Antarktos Rising

by Jeremy Robinson

  “I want weapons unslung and safeties off until we clear the field,” Wright said. “Stay in a tight line. If something so much as twitches out there, fire a few rounds. If it twitches again, unload until it stops. Understood?”

  Nods all around confirmed that it was. Wright entered first, followed by Cruz, Merrill, Mirabelle, Vesuvius, and Jacobson. Ferrell brought up the rear.

  Inside the thick field, the air was stale and the breeze failed to penetrate. It was stiflingly hot and very dry. Sweat was absorbed into the air long before it had a chance to cool the skin. Merrill licked his lips and his tongue felt like sandpaper. He twisted the cap off his canteen and took a swig.

  His thoughts were not on the discomfort of traveling but on the dangers the group might face during this final week of travel. The others were confident that they’d faced the worst Antarktos had to offer, but Merrill wasn’t so sure. Crylophosaurus was only one of the many original denizens that had stalked Antarktos twelve thousand years ago. He feared other, perhaps more-fearsome predators waited for them. There was no fossil evidence for that assumption, but around the world, where medium-sized theropods like the crylos had lived, larger, more dangerous predators had always existed in tandem. Tyrannosaurus rex, Allosaurus, Carcharodontosaurus, and Giganotosaurus—who was two meters longer and two tons heavier than the T-rex—could have Antarctic cousins. Just because no fossils had been found didn’t mean they had never existed. Antarktos had proven itself to be a world where prehistory and modern history collided.

  He feared that clashes would continue, perhaps even worsen, with the introduction of modern man. They already had. He considered the skeletons of the giant man and Crylophosaurus he’d found back in his valley. They appeared to be mortal enemies, clashing soldiers. Perhaps the wall was built to keep the crylos at bay . . . Merrill longed for this race to end so he could return to his work and uncover countless mysteries. It was his hope, of course, that Mira would join him, perhaps make a photo documentary of their work. They could publish his second book together, Return to Antarktos.

  Of course, Merrill realized that the world might not care so much about history or reading books for some time to come. Not until the displaced billions were resettled and Antarktos had been divvied up, clear-cut, and paved over. He imagined the names of future cities would likely be named after those destroyed. New Boston. New Washington. New New York? No, that wouldn’t work.

  Merrill tried to picture where the cities would be located. No doubt the expansive coastline would be peppered with city after city. The large lake they crossed would probably sport one or two large cities.

  The stalks became even rows, separated by several feet. It reminded Merrill of a cornfield he’d walked through as a child. It had an almost agricultural feel to it. The feeling was unshakable. “This isn’t a natural field,” Merrill said. “Plants don’t naturally grow in lines like this.”

  Wright paused the forward-marching team. “You’re sure?”

  Merrill nodded. “This is, without a doubt, a man-made agricultural field.”

  “You think someone’s already living here?” Whitney asked.

  “No,” Merrill said. “The plant must be native to Antarktos. So when the rest of the anhydrobiotic plants sprang back to life, these did as well. But these were planted by the original settlers.”

  “The giants?” Whitney asked.

  Merrill nodded. “The Nephilim.”

  “The Nephilim?” Jacobson said, suddenly interested. “The heroes of old, men of renown.”

  Merrill smiled widely. He knew he liked Jacobson, and now he knew why. He could see the glimmer in his eye, the spark that revealed an excitement for the mysteries of the world. Merrill chimed in. “Genesis 6:4.”

  Jacobson’s eyes grew wide. “They were here?”

  “I believe so,” Merrill said, eager to launch into a discussion about the ancient giants. But Wright had other ideas.

  “Save it,” Wright said. “And no more talk until we’re clear of the field. I don’t want to draw any attention.”

  Jacobson nodded and a professional guise slid onto his face. Merrill couldn’t hide his disappointment. He took his place in line and skulked forward. A pat on his shoulder caught his attention. He turned and saw Jacobson flash a smile. He gave Merrill a thumbs-up sign that said, “We’ll talk about it later.” Merrill was content to wait, but if he was right, he would seriously reconsider building on this land. It could very well be horribly tainted.

