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.
Better get started
, I think, and wade into the clearing of tall grass that stands between the jungle and the wall. As I leave the jungle canopy, the sun strikes me full on for the first time. I flinch in pain, placing a hand over my eyes to help block out the light. But I don’t give in to the pain. I keep my squinted eyes turned up at the wall, looking for the best place to climb.
That’s when I stub my toe. As I pitch forward, I put my weight on Whipsnap, hoping to keep myself upright. But the flexible staff bends under my weight and I plummet to the ground. I’m expecting a soft thump in the grass, but I strike several hard, knobby surfaces when I hit.
I lie on the hard, unwelcoming ground for a few moments and let my eyes close. Sleep nearly claims me, but a distant cresty cry snaps my eyes back open. I push myself up and a horrible surprise greets me. The fleshless face of a Nephilim stares back at me. Startled, I scramble away from the bones, but I stop once the rest of the grisly scene comes into view.
It’s a Nephilim skeleton, short by warrior standards, but far taller than the tallest human being. But what’s most interesting about the skeleton is that it is entwined with a cresty skeleton. They died here together, locked in battle. The cresty’s jaws are wrapped around the Nephilim’s head, its long canine sticks through a clean hole in the Nephilim’s skull. The weak spot. Whether the long dead dinosaur knew to bite the giant there or just got lucky is impossible to tell. But the effect was clear. The cresty killed this Nephilim, and by the positioning of the giant’s hand, it looks like he managed to strike a killing blow as well, though the weapon, whatever it was, is now missing.
Taken
, I realize when I see that the warrior’s hand has been pried open. Someone has been here. Most likely the same someone who set that trap. But who? I look at the excavated bodies again. They’ve been exhumed with care.
This is a dig site
! Some archeologist has been here. I’m sure of it.
My excitement is short-lived. A loud shifting sound slides out of the jungle. I recognize it immediately. The cresties who hunted in the cavern that I called home for several years used this technique. They would rub their bodies against the subterranean trees, coating them with fresh scent. They would then position themselves so that their prey fled into the trees, and when the prey smelled the fresh scent, they’d panic, stop and be caught from behind. It was a clever tactic, but it didn’t work on hunters. It seems that these cresties, like the turkuins, have yet to figure out that I am a hunter. Which is fine by me. Let them rub up against the trees and set a trap. I’ll be gone by the time they’re done.
I’m about to get out my climbing claws, when I see a snake at my feet and jump back. My heart pounds hard in my chest and chills sweep over my skin. But my fear is misplaced. It’s not a snake at all.
It’s a rope.
I pick up the line and bundle it quickly. It’s about forty feet long and one end is frayed, like it was hacked apart from some missing end. I don’t put in much thought as to why the rope is there, or who left it. I just quickly tie one end off to Whipsnap, and with a heave, throw the weapon up and over the top of the wall. I pull the line down slowly until Whipsnap snags on something.
The shuffling sound gets louder. The cresties are closing in. With no time to test my weight on the line, I grab hold and start pulling myself up. I’ve only gone five feet when my arms start shaking. After another five feet, I’m sure I’m going to fall. I loop the rope around my foot and let it take my weight. I catch my breath for a moment, but then my time runs out.
With a shriek, the first of the cresties catches sight of me, and charges. The dinosaur is like a cross between a raptor and a T-rex. They’ve got large, sharp talons and powerful jaws, and a distinctive crest over their heads—hence the cresty name. The thing is a blur of green and red as it charges toward the wall. It’s not a large specimen, just twelve feet from snout to tail. But it’s big enough, and strong enough, to leap up and yank me down. As the beast prepares to do just that, I reach up with my hands, grab tight and yank myself up. I move fast and manage to pull my feet up, too.
The cresty jumps and misses my toes by inches. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, I complete my climb in seconds. The cresty roars in frustration. I quickly pull the rope up, and then retrieve Whipsnap from the other side of the wall where it caught on a nearby tree branch. More cresties arrive, screeching up at me. I lean over the side to look at them and I’m overcome with nausea. I nearly fall into their waiting jaws, but I collapse on top of the wall instead.
I breathe hard, pulling air in through my nose. Several new scents strike me at once. The pungent smell of the dinosaurs comes first, but there’s something else. Something familiar. Metallic. Gun powder? I’m not sure if that’s the actual scent, but I smelled the same thing when the Arab man fired his gun. Whoever was here fired a weapon.
