Antarktos Rising

by Jeremy Robinson

  A twitch of movement from the opposite corner caught Whitney’s eye. “Dad . . .” Whitney stretched. “Has anything changed?”

  “I’m afraid your father is still sleeping,” a feminine voice said from the corner.

  Whitney gasped and jumped to her feet. He heart pounded wildly in her chest. “Dad,” Whitney called. “Wake up!”

  “He was having nightmares,” the woman said. “I gave him something to help him sleep.”

  Whitney’s face contorted with fear. Was her father hurt? Knocked unconscious?

  “Don’t worry,” the woman said. “You have nothing to fear from me.” She stepped out of the darkness, shrouded in a hooded cloak. Her face was hidden in shadow.

  Whitney was glad to see that the woman was human size. “We heard you talking earlier. To Enki.”

  The hooded woman nodded. “Yes. He has been in a rage since one of their soldiers was killed in battle. He was going to kill you both.”

  Whitney’s attempt to hide her shock was useless. Her eyes gleamed wide. “They can be killed?”

  “I have never seen it happen,” the woman said, “but apparently so. When they brought in several bodies, all Chinese men, I saw them carrying one of their own. His name was Loki.”

  “Then you are not . . . with them? This is not your home?” Whitney asked.

  The woman shook her head. “I was taken here years ago.” The woman paused and seemed to inspect Whitney’s face. “You would have been a teenager at the time. I knew who they were, the Nephilim, and they kept me alive to teach them.”

  “About what?”

  “Our languages. Our cultures. The state of the world.” The woman looked at the floor. “They wanted to know how best to conquer us, and I have told them everything they wanted to know.”

  Whitney heard the sadness in the woman’s voice. “You did what needed to be done to survive. I would have done the same.”

  The woman looked up suddenly. “And you will, if you plan to survive the night. Enki will interrogate you shortly. Answer his questions as best you can and he might let you live.”

  “Why are you helping us?” Whitney asked.

  The woman turned away and walked to the bars. She gripped them with her hands and Whitney saw the woman’s skin. She was black. “When I was taken here, I believed my life was over. I gave up hope. I believed God had turned his back on me and left me for dead in this hell on earth. I turned my back on God. I . . . for a time . . . I hated Him for what my life had become. I am only now learning that God’s plans are more complicated than I could have imagined.”

  Whitney couldn’t make heads or tails of what the woman was saying. How could her and Merrill’s presence here change her view of God’s plans so dramatically? Was the woman plotting something?

  The woman turned to Whitney. “How was I to know that the continent would thaw? How could I have foreseen the conflict between human and Nephilim? And how could I have known you would be in my care again? That I would bathe you as I had before. That—”

  Whitney was horrified and confused. “You bathed me?” She looked at her father, sound asleep on one of the tall beds, not even stirred by the conversation. “Him? What gives you the right to bathe him?”

  The woman’s hands came up slowly. Whitney noticed they shook as she grasped the hood. One of her fingers had a gold wedding band. The hood fell back, revealing the woman’s face in the pale yellow light.

  Whitney found herself looking into a mirror. The woman’s skin was darker than Whitney’s and her hair was black instead of blond, but her eyes, her cheeks . . .

  “. . . Mom?”

  A geyser of emotion plumed from inside Whitney’s stomach and shot into her head. It was a sickening twist of euphoria and tragic sadness. She felt she would throw up, but instead fell to her shaking knees. Aimee was there in an instant, hugging her close, weeping. They remained so for several minutes, holding each other, making sure the other was real.

  When they separated, Whitney’s eyes were red with tears and her nose ran. Her mother produced a rag and handed it to Whitney. “Tell me about your father,” she said.

  Whitney could see the nervousness in her mother’s eyes and understood her concern. Even after all this time, she was still worried that he’d remarried.

  “He still wears your wedding band,” Whitney said. “But he hasn’t been the same since. He left Antarctica and didn’t return to finish his work until last year.”

