The Last Hunter - Collected Edition (47 page)

3

I read each word slowly and with deliberation, as though I’ve just learned the language. The old English text is rich in a way that modern books aren’t. I reread most sentences two or three times, just enjoying the cadence of the words. The plight of the main character, Christian, whose story is an allegory to the modern believer’s life, fascinates me as many elements reflect my own journey over the past years. He’s plagued by doubt, fear and the heavy burden that comes from the recognition of your own sins.

My sins weigh on me every day, impossible to forget thanks to my perfect memory.

I kidnapped Aimee and delivered her to the Nephilim, robbing Mira of a mother and Merrill of a wife.

I fled the Nephilim for what I thought was two years, but it turned out to be twenty. I hid in fear and turned my back on the world I was uniquely suited to defend.

Because of my weakness, Tobias, father of Emilie and Luca, was slain at the hands of Ninnis, while I watched, helpless.

And most recently, when I contained the body and spirit of Nephil, I fear he was able to affect the world somehow. Any devastation caused by my inability to fight his influence is mine to own.

My burden, like Christian’s, is often unbearable. Even more so, in this awful place. If not for this book, and the distraction provided by it, I might have already gone mad. I’ve read the book now, cover to cover, several times. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting in the gorge, slowly turning pages, absorbing the words, but if I can just stay here, reading this book, I might be able to bear this place.

“Sorry, Christian,” I say to myself, “but you’re going to have to share my burden, too.”

Then it happens. I reach the chapter that has tickled the back of my mind on every read.

The Slough of Despond.

Thus far, I’ve read through it quickly, ignoring the potent message and similarities to my current situation. But something clicks as I read through the text this time:

This miry slough is such a place as cannot be mended: it is the descent whither the scum and filth that attends conviction for sin doth continually run, and therefore it is called the Slough of Despond; for still, as the sinner is awakened about his lost condition, there arise in his soul many fears and doubts, and discouraging apprehensions, which all of them get together, and settle in this place: and this is the reason of the badness of this ground.

“I’m in the slough,” I say. My voice sounds deeper then I recall, but I think it’s from thirst and the echo of my voice on the crevasse walls.

The Slough of Despond, which essentially means, the Swamp of Despair, in Bunyan’s story seems to identify the burdens of the traveler stuck in the mire. In my case, the swamp is a dry wasteland, cut off from the rest of the world. But the effects of the place, like the Slough, focuses on the fears, weaknesses and burden of those unfortunate enough to be here. And the effect seems to increase with time, even if time makes no sense. If not for the book and its story of redemption…

My eyes are drawn back to the page. I don’t want to read this section again. Despite the similarities to my stay in Tartarus, it is actually ruining my hope. Not because it ends badly, but because Christian is eventually pulled from the Slough by the aptly named, Help.

Despite being stuck in the Slough of Despond, Christian still inhabits the real world, and while one friend abandons him in the mire, another comes along to pull him out. But here, cut off from everyone and everything, there will be no travelers coming along to lend me aid. I’m alone. Forever. And even if I do eventually move from my spot in the gorge, the only living thing I have any hope of finding in this place is a Nephilim. I’m not sure how many are here, if any, but I don’t think Nephil was alone in this place. And finding a Nephilim, in Tartarus, is not high on my eternal “to do” list.

I close the book, its words now adding to my burden.
Maybe it’s Tartarus?
I think. At first, the book provided a distraction from the power of this place, but even the words of this book couldn’t hold off Tartarus forever.

I look up and stare at the blank wall in front of me.

Whispered taunts flow past my ears.

You killed me.

The voice belongs to Tobias.

Emilie hates you.

I clench my eyes shut, trying to ignore a voice I know I can’t be hearing.
Tobias is dead
, I remind myself.
He can’t speak to me
.

Where do you think you are, Solomon? Alive?

“Stop,” I say. “You’re not him.”

Luca is dead.

“Stop.”

It’s a lie.

Murdered.

“Please.”

Luca escaped.

Because of you.

If there were fluid in my body to spare, tears would cover my cheeks. Tobias’s voice brings back a torrent of memories. The day we met, he and Em nearly killed me. But we became friends. We became family. I lived with them for a time, becoming a brother to Em and to Luca, whose six year old body was a perfect copy of mine, created by the Nephilim. We ate together. We hunted together. And Tobias trained me. I learned to use my powers more effectively. More efficiently. And he taught me to get back up. To fight. To win.

And right now, I’m losing.

This isn’t the voice of Tobias, but if it were, he would be ashamed of how I’m handling myself.

I replay a memory, tuning out the false-Tobias.

I’m running. The crunch of snow beneath my feet makes counting my footfalls easy: nine thousand, five hundred, and fifty-seven steps. Nearly five miles. I can run further. A lot further. And at a faster pace. But not while controlling the elements around me. Tobias has me running, cloaked by a swirling cyclone of snow.