  Merrill pushed thoughts of the Nephilim from his mind and returned to the subject of city building and renaming. After unrolling his copy of the Piri Reis map, he held it low so that he could see where he was walking while inspecting the map. He found the lake they had crossed then worked his way inland. Forests and hills were depicted, followed by a large flat area divided into squares. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought it might be the fields they currently walked through. He noted that beyond the field was a brief portion of forest, a few tall mountains, then . . . Merrill folded the map so he could hold it steady and scrutinized its contents. Beyond that was a large mountain; carved into the side of the mountain was a fortress of some kind. At the top of the fortress was what looked like a human skull. At the base of the mountain was a river that came from inside the mountain itself, perhaps from an underground spring, one of the many around the world that accessed the vast subterranean reservoirs that had aided in the original deluge.

  Merrill became consumed by the image drawn so long ago. The human skull captured his attention. He wasn’t sure if it was meant as a warning. This place was either dangerous or was a geologic formation, something like New Hampshire’s once-noble Old Man on the Mountain. As he looked at the details surrounding the mountain, he gasped. Intertwined in the drawing of the mountain, so subtle that he hadn’t seen them at first, were two large feet. They were similar to those found elsewhere on the map, but these looked stronger, larger. Symbolism was everything in the ancient world. He thought about what it could mean.

  Distracted as he was by the images on the Piri Reis map, Merrill failed to notice the wind pick up. A sudden gust tore the map out of his hands and pulled it through a corridor in the stalks. Merrill charged after the map.

  “Clark!” hissed Wright. “Get your ass back here!”

  Merrill was inches from the floating map and didn’t want to lose it. They all had a copy, but he doubted the government would create a new one for him when all this was over. If he lost his copy, he might lose it forever.

  The wind gusted again and the map was lifted up higher. Merrill leapt and snagged the corner of the map between his thumb and index finger. Map safely recovered, Merrill didn’t concentrate on his landing and spilled over gracelessly.

  He heard the rest of the team run toward him and stop. He prepared for whatever verbal barrage Wright might unleash, but nothing came. He looked up to see the entire team looking beyond him. He followed their eyes to discover that he’d stumbled into a perfectly circular clearing in the wheat-like field.

  Beyond the trampled stalks that were bent like a perfect crop circle was clothing—uniforms—from pants and socks to helmets and weapons, scattered throughout the field. The team slowly entered the clearing, wary of a trap. Ferrell bent down to inspect a discarded uniform and found an emblem stitched to it—a red rectangle with a large gold star in the upper left corner, and four smaller stars arranged in a vertical crescent to the right of the large star. “Chinese,” she said.

  Wright picked up one of the assault rifles and handed it to Merrill. “Upgrade,” he said. Merrill took the weapon. It was heavier than the 9mm but lighter than the XM-29. In his hands he knew all three were useless, but he’d be more likely to get in a lucky shot with an automatic weapon. He slung it over his shoulder.

  “What happened here?” his daughter asked.

  “Crop circle,” Jacobson said.

  “Hogwash,” Merrill chimed in. Crop circles were the creations of pranksters and jobless teenagers, and onl
y interested UFO enthusiasts.

  “Some theorize that energies from inside the earth create the circles,” Jacobson explained. “It’s possible that they were, for lack of a better word, vaporized.”

  “Complete hogwash.”

  “I’m surprised, Dr. Clark,” Jacobson said with a smile, “that with your knowledge of the Nephilim, you fail to see the connection here.”

  Merrill felt the turning gears in his mind groan to a halt and reverse direction. Jacobson was right. Strange, demonic abilities had long been attributed to the Nephilim. It did, after all, run in their blood.

  Wright stepped forward. “Look. You two can confer about all this mumbo jumbo mystical history stuff just as soon as we clear the field. This is the last time I’m going to tell you.”

  “Agreed,” Merrill said, though not for fear of the consequences. He knew Wright would do nothing to harm them. But now, more than ever, he wanted to get out of the field. “But can I make one suggestion?”