From the
top
of the wall.
I look at the rope piled next to me and find
two
frayed ends instead of just the one. I take hold of one end and pull it free. It’s the same rope, but only ten feet long. I have just used the same escape route of the person who was here before. Except that they shot the rope to sever it. Had the cresties tried to climb the rope? It doesn’t seem possible, but they are fairly smart. If I hadn’t pulled the rope up so quickly, they might have tried the same with me.
As the adrenaline wears off, exhaustion returns in spades. I can feel myself crashing. I’m safe from the cresties up here, but I’m fully exposed to the sun. My fair complexion earned me a couple of nasty sunburns as a child, but I’ve been underground so long that I think things will be far worse now. My skin is pasty-white and might burn to a crisp inside of a half hour.
At least the sun doesn’t feel warm. The storm must have brought in cool air, because unlike before, the air is now a nice seventy-something degrees. Of course, that doesn’t affect how quickly your skin reacts to the ultraviolet wavelength. It could be freezing out and I’d still burn.
Sunburn or not, I’m done. As I slide down and lay on my stomach, I turn my head to the side. There, on the wall next to me, is something strange. It’s blue. And square. I reach out for it and feel soft fabric. Manmade fabric of the 100% cotton variety. I grasp the cloth and pull it to my face. Up close, I can see it’s a bandana.
My hand trembles as I place the fabric against my nose and take a deep breath. A mix of scents triggers memories.
The strongest scent is a dog. Not any dog I know, but canines have a distinct odor. Whoever this bandana belongs to is a dog owner.
I smell dirt, sweat and an amalgam of other odors, but only one more jumps out at me. When I separate the smell from the rest, I’m overcome with something close to desperation mixed with elation. If I weren’t just moments from delirium I would shout out, hoping the owner of this bandana was still nearby.
I know who owns this bandana.
The dig site, its location on the continent and the scent of Old Spice permanently bonded to the fabric leaves no doubt in my mind.
Dr. Clark has been here.
Merrill.
My friend, Aimee’s husband, Mira’s father, has returned to Antarktos.
I try to push myself up. Look for other clues. But the world is spinning now. The fever has returned in force.
“Merrill,” I mumble.
The words of my dream return to me. “I’m here,” I say. “I’m right here.”
20
Memories mix with dreams. I vaguely remember standing up on the wall. The ocean lay in one direction and the endless stretch of gray wall, about eight feet across, led inland—the direction I picked. I stumbled along the top of the wall, nearly falling over the edge on more than one occasion. I kept my gaze turned down from the sun, but even with the sunglasses on, the reflected light on the stones stung my eyes.
I have vague memories of strange sounds, distant and close. Popping like fireworks. Snapping tree limbs. The wind shifting through leaves. Screams. The sounds, perhaps distorted by my fever, sounded like ghosts haunting the endless jungle that hugged the wall on either side. Eventually, perhaps hours after beginning my delirious hike, the jungle began to encroach on the wall.
It has now entirely overtaken the structure. Tree limbs stretch over the wall from either side. Up ahead I can see where the jungle canopy envelops the wall like it’s a subway car moving underground. While it will be nice to be back in the shade, the limbs make moving more difficult as I have to climb over them. This might not normally pose a challenge, but in my current state, I find walking on even ground to be difficult, never mind an obstacle course.
I stumble and catch myself on a branch. I close my eyes for a moment, and when I open them again, the jungle is moving around me, spinning in slow circles. But within that spin, I see something wonderful.
A centipede. The foot long creature clings to a branch just a few feet ahead. Its head is twisted in my direction, its antennae twitching, and like all the other creatures from the underworld, it doesn’t flee from me, as it should. It looks identical to the underground variety of centipede, though there is a little bit of red in its shell now. Still, it must be the same species. I can use its flesh to ward off this infection. And since it’s not the giant-sized Behemoth-eating variety, I shouldn’t have any trouble catching it, that is, if I can focus on it for more than a moment.
I reach for Whipsnap, but find the weapon already in my hand. I vaguely remember using it as a walking stick. I would normally skewer the centipede through the head, ending its life quickly, but I can’t trust my aim. So I opt for a different tactic.