We started with a single flake. It trailed me as I ran. Over time, we worked up to a trail of snowflakes. And when I’d mastered that, we moved to this. I think it’s a big leap ahead. My body certainly agrees. Not only do I need to create thousands of snowflakes, I also need to sustain a steady, and tightly controlled wind around my body. I managed okay for the first mile. But it’s been getting harder with each step.

To make matters worse, I can’t see where I’m going. Every hundred steps, I open a slice in the cyclone and peek out. The added effort hurts every time, but the terrain has been unceasingly flat and free of debris since we began. So when I hit nine thousand six hundred, I don’t look.

Ten seconds later, my foot kicks a spire of ice that I would have seen if I’d looked. I collapse forward in an embarrassing heap. I don’t even bother to raise my hands. I just slump to the ice like a freed marionette and slide to a stop.

Tobias is a gentle man for the most part, but not when training. And he’s pushing me hard, with an urgency that in hindsight makes me wonder if he knew his life would be cut short. He stands over me, shouting with a German accent that makes his words sound even angrier. “Get up! Get up, now, Solomon! Your life depends on it.”

Concern for my own well-being isn’t usually what garners a response from me. And Tobias knows this. So he quickly switches tactics. “They’re coming, Solomon. They’ve found us!”

I’m listening, but I’m still far from moving. “They’ve found them. Em and Luca. If you don’t get up—” He doesn’t need to finish. I’m up and running, concealed by the cyclone, but this time I sustain the opening and double my pace. I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing this for them. For Em. For Luca. For Aimee.

And for Tobias.

Get up!

I chose to be here.

Get up, Solomon!

For them.

“I’m up,” I say.

I look to my right, and then to the left. Left, I think. That’s where I was headed. As the biting chill, held at bay by the book’s distraction, settles in around me, I put my book away, turn left, and run.

4

I grow tired almost immediately. But I focus on the true voice of Tobias, urging me onward, and I push forward. My effort must be considered a crime in this place, because the weight on my shoulders becomes palpable. I can feel something—a force—pushing down on me. Holding me back. Like I’m in a dream.

Maybe that’s it, I think. Maybe this is all a dream?

In a strange sort of way, it would make sense. After passing through the gate, into the darkness, the traveler falls asleep. Then maybe someone, some kind of caretaker, drags your sleeping body deeper underground where aging is slowed so much it’s actually stopped. And then, in the pliable world of the sleeping mind, the prisoner is forced to grapple with his own self-doubt, fears and weakness. This place is barren. All stone and orange sky. My mind could have easily conjured the image.

And if this is all in my mind, I can control it. I once read about something called “lucid dreaming.” Essentially, the dreamer recognizes they’re dreaming and then controls the dream, bending it to his will. People routinely realize they’re in a dream, but typically wake very quickly when they do. Lucid dreamers use various techniques to stay in the dream. Dream spinning (spinning in circles) or physical contact—rubbing your hands together or touching the ground—supposedly works well.

But I’ve also learned to control the reality my mind creates thanks to Xin. So, I should be able to manage it here.

I pause my running. Each labored breath accentuates the cramp twisting in my side.

It certainly feels physical.

But dreams can, too. So I focus on the world around me and try to change it.

Nothing happens.

Wait
, I think.
I’m warmer
. Then I realize that I only feel slightly warmer from running. Everything else is the same. Can’t say I’m surprised. This might all be in my mind, but inside Tartarus, whatever it is, I can’t control things. And I can’t wake up.

The angry weight settles heavier. It strikes so suddenly that I pitch forward. I catch myself against the wall of the gorge. My foot lands hard, but not on solid stone.

There is a squishing sound as something lukewarm oozes up between my bare toes. The mush gives way to something hard and splintery. I feel, more than hear, the tiny things snap under my weight. All of this happens in a fraction of a second. Before I’ve put all of my weight down, I flinch back, and fall over.

The gravity inside Tartarus seems to increase suddenly. I fall hard, harder than I should from a standing position. And my body lacks the strength to slow me down. I hit the stone floor hard, knocking the air from my lungs. I wheeze and for a moment, I fear I won’t be able to catch my breath.

I can’t die, I tell myself. Relax. Breathe. Focus.

My chest expands a little more with each breath and my thoughts clear. My foot is wet. I stepped in something. After looking at my elbows for wounds and finding none, I push myself up and draw my foot in close. There is a smear of thick red fluid on the sole.

Blood.

But it’s not mine. There’s too much and I don’t see a wound.

Well, that’s not entirely true. There seems to be a large splinter of something jabbed between my first and second toes. It’s a small, curved spear of white. I take hold of it and tug gently. The inch long splinter slides cleanly out. A bead of blood emerges from the wound, but that’s it. I can’t even feel the sting. I’m far too cold for that.

