16
I wake to a world of glowing white light. It wraps around me, holding me tight. I can’t move my head. Or my limbs. But I can feel my eyes shifting, so I know I’m actually seeing the white light. It’s not in my head. I flex my arms with a grunt, but am still stuck. The sound of my voice is muffled. Contained.
I’m trapped
, I think, and I fight my bonds with all my strength. A crack forms in the white. It’s close to my eyes, so I have to strain to focus on it. When I do, the reality of my current predicament slams home.
I’m not only trapped, I’m frozen—in ice!
My heart races. Each breath comes faster than the last.
I can breathe
, I realize.
Maybe some parts of me are still free of the ice. If only I could feel cold, I would know! Of course, if I could feel cold, I would be dead.
With the realization that I won’t die any time soon, I begin to calm and think about my situation in a more rational way. I fell asleep while sliding down the mountainside. And I somehow ended up buried by snow—an avalanche maybe—which melted around my warm body and then refroze while I slept.
But more comforting than that is the knowledge that this ice, no matter how much of it is surrounding me, is part of the Antarctican environment, and as such, part of me. I focus on the ice and try a new trick. I can’t feel temperature variations, but I still might be able to warm things up a few degrees. I picture the water molecules, bound tightly together.
Move
, I will them,
vibrate!
When a drop of water strikes my eye, causing me to blink, I know it’s working.
The white light grows brighter. Then becomes tinged with blue. And then—daylight.
“Argh!” I scream, as I look directly into the sun.
The remaining ice and snow surrounding my body explodes away from me as I sit up and cup my hands over my eyes. Two bright green and purple circles dance in my vision. When the pain subsides, I fumble blindly through my belongings and dig out the sunglasses Ninnis gave me—gave Ull—to use on the surface. I haven’t had to use them in ages, but they are essential for visiting the outside during the daytime. I’m like a vampire now, unable to bear the daylight. And it’s not just my eyes. My skin is so fair now that I’ll burn quickly without clothing.
Even with the sunglasses on, I have to squint so hard that my vision is almost nothing. So I almost miss the structure behind me when I look around. But the ribbed surface of the steel catches my attention. The top of a rounded structure is poking out of the snow.
Most of the surface is covered in snow, but I can see bits of gray. I climb atop it, crawling over its bumpy surface, feeling the metal with my hands. It’s a roof. The roof of Clark Station Two! My excitement mixed with my near blindness hides a ridge in the hard surface and when I shift forward again, the metal beneath my hands falls away.
I plummet forward and am swallowed whole by the buried structure. My landing is pitiful, like I’m a nerdy little kid tripping over his shoelaces again. But I’m not upset. I’m laughing, because when I open my eyes, I recognize where I am.
“Clark Station Two,” I say to myself. “I’m back.”
The place does not return my greeting. Some of the place has been rearranged; the couch is in a different spot. And some of the equipment is missing—like the computer. But the space remains the same. I sit up and find that I’m lying in the very spot where Aimee lay unconscious after I slugged her. That was just moments before I ventured out into the night on a mission to restart the generator. A mission that ended with my abduction.
Back on my feet, I dust the snow and debris from my body and head for what was—for a day—my room. The hallway running straight down the center of the hanger-like building has doors on either side. Mine is the third on the left.
When I open it, a bell rings further down the hallway. The sound strikes me like a baseball bat to the gut. The bell. It rang the night I left this room, alerting Dr. Clark and Aimee that I was awake. It’s what sent her after me. I shake my head, wishing for a moment that I did not have a photographic memory. The past sometimes replays itself when I least expect it.
Of course, sometimes the past doesn’t even need to be replayed to have an effect on me. I open the door and find my suitcase on the floor between the small desk and unmade cot. They left it here. They left everything I brought with me.
They really thought they would find me
, I think. I fall to my knees, unzip the luggage and stare down at my clothes. I sit there, hands shaking, and pick up a black turtleneck. I bring it to my face, and breathe in.
