Cruz snickered. “No way could water cover mountains.”
Now it was Merrill’s turn to laugh. “Sedimentary rock has been discovered at the top of Mount Everest.”
“Oh.”
“That’s right, Cruz. Even the world’s tallest mountain was at one time covered by water. That is a fact of science. But please understand that, unlike my counterparts, I’m willing to consider other possibilities. It’s possible that a body of water, even an ocean, was present at the site of Everest prior to the mountain’s formation. I’m not claiming that my beliefs are scientific fact, only that the evidence is compelling; yet because it lends credence to the Bible account, science disregards it completely. It is, however, what I believe to be the truth.”
Wright perked up. “I’ve never been able to figure out how two of every animal on earth could have fit into an ark. Isn’t that billions of species?”
“Billions of species today,” Merrill said. “But there are key species from which natural selection and breeding create new variations. Dogs are a perfect and extreme example.” Vesuvius perked up his head. “Not you, Vesuvius.” His head went back down. “Noah wouldn’t have had to have every species of dog on the ark; at the time, they did not exist. Two wolves are all that are needed to, eventually, after thousands of years, result in the thousands of dog, wolf, and fox species found throughout the world today. The same holds true for every other animal on the planet. A key pair can create innumerable variations over time. This brings your billions down to eighteen thousand. You can even add a few thousand for species that have gone extinct in the last twelve thousand years. The ark, given the measurements found in the Bible, would have been big enough to hold and support an estimated 137,000 animals. The actual number of animals on board would have numbered around seventy-five thousand. And they would have only taken up 60 percent of the boat. That left 40 percent of a massive boat for living space and storage. Science, when applied without bias, finds no fault in the flood account.”
There was a silence among the group as everyone chewed on the information. Merrill was glad to find that no one was arguing right away. They were really listening. Even Mirabelle.
“So,” said Cruz, “you really believe Noah, his family, and the animals were the only survivors?”
“Yes,” Merrill said, but as soon as the word escaped his mouth he realized it was an incorrect statement. “I mean, no.”
This surprised Mira. She glanced toward her father. “Who else was there?”
Merrill’s mind was a flurry of thought. Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier? It was so obvious, so apparent before him. “The Nephilim.”
Before Merrill could explain or expound, a crash from the woods broke his train of thought and snapped Wright and Cruz to action. Their weapons were brought to bear in seconds. Vesuvius, however, simply cocked his ears and raised his eyebrows. Merrill knew before she appeared that it was Ferrell.
Ferrell barreled through the surrounding brush and crashed to the ground next to Merrill. He thanked God that Wright and Cruz weren’t trigger happy, or Ferrell would most likely be dead. But by her appearance, he guessed that she was halfway there already. Wright dropped his weapon, leapt across the camp, and caught Ferrell in his arms before she crashed to the ground.
“The fire,” she said, her voice hoarse and strained. “Put out the fire.”
Chapter 42
The added weight of the explosives wrapped around al-Aziz’s waist made travel slow, but he knew they would eventually be the key to his success, so he suffered their burden and pushed on. Suffering would only make his reward that much more wondrous, and that was what mattered.
For a moment he wondered how the twelve other cells were doing. Had they encountered the enemy? Had they become martyrs yet? Though he’d never admit it, he missed Abdul’s company. They were supposed to be in this together, fighting side by side. But Abdul had given his life prematurely. Worse, he had failed to kill a single Zionist. And the result was that al-Aziz was now alone, facing the fear faced by all martyrs—death. He turned his mind from such thoughts, as he’d been trained to do. They lead to doubt, which lead to hesitation and ultimately to failure. He was alone. It was Allah’s will. And he would not fail.