  Wright raised his eyebrows, declaring his impatience but waiting for Merrill to speak. “Stay off the cleared paths.” Merrill shared a look with Jacobson. “They might not be safe.”

  They ran the rest of the way, plowing through the thick stalks, and didn’t clear the field until nightfall. They set up camp after returning to the darkness of the forest, careful not to make too much noise or create any light that could be seen. After settling in, Merrill thought he and Jacobson might be able to rekindle their conversation, but before he had a chance, Mira’s voice cut through the darkness.

  “Anyone smell that?” she asked.

  Merrill took a deep breath and nodded, even though no one could see him. “Smoke.”

  Chapter 48

  After much protest, Merrill was forced to stay at camp with Vesuvius while the others searched for the source of the smoke. The dog had proven his worth, but Wright didn’t want their position betrayed because of an ill-timed bark.

  Plodding through the darkness, Whitney began wondering if she too should have remained behind. Sure, she had fired her XM-29 and successfully killed a crylo, but she knew it was dumb luck. She wasn’t a soldier. That same sinking feeling she’d had back in the frozen church came back in spades. She wasn’t a hero. She wasn’t adept at being stealthy, beyond sneaking up on animals with a camera. The only things she’d shot before the crylo were cardboard cutouts of gangsters at the shooting range and photos of animals.

  Whitney frowned as she realized she’d been so preoccupied by their trek that she had completely forgotten to take pictures along the way. If any of her photography friends were left alive, they’d scoff at her. But not having taken pictures left Whitney with an odd sense of peace. This new world was so strange, so wondrous, and so captivating that photos would not do it justice.

  A low-hanging branch audibly slapped against her forehead. She paused for a moment and listened, knowing that her misstep might have given them away. She knew she shouldn’t have come. But nothing happened. There was no movement.

  A voice came in the faintest whisper: “Careful, chica.”

  Cruz knew she couldn’t argue or smack him. The jerk.

  The group moved slowly and silently with Ferrell leading them toward the place where she believed the smoky odor was originating from. The scent, Whitney noticed, grew stronger and more intense. She stifled the urge to cough and hoped they would soon find the source, turn tail, and get the hell out of there.

  A quick climb up a short hill brought them to the crest of a much steeper incline, which led to a clearing. Before looking over the top, Whitney tied a dark green bandana on her head. She was confident her dark skin would conceal her in the shadows, but her bright blond, frizzy hair would be a beacon. Bandana securely in place, she peeked up over the crest. A blazing bonfire raged at the center of the clearing. A single figure sat by the fire, rocking back and forth, muttering to himself. His voice was so soft that the words he spoke were too quiet to hear. Even so, Whitney had the distinct feeling that he was not speaking English.

  The team ducked back behind the cover of the hilltop. A thinner tree line allowed moonlight from the full moon above to filter through the trees. Whitney could see the bemused faces of the others, cast in pale blue. The man was stripped of clothing to his underwear and wore a strange, thick belt around his waist that almost reached up to his ribs. It looked like a thick corset. His skin was dark, but that didn’t help place his country of origin. Many of the competing counties were comprised of dark-skinned men and women. His hair was also black and curly, cut short. The area around him was full of strange objects, but in the wash of light from the fire Whitney couldn’t make out the details.

  Wright spoke with amazing clarity even though he was barely audible. “Ferrell, Cruz. Circle around. Move on my mark. No firing unless fired upon.”

  The two departed quickly and silently, one to the left, one to the right. Wright continued. “Jacobson. Stay on my nine.” Jacobson nodded. “Whitney, you’re on my three.”

  Whitney furrowed her brow. “What?”

  “My three o’clock.”

  Whitney knew he was using military lingo for directional positions, but she still wasn’t sure how it worked. She shrugged.

  Wright sighed. “My right.”

  Whitney stifled the urge to make a sarcastic comment, as doing so now might get them killed. She took her position at Wright’s side and the three inched their way down the hill, sliding on their bellies.

