The Last Hunter - Collected Edition (52 page)

13

I have no powers.

My arm is injured.

I’m exhausted.

But none of these things are as dangerous to me right now as my distraction. It’s the eyes. They’re not big and oval and inhuman. They’re mine.

This creature, like everything else in this lab, is part me.

Aimee tried to warn me about the other four living duplicates. She was surprised by Xin’s actions, but held out no hope that the other four could be redeemed. And now, as I look into the light blue eyes that match mine, I see nothing but hatred. The tufts of stiff red hair growing from the prodigious head like patches of long grass confirm its corruption. The sharp sting I feel as one of six razorblade fingertips traces a red line across my chest confirms its lethality.

The pain pulls me from my shocked state as the creature swipes at my gut, aiming to disgorge my innards. I block the strike with Whipsnap, spin into a crouch and after bending Whipsnap back, I let the mace end snap out. The strike is fluid, fast and as good as any hunter could achieve. And the results are better than the separate personalities of Ull and Solomon could hope for. Ull would have been all power and no direction. Solomon would have been on target, but lacking commitment. Whereas now, being whole, the blow is the best of both worlds.

The mace caves in the side of the thing’s head. It slumps over, falling into the large-toothed saw blades, some of which dig into its flesh. A killing blow.

If it were human.

As the creature stirs, I remember the color of its blood. Purple. Nephilim. Unlike Xin, whose blood is red, and very human, this half-me is Nephilim through and through. Which not only means I have no problem killing it, despite it having my eyes, but also means completing the task will be quite difficult.

Before it’s even fully healed, the thing lunges. Both bladed hands are outstretched and reaching for my legs. I have no doubt the razor fingers can sever flesh and bone, so I act quickly and defensively, leaping away. Before I land, I remember the broken glass on the floor. Using Whipsnap like a miniature pole-vaulting pole, I push the mace into the floor and shove myself atop a human-sized operating table.

As I roll over and push myself up, I hear skittering glass. The creature is giving chase. And fast. I get my feet under me and jump away just as the thing lands on the table, gouging its claws across the stone surface.

I land on my feet this time and turn to strike the creature as it leaps toward me. But the thing is frozen atop the first table, looking down at the twelve lines scraped into the otherwise perfectly smooth surface. Its body quakes. And then it screams. Its small chest heaves as its blue eyes lock onto mine.

The continued destruction of this perfect lab enrages the thinker creation. It must have been trained as a thinker, or at least to value order like a thinker. But it was left behind as a caretaker. Or guardian. And right now, it is failing.

With a shriek, the creature dives at me, but falls short and smashes into the side of the table I’m standing on.
Its anger makes it clumsy
, I realize.

I jump to another, slightly larger, stone operating table where a row of hammers—each designed for a specific task—is lined up along the edge. As the thing leaps back up to a table top, I snatch up a hammer, take aim and whip it toward the ceiling. A sharp crash resounds as the hammer finds its mark on the side of one of the large light bulbs. Thick glass rains down from above and the light winks out. Though the effect on the overall luminosity of the room is negligible, the mess is horrendous.

When the small me-thing cries out, I think that one of the glass shards has landed in its eye or something, but when I look, the creature is unharmed. Just really, really angry. A purple tinged foam oozes from its mouth. Then it speaks, shouting Sumerian obscenities that spray the purple like one of those automatic lawn sprinklers that move from one side to the other
tick, tick, tick, tick, pfffft, tick, tick tick
.

While it wails on, I look at its forehead, looking for the telltale pulse that reveals the Nephilim weak spot. When I don’t see it, I have a kind of revelation.
Only the warriors wear the metal bands that protect their foreheads
. Which means the other races either don’t have weak spots, or they’re not nearly as invulnerable—perhaps they’re far easier to kill. Which might also explain why the warriors are the ruling class.

Before the creature finishes fuming, I decide to press the attack. I leap forward and strike out with the blade end of Whipsnap. To say the little Nephilim is surprised, is an understatement. It bounds straight up into the air like it’s got coiled springs for legs. But the leap is uncontrolled and off balance. The thing’s body twists as it rises. When Whipsnap’s blade slips through the air beneath the creature’s body, it bites into the flesh of its arm and severs one of its six fingered hands.

An arc of purple blood sprays from the wrist as the thing spins and lands on the floor.