Wiping sweat from his eyes, al-Aziz paused to note his surroundings. The jungle was thick with small insects buzzing and swarming, but none seemed attracted to his soft flesh, thank Allah. But the heat had become oppressive and all al-Aziz’s prayers for cooling went unanswered. His skin was slick with perspiration and humidity that made his clothes uncomfortably sticky. He no longer noticed the pungent odor of the forest, not because it no longer smelled but because he’d given up breathing through his nose. The odors were often too strong to bear, and the sticky mixture of humidity, dust, pollen, and gnats clung to the inside of his nose. It was best if he focused on moving forward and forgot the annoyances of the world.
He longed for the dry desert. In the midday sun, with temperatures much hotter than these, he could walk comfortably dry. He wondered why his people desired this land. It was putrid in so many ways. Of course the strategic value of the land was undeniable and would keep the Americans from regaining their superpower status in the new world, opening the door for a new Arab Alliance world order. That was the goal. That was Allah’s will.
After taking a long swig from his canteen, al-Aziz resumed hacking at the vegetation with his machete and pressed on.
Within minutes, the water he’d drunk had seeped back through his skin. He was quickly becoming dehydrated, and the heaviness in his legs urged him to stop. But he couldn’t. His relentless spirit to serve Allah pushed him forward. The ground beneath his feet suddenly dipped. Al-Aziz tumbled forward, arms splayed, and fell. The dip turned into a full-fledged hill. Gravity and momentum pulled him downward.
He stopped with a sudden jolt that made him cringe as he remembered the explosives strapped to his body. Death was not a fear, but failing in his task, his martyrdom, would mean receiving no reward. It would be a terrible fate. After catching his breath he sat up, and even though the tumble had knocked the wind from his lungs, he stopped breathing.
Spread out before him was a kind of carnage he’d never seen. Bodies were strewn about, disassembled, and gnawed upon. He’d seen a man eaten by wild dogs once. This was something worse. These men had been torn apart and consumed by a very large creature, or several. Al-Aziz collected himself and his spilled gear before moving closer to the carnage. He held his AK-47 nervously before him and inched forward, inspecting the bodies.
After discovering a pair of dog tags and noticing the skin color of what remained of the men, al-Aziz concluded that they had been the European team. He hoped for a brief moment that his initial assessment of what had happened was wrong. He searched for signs of an explosion.
His heart soared briefly as he found a blast zone. Flesh and blood were scattered in a familiar pattern. But it was wrong. The amount of explosives each member of every cell carried would have flattened the trees for fifty feet around. This explosion was much too small; a grenade, perhaps.
As al-Aziz searched for other clues, he came to a portion of jungle that had been cleared of brush and trees. A path heading south through the jungle had been carved. It was as though Allah himself had cleared a road for him.
“Allah be praised!” al-Aziz shouted. For he now realized the truth. His mission was so sacred, so supported by Allah, that He had come to the mortal world himself to clear a path and destroy his enemies. Allah had come to earth to aid al-Aziz, to show him the path to salvation.
The adrenaline from such a fantastic revelation had al-Aziz’s heart pounding, but the physical weariness from dehydration still lingered. He looked back at the mangled bodies and saw a canteen on the ground next to a severed arm. He rushed to it and picked it up—it was full! He drank from the canteen greedily and when he was finished, clipped it to his belt.
Allah had shown him the path and had provided the sustenance to continue
his righteous jihad. Al-Aziz broke into a run, moving faster than ever down the cleared path that he knew would eventually lead him to his enemies. Then home to Allah, where his reward awaited.
Chapter 43
Camp was broken down as soon as the first glint of sunlight pierced the forest. The remainder of the previous night had been spent patching Ferrell’s wounds, which ranged from thorn scratches to two broken fingers on her left hand. She looked like she’d gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson during his early years. Her dark eyes, once cool and collected, now moved rapidly, searching for danger like a wounded animal.