I’ve read that scent is the biggest trigger for memories. As the smell of my mother’s favorite fabric softener tickles my nose, I know it’s true. My body tenses as I squeeze the fabric against my face and let out a desperate wail. This was the smell of my childhood. Of my innocence. I wore it, like a cologne, every day of my life before being taken from this place.
When I start to hyperventilate I realize that revisiting the past like this might be just as bad for me as facing down replicas of my parents in the pit. It’s breaking me.
No
, I think,
it’s remaking me
. This is a good pain. I can find strength here.
For the moment. If Ninnis knew I would return to the pit, he’ll eventually come looking here. Apparently my sentimentality is predictable, and a weakness. But what about Clark Station One? Does Ninnis know about that location? Has he ever visited the place of my birth? It was buried by snow fairly fast. It’s worth the risk, I think. From the moment I first set foot on Antarctica, I have felt drawn to Clark Station One. Perhaps I will find the strength I need to face the Nephilim there?
I wipe away my tears and try to pull the dark turtleneck over my head. It doesn’t fit. Not even close. I hold the shirt up in front of me and wonder if it somehow shrunk. But then I remember what I looked like in it. Skinny and frail. I look at my arm next to the sleeve. Muscles twitch beneath my pale skin. I’ve gotten bigger.
A lot bigger.
None of these clothes will fit me, which is probably a good thing because aside from the turtleneck, the bright 1980’s wardrobe will stand out like a beacon on the snow. I tear a chunk of fabric from the shirt and stuff it in the pouch with the photo.
“What I need,” I say, longing to hear a voice in this place, “is something white.”
I check the room next to mine. It’s empty, but I can tell it belonged to my parents. Their scent lingers. I close the door quickly, not wanting to repeat my emotional episode. The next two rooms I check are empty. The fourth smells like Old Spice. Dr. Clark’s room.
Which would make the room next door… I pause, hand on the knob. If this room is anything but empty, I’m going to have a hard time, and even without Ull present, I’m kind of getting sick of crying. But I can’t not go in. So I pretend I’m facing down a feeder and simply act. I twist the doorknob and step in.
Nothing on the cot. The freestanding closet is open, and empty. The floor is clear. And the desk…the desk holds an envelope.
With my name on it.
I wonder for a moment if I’ve been trapped. Did Ninnis know I would come here? Did he leave this for me? Is he outside right now? I step back from the envelope, but the idea of leaving it feels unbearable. I step forward and look at my name written on it. It’s just three letters—SOL—but the writing is familiar. I take out the Polaroid photo and look at the handwriting: Mira and Sol…
The handwriting is the same. Mira wrote this.
For me.
I take the envelope in a shaking hand and find the old glue easy to pull away. Inside is a single lined piece of paper, dated the day before Ninnis took me. I read the note:
Solomon,
I am new to this and I’m not good at writing so I’m going to get right to the point. I like you. A lot. I’m not big on romance. Or flowers. Or girly things in general. So if that is okay with you, I’ll overlook the fact that you are clumsy. And smart. And kind. We will always be good friends. I knew it from the moment I picked you up off of my driveway. But maybe, if you’re lucky, we can be something more? I’m debating about whether or not to give this to you, because the idea of you turning me down makes me sick to my stomach. Actually, I’m pretty sure that this will make you sick to your stomach, too. So to make this simple I’m going to do something I swore I would never do.
Do you like me?
¡
Yes.
¡
No.
Or maybe just sit next to me and put your foot against mine. Grin.
Mira.
I read the letter twice more before returning it to the envelope and placing it back on the desk. I cannot describe how it makes me feel, because I’m feeling too many emotions at the same time. Mira, who was the first and only girl to give me the time of day, never mind her heart, had planned to give this to me the day I disappeared.
I back out of the room and close the door. It’s a memento of my past too painful to take with me, because it doesn’t just remind me of my past—of what I once had—it represents the life I
could
have had. The happiness. The love. It’s more than I can bear.
