Antarktos Rising

by Jeremy Robinson

  “Then why are the Nephilim here,” Wright asked, “if God wiped them all out?”

  Merrill considered that and found two answers, neither of which he liked at all. “In the verses I read it says, ‘The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterward.’ That’s after the flood. The Nephilim, at least some of them, survived the flood. The ancient Sumerians wrote about the Nephilim as well, describing them as master boat builders and navigators. It’s possible that the source documents for our Piri Reis map were drawn by Nephilim, perhaps the very ones living here today.”

  “You’re saying they’re immortal?” Wright’s face looked skeptical, but also like a man hoping to be wrong.

  Merrill nodded. “With such an odd parentage, I wouldn’t be surprised. That and the Nephilim don’t have souls. Isaiah 26:14 says, ‘They are dead, they shall not live; they are Rephiam, they shall not rise.’ The Rephiam are one of the well known Nephilim tribes and the verse clearly says that they will not rise from the dead; they have no eternal soul, but unlike their immortal fathers, they can be killed.”

  “At least that’s some good news,” Cruz said.

  “I wouldn’t count on it being easy,” Merrill said. “They survived the flood and a second extermination attempt by Joshua, the man who led the Jews into Israel after Moses died. Many people think of Joshua—and God, at the time—as being savage killers, conquerors of the Promised Land. But what they don’t consider, again, is that it is possible that the Canaanites of the time were actually a second infusion of Nephilim. Fallen angels again came down and bore children, but on a much smaller scale. Joshua’s own troops reported that they were like grasshoppers in their sight.”

  “The book of Numbers,” Ferrell said from her perch above the rest where she’d been silently watching the jungle. Merrill didn’t hide his surprise. “Jacobson covered that already.”

  Merrill nodded to Jacobson. “Very good.”

  Jacobson returned the nod.

  “Did Joshua destroy the Canaanites?” Whitney asked.

  This was the issue Merrill was just now beginning to understand. “No,” he said. “Some of them escaped and, I expect, are still living among us to this day.”

  Jacobson suddenly sat upright. “The crop circles!”

  Merrill scrunched his forehead, not following.

  “Crop circles are seen all over the world. We’ve always assumed that they were messages from something, someone, but what if they’re a by-product of Nephilim . . . spells, or whatever you want to call their powers. We saw the circle in the field here. It was a perfect crop circle. And the clothing on the ground, as though it had just fallen from the men’s bodies. That had to be Nephilim.” Jacobson grew pale. “There have been thousands of crop circles found to date and hundreds more every year; in fact, there are more and more every year.”

  The implications made Merrill shudder. It would mean that there had been Nephilim living among, perhaps influencing, humanity since the flood. He didn’t want to think about it. “Crop circles or not, the point is that the Nephilim have an extreme hatred for humanity. They envy our immortal souls because ultimately, while we live on eternally, they will one day cease to exist. The future biblical resurrection isn’t an option for them. They have powers granted them through their demonic parentage, along with giant stature, inhuman strength, and physical immortality, but no souls.”

  “And the cannibalism?” Wright asked.

  “Not recorded in the Bible, but the Nephilim had populated the whole earth at the time of the flood. There are cave paintings, ancient pictographs that tell stories of men who could carry logs that six modern humans could not move. The math here . . . the lifting power of six men makes the logs heavier than 1800 pounds. Other pictographs and the recently recorded oral traditions of a few tribes describe their bodies as being covered with ritualistic tattoos and their diets including human flesh. Worst of all was their physical appearance. Double rows of teeth, long red hair, six toes, six fingers, and in some cases, horns.”

  “If that’s the case,” Wright asked, “how could they hide among us?”

  “Teeth can be removed. Hair can be cut. Surgery can remove fingers, toes, and I imagine even horns. And height . . . through selective breeding they could, in theory, reduce their size to that of humans, but if any of the first Nephilim were still alive in the outside world, they would have to be in hiding. I wouldn’t have believed it myself two hours ago.”

  “Give us crylos any day over Nephilim,” Cruz said.

