Antarktos Rising

by Jeremy Robinson

  Only Wright reacted with something other than disgust and sorrow: rage. He shoved the muzzle of his XM-29 against the temple of al-Aziz. “What did you do?” he hissed. “What did you do to these people?”

  Al-Aziz shook with fear. His eyes went wide and glowed in the firelight. “I did nothing!” He shook his head. “They were like this when I arrived.”

  Wright kicked the man’s shoulder, toppling him sideways with no regard to the explosives wrapped around his waist. “Then who set the fire?”

  Al-Aziz’s eyes showed a flicker of panic. “I—I did.”

  Wright took aim and stepped back. He had clearly made up his mind and was going to shoot the man. But Whitney wasn’t convinced the man was guilty. The scene was too inhuman, too evil. “Stop!” she yelled.

  He held his aim but did not fire. “Take your hand off my shoulder, Whitney.”

  “He didn’t do this,” Whitney said. Wright didn’t respond, but at least he was listening. “Look at the stakes, Wright. Look at the altars. He’s just one man. There is no way he could have done this. How many Chinese uniforms did we find in the field? Fifteen? Do you think one man could have captured fifteen soldiers, stripped them bare, carried them all here, and then done this thing?”

  Wright took his eyes off al-Aziz and looked at Whitney. “Someone needs to answer for this.”

  “And someone will. But not him.”

  She looked at al-Aziz and met his eyes. He looked like a scared animal caught in a bear trap. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

  Wright lowered his weapon.

  “Thank you,” al-Aziz said, bowing his head in gratitude, first toward Wright then toward Whitney. “Thank you.”

  “You can come with us,” Wright said to al-Aziz. “But you must agree to forfeit your place at the finish. You must remove yourself from the race.”

  Al-Aziz nodded. “Agreed, but I would prefer to not finish the race at all . . . leaving this place would be best.”

  “I don’t care what you think is best,” Wright said. “You will not carry a weapon. You will not have an opinion.”

  “Then I am your prisoner?”

  Wright considered for a moment. “If you want to leave, by all means, do so. These are my conditions. Whether you did this or not, that bomb around your waist aligns you with terrorists, which in my opinion aren’t so different from whoever did do this.”

  Al-Aziz nodded. “I—I understand. Seeing all this . . . this mutilation. It reminds me of things I have seen before. Things I have seen done to men in my country. When I saw this place, I understood what it was we have done, what I have done to others. I turn my back on jihad. And can no longer hold to the true teachings of Islam.”

  Whitney could scarcely believe what she was hearing. She knew enough about radical Islam to realize that the things he was saying, even if a ruse, would be enough to earn a swift decapitation in much of the Muslim world. He seemed in earnest.

  Wright motioned to Cruz. “Remove the bomb.”

  Cruz stepped toward al-Aziz, but the man scrambled back on his hands and feet. “No! The bomb cannot be removed.”

  Wright took aim again. “Now is not a good time to argue.”

  “It is . . . trapped. It will explode,” al-Aziz said, his breath quick and nervous. “To remove it is to die.”

  Wright stared at al-Aziz, apparently sizing him up. He lowered his weapon again. “Stupid terrorists.” He shook his head in exasperation. “This was supposed to be a one-way trip for you.”

  Al-Aziz nodded his confirmation. “Martyrdom cannot be achieved without losing your life.”

  Wright appeared incensed again, and Whitney suspected he’d dealt with terrorists before. His eyes gleamed more brightly than the glowing embers of the fire. Al-Aziz noticed, too.

  “I am not that man anymore,” al-Aziz said. “You have nothing to fear from me now.”

  That brought a faint smile to Wright’s face. “I never did.”

  Jacobson stepped into the circle, laying on his accent, trying to calm everyone down. “Aziz, can you tell us about those who did this? The giants?”

  Al-Aziz seemed momentarily terrified by the memories of what he’d seen, then he spoke softly, almost like a child. “I was . . . the path was clear. In the jungle. Then I came to this place. I spread the leaves and I—I . . .” He pointed to the dirt near the edge of the clearing. “I vomited.”

