The Last Hunter - Collected Edition (56 page)

I begin my sprint anew, now knowing that it will eventually lead me to a river, and then the lake. “I’m coming,” I say.

21

The smell of blood hits me so strongly that I realize I’ve been so enraptured with watching my progress on the map that I missed the first hints of it on the breeze. Or perhaps I was just upwind of it? Doesn’t matter. Because I’m surrounded by the stench now.

I stop in my tracks and slowly pocket the
maptrack
—that’s what I’ve decided to call it. Not exactly creative, but it has a ring. With the device put away, I focus on my surroundings. The scent of blood is everywhere, which is probably because there are bodies everywhere. Hundreds of men lay scattered over the jungle floor, some crushed, some skewered on tree limbs and some in pieces. The savagery of the attacks reveals the enemy they faced to be Nephilim. The number of weapons I see laying about, along with thousands of scattered shell casings, means that these men were the source of what I mistook for fireworks. The amount of bullets zinging through the air must have been copious. Not even the cresties could stand against such power. But the Nephilim…they wouldn’t have any trouble. In fact, they would likely take pleasure in the pain.

The uniforms on the dead men match Zhou’s, so I know they’re Chinese. This must be where he was thrown from. I stand in silence for several minutes, just listening. I don’t hear anything except a faint rustling in the leaves. The Nephilim that did this have left. And every other living thing in the jungle is avoiding the area. Normally, the smell of death would attract scavengers like turkuins, but there’s another scent in the air keeping them at bay.

Nephilim blood.

A lot of it.

With Whipsnap in my hand, I walk into the field of dead. I try to keep my eyes off the slain men. Most of them are young, not much older than me. And their deaths were gruesome, to say the least. Dark spots of earth, damp with blood, act as a maze. I wind my way through the field of dead until I see it.

A Nephilim body.

I work my way toward the body and discover a purple pool of blood where the thing’s head should be. I search the area and find bits of Nephilim flesh clinging to tree trunks. My eyes widen with the realization that some kind of explosive took the monster’s head clean off. Yet another way to kill them: if you can’t reach the weak spot or drown them, blow their head to bits, weak spot and all.

That it took nearly two hundred men to kill one Nephilim isn’t very encouraging, though. And it was probably a lucky shot. But maybe, if men can be taught how to kill the Nephilim, they—we—might have a chance. Now if only I can find someone that isn’t dead or trying to kill me. That would be a good start.

I try to identify the Nephilim, but it’s hard without a head, and the armor made from feeder leather reveals nothing. What I do know is that it wasn’t alone. Large Nephilim footprints are everywhere. If I had to guess, I’d say there were four of them.

If the Nephilim know people are on Antarktos, and are out looking for them, I’m going to have to be more careful. No more watching myself on the maptrack. The thing must run on batteries anyway. Probably best to shut it off until I need to course correct. But I also need to do a better job of concealing myself. My pale white skin wasn’t a problem underground because there was rarely a long line of sight in the tunnels. But out here, where I can see for hundreds of feet, my white skin is a beacon. Well, it’s not quite anymore. I look down at my body. I wouldn’t say I’m tan, but I’m no longer quasi-translucent, either. Nor am I sunburned, which is odd, but not something I’m going to complain about.

It takes ten minutes, but I find a dead soldier who is in one piece and remove his backpack. Most of the items inside are crushed and ruined, but there is more dried food—fruit this time—and an olive green poncho. Perfect. I take the poncho and throw it over my head. The plastic texture feels funny on my skin, and the shifting sound it makes is annoying—especially with the hood up—but the green hue now covering my body will make for nice camouflage.

As the sun finally begins to set, I make my way out of the killing field and back into the jungle. I travel for several miles, stopping only when the sun has ducked fully below the horizon. I help myself to the dried meat. It’s surprisingly bland—I’ve had better underground—but at least it’s nourishing. I follow the meat with some of the dried fruit—apples, bananas, dates and raisins. The flavor feels so intense that I start laughing. I had forgotten how delightful sugar tastes! I eat half the package and force myself to stop. This isn’t the time to forget the discipline that kept me alive while living underground. That I learned how to ration my food from Ninnis is never a fond memory, but the lesson has served me well.

