Antarktos Rising

by Jeremy Robinson

  With her sleeve away from her face, Whitney began to feel the effects of the purple powder. Her limbs grew heavy and her mind swam with random thoughts. She urged herself to stay focused but was snatched up, held between two massive hands, wind rushing by her ears, pulling at her hair. She became aware enough to remember what she planned to do.

  “Did you really think you would escape us, daughter of Noah? Or that your feeble weapons would have any effect on me?”

  “Who said I was trying to hit you?”

  Enki snarled at her. He seemed confused and enraged.

  “God gave me a message for you,” Whitney said.

  Enki flapped his mighty wings to stop his forward momentum and beat at the air, fifty feet from the water’s surface and nearly a mile from the boat. He looked down at her. “And what might that be?”

  Whitney tapped Enki’s breastplate. “I put it in here.”

  Enki looked as though he might laugh until it was clear he felt the odd, hard shape against his skin, just beneath his chin, wedged between his chest and iron breastplate. “What did you do?”

  Whitney smiled as consciousness began to fade. “Should’ve worn your helmet.”

  Enki let go of Whitney with one hand and raised it to his head. It was the first time she’d seen a completely horrified look on a Nephilim face. The soulless beast was about to disappear forever.

  Whitney free-fell as Enki attempted to rip his breastplate from his body. It didn’t budge. Whitney felt her body grow cold, partly from the drug, partly from the wind whipping by her body. Her stomach lurched as she fell, and the wave of heat and pressure mixed with a resounding boom to send her plummeting even faster.

  She hit a wall and felt a frigid blanket wrap around her body. Her barely-conscious mind put the pieces together as her world turned black. She had fallen into the lake and was sinking to the bottom. She had no sensation of needing air. She couldn’t feel her lungs burning or the water pressure pushing on her ears. She faded peacefully into the abyss. Her last thought was of how soft the bottom felt when she finally reached it.

  Merrill saw the whole event through hazy eyes. He’d watched as Whitney was snatched up and carried away. He wondered what was happening when Enki stopped in mid-flight. Perhaps he was eating her alive? Then he saw her body fall and seconds later, Enki explode into bits. The charred husk of his headless body fell from the sky like the Nephilim’s fathers had fallen from Heaven. He was swallowed up by the water and consumed by the deep. Merrill clawed his way to the edge of the boat, searching the water for some sign of his little girl. But she never surfaced.

  Whitney was dead.

  Merrill hadn’t the strength to sob. He fell back and descended into unconsciousness with the others while the boat floated, secure in the water’s current, toward the second river that would eventually deposit them in the ocean.

  Chapter 72

  The journey downriver lasted two weeks.

  The group survived on what was left of Cruz’s military rations, which wasn’t much. But thirst was easily quenched, as the river ran cleaner than most public waterworks in America. Since leaving the lake, not a crylo nor a shadow in the sky had been seen. It seemed they were clear.

  Though the group had survived, they were far from cheerful. Lei had lost his father and two hundred men. Al-Aziz had lost his religion and his direction in life. Cruz had lost his teammates and friends. But Merrill and Aimee suffered the worst—Mirabelle was gone.

  Merrill had wept for days, refusing water and sleeping often. Aimee had only just regained a daughter and was perhaps hardened by her time with the Nephilim. She experienced a deep sorrow, but her determination to continue on was undeterred. For that, Merrill was thankful. The woman tended to him gently as he experienced a separation that was akin to losing a limb, or all his limbs. While hiding on Antarctica, he’d always known in the back of his mind that he would see Whitney again, that their separation was temporary. But now she was dead.

  One night, under the stars, Merrill had expressed these feelings to Aimee, though in the silence of the dark hours, everyone on board could hear what he said.

  Aimee had no response.

  No one did.

  But as Merrill sat on the wooden floor of the boat with Vesuvius in his lap, he stared up at the twinkling array of stars and remembered some of Whitney’s last words to him: “Maybe there is hope for me yet.” Merrill sniffed and began crying again, his shoulders bouncing with each lamentation. In the dark, he felt the comforting hands of his new friends and allies on his back and shoulders, lending their support. Such an odd group with such diverse beliefs had been brought together, united, in the face of mankind’s greatest enemy. Perhaps there was hope yet.

  As Merrill’s tears faded and the group fell one by one to sleep, the gentle river brought them through the last miles of the journey to the sea. No one awoke as the boat was swirled back and forth in the briny waters where the river met the ocean. Not a soul stirred as the sturdy craft carried them through the choppy waves of the open ocean.

  Not until a loud thud and jarring stop shook the boat did one of them wake. Merrill stood, confused, and scanned the area. Everything was dark, but he noticed a large portion of the sky was blocked out. It was as though the stars had ceased to exist over a quarter of the sky.

  The others stirred from their slumber and took in the blackness.

  “The stars are gone,” Lei said.

  Merrill felt Aimee’s hands grasping his. “What is it, Merrill?”