  Whitney saw that he was telling the truth. Normally vomit made her queasy, but the ghastly scenery surrounding them was far worse. She hoped al-Aziz’s story would be brief. She wanted nothing more than to leave.

  “I was afraid,” al-Aziz continued, “and fled back into the jungle. But I did not go far. They returned an hour later, carrying more men. I watched as they carved the bodies, and . . .” Tears welled up in the former terrorist’s eyes. “They ate them.”

  Nausea didn’t describe the sensation rising from Whitney’s belly. She felt as though her worst unrealized nightmares had sprung from her mind into her waking life.

  “They performed many . . . incantations.”

  Jacobson nodded, letting al-Aziz know he’d used the right words.

  “They stuffed some bodies into large packs and left.” Al-Aziz’s eyes hardened. “I was waiting for the dogs to return.”

  Whitney understood. Though he’d given up his belief in Allah and probably in the benefits of martyrdom, he was still willing to give his life to kill a few of the men who’d done this. “How long have you waited?” Whitney asked.

  “Three days. I do not think they intend to return.”

  Whitney could no longer hold back her growing curiosity. “What did they look like?”

  “Pray you will never know,” al-Aziz said. “They were taller than giraffes, maybe twenty feet tall. They carried whole trees for burning like they weighed as little as a single branch.”

  “‘We saw the Nephilim there,’” Jacobson quoted. “‘The descendants of Anak come from the Nephilim. We seemed like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and we looked the same to them.’”

  All eyes turned to Jacobson. “What is that from?” al-Aziz asked.

  “It’s from the Bible. The Book of Numbers, I think.”

  “Then you know what . . . who they are?”

  Jacobson nodded slowly. “The devil’s children.”

  Wright frowned, picked up al-Aziz’s discarded clothes, and threw them to him. “Get dressed. We’re leaving.”

  Nephilim

  Chapter 50

  Upon seeing Mira’s face, Merrill knew something had gone terribly wrong. Vesuvius had warned of their return with a whine and tail wag, so Merrill wasn’t surprised when she emerged from the jungle, but he was nervous about her stricken expression. As she walked back into camp, illuminated by the moonlight, her wide eyes danced anxiously back and forth. Merrill rushed up to her. “Mira, what happened?”

  She shook her head and moved past him, allowing the others to enter the campsite. Wright was next, followed by Cruz . . . and the face of a stranger—wrinkled forehead, solid brown, wide eyes, and a strong jaw covered by a thick, black beard that merged with a messy head of wavy hair. As he emerged from the forest, Merrill made a quick assessment of the character and deduced that the man was a Muslim. Then he noted the explosives strapped to the man’s waist. Not just a Muslim, a Muslim extremist—complete with a suicide bomb!

  He reached for his weapon, but before drawing it he noticed Ferrell and Jacobson bringing up the rear. The man was with them. “What’s going on here?” Merrill asked, aghast.

  “He’s with us, now,” Wright said.

  That was it? That was his explanation? “He’s a terrorist!” Merrill shouted.

  “Get over it,” Wright said.

  Merrill couldn’t fathom what had happened in the forest that could make Wright so cold and make them all ignore common sense. His face grew red with rage.

  “I have given up jihad.” The man looked to the ground, his expression solemn. “I have forsaken Is
lam.”

  Merrill glared at al-Aziz. What neither this man nor many other people knew was that Merrill had friends working in Israel digging at an ancient site where evidence of multiple occupations were discovered. Greek, Hebrew, Egyptian, and Babylonian remnants were found in layers that gave a succinct timeline as to who occupied the area and when. It was only by chance that they had gone to the market one Friday evening. It also happened to be the same evening two suicide bombers chose to end their lives and those of fourteen others, including those of Merrill’s friends. He’d held a personal grudge since.