Some long dormant instinct tells me to sleep now that night has fallen. But I’m not really tired, and night is no longer a hindrance. The light of the moon and stars, even when filtered through the canopy, is more than enough for me to see by. And with my newly acquired poncho, I’ll be able to move swiftly without fear of being detected, at least not by men with guns. Nephilim and other underworld denizens will still be hunting.
All the more reason to stay awake
.

I set off at a run, occasionally checking my position on the maptrack. I angle my trajectory so that I’m closing in on the winding river, while moving up toward the lake, which, right now, is my destination.

I’m right here…

And I continue on this course for days. I occasionally come across cresty tracks and other signs of life and death, but no more people, and no Nephilim. I sleep only occasionally, during the brightest hours of the day. My eyes adjust to the sun and I can look at the sky, with my sunglasses on, without feeling pain. I suspect that in a few weeks I won’t need the sunglasses at all. The infection is gone, and my wound has healed sufficiently, though the frequent opening and closing of the wound has left a scar. Justin would say it makes me look tough. And he’d be right. It does look tough.

When I finally reach the river, just miles from the lake, I shed my poncho and wade into the water. I expect it to be cold, but it feels as warm and comfortable as the jungle air. But it’s no less refreshing. I drink greedily, wash days of grime and strong scent from my body and enjoy a few minutes in the direct sunlight. The sun is still uncomfortable on my eyes, but I want to condition myself. Not being able to fight in broad daylight would be a serious liability, especially now that Antarktos lies at the equator and the days are quite long.

But a few minutes is all I can take. I gather my poncho and return to the shade of the jungle. I follow the river inland and soon make it to the lake. It’s a massive expanse of water, reflecting the blue sky. Beyond the river, I see the beginnings of a mountain range. It’s a picturesque place, and it would be peaceful, if not for the knowledge that killers lurk nearby. In my dream, the figure I saw stood on a small beach on the right side of the lake. I can’t see that far from here, but I know where I need to go.

I slip up to the edge of the jungle and watch the river and lake. When I’m certain no one is around, I dive into the water and swim quickly across. Back in the jungle, I follow the curve of the lake, moving quickly but a little more cautiously. The lake, like the river, would be a gathering place for predator and prey in search of water. So I move slowly and do my best to spot signs of habitation. After crossing two game trails covered in tracks that I recognize as belonging to the oversized albino goats I shared a cavern with underground, I come across a muddy beach where the trees and brush along the shoreline thin.

After pulling the poncho’s hood up over my head, I inch closer to the muddy clearing. There are footprints—boot prints actually. And a few different sizes. Some are clearly men, larger and deeper from weight, but one set is smaller, either a woman’s or a small man’s. What were they doing here? Getting a drink? Following the lake like I am? Will I run into them?

I step closer, careful not to leave any prints of my own. That’s when I see an entirely different kind of indentation. A dog! A large dog, but still, a dog!

I take out the blue bandana and smell it. After getting the dog’s scent in my nose, I take it away and smell the air.

Nothing. It’s been a little while since they were here. No scents linger. But still, what are the odds that someone else brought a dog to Antarktos? As I crouch atop a rock, looking at the boot prints, I notice a tiny detail. A hair. It’s just one, partly squished into the mud by a boot, but it’s blond and sticks out. I pull the strand free and fight my rising emotions. The hair is blond, coarse and tightly bent at odd angles.

I have seen this hair before.

I have felt it against my face and neck.

This is Mira’s hair!

I’m sure of it.

I stand up, fully prepared to shout her name like an idiot. But I never get the chance. I’m struck from behind. Not by a weapon, fist or anything physical, but by a smell. The wind has shifted direction. And it carries the scent of a human being masked by mud, dung and blood.

There is a hunter behind me.

22

The attack comes fast as the hunter notices the shift in the wind. A faint shift is all I hear, but I know my enemy is airborne. I leap in the only direction available to me, spinning with Whipsnap at the ready. I land in knee-deep water, which I strike with Whipsnap, sending a distracting splash toward the hunter.

As I charge out of the water, I get my first look at my adversary. It’s a man. Perhaps twice my age, with far bigger muscles than me. He’s also completely bald, which is something I have yet to see in a hunter, but why not? Baldness is caused by an excess of testosterone, and from what I can see, this man has testosterone to spare. His clothing does nothing to reveal which Nephilim he serves, but his weapon, a razor sharp scimitar, hints at one of the ancient Persian gods.