  At first Merrill feared that the Nephilim had returned to finish the job, but the shape was too large, too solid. Then he felt the waves beneath the boat and heard the rubbing of wood on metal. His suspicions were confirmed when Cruz clicked on his flashlight.

  Before them was a cold gray slab of metal rising out of the water. Cruz slowly aimed the flashlight higher until it illuminated the finest words Merrill had read in months: USS Preble.

  Cruz began laughing. “It’s an AEGIS destroyer. Thank God for the Navy.” Cruz opened his near-empty backpack and pulled out a flare gun, which he’d apparently been saving for this moment. He aimed it high and pulled the trigger.

  Old fears came back quickly and Merrill imagined the Nephilim descending from above, preying on the unprepared and terrified crew. There would be no telling when their final attack would come, if it hadn’t already.

  Merrill’s fears were put at ease when several floodlights burnt through the night sky and descended on them.

  “Ahoy down there,” a sailor shouted from high above. But his friendly voice masked his deadly intent. Merrill heard an array of weapons being pointed at them. “Name and rank.”

  “First Lieutenant Victor Cruz of the United States Marine Corps.”

  “And the others?”

  “Two civies, Dr. Merrill Clark, and Dr. Aimee Clark.” Cruz turned to al-Aziz and Lei. “You two can introduce yourselves.”

  Lei stepped forward. "Captain Zhou Lei of the People’s Liberation Army of China. Your team rescued me.”

  Al-Aziz spoke while shading his eyes from the bright spotlights. “And I am Ahmed al-Aziz, previously of the Arab Alliance Army. But I would ask for asylum in America. I too was saved by your team.”

  “With all due respect,” Cruz said, “we just put our asses on the line for the United States, and we haven’t eaten in days. Haul us in before I climb up your anchor line.”

  A laugh descended from above. “We’ll get right on it, Lieutenant. By the way, congratulations. Your team was the only one to activate a beacon and not one of the other teams has been heard from. Nicely done.”

  Merrill couldn’t help but smile. Through all the chaos and confusion, Wright and Ferrell had completed their mission. It was a testament to their dedication and sacrifice. Merrill hoped the armies of the world would learn from their bravery and sacrifice. As the forces of Antarktos grew stronger, the world would have to sacrifice more than lives; they’d have to put aside grudges as ancient as the Nephilim.
>
  If they didn’t . . . Merrill pushed the thought from his mind. They would. He’d seen men and women, including his daughter, fight and die together, regardless of their beliefs. The world would fight the Nephilim.

  Chapter 73

  Life aboard the USS Preble was a dramatic change from that of roughing it on Antarktos. Meals came promptly three times a day. Activities, even for the U.S. team who were viewed as heroes, were strictly regulated. The rooms were clean. The beds were made perfectly every morning. The group managed to have breakfast together and made time at night to share stories, play cards, and forge what would be lifelong friendships. Merrill was happy to see Lei and al-Aziz being treated well. Cruz made sure of it. The men had proven their worth in battle and Cruz had adopted them as his new teammates.

  The five survivors of the U.S. team had been interviewed individually three times, twice on the first day and once on the second. Each time the same questions were asked in varying orders and worded differently. Merrill could only imagine the level of disbelief among their interviewers. He feared it would go on forever.

  A knock sounded on the door of his and Aimee’s temporary quarters, and Merrill knew he was in for a fourth round. Vesuvius jumped off his bunk and hopped up on Aimee’s, where he snuggled with his new master. They’d become fast friends. Merrill kissed Aimee on the cheek. “Be back soon.”

  Aimee smiled. “I love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  Vesuvius licked Merrill’s hand. He petted the dog. “You too.”

  Ten minutes later, Merrill was sitting in a stark, odorless room, seated on a folding chair across from Dr. Cole Gorski, the same man who had interviewed him two out of the previous three times. Merrill knew the man had not only been scrutinizing the story but was evaluating their psychology, making sure they hadn’t all gone mad.

  From the look on Cole’s face, Merrill could tell the man was frustrated. The story each had told, in perfect harmony, involved giants with wings, half-demons from the Bible, not to mention resurrected dinosaurs, crop circles, and a global conspiracy mixed with a possible onslaught of Nephilim determined to undermine God’s plans. By all rights, they should be insane; but Merrill knew the doctor had found them all to be completely, disturbingly sane.

  And it scared him. Merrill could see it in the man’s eyes as he sat down, keeping a metal table between them. “So, Dr. Clark—”

  “Found anything wrong with me yet?” Merrill couldn’t help rubbing it in. The man was getting on his nerves.

  Cole scratched his head. “Not a thing. In fact, you are perfectly healthy, but that isn’t the reason for this meeting.”

  Merrill furrowed his brow. “Then what is?”

  “You see, I, well, after interviewing you and the other . . . survivors, I have become convinced that your story, while unquestionably outrageous, is nonetheless true.”

  Merrill’s furrowed brows reversed direction and rose high on his forehead. “Oh.”

  “Yes, in fact, I was wondering . . . I went to church as a child. What I’m wondering is, if these Nephilim characters are real, from what you know of them in the Bible, can we win? Do we stand a chance?”

