The Last Hunter - Ascent (Book 3 of the Antarktos Saga) (13 page)

A chill starts in my legs and works its way up, spreading goose bumps over my skin. When it hits my stomach, it swirls with nausea. Then the chill moves up, spreads out to my arms and is gone.

What the…

My physical condition distracts me for just a moment. That’s when I look at Luca’s small bed. It was built from the homemade metal crib I slept in as a newborn baby. The mattress is old and flattened, but I know it hides something important. I lift the mattress up and find Luca’s drawings and a single crayon hidden inside an old, large Ziploc bag. Tobias never saw these pictures. Each one is a sketch of some event that Luca witnessed through my eyes. The image on top is easily recognizable. Despite it being a child’s drawing, the Nephilim with an arrow in his forehead is obviously Ull. One of my better moments.

A second chill rips up through my body. This time it is followed by a sharp pain in my chest. I pitch forward with a moan and grit my teeth against the ache.

What is happening to me?

It’s a question I can no longer ignore, and I’m pretty sure there is nothing to find here. I stuff the sealed drawings into a pouch, and then look down to where the pain still burns on my chest.

What I see sucks the air from my lungs. The skin around the single razor thin wound across my chest it bright pink. But it’s the yellow puss oozing from the wound that makes me cringe.

Had I still been underground I would kill a centipede, pry open the wound, stuff the goopy flesh inside the wound and wait for it to do its thing. But out here, in a jungle filled with unrecognizable plants, I’d be as likely to do more harm than good.

I could be back underground and possibly hunt down a centipede in the next two hours, but the chills are almost constant now, and I now know the sweat is from a fever. I won’t be going anywhere. My body is going to have to handle this infection on its own. After removing Whipsnap from my waist, I climb up into the small bed, yank the blanket down from the wall and curl up into a fetal position. I look up at the ceiling and remember the last time I saw this view. It was the day we left Antarctica. My parents woke me up with soft cooing voices.

“Solomon,” my mother said, though it was more like she was singing my name, “It’s time to go home.”

“I am home,” I reply to the memory, somehow giving voice to the emotions I felt at the time. “Antarktos is my home. Don’t make me leave.”

When my father picks me up, I start crying. I don’t want to leave.

“Are you ever going to let me hold you without crying?” my father asks with a chuckle.

“Give him to Aimee,” my mother says. “He adores her.”

I cried louder, somehow knowing it would be the last time I saw this room. And while my baby-self was mistaken, I remember my sorrow keenly. The memory becomes a dream as I slip into a deep, defenseless sleep.

18

I used to have dreams about falling. From the sides of buildings. From airplanes. From cliffs. I would fall, screaming, but I would never actually land. Instead, I would wake at the last possible moment. But the strangeness always continued because I would jolt in the bed like I’d actually just fallen—not from a cliff mind you, but at least a couple inches off the mattress. I often wondered if I’d actually somehow levitated. Had I known about my abilities then, I might have believed it was possible.

But this dream is nothing like that. I’m not sure where my fall began. I’m high. Really high. So I must have fallen out of an airplane or a space shuttle, because I can see Antarctica. The whole continent—green, but recognizable by its shape. As it occurs to me that I must actually be in space, I’m suddenly falling through the atmosphere. Clouds obscure my view. They’re heavy with rain and they shimmer with light.

I pass through the storm as streaks of hot lightning flash past. Thunder booms instantaneously, shaking my body and drowning out my screams. Cold water pelts my body. Hail follows, so thick that it feels like I’m being punched all over. Something about the storm feels familiar.

You found me
, I think, but I’m not sure who I’m talking to.

Then I’m through the clouds and the land below is revealed. It looks like an aerial view of the Brazilian rainforest, stretching as far as I can see. I streak down to meet the ground. This is where I’d normally wake up. But my fall becomes suspended, as though the wind is buffeting me.

Am I flying?
I wonder, as the land passes by below.

A gray streak catches my eye and soon I’m passing over it.

It’s a wall. The ruins of a very tall, stone wall. A Nephilim sized wall.