The door behind me swings open when I bump into it. I turn and find a room full of gear and clothing. For a moment I worry that someone’s been living here, but then I smell oil and see the toolbox. This was Collette’s room. She was a loud, rude, joke-telling mechanic. She must have jumped ship and left everything behind.
Piles of clothes fall out of the closet when I tug on the handle. But a lone, white winter snowsuit remains hung.
“Thank you, Collette,” I say.
Collette was a big woman—at least she seemed that way back then—so the suit is a little loose on me, but just barely. My mom would say I’ll grow into it. I find a pair of white winter boots, wrap a white t-shirt around my lower face and pull the hood up over my red hair. Standing on the white surface of Antarctica, only my sunglasses will show, and if I need to be invisible, I can take them off.
The new gear lifts my spirits. I will be hard to find now as the surface winds carry away my scent and the snowsuit keeps me invisible. I turn to leave, but spot a pen on the desk. I pick it up, click it a few times, and smile.
I return to Mira’s room and open the note.
I check off, ‘¡ Yes.’
17
After collecting a few more items, a Zippo lighter, some white gloves, a whetstone and—ahem—a comb, I stand beneath the hole in the ceiling and look up. The blue sky greets me. Its brightness makes me feel alive, despite the pain it causes my sunglasses covered eyes. I’m wearing the white snowsuit and boots. A tiny sliver of my forehead is my only exposed skin. Otherwise I look like some kind of modern abominable snowman. Well, except for the fact that I’m wearing my belt, and Whipsnap, on top of the suit. If I need additional stealth, I can fit them inside the suit.
The exit is twenty feet above me. I didn’t get a good look at it before, but I can see now that the hole was punched in from above. I’m not the first person here. Which means I
really
need to go.
I leap up, hands outstretched and create a burst of wind that carries me up, but isn’t nearly enough to exhaust me. I grasp the edge of the hole with my gloved hands and slip a little. But I dig down tight and hoist myself up. Eighth grade gym class enters my mind. I had already skipped a few grades, but my ten-year-old age didn’t deter Mrs. Edelstein. I was in eighth grade so they would test my physical prowess against the other eighth grade boys. Joey Dimarco did thirty chin ups. I couldn’t manage one. Even Mrs. Edelstein couldn’t hold back a laugh. How things have changed.
I yank myself up with little effort, bounding from the hole and landing on the metal roof. “Eat your heart out, Joey Dimarco.”
I stare out at the view before me. A sliver of ocean cuts across the horizon. I consider heading to the water. Food would be plentiful. Lots of places to hide, especially since I could swim in the ocean and not freeze. But I think about the killer whales and leopard seals. I don’t think either species are traditionally man-eaters, but you never know when one will decide to try something new. Then again, maybe—
The wind shifts.
I smell someone behind me.
Someone new.
I spin around while silently cursing myself for not scanning the area before coming out of the hole. Just because I’m not underground doesn’t mean I shouldn’t live by the same rules!
The mountains behind me come into view. The man standing in front of them is so well camouflaged in white that I almost looked right past him. When I do see him, there isn’t even a single moment I consider whether this is friend or foe, because he’s got an arrow nocked in a bow, pointed directly at my head. Even still, I might normally try to talk someone out of this situation, but he’s already released his grip and sent the arrow flying toward my head.
Before I can even think it, a strong burst of wind shoots up and knocks the arrow off course. I’ve faced this challenge before when I fought Ull and his giant arrows. My body—including the whole of Antarctica—is reacting on instinct.
Snow bursts up between me and the hunter, concealing my actions for a moment. But I don’t move. Ull would have pressed the attack, taken advantage of the snowy distraction. He’s a predator. I prefer to think before I act, and sometimes that includes speaking. I know his arrows can’t reach me, so I take Xin’s advice and try to make friends.
“You don’t have to fight,” I say.
A second arrow shoots my way and passes over my head.