  Merrill repeated Whitney’s final words. “There is always hope.”

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose there is.” Cole stood, even though he seemed as though he could ask questions all day. “We’ve been ordered back to Texas,” Cole said. “The president and the joint chiefs want a direct debrief from you.”

  “About what?”

  “What to expect when we take Antarktos. The Nephilim fortifications. Their weapons. How to kill them. Things like that.”

  Merrill was dumbstruck. “They’re going to . . . invade Antarktos?”

  Cole nodded. “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know, I just don’t see how . . . It’s not . . .”

  “As you know, our radar doesn’t work in close proximity to Antarctica.”

  “Antarktos,” Merrill corrected.

  “Right. And satellites are failing when they cross over the continent. The president believes a pre-emptive strike would be most effective.”

  Merrill nodded. The president was probably right. But before Merrill could expound on the matter, an alarm sounded throughout the ship. For a brief, fearful moment Merrill thought the Nephilim were attacking. It was a fear that emerged every time something unusual occurred. He was beginning to think he’d never shake the knee-jerk reaction. But voices outside the metal door revealed the true nature of the alarm. “Man overboard!”

  Merrill rushed out with Cole close behind. They were on the deck, bracing themselves against a strong wind that had been buffeting the destroyer for the past day. Merrill’s Navy-issue windbreaker flapped loudly in the wind as he approached the railing, where sailors were working to retrieve the poor soul who’d fallen overboard.

  With his view of the action obscured, he looked over the railing instead. Far below, bobbing in the water, was a light-blue inflatable boat that seemed somehow familiar. His eyes grew wide and his voice cracked as he screamed, “Mira!”

  Shoving sailors aside like they were twigs, Merrill forced his way past the men at the railing. “Mira! I’m coming!”

  The rescue team saw him coming and quickly stepped aside. There on the deck of the destroyer lay Whitney, her body limp and bruised. But her eyes, her glorious brown eyes, stared up at him, full of life. “Dad . . .”

  Merrill collapsed over Whitney’s body and held her tight. He kissed her several times then looked at a paramedic. “How is she?”

  “We need to get her on an IV and get her eating again,” the paramedic said. “But other than a few cuts and bruises, I can’t find anything wrong with her. She should be back on her feet in a week.”

  “Mira, how is this possible? I saw you disappear beneath the water.”

  “I had some help.”

  Merrill was confused.

  “Some old friends,” Whitney said, glancing toward the side of the ship.

  One of the sailors picked up on her cue. “Sir, I think she’s talking about them,” he said, pointing to the water at the ship’s bow.

  Merrill stood on shaky legs and looked over the edge. There in the water, rising and falling with the waves, were twenty-odd Weddell seals, their long bodies swirling in the water.

  Cole stood next to Merrill and said, “I suppose if God can use a whale, He can use a seal.”

  Merrill laughed, but through his joy, he was struck by one thing. The Bible had ­­­been accurate. Its history had proven true, but so had the prophecy in Revelation, the one he now knew referred to the Nephilim. He quoted the portion that came to mind. ‘“During those days men will seek death, but will not find it; they will long to die, but death will elude them.”’

  Merrill turned to meet Cole’s eyes. “Tell the president to call our forces back. Defend the homeland.”

  Cole looked confused. “But what about Antarctica—er, Antarktos?”

  “Tell him Antarktos has already been claimed . . . twelve thousand years ago. This is no place for man to tread. Not yet.”

  Turning back to Whitney, Merrill felt his apprehension about the future dissolve. His family was whole again. It was more than he could have asked for, and it was accomplished by a grand design laid out eons ago, beyond the comprehension of mankind.

  As a warning klaxon sounded and sailors began running, Merrill did what he always did: he looked to the sky. This time he saw his fears realized. High in the sky, winged shapes were flying in formation away from Antarktos’s shores, headed for the world. But the fear had dulled, for the God who had been at work so adeptly in his life was still at work in the world, and ultimately, it was his will that would be done.

  Not the will of man.

  Nor the will of the angels, demons, or their half-breed children.

  But God’s.

  “Your will be done,” Merrill said. He looked into Whitney’s eyes again and scooped her up, carrying her inside the destroyer, wher
e he hoped they would be safe.

  Your will be done.

  About the Author

  Photograph by Aaron Brodeur

  JEREMY ROBINSON was born in Beverly, Massachusetts in 1974. He stayed in Beverly through college, attending Gordon College and Montserrat College of Art. His writing career began in 1995 and includes stints on comic books, and thirteen completed screenplays, several of which have been produced, optioned or have gone into development. He is also the author of The Screenplay Workbook and several published short stories and articles.

  He has two previously published novels: The Didymus Contingency and Raising the Past, which are available worldwide and in several languages.

  He currently resides in New Hampshire with his wife, Hilaree, daughter, Aquila and son, Solomon.

  He can be reached via the web at www.jeremyrobinsononline.com or directly at:

  info@jeremyrobinsononline.com.