  Aimee nodded and her forehead became noticeably less wrinkled. It was good news, probably the first her mother had had in years. “When the ice melted and the Nephilim went out, they kept returning with bodies of scientists from Vostok, McMurdo, and the other bases. Some of them had been colleagues; I kept expecting to see your father arrive.”

  “He was the only Antarctic survivor,” Whitney said then smiled. “Before now.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Aimee said. “Thank the Lord. And the rest of the world?”

  Whitney turned her eyes away. She hadn’t thought about the state of the world in some time. It brought tears to her eyes.

  “Is it that bad?” her mother asked.

  Whitney nodded.

  Her mother placed a comforting hand on Whitney’s head. It was something she had done throughout Whitney’s childhood. “I love you, baby.”

  Whitney sniffled and nodded. Any emotional walls she had built up about her mother’s death and the global disaster were being torn down.

  “And what about you?” Aimee said. “Did you marry? Have children?”

  Whitney’s last wall crumbled. She began sobbing uncontrollably. Her mind retreated, and for ten minutes she wailed like a child in her mother’s embrace. She remembered that her mother was an insightful woman. She would know without having to be told that Whitney had lost loved ones. She didn’t need to know the details. Not now. As the embrace of her mother’s arms and body wrapped around her, Whitney realized just how much she missed her mother and how badly she needed her.

  A slight vibration in the floor that Whitney would not have noticed if it weren’t for Aimee’s sudden reaction ended their embrace. “Wipe your tears. Feign sleep,” her mother said. “They’re coming.”

  Whitney leapt into one of the beds, her back to the cell doors. Aimee spoke in rapid-fire whispers. “Remember what I said. When they question you, tell them everything. But do not tell your father about me. He doesn’t think well when overcome with emotion.”

  Whitney nodded. She knew her father wouldn’t think straight if given the news. “Will I see you again?”

  “If you survive the night. Prove your worth to them.” Aimee moved to the cell door. “I will return at dawn. We will talk further then.”

  Whitney heard the cell door creak open then slam shut. Footsteps faded into the distance and were met by a deep questioning voice. After a quick verbal exchange, the vibrations faded, and Whitney was alone with her father.

  Tears welled up again. She was torn between hope and hopelessness. As Whitney stared at the solid stone walls with blurry eyes, she wondered if she’d ever see her mother again. The thought of not seeing the joy of her reunited parents was too much to bear.

  Chapter 59

  Guilt crept up slowly with the morning sun and took firm root in Wright’s consciousness. Never before in his military career had he left a man behind. He’d suffered injuries and even a fatality here and there, but no man was ever physically deserted. He’d lost five in the past few hours. Regardless of whether or not all of them were officially on the team, they’d become his responsibility as soon as he let them join the group. Now it was just the three of them, if he counted the dog.

  For what it was worth, they were making good progress now. Between the heightened senses of Vesuvius and the keen eyes of Ferrell, they had managed to avoid further contact with the Nephilim. But it was a challenge. The Nephilim were everywhere. If not for their comparatively small size, they’d already have been spotted.

  The ground shook as three mor
e of the giants walked past. Hidden inside a group of boulders at the river’s edge as they were, the Nephilim walked past them without a glance. It’d be like noticing the ants as you walked over your lawn, Wright thought. Then he remembered the Bible verse Jacobson had quoted: “We were like grasshoppers in their sight.” That was the truth.

  When they had arrived at the area, several Nephilim were knocking trees over into the river. Within minutes they had toppled fifty trees, some of which created a temporary bridge across the water. When the giants left, they each carried three trees on top of each shoulder—entire trees. Wright was sure they’d be back for the rest.

  He couldn’t help but wonder what they were doing with the trees. He felt sure the wood wasn’t for burning. It was too warm. They must be building something. But what?

  Wright pushed the question from his mind. It would have to wait. Right now, they needed to cross the river. Wright peeked up over the rocks. He didn’t see any Nephilim remaining; the area was free of spying eyes. “All clear,” he said.