Moving slowly, with my eyes closed, I turn Whipsnap so the mace end is on top. I open my eyes and the world shifts from left to right. I close them again. And every time I open them, the shift begins anew. Assuming I’m seeing things right during that first fraction of a second, I open and close my eyes over and over, until I have a good sense of where the creature really is. Then I close my eyes, steady myself and strike.
The swing is fast and solid, connecting with a branch on the way down. There is a snap and then a clang as Whipsnap’s metal mace strikes the stone wall. I open my eyes to look, but I’m off balance from the strike, and I spill to the side. I drop my weapon on the wall as I careen over the side of it, but my descent is arrested by two thick branches that catch me under my armpits.
As my head clears, I push myself back onto the wall and look back at the tree whose branches saved my life. “Thank you, Ent,” I say with a delirious grin. If only I had an army of trees to help. Right now, all I have is a very dead, very squished, centipede. I kneel next to the shattered body, scooping its small amount of flesh out of its carapace and off the stone wall. When I have a handful, I rub it onto my chest wound. I can feel the rough scabbing break away as I rub the goop in, but that’s good. The centi-flesh needs to get into the wound.
The pain of the freshly opened wound is intense, but I finish the job, confident that the healing properties of the centipede’s meat will do its work. Exhausted and doubting my ability to navigate the congested path in my current state, I find a spot shaded by some large, palm-like leaves, and lay down with a branch under my head.
Hours later, more fireworks start. They’re far away, just echoes really. The finale comes with an unbelievable crescendo of pops.
Am I really hearing this
? I wonder. The sound is so out of place. I listen for more, lying with my face turned toward the shaded jungle, but hear nothing. Movement in my periphery—the sky—catches my attention. Without thinking, I look up. The bright blue sky makes me shout in pain and close my eyes. But in that brief look, I saw something.
A man.
Flying?
Not possible.
I replay the second-long image.
The man was dressed in beige, his arms and legs flailing.
Was he falling?
Couldn’t be. Not straight down anyway. There’s nothing to fall from. The motion was from right to left, but also downward. He was falling, but in an arc, like he was launched from a cannon.
Or thrown by something very large.
Then it hits me. The fireworks are gunshots. And if the man sailing by overhead was thrown… Modern man is meeting the Nephilim for the first time, and the results are exactly as I expected—disastrous.
I sit up, and I’m happy to find the world no longer spinning. I’m still feeling tired, and my chest is burning, but I recognize the healing pain as different from that of the infection. Thanks to the centipede’s sacrifice, I’ll be back to full health within a day. For now, I’m tired and slow, and I won’t be much good in a fight, but I need to find out who that man was. Based on his speed and direction, I’m pretty sure I can figure out where he landed.
Instead of scaling down the wall, I find a tree full of twisting branches and easily make my way down. Using the wall as a guideline, I turn in the direction the man flew, and begin my search.
The job is easier than I thought it would be. My health is returning, the ground beneath my feet is even for the most part and nothing tries to eat me. A hole in the canopy reveals where the man’s body re-entered the jungle. His body lies in a twisted heap, thirty feet beyond. His limbs are all broken, as are, I suspect, his spine and nearly every other bone in his body. But somehow, his face escaped without much more than a few scrapes.
Crouching next to him, I look at his closed eyes. He has Asian features, but I’m not sure what country he’s from until I see the red flag. Chinese. The man’s uniform looks like any average soldier’s, designed for trekking through the jungle, but the single star on his shoulder identify him as a low ranking general.
What is a Chinese general doing on Antarktos?
Avoiding the blood soaked into his uniform, I search his pockets for clues. The first thing I find is his identification. It looks official, but most of it is in Chinese. The only English lettering I see is his name. I read it aloud. “Zhou Kuan-Yin. What are you doing here, General?”
His other pockets reveal nothing, but I find a package of dried meat, a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. I toss the smokes, but keep the lighter and the food. The only pocket I haven’t checked is over his chest, and it’s covered in blood. But the boxy lump beneath the fabric hints at something worth finding.