My sudden reversal seems to startle the hunter. He didn’t know who I was, I realize. The hooded poncho not only conceals my identity, but he likely also mistook me for a modern soldier. I use his confusion to my advantage, striking his sword to the side. With the man off balance, I spin and let Whipsnap spring out, sweeping the man’s legs out from under him. He lands in the mud with a wet slap that knocks the air out of his lungs.

The hunter is now at my mercy, but what should I do? I will not kill him. It’s not even a consideration. But I can’t just let him go. I’ll have to knock him unconscious and make my escape. He doesn’t know who I am, so the Nephilim won’t be alerted to my presence.

To my surprise, the hunter drops his weapon and asks, “Who are you?”

It’s a question I won’t answer. I don’t even want him to hear my voice. The less he knows, the better. I step closer and raise a fist to knock the man silly.

“Wait,” he says, and I nearly do. But exposure is something I can’t risk. As my fist comes down, my arm is yanked back by a sudden weight. I stumble away from the man and find my arm wrapped in strong cords attached to three heavy metal balls. The weapons are called bolas and while their intended use was to trip up fleeing livestock, they work just as well on people.

The second hunter explodes from the forest and lands next to the fallen man. He is short, but has taut, sinewy muscles. Where the first man is strong, this man is quick. His dark skin and flat nose have the distinct look of an Australian aborigine. His dark red dreadlocks are pulled back in a thick ponytail. With his eyes locked on me, he extends a hand to the bald man and pulls him up.

What the
…
?
Hunters do
not
help each other. Are these men friends? Have they been ordered to keep each other from harm?

“Careful of this one,” the big hunter says while retrieving his sword. “He’s one of us.”

“Show us your face,” the aborigine hunter says.

In response, I begin twirling Whipsnap in my hands, letting my actions speak louder than words. If they think they’re going to get anything out of me, they’re going to have to beat it out of me.

A few things about my actions strike me. I’m being bold in the face of severe danger, like Ull, but it feels natural now—a part of me. Not only that, I’m fully confident in my abilities. These hunters are no doubt skilled, but I am Solomon Ull Vincent, the Last Hunter, who was not only trained by Ninnis—the most skilled hunter—but also defeated Ninnis in combat. I can handle these two.

The realization makes me smile.

And when the two hunters see my grin, they look a little less sure of themselves.

The aborigine tilts his head up and lets out a loud, bird-like call.

What is he doing?

Voices rise up in the distance. A lot of them.

He called for help.

This is also decidedly non-hunter behavior, but before I can think things through, the two men press the attack. Intimidated by my behavior or not, they’re still hunters, and they won’t back down—especially with help on the way.

The bald man approaches and swings his sword wildly. It’s a messy attack, but the random strikes are hard to block. I step back, waiting for an opening and just as I’m about to strike, my legs are suddenly bound, wrapped tightly with more bolas. The moment I’m immobilized, the bald hunter’s attack becomes focused and skilled.

I hop back with my feet bound and block three strikes, the third coming very close to my face. With another big leap, I place Whipsnap’s sharp blade between my bound ankles and slice through the lines. My legs are free by the time I land. The bald man barely has time to register that my feet are free, when I kick up hard and catch him under the jaw. His head snaps back and he falls over, unconscious.

I hear the whoosh of another set of bolas whipping toward me, and I duck. But as my body moves down, I thrust Whipsnap up, catch the bolas and use their spinning momentum to redirect their course. I fling the bolas back as the hunter lunges toward me. One of the stones strikes his head, and he falls to the ground beside his bald partner.

As I believed, the pair is no match for me. But, they are not alone. Hunters emerge from the jungle like angry fire ants on the prowl. They see their fallen comrades, and me standing above them, and the attacks come hard and fast.

I have no time to look carefully at who I’m fighting. There is only time to react. I dive into the jungle as an arrow twangs into a tree trunk beside my head. The thick brush surrounding the lake clears, as I move away from the water. When a knife thunks into a tree I just passed, it becomes clear that I will not be able to outrun this group of hunters. So I need to stand and fight, and hopefully do enough damage to make them think twice about continuing their pursuit. It’s unlikely, but it’s my only option, because if I keep running, one of these arrows or knives is going to bury itself into my back.