Moment of truth
, I think, watching the thing spin, growl and gnash at everything around it like it’s the Tasmanian Devil. When it finally stops and gets back to its feet, I see the hand. Or, rather, where the hand used to be. Instead of growing a new hand, like a warrior might, the wound has simply sealed over. My next thought is a little dark, but accurate:
dismemberment is the key
.

Once again, the small Nephilim isn’t prepared for my attack. I suspect that while it was trained to obsess over details, cleanliness and organization, it wasn’t taught how to fight. So far, it’s been reacting from anger and instinct. Armed with the knowledge of how to kill this Nephilim, I now have the upper hand.

I almost feel bad for the thing as I leap to the floor next to it, careful to place my feet where there’s no broken glass. It leaps at me, swiping desperately with its one remaining clawed hand. I lean back, easily dodging the strike. The creature spins in the air, pulled around by the momentum of its failed attack. As the thing rotates in the air, I consider sparing its life. It is, after all, partly me.

My logic is answered by emotion. With a shout, I bring Whipsnap’s blade down and sever head from body. The two halves, which are nearly the same size, fall next to each other. The head rolls and spins, coming to rest against the base of a stone table. Purple blood pools around the separated parts, but nothing else happens. The creature is dead. And as a Nephilim, whose spirit cannot exist eternally outside of Tartarus, it ceases to exist. Which is for the best, I decide. They might have given it my eyes, but there was nothing else human about it.

With the thing dead at my feet, my interest in this Nephilim laboratory hits an all time low. It’s not a safe or smart place to be, especially now that I’ve wrecked the place and left my scent all over it. It seems unlikely that anyone or anything will be returning to the lab, which was unaffected by the flood, but if a hunter comes to this place, they’ll know I’ve been here. That I’m alive. And that I’m free from Tartarus.

And if that happens, I need to be as far away from this horrible place as I can be. I head for the large staircase and glance to the left, looking at one of the largest of the liquid filled tubes. It’s nearly fifteen feet tall, and it’s occupied. The shape inside makes me pause.

It’s not human. For a moment, I mistake it for one of the oversized centipedes, but it’s not even a body.

It’s a body
part
, the likes of which I have only ever seen once.

In Tartarus.

Cronus’s tail.

The long, scorpion-like tail and stinger are impossible to mistake. For a moment, I’m filled with dread. Did Cronus trick me? Was he captured and experimented on? Both of these concerns are quickly discounted. Cronus couldn’t have been taken here, dismantled and pickled before I got here. The timing is all off and the scent of his blood would still hang in the air. This place hasn’t been used in some time.

The tail belongs to someone else.

Or, like all of my dead duplicates, it was grown here. But for what purpose?

A question for another day
, I decide. But I can’t let this appendage be used for anything sinister, so I climb up on top of one of the Nephilim-sized operating tables and whack the glass with Whipsnap’s mace. The cylinder shatters, spilling gouts of purple fluid, and the tail, onto the floor.

As the liquid spreads toward the staircase, I leap from tabletop to tabletop. I beat the purple fluid to the staircase by a few feet, and as I start down the stairs, the trickling sound of flowing liquid follows. I quickly reach the crack through which I entered the smooth tunnel and slip back into the craggy, rough underworld. As I backtrack through the tunnel, I feel calmer, more in control, but the disturbing discoveries I made in the lab haunt me like specters.

14

I head up through the underground as quickly as I can. Not just because I want to reach the surface, but because I know time moves more slowly the deeper you are. If I linger in the depths too long, the conflict on the surface will flash past before my arrival. There is no rhyme or reason to my path; I’m just heading up. But after miles of walking, it happens. I recognize a tunnel. I’m not far from New Jericho. And from there, it’s an easy trek to the surface and then…Clark Station 1? Clark Station 2?

Part of me says this is a very bad idea. My nostalgia has made me predictable before. It’s how Ninnis found me. It’s also what led to Tobias’s death. I might walk into a trap. That said, no one knows I’m here. Ninnis and the Nephilim, if they’re even still on Antarctica, won’t be looking for me. And both Em and Kainda are smart enough to not return to those places. Not for long anyway. But maybe long enough to leave a clue. It’s the only starting place I have that might help me find my friends, and help. As much as I’d like to finish my journey, and fight, without endangering anyone else I care about, it’s just not possible. I need help.