Before I can ruminate on the appearance of the wall, I’m beyond it. A river twists through the jungle beneath me, flowing in the opposite direction, toward the coast. The river ends at a massive lake, beyond which I see mountains, but I don’t get a good look because I’m falling again.

A voice cuts through the wind rushing by my ears. The single word is distant, but shouted. “Soooolomoooon.”

My descent is angled toward the far shore. I’m going to miss the water entirely.

“Soooooolomoooon!”

Who is that?

“Over here!”

The voice is closer now. Familiar.

There’s a small beach on the shoreline. I see a small body standing on it, arms waving madly. “Sol! I’m here! I’m right he—”

I gasp, flail and fall out of the small bed.

Pain stabs my eyes. It’s bright! I turn myself over, covering my head and fish for my sunglasses. Once I get them on, I sit up and take in my surroundings. I’m still in Luca’s bedroom, which was mine when I was an infant. But a lot has changed. For starters, the roof is missing. I can tell the storm is gone because the leaves overhead glow bright green under the sun’s gaze. I turn away from the view above, because it stings my eyes, even through the dark lenses.

The room is a disaster. It looked rummaged through before. Now it looks like a hurricane tore through. Everything is wet. I’m lying in a few inches of water. And there are little white golf balls everywhere.

Hail.

The storm.

“You found me,” I say, remembering the dream.

I look up through the torn open roof. Was the storm really here because of me? The answer is strangely obvious.

Yes.

The storm came when I was born.

It came again upon my return to the continent.

And now, it greets me again as I rise from Tartarus.

But what does it mean?

I push myself up and wince. The pain in my chest is sharp. I glance down and see that the yellow puss is now gone, perhaps washed away by the rain I apparently slept through. But my skin is still red, and sore, and though I’m rested, I still feel quite weak.

Despite my far-from-perfect condition, the subject doesn’t hold my attention for long. I feel my mind pulled between the strangeness of the storm and the meaning of my dream. But I don’t get to ponder either line of thought, because I’m not alone. A man screams, his voice a mixture of vitriol and fear. And happily, the sound is not directed at me.

When a squawk answers the shout, I know who the man is screaming at. I find Whipsnap on the floor next to me, pick it up and lean out the door. Looking down the ruined hallway toward the main living area where the rusted out door was previously—the whole side of the building is now missing—I see the Arab man. He wields a broken branch like a club, swinging it in wide circles to keep the seven turkuins away. They no doubt returned to find their nesting grounds in ruins and another person—not a hunter this time—taking shelter from the storm next to the corpse of their former pack leader.

Both sides of this fight have tried to kill me. I’m almost resigned to let it play out. I’d already determined that the man would have to survive on his own. But letting the man be eaten right in front of me... It’s not right.

With a sigh, I step out of the room and head for the ruined living area. Neither the man, nor the predatory birds hear me coming, so when I clear my throat and all eight of them shriek in surprise, I can’t help but smile. The turkuins react as they should, by squawking in fright, turning a quick one-eighty and bolting in a straight line. Five of them escape unharmed. One slams head first into a metal wall and snaps its neck. Another impales itself on the sharp end of a broken chair leg. It squawks in pain, trying to free itself.

Seeing the creature is dying and suffering, I walk toward it. Despite its perilous situation, the bird attempts to peck me with its sharp beak when I get close. As it strikes out at me, I catch its neck and give it a hard yank. Its life ends in a quick, painless crack. When I let go, the head flops to the side.

I turn to the man. His eyes are wide. He looks at the crude club in his hands, and then to Whipsnap. He backs away, no doubt remembering how I defeated him when he was armed with modern weapons.

I feel pity for the terrified man as he shuffles out of the ruined structure. I decide to give him a knife. Maybe he’ll have a fighting chance. It’s the least I can do for a man who tried to put a bullet in my head. “Wait,” I say. “Hold on.”

The man screams in response and takes off into the jungle. I’m about to give chase when a much more familiar call rips through the jungle. It’s a cresty. A big one by the sound of it. More sounds follow. Snapping branches. Heavy foot falls.

