“It’s indented,” Mira says. She moves to the next pedestal and touches the top. “They all are.” She stands, steps inside the circle and sits atop of the stone towers. “They’re seats.”
I step inside the circle and sit down across from Mira. She’s right. The indentations were worn by human backsides, which means these seat were used for a very long time.
“It’s like this was some kind of meeting place,” she says. “Maybe for leaders of some kind.”
“Or a secretive cult,” I add.
Mira frowns at me.
I shrug. “Just saying.”
A rumble rises through the nunatak, the stone seat and then my spine, reminding me why we’re here. I stand and head for one of the windows. It’s round and four feet in diameter. As I get closer, I see that it has been carved through ten feet of stone, at an upwards 45 degree angle. I put my face inside and look up. There’s a stone ledge blocking my view of the sky, but its bottom glows with a greenish hue—sunlight reflecting off the green jungle far below.
A breeze flows through the opening. As it washes over my face, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, expecting the sweet scent of a thawed Antarctica. Instead I get a perfume of decay, blood, feces and death—the scent of Nephilim. It’s so strong, I feel like I’ve just licked a warrior’s armpit. I reel back from the window, smacking the back of my head against the stone and falling to the floor, stunned.
“You okay?” Mira says, crouching behind me. She sounds more concerned than comical this time around. Probably a result of the disgusted look on my face. She must catch a whiff, too, because she suddenly groans and puts a hand over her nose. “Oh, God. Is that...them?”
I rub my head. “Eau de Nephilim at its finest.”
When I look up, I don’t see the window. Instead, my eyes focus on the wall between this window and the next. What I see is enough to make me forget all about the stink. “Whoa.”
Mira turns to the wall and holds up her glowing crystal, illuminating the scene. The entire wall, ten feet up to where the dome begins and all fifteen feet between the portals, is a collage of images and strange text, similar to those found in Egyptian tombs, but much more simplistic in style. But they’re also more complex than what is typically thought of as “cave paintings,” which is to say, these aren’t the paintings of a lone wandering artist, or even a collection of artists over time—this was a communal effort to create something permanent.
“It’s a record,” I say, looking at the vivid portrayal of a hunt. Ten warriors dressed in brown and carrying spears are battling a large animal. I point to it. “That’s a giant sloth, I think.”
The next picture over depicts a celebration. The dancing figures are lit by a bonfire’s glow and their shadows are cast on the wall. In Mira’s shifting blue light, they almost look real. The effect is really quite spectacular.
“Can you read the text?” Mira asks.
I shift my attention to the lines of text below the art and note that while the art is painted on, the text is carved right into the stone, a far more permanent medium. Whatever the text says was clearly more important to these people, but unfortunately, I can’t read a word of it. “I don’t recognize the language, but I’m guessing it predates anything we know about.”
“Wright once told me about a team of Delta operatives who discovered what they called “the mother tongue,” while on a mission. Said it was the language people spoke before the tower of Babel. He didn’t believe it, but...”
“Maybe that’s what this is,” I say. “Anything is possible, I suppose. But the real question is, what were they trying to tell us? What is this a record of?”
“The beginning.”
Mira and I both turn to Kainda. She’s still on the far side of the room, running her hand over the text and staring up at an image. As we head toward her, I ask, “Can you read the language?”
“I doubt anyone can,” Kainda replies. “Not anymore.”
“Then how do you know?” I ask.
She steps to the side, allowing me a full view of the image she’s been staring at. “Because, you’ve been there.”
I stop in my tracks. “No way.”
“What?” Mira asks.
I can’t answer. Not yet. The accuracy of this painting is blowing my mind. Every detail is exactly how I remember it. I turn to Kainda, “In all this time, nothing has changed?”
“It would appear so,” she says.
I step closer and reach my hand up, placing it on the big tree at the center of the image. I close my eyes and picture myself there again. It was so peaceful. Without pain. Or death. Or any of the horrible things that plague our world. That is, until Nephil found his way there.
“Where is this?” Mira asks, growing impatient.
I pull my hand away, feeling a great sense of longing and loss. “Edinnu.”
“Edinnu?” she says. “That’s...that’s the place you said was Eden, right? Where you met the angel?”
“Adoel,” I say with a nod. I point to the grassy hill surrounding the tree. “We stood right here.” I turn to the right and see several more of the massive murals. “This is a record of the beginning of human kind. Before the Nephilim.”
I walk slowly to the right, following the progression of time from Edinnu, to tribal life, villages, farms and eventually war. It’s right around that time that the images take on a darker tone, painted in blacks and reds. The style is also different. Evolved. I realize that I’ve probably just seen the records of a thousand years of humanity’s beginning. Maybe more. The artists painting at this point in the massive storybook might not have even known the names of those who came before them. They were just carrying on the tradition, maybe gathering as a group of leaders and artists, sitting in those chairs and deciding what image or collection of images best depicted their generation. Or century.
My stomach twists when the dark images resolve into blatant Nephilim images. Giants can be seen alongside men. Monstrous creations of man and beast, like the mythological creatures we discovered, and a mixture of violent and depraved acts performed by Nephilim and men alike.