To find the Jericho Shofar, I first need to locate Hades. But I have no idea where to find him. I assume he resides at the Olympus citadel, like the other faux-Olympian-god Nephilim, but I’ve never been there. I need a guide. And without my powers, I’ll need back-up. Significant back-up. I was able to kill Ull using my powers, but I’m fairly certain such a thing won’t be possible without them. Even with Em and Kainda fighting with me, I doubt we could manage to slay even one of the warriors.

But this is my fate, so I strike out for New Jericho, and for the surface. My thoughts drift to Pilgrim’s Progress. Christian faced trials along his path, and accepted aid from others to overcome those trials. But the pearly gates that were his ultimate destination are a far cry from the bloodshed that likely waits at the end of my path. Still, I see no alternative and continue on the path laid out before me, which for now, leads ever upward.

Several hours later, I’m standing at the top of what was once a three hundred foot waterfall. I jumped from its ledge to escape the hunter, Preeg. Using my control over the wind, I slowed my fall and survived. Preeg leapt after me and died on impact. If I were to make the same leap now, without my powers, I would share his fate. That is, if the massive chamber containing the ruins of New Jericho weren’t flooded. The three hundred foot drop to the water’s surface has been reduced to twenty. Not even the tallest temple of New Jericho is visible. While I’m happy to not have to walk through the ruins and past the statue and gravesite of my former master, the Nephilim known as Ull, this also puts a damper in my plans. The tunnel I had planned to take to the surface is now under hundreds of feet of water.

A distant roar reminds me that there is a waterfall on the other side of the chamber. By the sound of it, it’s pumping more water than ever before. The cliff edge I’m standing on was also a waterfall at one time, but it’s now dry, its water source either gone or redirected. The flooding must be coming primarily from the other waterfall, which is fed by meltwater from the surface.

That’s a lot of melted water.

Steeling myself for the cold water, I dive into the lake. I arch my body and return quickly to the surface, taking fast, shallow breaths. There was a time when it took me twenty minutes to jump into a pool in the middle of the summer. And when I did, I would holler about how cold the water felt.
Swim
, my father would tell me,
kick your legs and you’ll warm up
. I never listened. I would dog paddle to the ladder, yank myself out, wrap up in a towel and help myself to potato chips and a Coke like they were a reward earned in battle. But I take his advice now. I point myself in the right direction, and swim for all I’m worth.

When I reach the other side, I’m exhausted. Few things wear the body down like a long swim. And I can’t stay in the water. Treading water will only make me more tired, and if I lose consciousness, I could slip beneath the surface and drown. But the only escape is the waterfall. And it rages.

Undeterred, I swim around the water pouring out of the gap in the solid stone wall. The surface is smooth and slick with moisture. Even the strongest hunter couldn’t climb this surface—that is, unless, they have climbing claws capable of clinging to the minutest blemishes in the stone. I put the climbing claws on my hands, reach up and drag the first one down against the stone until it catches on something. I yank myself up, all of my weight pulling on that one arm and the feeder teeth. Luckily, the Nephilim have strong bones, and my conditioned arms, while tired, are up to the task.

The rest of my body, however, is straining. The shallow incision across my chest, given to me by the now dead thinker abomination, stings sharply with every twitch of muscle. The wound scabbed over quickly, so I never gave it much attention. The intense pain makes me think I should have. The sealed wound has been soaking in the lake water. It might have reopened when I was swimming. Could be deeper than I first thought, too.

Later
, I tell myself. Right now, I have to climb.

I pull myself up the wall slowly, dragging the claws, finding a hold and pulling myself up again and again until I’ve covered fifty feet. The pain in my chest is intense, but I can’t let it distract me now. I’m focused. Determined. And possibly, at a dead end.

The waterfall roars to my left. There is no ledge to step on and entering the water here is impossible. The strong current would yank me back into the lake and I lack the strength to repeat the climb. I scuttle across the wall, clinging to it with the climbing claws, and maneuver myself so I’m above the waterline. As I round the bend into the tunnel, I find footholds big enough for my toes and moving becomes easier. A few minutes later, I’m free of the wall, standing on the shore of a river that is at least ten feet deeper than I remember.

I turn my head up river and smell, searching the air for signs of life, human or otherwise. At first, I detect nothing. No blood. No rot. Nothing.

But then, there’s something faint. Something out of place. It’s earthy, but not stone. It’s more like dirt. Like soil. Damp and fragrant.

Like
spring
.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply. A blanket of air rushes past, pushed by the river. It carries the scent of vegetation, flowers and water. It smells like…life. And then I feel it.

The air.

It’s warm.