I enter a ten-foot clearing surrounded by tall tree trunks. It will give me room to maneuver, but not so much that they can attack me all at once. I skid to a stop, spin around and am greeted by an airborne hunter with an axe raised above his head.

I dive and roll to the side as the man sails past. When he lands, I kick him square in the back. The kick, added to his momentum, sends him sprawling forward and he slams into a tree.

An arrow passes through my poncho between my arm and my rib cage.

Too close!

Two more hunters enter the clearing. I can see at least ten more coming, including the recovered aborigine and the bald hunter.

This is a fight I cannot win.

But I have no choice.

I block a sword strike to my right, and kick out a knee to the left. With a spin, I disarm the swordsman, but I’m sucker-punched by a female hunter who snuck up behind me. A blind kick catches her in the stomach, and I hear her drop. I turn the mace end of Whipsnap on the disarmed swordsman and shove. He shouts in pain as the spikes pierce his skin. It won’t be a mortal wound, but it hurts. The blow staggers the man back.

A knife strikes my left arm, but it’s a superficial wound. The baggy poncho is hiding my body and making it hard to target my limbs. But why are they targeting my limbs and not my core? And why did the woman behind me punch instead of stab or bludgeon me? Here we are, a bunch of hunters, and no one is trying to kill anyone?

Something is definitely screwy with this situation.

Five hunters leap into the clearing. I spin Whipsnap’s bladed edge around in a wide circle, forcing the group to leap back. But their appearance was a distraction. I’m struck from behind again, this time with something much larger than a fist. The broad, stone weapon feels like the top of a very large hammer. The impact sends me flying and knocks the air from my lungs. But I’ve been trained to ignore pain and fight without breathing, so I turn my fall into a roll and turn to face my attacker.

There are not one, but two women. One holds a hammer, the other—who I assume is the one I kicked—holds two throwing knives. They’re backlit by a beam of sunlight that stings my eyes, but there’s something familiar about them.

“Look at his weapon,” the hammer-wielding woman says.

The shorter of the two women—the one with the knives—stiffens and with an angry voice, shouts, “Where did you get that?”

Shoot. I hadn’t even considered that Whipsnap’s unique design would be recognizable to hunters.

A knife flies through the air, just missing my arm as I spin. A second one follows, cutting through my poncho’s arm on the other side. I’m forced back by the barrage of knives, which are thrown with a skill I have only seen once before.

I know who this is.

I know who the woman with the hammer is!

But I’m unable to speak their names as the air has yet to return to my lungs.

The knife-wielding woman is in a rage. She’s going to kill me without realizing who I am!

I stagger back against a tree. The woman steps out from the light and I see her face for the first time in months. It’s so wonderful that I nearly miss her eyes locking on my forehead. Her hand pulls back and snaps forward, releasing a knife.

In one fluid motion, I toss Whipsnap up, and duck my head down. The knife passes between the top of my head and the hood. With the poncho pinned to the tree by the knife, I duck down out of it, shedding it like a skin, and emerge in time to catch Whipsnap. But I’m too late.

There’s a hammer raised to strike. Two knives raised to throw. An assortment of other weapons, too, held by at least fifteen more hunters.

But they’re all frozen in place as though my eyes belonged to the gorgon, Medusa.

I try to catch my breath and speak, but all I manage is a wheeze.

It doesn’t matter, though. I hear a telltale gasp and the two knives drop to the ground.

“Solomon?” Em says. “Is it really you?”

I smile and nod, dropping Whipsnap to the ground. Em rushes to me. She’s got all of her blades, around her waist and chest, looking as dangerous as ever, except for the pixie-like hairdo that’s a result of her shaving her head when she pretended to be my wife. She leaps into my arms. I squeeze her tight, enjoying the sensation of feeling loved for the first time in a long time. Hunters never cry. I’m usually the only exception. But I’m not alone today. Em squeezes me hard and lets out a joyful sob.

I hear whispers all around me as the strange turn of events is explained. I hear only bits and pieces. “Solomon.” “The Last Hunter.” “Tartarus.” “His hair.”

Weapons lower.

Tension melts.

And then the strangest thing I think I’ve seen since arriving on this continent takes place. This squad of deadly hunters drops to one knee and bows their heads.

To me.