as much of it to memory as possible.

  The detail of the map was amazing, and even though the continent had been covered with ice for thousands of years, the land’s topography had changed little. Glacial valleys were larger and deeper, to be sure, but the ice had served as a protective barrier against erosive forces that reshape all continents at will: wind, water, tides, and other natural phenomena. The result was that the Piri Reis map was as accurate that day as the original source documents had been perhaps twelve thousand years ago.

  Every nook and cranny of the shoreline was intricately drawn. River systems had been included, and several internal geographic features as well. Mountain ranges and lakes covered the map’s surface. Merrill turned the map and brought his finger to the area in which he believed them to currently be. The lake they were crossing was on the map. Several rivers were shown flowing into the lake, and one large one was shown flowing out to the ocean. If they needed a way back to the ocean, that river would be their best bet.

  Looking at the map, Merrill scanned the area around the lake and found several interesting features. Behind them, from the direction they had come, was what appeared to be a large pit, full of rocks. In the water itself several oblong creatures had been drawn. And in front of them were what looked like two men, or apes, dancing. Merrill couldn’t help but wonder if, like the geological elements, the other items on the map were accurate. But he had no way to verify such a thing.

  Or did he? Tracing his finger straight back toward the ocean, roughly along the path he thought they had taken, Merrill came to his valley. He was delighted to see his wall. The map showed it to be much longer, dipping into the valley, then out along the coast. What he hadn’t expected to see on the map was drawn on the other side of the wall, the side he was never able to inspect. A city, large and imposing, lay etched into the side of a mountain, apparently fashioned from the same cut stones. Next to the city was a large, elaborately drawn foot, almost the size of the city itself.

  A twinge of excitement shot up Merrill’s spine and swirled within his skull. The map confirmed his find. It not only revealed that there was much more to explore, but the large foot hinted that the people who lived there were of unusual size.

  Merrill was about to tell Wright and Cruz about his find when Mira awoke with a scream from the front of the boat. She yanked her feet into the boat from where they’d been dangling in the water. Vesuvius leapt to his feet, ears perked, tail tucked down.
/>   “Are you all right?” Merrill asked.

  Mirabelle looked around the boat, scanning the blue water, searching for something.

  “Must have been one bad dream, eh?” Cruz said. He and Wright had stopped rowing, hands on weapons.

  She shook her head. “Wasn’t a dream. Something touched my foot.”

  Wright dropped the oar and raised his XM-29. “Any idea what it was?”

  “No,” she said. “It was smooth. Almost soft.”

  Vesuvius began barking at the water; however, he sounded more playful than angry and the scruff of his neck, which normally rose in the face of danger, remained flat. Still, something was out there.

  Wright and Cruz aimed their weapons at the water, waiting silently for some sign of danger before they unleashed hell. Merrill looked at the lake, then back to the map where oblong creatures had been drawn in the water. On paper they didn’t look imposing, but one never knew. In fact, the overall shape looked familiar. The creatures were shaped like torpedoes, with eyes at one end and tapered bodies. What were they?

  As the boat was bumped from below, Merrill realized he’d find out soon enough. Wright and Cruz moved from side to side, searching for something to shoot but seeing nothing. Merrill looked behind the boat and saw a ten-foot-long shadow pass by. He swallowed and said, “Whoa.”

  “Whoa, what?” Wright asked.

  An eerie, high-pitched call reverberated out of the water, rising from below. It was unnervingly loud and inhuman.

  Merrill found himself unable to speak for a moment.

  “What did you see?”

  “It’s big,” Merrill said. “Maybe ten feet.”

  “Switch to the exploding rounds,” Wright said. “Careful not to shoot the boat.”

  Cruz nodded, made the change, and took aim again. Wright shot an incredulous look at Merrill, then at Mirabelle, who were both transfixed on the water. “What are you waiting for?” he said.