  He and Ferrell leapt from their hiding spot and Vesuvius followed quickly. They ran for the river, ducking and weaving past trees and shrubs. The roar of the water drowned out the crunch of earth beneath their feet. As they approached the river, Wright noticed the air cooling and could taste the sweetness of the water. He’d never drunk water so clean.

  Wright jumped up onto the largest log that crossed the river, and Vesuvius vaulted onto the log in front of him. The dog seemed to always be one step ahead. Wright helped Ferrell up, not because she needed it but because any physical contact with his wife was a treat after hiding their affection for so long. And she didn’t balk at the hand; she just smiled and said, “Thanks.”

  When they started across, Vesuvius was already halfway to the other side and still moving. The long, red-berried pine tree was over one hundred feet long and barely reached the other side of the river. With every step the tree bent and rolled under their weight, making each footfall unsure. Wright was surprised by the tree’s flexibility and thought the wood must be a dream to work with. As they approached the far side, Vesuvius stood waiting. The tree line was thick with long branches that stretched out low over the water, slowing their progress, but with only twenty feet to go—

  Wright glanced at Vesuvius and noticed the hair on the back of his neck rise. “Get off the log,” Wright whispered fiercely.

  Ferrell turned her last steps into a sprint and dove to the shore. She rolled behind a bush and disappeared.

  Wright began to follow but a deep voice cutting through the thunderous water caused Wright to look back. And it was a good thing he did. Five Nephilim stepped out from the trees talking amongst themselves, and headed toward the felled tree. If he made a run for it now, they’d surely spot him.

  Wright made like a frightened squirrel and slid around to the underside, gripping the bark with all his strength. He had no idea how long he would have to hang there, but he hoped it wouldn’t be long. His fingernails felt like they were going to peel away from his fingers.

  When it shook, he realized they were taking his tree. As the tree lurched up in the air, hoisted by one of the mighty giants, Wright let go and splashed into the water. Still holding his XM-29 and a backpack full of gear, he sank like a stone. Which, for the time being, was fine; they might see him surface.

  The water was frigid and threatened to suck the air from his lungs. It wasn’t cold enough to cause hypothermia, but it was at least twenty degrees cooler than the air temperature. Wright’s feet hit the stone-covered bottom ten feet from shore. He discovered the water to be crystal clear and grappled for a root to grab to avoid being dragged away by the swift current. He locked himself down, holding his body rigid against the raging torrent.

  Through the undulating waters, Wright saw tree after tree yanked up and away from the river. These titans were even stronger than Dr. Clark believed. They weren’t just able to carry six timbered logs; they carried entire hundred-foot trees like they were made of packing peanuts.

  Wright counted in his mind. He knew he could hold his breath for two minutes, but the counting helped distract him from the ache in his already-exhausted lungs. After two minutes, he’d have to kick up to the surface and hope that his momentum would carry him with the gear. In training, he’d been able to hold his breath for a minute thirty, tops. It had always been his limit, even when he was pushing himself to gain a second more. He never did. But now, if he rose and the men were still there . . . well, he’d be dead either way.

  At a minute twenty, Wright could see that there were still two logs in the water. Still the Nephilim worked. Ten seconds passed and one log was still in the water.

  He’d passed his level of endurance. Every sinew of his being told him to push up. But doing so would mean breaching the water at a high speed, pulling in a loud breath and splashing around to stay afloat. He would certainly attract attention.

  White and purple spots began to dance in his vision as his mind called for oxygen. His jaw muscles battled, some instinctively trying to open and take a breath, others willed by him to stay closed. His chest ached like it would burst.

  With failing vision, he saw the last tree slip out of the water and fade from view. Push! But there was nothing left in his body. His fingers slipped from their purchase and he was swept away by the cold waters.