With only two fifteen foot sections to go, the style disappears almost completely. The illustration is almost like a Jackson Pollock—smears of red, and black, and purple. I don’t miss the significance of the purple, a perfect match to the blood of the Nephilim. Perhaps there was a war, a final rebellion of men against gods. Perhaps it is the time when the Titans and the Nephilim fought for the world. The Titans were driven to Tartarus while the Nephilim claimed the world as their own.
Feeling heavy, I wander toward the final section and leap back when Mira holds her light to it. It’s a face. A black and angry face skillfully rendered. Yellow eyes. Double rows of glaring teeth. The whole thing burns with hatred and loathing. While I have never seen him in the flesh, I know this monster.
“Nephil,” I say.
“This is him?” Mira asks. “This is the big-wig Nephilim that wants to claim your body, wipe out humanity and live forever as a soulless world dictator?”
“Yes,” I say. I’m having a hard time looking at the image. I feel like he can see me through it.
Mira reaches into her cargo pants pocket and steps up to the image. She stands so that I can’t see what she’s doing, but I think she’s drawing. I understand that the image is offensive, but it’s also an archeological treasure. “What are you doing?”
Mira holds up her hand for a moment, revealing a small white brick about the size of a soap bar. “Chalk,” she says, “In case we had to climb. Never did.”
She puts the chalk back in her pants, claps of her hands and leans back to admire her work. “There,” she says, smiling widely. She steps back revealing the marred image.
Mira has given Nephil, aka Ophion, the greatest enemy mankind has ever known...a handlebar mustache.
Despite my feelings about defacing this priceless record of ancient man, I smile. And then I laugh. Even Kainda finds it funny. Our laughter gr
ows with each passing moment as the alteration drains our tension.
But the momentary distraction is interrupted by a thunderous boom and a violent quake in the Earth around us.
“They’re close,” Kainda says. Her hand has instinctually gone to her hammer, despite no one knowing we’re here.
I step toward the nearest portal. “It’s time to take a look.”
The window-tunnel is spacious by underworld standards, so it takes me only a few seconds to reach the top. I squint in the bright daylight as I reach the top of the angled tunnel. Although the sky above is blocked by the ledge five feet over my head, I can now see the more distant sky, and the gleaming, wet jungle below. When my eyes adjust, I quickly see that I’m at least eight hundred feet above the base of a vast, east-to-west valley that’s thick with jungle.
And Nephilim.
I look to the right, just before the nunatak rises from the jungle and follow the sea of monsters all the way to the horizon. The ground shakes again, drawing my eyes to the left. My heart sinks. Tears well. My throat tightens.
“What do you see?” Mira asks from below.
The beginning, I think, of the end.
12
I have to force myself to not count. Not only would it take a while, but the enemy force below stretches so far that their numbers just blur together into a liquid-like smear across the land. The jungle obscures many of them, but I can see enough to know that this army is hundreds of thousands strong. I see hunters toward the front, slipping through the trees like wraiths. Among them are gatherers and thinkers, perhaps for control, perhaps to take part in the fight. Then there are lesser warriors, greater warriors, and high above it all, the winged upper echelon of Nephilim leadership. All this is expected, but there are some elements below that I hadn’t thought possible.
Feeders. A horde of them. The egg shaped monsters with stubby arms and legs, with the teeth of a great white shark, bobble forward, snapping their jaws. Their black, orb eyes seem vacant, but they move with purpose, eager for the fight...or the promised human smorgasbord. I don’t see any breeders, the morbidly obese, bird-like monsters that give birth to feeders, but that’s to be expected. They can’t even walk, let alone fight. That said, given the sheer number of feeders, it’s clear that the breeders have done their part to prepare for the fight.
It’s hard to tell from this distance, but I think there might even be some classes of Nephilim that I’ve never seen before. Some are stout and broad shouldered. Others walk on all fours, like silverback apes. I’ve always understood that there was more to Nephilim society than I sampled in my short time here, but I hadn’t considered the idea of there being more classes of lesser Nephilim. Given all the jobs required of any society, I suppose it makes sense.
But all of this is dwarfed by what follows the main force of the army. Behemoth.
Correction.
Two behemoths.
And they’re even larger than the one I faced. That creature stood one hundred and fifty feet tall, but these must be twice that height. Their black, bulbous eyes are the size of hills, each emerging from the sides of its head. Behemoths are essentially feeders that are allowed to eat and grow exponentially. They don’t die, so their potential for growth is unlimited. Given the size of these two, they might actually be two of the first feeders ever birthed. Their pale gray skin ripples with each step. Their long clumps of red hair reach out, dangling in the air as though held up by strings. Behemoths have feeble arms, much like their smaller feeder counterparts, but the living hair works like tentacles, able to reach out and snag prey. They breathe with mighty gusts—probably where most of the stench is coming from—revealing rows of serrated triangular teeth the size of hang gliders. I have a hard time imagining that these two, who are leaving a flattened forest in their wake, will have any fear of fire. Like their smaller brethren, behemoths can heal, and if these two decided to simply charge the FOB...well, it might be a very short fight.