  Merrill seethed as he spoke. “I don’t care how unaffiliated you are now. The fact that you were a terrorist is enough. It’s people like you who make this world as dark and sinister as it is. The world is in chaos and the only thing you can think of”—Merrill pointed at the bomb around al-Aziz’s waist—“is blowing yourself up and killing innocents. Men, women, children . . . you couldn’t care less who gets mowed down, as long as you get your fairy tale virgins.” Merrill leaned in close. “I have news for you, buddy. There are no virgins waiting for you. Just a special place in hell.”

  “Dad,” Mira’s voice cut in. He could tell she wanted to stop his tirade, but the tone of her voice also said she wasn’t going to push it. Good, Merrill thought, because I’m not done yet.

  “You’re evil. You’re despicable.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re . . . What?”

  “I know,” al-Aziz repeated. “I have seen the truth about what I was and what I believed.”

  Merrill’s enraged mind had trouble assimilating the revelation. Had this man truly come to understand how misguided his extremist beliefs were? He didn’t buy it. Merrill prepared to unload another tongue-lashing, but something inside froze the words in his throat.

  “Please,” al-Aziz said, “I do not deserve it, but if you can: forgive me.”

  Merrill’s body became rigid. His humanity cried for vengeance, for justice against this man who could have very well, in some way, helped commit the murders of hundreds, maybe thousands of people. But the voice that he prayed would influence every choice he made shouted more loudly than his own bitter emotions, and it called for one thing that he did not want to give—forgiveness.

  A torrent of emotion swirled inside Merrill. A battle raged in his soul between what he felt was just and what he knew was right. Vengeance. Mercy. Retribution. Compassion. Condemnation. Forgiveness. Merrill couldn’t fight what he knew to be the right course of action.

  Merrill lowered his head and stared at the ground, unable to look al-Aziz in the eyes. “I forgive you,” he said.

  Then the strangest thing happened, one that Merrill just moments ago would have shot the man for trying. Al-Aziz stepped forward and embraced Merrill.

  “Thank you, friend,” al-Aziz said. “Your heart is bigger than mine.”

  Al-Aziz was crying, which in turn brought tears to Merrill’s eyes. It was a reconciliation neither of them had believed would ever happen in their lifetimes. Years of hatred and misunderstanding melted away. But the joy of accord would be short lived.

  Merrill felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He pulled himself away from al-Aziz and looked through wet eyes to see Mira smiling at him, her own eyes damp with tears. He glanced at the somber faces around him. The experience had touched something within them all, yet on the surface was something more, a kind of dread that had nothing to do with al-Aziz.

  “What happened in the jungle?” Merrill asked.

  “The Nephilim,” Mirabelle said. “They’re alive.”

  Chapter 51

  The night had become a whirlwind of staggering emotions for Merrill. He sat down on a toppled tree. “What do you mean, alive?”

  “Alive and kicking,” Wright said. “Like the crylos, they’ve somehow come back. Or never left.”

  “The Nephilim?” Merrill doubted any of them knew enough about the Nephilim to make such a judgment, except perhaps Jacobson. He looked at the Englishman. “You’re sure?”

  “Couldn’t be anyone else,” Jacobson said. “Not if Aziz’s description is accurate.”

  Merrill turned to the new member of the team. “You saw them?”

  Al-Aziz nodded, eyes wide with fear, and told his story in detail. That he produced their description without knowing that such a thing as the Nephilim existed made his story even more difficult to refute. That, combined with the fossilized giants Merrill had himself dug up, led him to believe it was true. But how they had survived for thousands of years on Antarctica was beyond him.

  “This is not good,” Merrill said when al-Aziz had finished. “Not good at all.”

  Wright sat across from Merrill. “And you thought you weren’t going to be useful.”

  “I’m beginning to wish I wasn’t,” Merrill said. He knew that, as with the crylos, Wright wanted to know everything he knew about the Nephilim. Merrill accessed his memory, incorporating tidbits from biblical and non-biblical history and searching for a place to start.

  He stood and opened his backpack. After reaching deep inside, he pulled out his old black leather Bible.

  “You brought a Bible with you?” Cruz said.

  “I bring it everywhere,” Merrill said before retaking his seat on the fallen tree.