When the Arab screams again, it’s a pitch I’m not sure I’ve ever heard a man reach before.

The cresty roars again. The hunt is on.

And I know it will end quickly.

I also know that there’s nothing I can do to help the man. Without my abilities, I wouldn’t fare much better against a full-grown cresty than Kainda did. And cresties hunt in packs. The only thing I can do is wait for the feeding to begin and then head in the opposite direction.

But the hunt ends long before the cresties catch the man. An explosion tears through the jungle. The man must have triggered his own tripwire. I’m sorry the man died, but being blown to bits is a merciful death compared to being eaten alive. Unfortunately, it creates a problem for me. The man’s shredded body might dissuade the cresties from eating it. They prefer to kill their prey—not have it blown to bits. The explosion most likely turned them away as well.

The hunt will continue.

I duck out of Clark Station 1, turn right and sprint. There are turkuins, tripwires, armed men, cresties and who knows what else lurking in the jungle, but if I don’t put some distance between me and the cresties that I know for sure are behind me, they’ll catch my scent and hunt me down. My best bet is to get as far away as I can and hope the dinosaurs pick up on the strong turkuin scent trail. Because if they come for me, I’m in for a world of pain.

A shriek cries out behind me.

The hunt is resumed.

World of pain it is.

19

The pain begins long before any of the cresties have even seen me. The impact of every hurried step I take sends a jolt of pain from my chest wound. Chills begin to spread over my skin and my stomach clenches tight. The infection is still fighting for supremacy and the last thing I should be doing right now is sprinting through the jungle.

Actually, that’s not quite true. The last thing I should be doing is letting myself be eaten by a dinosaur. That pretty well trumps the infection. So I fight the growing weight in my legs and push forward, to who knows where.

If the cresties had actually seen me, I’d be done. I won’t be able to put up much of a fight in my condition. But they’re still tracking me by scent, no doubt following the subtle odor of my infected wound. Like any predator, their preference is always the sick, wounded, young or old. The less fight, the less chance of injury.

As they track my scent, they’ll stop every few steps to test the air. They know I’m sick, and that I’ll eventually tire and stop. So there’s no need for them to rush. They’ll expend less energy and still get a meal.

But the fact that they’re not hot on my heels doesn’t let me slow down. If I can reach a river, or find a crack in the ground or some other kind of shelter, I might be able to escape. So I keep running, and continue growing weaker.

My foot is just inches from the ground when I suck in a quick breath and freeze. There’s an odd, unnatural rise on the forest floor. I pull my foot back, carefully place it on the ground and crouch to inspect the aberration. I brush aside a few leaves and find a tripwire, but this one is made from frayed twine, not the hard line the Arab man carried.

Someone else laid this trap.

I follow the line to its end and find it tied off to a stake in the ground. I move to the other end and find the line attached to a thick vine holding back a large branch. It’s a crude trap, meant to knock someone silly, or perhaps dissuade a cresty from passing. I leave the trap be and continue past, hoping that it will be discovered by one of the dinosaurs pursuing me.

When I reach the edge of the jungle ten minutes later, I’m moving slowly, using Whipsnap like a walking stick to keep myself from falling over. But when the trees clear, I find myself distracted from my condition, and from the dinosaurs tracking me down.

A giant stone wall covered with patches of purple moss cuts through the jungle. It’s at least twenty-five feet tall and stretches into the jungle as far as I can see in either direction. It’s clearly ancient, exposed when the ice melted. Its construction is phenomenal. The stones it’s built from are gigantic; each must weigh several tons. But even more impressive is the way they’re all fit perfectly together, as though the pieces were carved by lasers. It’s a work of art, really, beautiful to look at, but also a reminder that Nephilim once roamed the Earth in broad daylight.

As they do once more.

Despite the wall’s presence being an ominous reminder of the size of my enemies, it also presents a possible escape route. The seams are tight, and the purple moss is no doubt slippery, but I’ve scaled worse, and I still have my climbing claws. The only real problem is my faltering health.