“What do you see?” Mira repeats a little more fervently.
I turn back to the tunnel. “An army.”
“That’s it?” She sounds annoyed.
“A big army,” I say.
She lets out an exasperated huff, and I hear her climbing the tunnel behind me. She squeezes up next to my right side and joins me. “Holy...”
I watch her dark skin turn a few shades lighter before saying, “I know.”
Kainda sidles up on my left. She’s unfazed by the scene. “What were you expecting?”
“I guess I never really had a clear picture of how many Nephilim there are.”
“It’s a large continent,” Kainda says. “And they’ve had a lot of time.”
She’s right about that. In the same few thousand years, the human population has increased by several billions. That there is only a million or so Nephilim actually shows some restraint on their part—that most of them appear to be headed this way, doesn’t. They’re going for the kill, which again, I should have seen coming. That’s what Nephilim do.
“Okay,” Mira says, “We’ve done our recon. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Not yet,” Kainda says. She looks like she’s counting.
“Are you counting?” I ask.
“The leadership,” she says. “Each commander is in charge of ten thousand. So if we count the commanders—”
“We can guesstimate their total number,” I say. When Kainda looks confused, I explain without being asked. “It’s a made up word. Guess and estimate. Guesstimate.”
She closes her eyes and sighs a deep breath. “We face near certain annihilation and you are making up words.”
“I didn’t make it up, it’s...just...forget it.” I turn my attention back to the army. A strong breeze carries a scent similar to dead fish rotting in the sun and I stifle a gag. My stomach sours further when I notice the organized march of the Nephilim warriors. I’m not sure why, but militaries always seem more frightening when they’re coordinated. “How can we tell the commanders apart from the others.”
“Red leathers,” she says.
I scan the sky above and the land below. When I’ve got the number, I swallow and it feels like I’ve got a stone in my throat. “Done.” The word comes out as a whisper. I can’t manage much more than that.
“How many?” Mira asks. She sounds afraid to hear the answer, as well she should be.
“There might be a few more that I can’t see,” I say, which is true, but saying this is more a delaying tactic than anything else, and Kainda will have none of that.
She elbows me in the rib. “How many?”
“Eighty-six,” I say.
“Eighty six?” Mira says. “There are eight hundred and sixty thousand of those things out there?”
“Probably more,” I say. “We can call it an even million and probably be safe.”
“Including the two Stay Pufts over there?” She motions to the behemoths.
“If you count them as one each,” I say.
“And should I ask how many we have at the FOB?” Mira asks.
“You shouldn’t,” I say.
“I kind of just did,” she says.
“It’s been a few days since we were there,” I say.
“Solomon,” she says, waiting for me to look her in the eyes. “Tell me.”
There’s no way to avoid telling her the truth, as much as I’d like to. Besides, she’s Hope. If anyone can spin the news into something positive, it should be her.
Still, I can’t help but try to avoid it one more time. “I didn’t exactly count.”
“I know the way your brain works,” she counters. “You counted whether you tried to or not. So guesstimate.”
“Fifteen hundred,” I say. My voice is so flat and emotionless I sound like that teacher from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. “Maybe two thousand.”
She looks ready to pass out. The news is clearly worse than she’s expecting. And for a moment, I see hope leave her eyes. This is something I can’t stand for.
“But,” I say. “We have the Jericho shofar, which reduces Nephilim to quivering lumps. We have modern weapons and heavy artillery. There are Navy ships off the coast. And jets. I’m sure more have arrived since we left to find you, probably from every nation within range.”
“There are a million of them,” she says. “Sure, some of them are human, and some of them are just a little bigger than humans, but they can control people’s minds, change shapes, fly and a good number of them are thirty feet tall, again, not counting those two!” She thrusts a finger toward the two approaching behemoths. They’re perhaps two miles off to the left, but they’re immense, filling up most of the western view. The hunters at the front of the army have entered the jungle where the nunatak begins. It won’t be long before they’re below us. If we end up behind this army, it could be a problem. We need to leave.
I’m about to say so when Kainda reaches past my face and flicks Mira in the side of the head.
“Oww!” she says. “What was th—”
“They don’t have him,” Kainda says, nodding to me.
“What?”
“The Nephilim don’t have him,” Kainda repeats, emphasizing each word. “Which means the very land itself is against them.”
I start to smile, but a sudden, jarring impact wipes the smile from my face and sets my head spinning. It comes again, before I can think, striking my forehead. As consciousness fades, my mind registers three things. A hand, dark and caked with mud, my blond hair locked in its grasp, and then a feeling of weightlessness, and wind...everywhere...whipping past my body—
—as I fall.
13
I come to just a second or two later, just in time to see Kainda shove Mira out of the window. As Mira screams, I’m mortified that it was Kainda who knocked me out and threw me, but then she leaps out behind Mira. It’s then that I see my attacker as he throws himself from the cliff’s edge and plummets down behind Kainda.
5 Onslaught Page 7