  Merrill nodded. They were beginning to understand. The Nephilim were mankind’s oldest and most dangerous enemy. Merrill briefly posed the idea of calling off the race in order to return home and report on the Nephilim, but it was quickly shot down. He knew it was a futile effort, but didn’t feel right not trying. Wright’s response to the idea confirmed Merrill’s thoughts. They would press forward, and if the Piri Reis map continued to prove accurate, they’d be headed smack dab into the middle of Nephilim territory where the skulled fortress was carved into the base of the mountain.

  And if they survived long enough, they would see the skull fortress for themselves.

  Chapter 52

  Jacobson’s respect for the American team grew with every encounter they had. They handled the crylos with a skill his team had lacked. They’d welcomed him to the team without question and had treated him as a professional from their first meeting. And now al-Aziz, a Muslim extremist who had just now turned from his destructive faith and asked for forgiveness, was also welcomed, though with much less trust. The fact that he hadn’t simply been shot on the spot spoke volumes about this team.

  Merrill stood out to him the most. It was clear that he’d had a history with terrorism, maybe even lost a friend or family member. His rage was understandable. If he’d shot al-Aziz, it would have been within reason. But he hadn’t. He had forgiven the man. Jacobson shook his head as he remembered the exchange: the pained look on Merrill’s face as al-Aziz asked for forgiveness. And then, just as it seemed Merrill would pounce, he offered the forgiveness, which ended in an embrace. It was a more powerful experience than all of the death and carnage visited upon Jacobson since the race began. It gave him hope. But not hope in terms of Merrill’s religious beliefs; hope that the world would put aside old grudges in the face of a greater enemy.

  Now they were moving again, heading inexorably toward the goal. Merrill had given a brief protest with which deep down Jacobson agreed, but his own loyalty to queen and country pushed him forward. If there was a chance that Antarktos, as Merrill was now calling it, could be claimed for Europe along with America, then cleansed of the Nephilim, he had to take it.

  Of course, the more time spent traveling, the longer he had to pursue Whitney. Not that he’d made a conscious choice to woo the woman, but he found her endlessly fascinating . . . and attractive. The exotic combination of her naturally stark-blond hair and coffee-colored skin, along with those fiery eyes; it was an odd sensation to him, when their eyes met occasionally. It seemed he couldn’t pull away, even when awkwardness set in. It wasn’t until she smiled, pulling his attention from her eyes to her plump-lipped smile, that he was able to break away. It took all of his effort to resist looking back. When he felt his distraction was becoming unsafe, he requested to guard the rear of the line. Of course, covering the rear of this little trek had its distractions, too. Even now, he had to work hard to keep his mind on enemies potentially lurking in the jungle and off of her ass.

  The jungle was thinner now and had been growing steadily thus. Merrill had explained that they were within two days’ travel of their goal which was also, he believed, a Nephilim hot spot. The Piri Reis map, which had been accurate so far, depicted a forest, some mountains, and a fortress, a Nephilim fortress. And they were headed straight for it.

  The fact that an ancient fortress might still exist after twelve thousand years under the crushing ice seemed unlikely. But so did living dinosaurs and half-man half-demon giants. Jacobs
on had to admit it was a possibility. And if the Nephilim had taken up residence there once again, they were in for a fight of biblical proportions. When the Israelites had fought the Nephilim, they had God on their side. Jacobson wasn’t sure if any of them, except maybe Merrill, had the almighty watching their backs.

  As the trees grew shorter and more sparse, Jacobson knew that their elevation was getting high. Soon they would feel lightheaded and increasingly winded with every step as the oxygen continued to thin. They’d been hiking uphill for several hours and now seemed to be climbing a mountain. The going was rough and taxing, but no one slowed or asked for a break. They were like guided missiles that couldn’t be called off . . . very slow-moving missiles.

  Jacobson put his machete away. There was no longer any brush or vines to hack. Ferrell, at the front of the line, raised her hand in warning. As had been discussed, Merrill, Whitney, Vesuvius, and al-Aziz instantly fell back while Wright, Cruz, Ferrell, and Jacobson took the front line. When Jacobson reached the front, he saw what had given Ferrell pause.