Using a stick, I pry the pocket open and try to see what’s inside. All I can see is something shiny. Like plastic. I try to fish it out with the stick, but it’s not happening. Using the stick to hold the pocket open, I reach my other hand toward the pocket. I feel like I’m playing a game of Operation, trying to remove the funny bone without hitting the metal sides and setting off an unsettling buzzer. But the buzzer here is my nerves. I have dealt with a lot of dead creatures over the past few years, and even held Riodan’s dead body, but human blood is something I’m still not used to. My own, sure—there’s been an abundance of it spilled—but not someone else’s. No thanks. The smell alone is bad enough, but the sick angles of this man’s broken limbs and the knowledge that he was killed by a Nephilim, have me unsettled enough. Getting his blood on me would just be the last straw.
I find the hard plastic object with my thumb and index finger. I pull it out slowly until my finger scrapes across something sticky wet. “Gah!” I shout. I flinch and yank my hand out, flinging the thing onto the jungle floor.
After wiping my hand off on a leaf, I find the object freed from Zhou’s pocket. It’s hard white plastic with a rubber-sealed seam around the middle.
Waterproof
, I think. I flip the thing over, looking for blood, and finding none, I pick it up. It fits nicely in the palm of my hand. There are four small snap locks on each side of the rectangular case. I pop the locks and slowly open it.
There’s a device inside. It’s rectangular and has a shiny surface. I take it out of the case and flip it over. The back is smooth and black, but there are a few buttons on the thing’s shiny metal edges. I have no idea what it is, but I recognize the power symbol on one of the buttons.
I push it.
The device nearly falls from my hand as I jump in surprise when a swirling, blue logo appears on what I now know is a small screen. The color is more vivid than any TV I’ve ever seen and the image is far clearer.
It’s been more than twenty years, I remind myself. This is the future.
I smile at my caveman response to technology for a moment, and put my encyclopedic knowledge of computers to the task of figuring this thing out. Granted, my computer was an Apple II C and took up an entire desktop, but I knew how to use it better than my parents. Unfortunately for me, the menu that pops up is labeled in Chinese, so even if there was a keyboard on this thing, I don’t think typing in LIST or RUN is going to do any good. I try to look through the menu with the buttons on the side, but nothing happens. I’m about to give up on the thing when I decide to access a different knowledge-base: science fiction. This is the future after all. I’ve seen more than a few TV episodes and movies where computers are nothing more than hand held tablets…with touchable screens.
Could we really be that far
? I wonder, and touch the screen with my finger. The icon blinks beneath my touch and a new menu opens. This one makes even less sense than the first. I click on a left facing arrow at the top of the screen, and I’m delighted by the device’s intuitive design. I look at the small icons and go through the list, hoping to find something that makes sense. I strike jackpot with the fourth icon.
It’s a map, or at least I think it is. It’s hard to tell, and there’s a blinking green dot at the center. “What is this?” I say to Zhou’s still, bent form.
Touching the screen, I’m able to slide the map back and forth, and up and down, but the green dot stays rooted in place. As I’m trying to figure out exactly what this is a map of, my thumb taps the screen. In the moment that both fingers touch the screen, the map image shrinks, revealing more terrain.
“Whoa!” I smile, glance up at Zhou and stop. It doesn’t feel right to smile next to the dead man’s body. So I collect the case and the food, and head back toward the wall, fiddling with the device as I walk. Repeating the motion with my thumb and index finger, I shrink the map repeatedly until I recognize it for what it is—Antarctica. And just like the Arab’s paper map, this one has a red dot blinking right at the South Pole.
Why is everyone trying to get to the South Pole? It’s not even the South Pole anymore.
If the red dot signifies the goal, what is the green dot
? I wonder. By pinching my fingers together, I’m able to zoom back in on the green dot. As I’m walking and wondering, something happens. The green dot bounces ahead.
Why is the green dot moving?
My smile returns as I realize what it is and say, “No…” in disbelief.
I walk forward. Nothing happens.
So I run.
Fifty feet into my run, the green dot shifts again.
The green dot is me! Or, at least, this device. Not only is this a map, but it’s some kind of tracking device so you can see where you are and where you need to go. Ingenious! I continue forward, watching the green dot shift with me. I slow as inspiration strikes. I zoom out again, and shift the map to the left, and then to the right. And I see what I’m looking for.
A winding river that leads to a lake.
Like the one from my dream.
“I’m here,” the person said. “I’m right here.”