  “Take a seat,” he said to the others. “This might take some time.” As the group huddled in close and sat like kids at a campfire ghost story, Merrill recalled the Nephilim’s first mention in the Bible. He turned to Genesis, found the verse and began reading aloud: “‘When men began to increase in number on the earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were beautiful, and they married any of them they chose. Then the Lord said, “My Spirit will not contend with man forever, for he is corrupt; his days will be a hundred and twenty years.”’ Wait, there’s more.”

  “‘The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterward—when the sons of God went to the daughters of men and had children by them. They were the heroes of old, men of renown. The Lord saw how great man's wickedness on the earth had become, and that every inclination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil all the time.’”

  “Here’s the kicker,” Merrill said and continued reading. ‘“The Lord was grieved that He had made man on the earth, and his heart was filled with pain. So the Lord said, “I will wipe mankind, whom I have created, from the face of the earth—men and animals, and creatures that move along the ground, and birds of the air—for I am grieved that I have made them.” But Noah found favor in the eyes of the Lord.’” Merrill looked up at the group. “That’s Genesis six, verses one through eight.”

  “That’s the beginning of the flood account,” Wright said.

  “What does it mean, ‘sons of God’?” Cruz asked.

  No fond memories of lecturing students came to Merrill this time, as the questions came. He wished to talk about this as little as possible now. It had been fascinating as ancient history, but now it was real and he wanted nothing to do with it. He answered only because if he divulged all he knew, they might not ask him any more about it. “The sons of God,” he said, “were angels, bene Elohim in the original Hebrew.”

  ‘“Were angels’?”

  “Fallen angels,” Merrill added. “Demons.”

  “Oh.”

  “Angels, like man, were given free will. It would be impossible to love God without it. We’d all be robots, otherwise. And like humans, some angels made the wrong choices. They lusted after human women, married, and fathered children—the Nephilim.”

  “But . . .” Mirabelle had a confused look on her face. Merrill knew this must all be earth shattering for her. First the flood evidence and now the Nephilim, real and alive. The Bible was coming to life for Whitney, and she was beginning to question things. “How can angels . . . you know . . . have children? They’re genetically similar to humans? They reproduce?”

  “Angels and humans are totally different,” Merrill said. “Angels are
immortal, lacking souls because of their immortality. We don’t really know what they look like, only that they can pretty much look like whatever they want. In Genesis nineteen, two angels visit Sodom, staying in the house of Lot. They’re seen by the men of Sodom who surround Lot’s house and demand the visitors be sent outside . . . so they can have sex with them. It reveals the depravity of the time, but also that the angels, in human form, could be, at least from the attackers’ point of view, raped.”

  “That’s sick, man,” Cruz said.

  “Very,” Merrill said. “And it resulted in Sodom’s destruction.”

  “Stick to the Nephilim,” Wright said. “It’s late and we’re getting up with the sun.”

  Merrill nodded. “So we have demons having children with human women. The children are named Nephilim, which literally means ‘fallen ones,’ from naphal: ‘to fall.’ They were renowned in the ancient world for their size, strength, and wickedness. They are mentioned throughout the Old Testament under several different names given to their various tribes. Rephiam, Emim, Horim, Zamammim, and Avim were all Nephilim. And they populated the pre-flood world until only one truly human family was left.”

  “Noah . . .” Whitney’s eyes were wide. Merrill could see her mind putting things together.

  “Exactly,” Merrill said. “Most people overlook the Nephilim, seeing them as a side note in the biblical account. But their influence has reshaped the planet. You see, it’s possible that even back then, angels knew about Jesus, about how he would give his life to save those who believed in him. They also knew that his bloodline would be pure—not from sin, mind you, but genetically. From Adam, to Noah, to David, and eventually on to Jesus himself, the bloodline, the DNA, remained 100 percent human. If the Nephilim had succeeded in genetically corrupting the entire human bloodline, Jesus would not have been conceived. That is why God wiped out the entire planet except for one family, to preserve the geneology of His son. When the Bible says the world was corrupt, it doesn’t just mean morally—it’s talking genetics.”