I look at the spine up close. Is it a quill?
No
, I think,
it’s not barbed
. Images of high school science books and dissection diagrams come to mind. It looks like a rib. Like a mouse rib.

Curiosity pulls me up onto my hands and knees. I lean forward searching for the spot where my foot fell.

It’s not hard to find.

The small body is surrounded by a syrupy pool of blood and other, oddly colored bodily fluids. As for the creature, I can’t say what it is. Or was. It’s been brutalized. Torn to pieces. And it looks like the whole thing is here. Four legs. Two small arms. It must have walked like an insect, but also had functional arms. The skin is green, and slick with slime, like a frog.

The torso looks like it was torn open, not cut, and the skin has been peeled back. The organs are gone. I find them splattered against the wall nearby, glued to the surface by the drying fluids. The exposed ribcage has been snapped open on either side, the small spiked ends pointing skyward. One rib is missing.

I look at the small rib clutched between my fingers, then toss it down on the ground and turn my attention back to the mutilated corpse. The lungs, like the other organs, have been torn out. They rest on the cavern floor nearby. When I see the heart, I have no doubt that whatever did this was evil. The grape-sized heart rests in the center of the exposed ribs, still attached to the body by several arteries. But the organ has been crushed, and burst open.

This creature did not die peacefully.

I have killed small creatures in the past. If I had come across it living, I would have killed it now. But for food. And swiftly. Not like this. This was…

Torture.

But why? This small thing couldn’t be a Nephilim.

A realization strikes. This is real. This creature, the likes of which I have never seen before, once lived. And was killed by something else living. Something other than me.

This is not a dream
, I think as I stand up. I wring my hands together and begin to shiver, as much from fear as from the cold.

I’m not alone.

And whatever else lurks in this gorge with me, likes to torture things.

But I’m not defenseless. I place a hand on Whipsnap. Its presence reassures me. But my withered body betrays me. Could I even lift Whipsnap? I don’t think so.
Be prepared
, I think, quoting the Boy Scouts jingle I grew up with. The tune plays in my thoughts.

Are you ready to get involved?

Be prepared! Are you ready to take the lead?

“No, and no,” I say.

But what choice do I have? I’m here. I’m stuck here. Forever. So what’s the point in going the other way? I might be physically weaker, but I’m not a coward. Not any more. I’ve faced my fears before. I can do it now.

I reach into my hip pack and take out my climbing claws. I created them myself, fashioning them from feeder leather and teeth. The big triangular teeth are serrated, like sharks’ teeth, and they can cut through most any flesh with ease. They’re based on the ninja climbing claws in Justin’s old ninja magazines, but these are more functional as weapons. When I slide them on my hands and cinch them tight, I’ve got three triangular blades on the palm side, but I also have three more spiky blades over my knuckles. My hands are now lethal. And they don’t weigh much, so even in my weakened state I should be able to use them.

When I step out into the gorge and look down the winding tunnel, I’m not so sure.

Ten feet further is a second body. Like the first, it has been mutilated beyond recognition.

Beyond that is another.

And another.

The trail of blood and guts covers nearly a hundred feet before disappearing around a bend. I step forward, careful to avoid the blood and organs littering the floor. It’s slow going, but at least the sight of carnage and the smells of new decay distract me from the chill. A surge of guilt strikes me. What an awful thing to think. I look down at the small body. Still… “At least you found a way out,” I say to the creature.

I round the bend and find another passage littered with death. Growing accustomed to the sight, I quicken my pace. The wind has picked up, and I think I must be nearing the end of the chasm. Bright light stretches into the natural hall around a bend fifty feet ahead. I hurry forward, now eager to escape this place.

A wet cracking and slurping sound whips my head up. Not watching where I’m going, I step on a small set of lungs that turn to paste beneath my weight. I slip back and fall again.

The pain is intense, but I don’t cry out.

A wet splat, followed by an agonized howl, rolls down the gorge.

I’ve found him.

The torturer.

He’s just ahead.

I pick myself up without making a sound and slip toward the bend. All I need is a peek. If it’s a thirty-foot monster, I’ll head in the opposite direction. I’m downwind. If I’m careful not to be seen or heard, I can escape without being discovered. I’m pleased to find that I haven’t lost all of my skills. I might be weak and burdened, but my skills as a hunter haven’t abandoned me yet. I creep up to the bend in silence.

Two sharp cracks tell me the thing has just opened yet another small ribcage. The lungs will be removed. And then the heart crushed. For a moment, I wonder if the small creature might actually have survived up to this point.

Would I?

The horrible image nearly turns me around, but I’m too close to turn back. I slowly poke my head out around the bend—

—and instantly wish I hadn’t.