  Chapter 60

  They came with the dawn. The cell door slammed open, rousing Mirabelle and Merrill from sleep; before either could understand what was happening, their heads were covered and they were lifted bodily from their oversized beds.

  Merrill felt a thick, heavy hand clutching his leg and a bulk of flesh, the Nephilim’s shoulder, beneath his gut. He’d been slung over the giant’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Every step brought a jolt of pain to Merrill’s stomach. The Nephilim who carried him was either a rough walker or was doing it on purpose. Either way, Merrill was getting the wind knocked out of him.

  But his concern was not on his physical being. He knew he shouldn’t talk but chanced it anyway. “Mira, are you with me?”

  “I’m here,” came a quick reply.

  “No talking,” a deep, booming voice said.

  The journey lasted five agonizing minutes more. At the end, Merrill felt his stomach rise sickeningly as he was dropped from the towering shoulder to the floor. It felt like one of those awful amusement park rides.

  “You may remove your hoods,” a voice said.

  Merrill did so and found himself sitting on the floor next to his daughter. The room seemed gargantuan to him; to their captors it was probably of average size. It was decorated with carvings depicting ancient battles between man and Nephilim. Some showed men worshiping the giants. Others showed the giants eating men. One carving depicted a deluge . . . but there wasn’t just one boat; there were two. One held a man, and the other was covered in Nephilim symbols. They had survived the flood.

  The room had no furnishings except for four large thrones at the front of the room, each occupied by a Nephilim. The giants were not dressed in battle regalia but wore long flowing robes and masks over their heads. Merrill recognized them immediately.

  Moving left to right, Merrill took the giants in. The first wore a jackal mask, black and sinister. Fitting for Anubis, the Egyptian god of the underworld. Next to Anubis was a taller Nephilim wearing a mask that resembled a pointy-beaked bird, an Ibis. This was Thoth, the Egyptian god of writing and knowledge, known as Hermes in the west; Merrill knew his real name was Ningizzida, son of the Sumerian god, Enki, who was next in line. Enki, the largest of the group, wore a tall crown that covered much of his face, though his yellow eyes could be seen through a pair of eyeholes. Running up the center of the crown were two snakes intertwined, the modern symbol for medicine. And next to him . . . Merrill was not sure who it was at first, but the details slowly became clear. The giant’s red hair was twisted in braids and hung over his shoulders. On his head was a helmet from which rose two long twisting horns. Like
Enki’s crown, the helmet also covered his face, but its symbol resembled a lightning bolt. It wasn’t until Merrill saw the large sledgehammer with an engraved head clutched in the giant’s hand that he identified him: Thor, Norse god of Thunder. Even the hammer held a name: Mjölnir. Merrill was staring at some of the world’s first and most powerful pagan gods.

  Merrill stood to his feet and helped up Mira. The four giants just watched, apparently judging how the little humans would react to their presence. Merrill was terrified, to be sure, but the monsters represented an evil so great that he felt God was undoubtedly on his side and, even now, watched out for them.

  Mirabelle looked at them then at Merrill. “Tell them everything they want to know.”

  Merrill’s forehead crinkled. “Why?”

  “Just trust me, Dad.” She shot him a look that said he’d better trust her. She knew something he didn’t.

  “I’ll do better than that,” Merrill said in a whisper. “I’ll tell them everything they believe I don’t know.” Merrill pointed to each giant, one at a time and called them by name. “Anubis. Ningizzida. Enki. Thor.”

  For the first time the giants moved, exchanging glances. Merrill had thrown them. Slowly, they removed their helmets, revealing their ancient faces and amber eyes. Though their masks were removed, each still wore a thick metal band around his forehead. It seemed a customary headdress.

  “Very good, son of Noah,” Enki said, his voice reverberating like a waterfall. “But we do not yet know your names.”

  “I am Dr. Merrill Clark,” he said, stepping forward. He opened his mouth to introduce Mira, but she stepped forward next to him and quickly spoke.

  “Mirabelle Whitney.”