  Fifty feet ahead, a portion of the forest had been cleared. At the front of the clearing, which stretched forward up over a crest like a road, was a pillar of stone thirty feet high that looked strikingly like an Egyptian obelisk. Most obelisks found in Egypt were covered in hieroglyphs, but this one appeared to have only one, about ten feet up. From a distance, Jacobson couldn’t make out the symbol, but it seemed somehow familiar.

  He took a step forward. “Stand your ground,” Wright said. “Wait for Ferrell to give the all clear.”

  Jacobson looked. Ferrell was gone. He hadn’t seen or heard her leave.

  A birdcall from the direction of the obelisk brought his attention forward. Ferrell was there, giving a thumbs-up sign. “All clear,” Wright said then motioned for the others to fall in behind him. They moved forward as a group. Wright ran a tight ship. It wasn’t exactly Jacobson’s style, but maybe that’s why the American team had yet to lose a single member. In fact, they’d grown by two.

  Once in the clearing, Vesuvius broke into a run, prancing happily toward Ferrell, who, to Jacobson’s surprise, bent down and petted the dog. Jacobson would have doubted the wisdom of allowing a dog to join the team, but it was undeniable that with all the horror they had seen, Vesuvius was a great morale booster.

  Standing before the obelisk, Jacobson was struck by its size. It stood in the middle of nowhere, probably carried there by the giants, a testament to their strength. He saw the symbol clearly for the first time and recognized it instantly. There were three rings intertwined. Three lines ran through the middle of each ring then out the other side, ending at different lengths. On the longest line were three more short lines extending at 90 degree angles.

  “It’s a crop circle,” Jacobson said.

  “What makes you say that?” Merrill asked.

  “I’ve seen it before.”

  “Doesn’t it have to be in a crop to be a crop circle?” Cruz added.

  “It was. I saw it from two thousand feet . . . in a plane over England.” He turned and looked at Merrill. “Last year.”

  Merrill’s eyes widened. “What does it mean?”

  Jacobson shrugged. “I have no idea. No one does. That’s why the circles are so interesting. It could be a mile marker. It could be a tombstone. I don’t know.”

  “Or,” Ferrell said, “it could be one of the most common signs found all around the world, in every culture. ‘Keep out.’”

  Whitney and Vesuvius had moved beyond the obelisk to the crest where the clearing disappeared. Jacobson kept a close eye on her. It was lucky he’d shown up when he had, saving her from the crylo; the next time she needed help, he intended to be there. “It’s a road,” Whitney called out. “It goes on for miles.”

  “Looks like we’ll be moving a little quicker from here,” Merrill said with a slight look of relief.

  The old man must be getting tired, Jacobson thought, which wasn’t surprising; even Jacobson himself felt exhaustion nagging at his limbs on a daily basis. He was amazed that Merrill had kept up so far. His resolve was indestructible.

  “Negative,” Wright said, as Jacobson suspected he might. “We’ll stick to the cover of the trees for as long as possible.”

  No one argued. Jacobson thought that even Merrill, who could have used a nice road to walk on, must have understood Wright’s motivation behind the decision. Taking the road would be like walking into battle with a strobe light on; the enemy would see them coming . . . and would merely have to wait.

  Chapter 53

  Throughout the rest of the afternoon, no one spoke for fear of being heard. Whitney could tell that even the trained soldiers were growing weary. And Vesuvius, whose tongue had nearly doubled in size and hung out the side of his mouth, had slowed. It was the kind of exhaustion every runner feels when the end is in sight. Whitney had experienced it herself when she ran the Boston marathon once. She’d pressed on past the point of unbearable pain; then it had subsided. Some people called it a second wind. But as soon as she knew the end was near, her mind said, “slow down,” “you don’t need to try as hard,” “give in to the weariness.”

  They all heard that voice now, and if there was a gift from God to be granted, they’d already received it several times over. She’d witnessed the horrible fate that had befallen the Chinese team. What had happened to Jacobson’s team was no better. And she’d survived her own brush with death, fending off the crylos. She knew if it weren’t for Jacobson, she’d be half-devoured in the pit of that dinosaur’s stomach. From a religious standpoint, it would seem that some higher power was watching out for them; to Whitney, it was just dumb luck.