  Upon reaching the bottom of the hill, all eyes were on the single sitting man. He was still rocking back and forth as he sat cross-legged on a red mat before the fire. He mumbled incoherently and, Whitney thought, nervously. Wright slowly stood and motioned for the others to join him. He stepped forward into the clearing and suddenly gave a loud whistle. In an instant they were running into the clearing, weapons and flashlights trained on the lone man. As Whitney ran in with weapon aimed, she saw Cruz and Ferrell enter the clearing from the other side.

  As they approached him, Wright held out his arm and stopped Whitney in her tracks. The others had stopped as well. She searched the man with her eyes and found the reason for the others’ apprehension around the man’s waist. It wasn’t a belt; it was blocks of explosives, wired together. He appeared to have a detonator in his hand. She could also see that the man was of Middle Eastern descent—part of the Arab Alliance.

  Whitney noticed a subtle change in Wright’s aim, from the man’s head to his hand. Could he really stop the man from blowing them all to bits by shooting his hand? She hoped they wouldn’t have to find out.

  The man had yet to acknowledge their presence. He seemed delirious, spouting his repetitive mantra which Whitney now recognized as Arabic. She couldn’t speak the language beyond “hello,” “goodbye,” and “thank you,” but she’d spent enough time in Egypt shooting photos on the Nile that the language had become familiar.

  Ferrell, on the other hand, was fluent. “Take your hand off the detonator,” she said in Arabic. “Remove your hand now.”

  The man’s eyes fluttered. For a moment he appeared terrified, so panic-stricken that Whitney was afraid he would detonate the bomb; but when his eyes met Ferrell’s, he paused. She was not who he was expecting to see. He searched the faces of the others, one at a time, taking them in. “Who . . . who are you?” he asked Ferrell.

  “The United States team,” she replied. That much Whitney understood.

  The man removed his finger from the detonator and placed it on the ground. He sighed with relief and spoke in English. “Thank you! Thank you for coming!”

  “This ain’t no dinner party, man,” Cruz said, weapon still aimed. “Why the happy reception, eh?”

  The man seemed momentarily confused then understanding dawned. “No . . . I thought you were them. The giants.”

  Whitney’s stomach twisted. She stepped forward. “Who?”

  “The ones who did this.” The man swept his arm out in an arc, motioning to the surrounding clearing.

 
As Whitney turned she realized that in their haste to secure the man, they had not inspected the surroundings. Her father would be disappointed. With all his trap-setting, he would have thought to look around first. Whitney’s initial reaction was relief as she realized there were no traps. The second was horror.

  The fire seemed hot enough to sear skin. The odor of the burning wood carried something else, something putrid. She breathed through her mouth, trying to ignore the smell, but the dry, ashen air stung her throat. Her discomfort quickly became overshadowed by intense fear as her eyes took in the rest.

  Surrounding them were stone altars and wooden stakes arranged in a circle. Impaled on each stake was a human head, Chinese, by the looks of them. On the altars rested slabs of meat—human flesh, neatly carved into fillets and arranged in an elaborate pattern. Several naked, headless corpses hung from hooks, their intestines spilling out and dangling like vines. There was a large central altar, above which a crylo had been nailed to a tree and, like the human bodies, disembowelled. Its skin had been peeled away and stretched out, nailed to posts on both sides, revealing internal organs, sinewy muscle, and broken, jagged ribs. Its face was frozen in agony. The creature had been mutilated alive. It was the centerpiece of the macabre scene.

  Surrounding the fire, etched into the dirt, were symbols both intricate and ancient. Whitney suspected even her father couldn’t read them. Her eyes trailed back up to the carved bodies and she fell to one knee, hand over mouth, straining to keep the rising bile from exploding from her mouth. A crime had been committed, not against the Chinese or the Arabs or the Americans. This was a crime against humankind.

  As the Middle Eastern man spoke, Whitney knew that he realized this as well. “My name is Ahmed al-Aziz. I would like very much to join your party. Please.”

  Chapter 49

  A wave of nausea passed through the entire group. Jacobson had his hands on his knees, head down, breathing hard. Cruz had the crook of his arm wrapped around his nose and mouth. Even Ferrell was visibly shaken. Her weapon was lowered, her hand over her mouth, eyes glistening . . . with tears?