In hushed tones Ferrell had told her story. She recalled Popova’s sudden and gruesome death. The American assassin had then been chased through the jungle by something she could only describe as very large. She had seen only the results of its attack on Popova and felt its destructive power as it knocked trees over like sticks stuck in the dirt. Visibly shaken by recalling what she’d seen—or, not quite seen—she skipped forward to how she eventually eluded her pursuer. She had jumped from a cliff, one hundred feet down to a deep pool of water, breaking her fingers when she hit the bottom. She swam to shore and tore off into the forest, following their original course. She’d lost her pack and weapons during the chase, ditching them for speed.
As Whitney looked at her now, carrying Merrill’s XM-29, she was bruised and beaten but otherwise appeared to have made a remarkable recovery. Though she limped slightly and her wounds must have ached, the killer had returned. It was a quality Whitney thought must have been forged in childhood. She wondered what kind of life the little girl Ferrell had endured to sustain such a scare, such a beating, and be ready to fight again the next day. Only her eyes had changed—less relaxed, more aware.
Whitney wasn’t sure she wanted to know what had killed the Russian assassin or chased Ferrell. She was happy in her ignorance. Her father had insisted that the attackers were crylophosaurs, but no one, not even Ferrell, believed that. Whatever had attacked her had given her the intense impression that it was intelligent, thinking, plotting. “No dinosaur, no matter how smart,” she had said, “could have followed my trail.” Whitney believed her. The woman was a ghost when she wanted to be.
The rest of the day passed swiftly and without incident. No one felt much like talking. It was during that quiet period that Whitney began to pay attention to her other senses. The sounds of the forest were peaceful. Creaking trees and whooshing red-berried needles swayed in the wind. Small animals called from the trees and scurried across the ground. The sensation that became most uncomfortable was her smell. It wasn’t the smell of the forest; if Whitney could smell that, she’d be happy. But nothing could overpower the smell of her own stench. Unable to bathe while moving so quickly, the team had taken to slathering on deodorant in liberal portions, which had worked for everyone but her.
Like her mother, Whitney had an ample chest. It was there, with her breasts cinched to her body by the tight military sports bra, that a rancid smell had begun to linger. At first Whitney had been able to ignore her own odor, thinking about other things. But now it was as though someone had cut a fresh onion and hung it around her neck. She could think of nothing else. It would take a monumental distraction to take her attention away from the stench.
When distraction finally arrived in the form of an odd noise, Whitney was momentarily thankful. Then the body odor rising from her chest seemed a pleasant, fading dream. The forest around them filled with a sandpapery noise that reminded Whitney of a carpentry shop. But in the context of Antarktos, she knew that sound came from something infinitely more dangerous than angry carpenters.
“Crylophosaurs,” Merrill said, his voice hushed, Whitney’s 9mm clutched in his hand.
Vesuvius began a savage barrage of barking and his hair rose on his back.
“Shut him up!” Cruz said. “He’ll give our position away.”
“They already know where we are,” Merrill said. “His barking might be the only thing that keeps them from attacking.”
Wright grabbed Merrill by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. “You know these creatures better than anyone, Merrill. What do you suggest?”
Whitney was surprised by her father’s sudden change from a weary, old scientist cum theologian to a take-charge warrior. “Fall back slowly. Running will only entice them to attack. Find a defensible position that can only be attacked from one side.”
“Why are you listening to him?” Cruz asked. “What are we supposed to do after we’ve gone and trapped ourselves?”
Merrill smirked. “Let them group and funnel in for the attack.” He patted Wright’s XM-29. “Then unleash hell.”
Cruz couldn’t hide his smile. “I like the way you think.”
“Get on it,” Wright said. “Ferrell, you lead. Merrill, Whitney, you follow. Me and Cruz”—Vesuvius let out a savage bark followed by a low growl—“and Vesuvius, will bring up the rear. Go.”
Ferrell led the way, moving swiftly but not running. The rest followed in tight formation. The sound of scratching rang out all around them.