  A burn in Whitney’s calf muscle pulled her out of her thoughts. She searched the area. The trees were short here, perhaps fifteen feet tall and growing shorter as they climbed higher, but their foliage was thick and the sky difficult to see. The forest floor was moist and mossy, making the going slow and slippery. Whitney’s hands were filthy from catching herself, grabbing at the ground as she tripped and fell. Above, the blue sky hung like a curtain. At least the sky was familiar.

  An hour into the climb, when the angle grew steep, the team broke their single file formation and climbed in a haphazard group. Jacobson brought up the rear, just behind Whitney, Merrill, and Vesuvius, who stopped every few feet to wait for his master. Wright, Ferrell, and Cruz led the way, trailing al-Aziz, whom they didn’t want to get too far away. Whitney eyed the bomb strapped to al-Aziz’s waist. It was the one thing that kept her from accepting his reform. She knew his claim, that it couldn’t be removed, but it could be a trick. She knew Cruz had the detonator, but still, a bomb that could not be removed seemed counterproductive. What if, after all, al-Aziz decided to escape? Would he have to wear the bomb forever or kill himself anyway?

  Whitney was lost in her thoughts when her foot failed to find purchase on a mossy rock. She let out a yelp and slid backward, gaining momentum quickly on the steep decline. Vesuvius let out a bark and Merrill shouted as she plummeted past them.

  Whitney’s body jolted to a stop. She looked up. Jacobson had a vice grip on her backpack. She smiled. “That’s twice you saved me,” she said.

  Jacobson grinned back. “Maybe you’ll get to return the favor someday, eh?”

  Their eyes locked as they had over the past few days. She felt the stir of emotions she’d been trying hard to ignore surge through her body. She wasn’t just interested in Jacobson. She wanted Jacobson in a primal, sexual way. She’d chalked it up to being in the wild, like kids at summer camp, but it was now too strong to ignore. A wave of guilt waged war with her desire. Was it Sam crying out to be remembered? Jacobson leaned in closer, as though sensing her desire. She closed her eyes and parted her lips to accept him. He’s only been gone for a year! Whitney’s conscience screamed at her, jolting her eyes open, urging her to resist the kiss. But it was too late; Jacobson’s lips found hers. His lips pressed gently against her top lip and she wrapped her lower l
ip around his. It was gentle yet infused with so much care, she couldn’t help but enjoy his embrace.

  Jacobson parted from her and stood her up. As they shared a quiet smile, Jacobson winked.

  Then he was gone. He flew from the ground as though yanked from above. Shouting, he rose up through the thick canopy and out of view. A battle cry was followed by a barrage of bullets that swept through the forest. Jacobson was fighting for his life.

  With no clear enemy to attack, Wright, Ferrell, and Cruz took positions in front of the others. Merrill prepped his assault rifle. Whitney stood unmoving as she listened. The gunfire abruptly stopped, as did Jacobson’s screams. A moment later, his bent, broken body fell back through the trees. His body landed at their feet, a twisted corpse that was almost unrecognizable as Jacobson. Only moments ago the man had snuck past her hurt and given her hope. Now he was gone. The pain of losing Sam began to seep through the fresh wound, brimming tears in her eyes. But then she saw something that replaced her anguish with fear.

  Whitney saw them, standing only one hundred feet away, among the tree trunks. Two limbs like trees, but with a curve and shape that identified them as very large legs. She pointed at the legs. “There.”

  Wright saw them. “Exploding rounds,” he whispered. “Two bursts on my mark at the kneecaps, then run like hell.”

  Everyone with an XM-29, including Whitney, took aim. “Fire.”

  Eight small explosions pierced the air, then four louder blasts echoed down the mountainside as the explosive rounds hit their targets. Flesh exploded from the towering legs and a howl of pain shook the forest floor. Whitney turned with the others as the retreat began, but with a quick glance back, she knew their chances for escape were slim. The legs were healing.