I never was good at making friends.
The man, like me, is covered in white fabric from head to toe. But he’s not wearing sunglasses. His eyes blaze blue between the hood and mask covering his lower face. The sun doesn’t bother him at all.
How long has he been topside
?
A third arrow is quickly nocked and fired, but I notice he’s no longer aiming at my face. He’s aiming at my knees! In a flash I realize he’s compensating for the vertical wind pushing his arrows above me. The second shot was much closer than the first, and this one might actually strike me!
The bow
twangs
loudly as he lets the arrow fly.
I shift to my right and throw my hands to the left, physically directing which way the wind should blow. The arrow is just inches from my face when the horizontal wind strikes it. I feel a tug on my hood as it passes.
Now the hunter is confused, circling me slowly.
I stand my ground and say, “What is your name?”
“You know my name,” he replies, his voice tinged with a German accent.
“Actually,” I say, raising an index finger like some college professor postulating a point.
Crunch
,
crunch
,
crunch
.
Someone is running through the snow behind me. The hunter has not come alone!
I grasp Whipsnap and pull. The weapon snaps open in my hand and I turn to face my attacker.
“Em, wait!” the man shouts.
Normally I’d tune out anything someone shouted while I’m about to be pounced upon, but the shortened name—Em—fills my mind as I catch site of the second hunter. It’s a girl. Like the man, she’s clothed in all white, but she’s a good foot shorter than me and has wide hips. Well, not wide for a girl, but wide for a boy. A glint of sunlight on metal brings my eyes to her hands, where she holds two daggers, one of which is now swiping toward my midsection.
Like Kainda, it would be a mistake for me to underestimate this hunter simply because she’s a girl. In fact, as someone who spent most of his life being out-muscled by the opposite sex, this should be second nature to me by now. I leap back, bending my stomach out of the way. The blade flashes past my stomach, scratching the fabric of my snowsuit.
Crunch
,
crunch
,
crunch
.
The man is approaching now, too. He sounded worried about the girl and probably gave up on the arrows because his erratic shooting might strike her.
The girl strikes again. I block the blow with Whipsnap, bend the weapon back and let it spring out as I spin to face the man. The girl shouts in surprise as Whipsnap sweeps out her legs and knocks her onto her back.
“Em!” the man shouts again, uncommonly worried for a hunter.
For a moment I wonder if this man is a hunter at all, but then I see the blades attached to the top and bottom of his bow, which he now holds like a staff, and I know without a doubt that this weapon was dreamed up in the nightmare of the underworld.
Whipsnap collides with the bladed bow again and again as the man attacks and I parry. Each of his strikes is aimed to kill, and several come close. If this does not end soon, I will surely die.
The man thrusts. The blade passes by my face, missing by inches.
I have him now. His stomach is open. Whipsnap’s blade is pointed at his gut. All I need to do is thrust.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
Instead, I apply hundreds of pages of ninja magazine fighting technique tutorials stored in my perfect memory. I take hold of his jacket with my left hand and leap. I place my feet against his stomach and let his momentum and my weight pull us to the ground. When we strike, I thrust with my legs and send the man flying. For good measure, I add a gust of wind to take him five feet further. The impact should give him something to think about.
But as the man sails through the air, he shouts, “Epsilon! Like we practiced!”
Epsilon?
I hear the girl shifting as she stands. Her face is masked, but I can sense a grin there.
The man lands like a cat, rolling back to his feet, an arrow already being nocked.
The girl opens her jacket, revealing a belt and two crisscrossing straps over her chest, which are absolutely laden with throwing blades. She lets the first one fly just as the man fires an arrow. As the wind kicks up around me I realize that Epsilon is code for some kind of practiced attack. The arrows and knives will come like hail from a storm and I’m not sure I can deflect them all without also compromising my body. Either way, these two have the upper hand.
I need Ull, but there is no time to free him. The first knife flips past my head, causing me to duck directly into the path of an incoming arrow.