Ferrell located an outcrop of tall stones that formed a basic U-shape. They entered and faced the jungle, aiming their weapons. Vesuvius continued to bark. As though sensing their prey was trapped, their pursuers called out with shrieks and guttural chortling. The din was hellish.
As she held her heavy XM-29 at the ready and prepared to fire, Whitney looked at her shaking hands and realized that she wasn’t at all prepared for something else.
Death.
Chapter 44
It surrounded him now like never before.
Death.
General Kuan-Yin Zhou had seen his fair share of it over the years, but this put all his years of military service to shame. Men dying, screaming for their lives.
For the past five minutes his men had fought bravely, but the ranks were broken. The enemy had charged and horrified his army with their size and ferocity. Some men stopped fighting and simply stood, waiting to be butchered like cows at a slaughterhouse, resigned to their fate. But for Zhou, flight or standing stupefied were not options. He lobbed two grenades at the nearest attacker and, before they exploded, picked up a dead man’s weapon and unloaded a clip. The bullets tore into the skin of the first attacker just as the grenades exploded.
The burst of metal and flame mercifully killed the few Chinese soldiers in the area, but the attackers remained unscathed. They continued the assault. Some men were crushed underfoot or smacked against trees. Others were torn limb from limb. And still others, whom Zhou believed suffered the worst fate, were taken alive.
Like Lei.
Ten minutes ago, the world had been a different place. They were making impressive time and ahead of schedule. They were an efficient machine eating its way through the jungle like a caterpillar devouring a leaf.
When the jungle sounds created by the scads of unknown species ceased, Zhou had called for defensive positions. The formation was perfect. The defense was solid. A wall of firepower.
That’s when the howling started. It was a sound so deep and constant that Zhou feared his ears would be permanently damaged. It was a battle cry. All around them the jungle stirred with motion as the massive attackers pressed forward. Trees bent and cracked in their wake. The ground shook.
Zhou’s first impression was that another team had managed to sneak a tank group onto the continent. It would have been difficult to achieve such a feat undetected, but it would have been a masterful move. It wasn’t until he saw the first enemy soldier that he remembered that whoever had taken Lei had come from above.
Zhou’s men unleashed a fury, the likes of which had never before been seen on the continent. The sound of a hundred automatic weapons firing was deafening. Then the shoulder-mounted rockets and RPGs thundered with the chorus. The forest for a half mile around was flattened. All that remained standing when the men paused to reload were four large, angry behemoths.
After weapons were reloaded, the men did not
resume their attack. Not only had the attackers survived, but they appeared unscathed. It was unimaginable. They were able either to dodge bullets or unnaturally absorb them. It was when one moved that Zhou’s latter suspicion was confirmed. The creatures had taken the bullets and explosive rounds without injury, protecting the trees behind them from being felled by the barrage. They were impervious to harm—an undefeatable enemy. One of them opened its mouth and howled.
He knew from that moment that he and his men were doomed, but to lay down arms and surrender was not his way. He ordered the second command to fire, but before a shot was fired, the attackers were on them, shredding men five at a time.
Now the chaos was almost over. Perhaps fifty men had escaped into the jungle. One hundred and fifty were either dead or dying. Zhou was the last man still putting up any kind of resistance.
The four brutes turned their attention to him and stalked forward. He unloaded his pistol, dropped it, and picked up a dead man’s assault rifle. He fired every round at one of the titans, hoping that a concentrated burst might do some harm. But every bullet that pierced the skin entered the body and disappeared. The bloody wound left behind quickly healed and faded away. It was as though the ancient Kuan Ti, god of war, had come to earth to finish what the great cataclysm had begun.
The weapon ran out of ammunition and they were upon him. In a last-ditch effort, Zhou dove toward a man carrying a rocket launcher. He gripped the weapon, rolled over, and fired at the closest attacker. Zhou was thrown into the air by the rocket’s propulsion and his back was burned by the flames deflected by the ground. But he landed on his knees and watched.
Antarktos Rising Page 18